The Rise of the Dark Lord

by Ashley, Kristen

  Mathilda, SuperWitch: The Rise of the Dark Lord

  Copyright © 2020 by Kristen Ashley

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischief

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Contents

  MATHILDA SUPERWITCH: THE RISE OF THE DARK LORD

  The Month of December

  The Month of January

  The Month of February

  The Month of March

  The Month of April

  The Month of May

  The Month of June

  The Month of July

  The Month of September

  The Month of October

  Hallowe’en

  The Month of December

  Discover the Ghosts and Reincaration Series with an excerpt from Sommersgate House

  Discover the Other Titles in the Ghosts and Reincarnation Series

  About the Author

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  Connect with Kristen Ashley

  The Journal of Mathilda also known as My Book o’ Shadows

  (I am SuperWitch, Chosen One, Glamour Girl, and that isn’t being braggy. I just am.)

  (Even the Glamour Girl part (says me).)

  2 December

  Okay, so…

  Ran out of pages in my last journal, or, as witches call them, Book of Shadows, (or also grimoires, which is kind of spooky, but also cool, but I digress) so starting a new one.

  Mom says should write an introduction in each new journal, just in case the old one gets lost or damaged before Le Société can transcribe it into their computer databases or whatever.

  So, thankfully, am a witch so can use magic to write so my hand won’t hurt because there’s lots to say.

  Let’s see.

  I’m Mathilda Guinevere Honeycutt.

  I’m a thirty-four-year-old, single, white female. I have blonde hair (helped by chemicals), hazel eyes, long legs, c-cup boobs, a freakishly tiny waist and a big (ish) ass that thankfully is balanced out by boobs and looks really good in jeans, skirts, anything (this could be magical powers but not my own because don’t know that spell…yet).

  And I’m a witch.

  A real witch, wand-wielding, pixie-dust-flying, spells, potions, cauldrons, chanting, so-mote-it-being, the whole enchilada.

  I’m not just a witch, I’m the witch—Mathilda, SuperWitch, The Chosen One, the one prophesied for centuries to save the world.

  Sound cool?

  It’s not.

  It’s a seriously stressful job, to be the prophesied Savior of the World.

  They never show Batman and Superman bitching about always having to go out, night after night, putting their asses on the line, worrying about the people they love.

  Bet the Caped Crusader and the Man of Steel have a shed load to bitch about.

  Let’s just say, being the prophesied Savior of the World is not fun.

  I’m classified by The British Witches Council as “Sage: Hazardous.”

  That means I’m super-mega powerful, but I don’t have control over my powers.

  This, I think, is stupid.

  I mean, last Hallowe’en did I not kick some ass during the Battle of The Tor?

  Yes, I fucking well did.

  Anyhoo.

  I’m American but I spent last year in England at my Auntie Mavis’s house, The Gables (that’s why the British Witches Council classified me).

  Went to England because it was time for a change of life, but I had no idea how much of a change of life it would be (or might not have gone and instead continued my career in retail, continued dating men who were no good for me and continued to rack up credit card debt during the sales (also not during the sales, I didn’t discriminate when it came to shopping)).

  Auntie Mavis is a witch, and so is my entire family (Mom (Hanna), Gran (Minerva), my sisters Viv and Su, and so on—all the women in my family are witches).

  My dad and brother, Gabe (what I call him, his name is Gabriel), aren’t witches (men can’t be) but they are vampires (kid you not, real, live(ish), blood-sucking vampires).

  Our women come from a powerful coven, one of the oldest and most powerful in the world. The Honeycutt coven could kick ass even if I wasn’t in it.

  Because of a lot of stuff that’s way too much to get into now, learned of my family’s and my own witchdom on Hallowe’en night the year before last (let’s just say, Hallowe’en has not been good to me lately).

  After that, started training, took on my first Spellbound (someone I vow to keep safe, her name is Josephine “Josie” McShane and she has a nine-year-old son, Rory) and in the middle of all that, I kind of started a war.

  Yes, a war (see above reference to the Battle of The Tor, that’s where it all started).

  A big old war of the Modernist Sect of the Underworld/Occult/Supernatural/Magical Folk and the Traditionalist Sect of the same. It doesn’t take a brainiac to figure out which believes in what.

  I’m a Modernist. I’m kind of de facto Leader of the Modernists since I started it all.

  (This is another stressful job I don’t really want, by the way.)

  When I said I was single, this was not strictly true.

  Complicating my life further, there are two men in it.

  Two rather luscious men.

  They’ve both vowed to protect me because their lives are entwined with mine through destiny (cah-ray-zee, but true). The Mathilda Prophesies say that one is going to marry me and give me three children (yay!), one is going to die to protect me (not gonna happen, not on my watch!).

  I’m in love with both (yes, am a slut—no, have not had sex with either of them (but both have given me the big O, as in Orgasm, just without actual penetration, of, er, the pertinent parts), yes, the Big O’s were good—no, this situation does not work, yes, they both do not like sharing—no, this isn’t what dreams are made of, it’s pretty confusing and totally stressing me out).

  Kinda don’t want the last dying bit of The Prophesy to happen to either of them so have decided, even if it kills me, I’m going to stop it.

  First, there’s Sebastian “Ash” Quincy Wilding.

  Ash is a member of Le Société de Mathilde, (not named after me but some old, powerful witch chick from 1070, long story), a secret society that, for nearly a millennia, has sworn to protect witches.

  He’s the son of a witch (she died, how, I do not know) and an Elder of Le Société, named Marcus (he’s still alive).

  Ash has been assigned by Le Société to be my bodyguard.

  Ash has got a bit of magic (being the son of a witch), is about six foot two, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, unbelievable body, doesn’t talk much, is a bit scary, has a badass history of military and other training (which is why he’s a bit scary), is sexy as hell and is not someone you want to mess with.

  Then there’s Dr. Aidan Knightly Seymour.

  Aidan is a member of the five-hundred-year-old Royal Institute of Psychical Research. In essence, The Institute dudes are ghostbusters, but they also research all things supernatural.

  Aidan is a “watcher” for The Institute and is supposed to remain distant and take notes. His assigned subject: me.
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  He’s a maverick, doesn’t play by the rules, thinks the magical world and real world can live in harmony (kind of what my war is based on) and gets into trouble a lot.

  He’s about six-foot-one, dark blond hair, bright blue eyes, incredible body, a certified genius (150-plus IQ, no joke), has a posh accent, was educated at Eton and Cambridge, teaches Mythology at Trinity College (when he’s not protecting me), is a serious hottie and is also not someone you want to mess with.

  Ash got shot saving my life at the Battle of The Tor and nearly died (my faerie, BecBec, saved his life by breaking Elfin Law, so, soon, I’m going to have to go testify for her because she’s in Elf Gaol and pretty much screwed, but that’s another long story).

  While Ash was recovering, Aidan and I, my Spellbounds and family went home to Denver to regroup and figure out what was going to happen next.

  ’Cause, like I said, we were at war and I was Head Cheese.

  Problem is, have no earthly idea what I’m doing.

  Let’s get filled in on the last few weeks.

  On Hallowe’en night, war began and Ash got shot.

  So could be near my Spellbounds and keep them safe (’cause that’s my job), Aidan and I took off to Denver.

  A couple of weeks later, even though he was still recovering from a belly wound, Ash followed us to Denver.

  We were all holed up in my family home, The Acre, a big, Victorian, silver boom mansion in Denver’s Baker Historic District.

  My sister’s coven (that would be Su, blonde dreds, total hippie, wears gypsy shirts and flowing Indian printed skirts with bells that tinkle (loudly), usually barefoot unless it’s the dead of winter, wears Birkenstocks with socks in cold weather (fashion murder, if you ask me…Su doesn’t ask me)), put a protection spell on The Acre for a square mile so we were in pretty good shape to hole up and plan our War of the Supernatural World strategy.

  The night Ash got there my mind wasn’t on war strategy.

  Not even close.

  Was lying in my childhood bedroom, the Turret Room I shared with my sisters (though, they’d moved to their own places ages ago).

  I still had the bed I slept in growing up, a four-poster, including canopy, with a pink, frilly, ruffly, super-girlie bedspread and loads of pillows. I had whined about that bed for ages until my mom gave in and bought it for me.

  As an aside, suffice it to say, am kind of the black sheep of my family.

  My gran is all about yoga and politics and not shaving her armpits.

  My mom is all about being an Earth Mother and gardening and baking her own granola and making her own candles and stuff like that. She even makes her own cosmetics which would be weird if they didn’t work so well.

  My sister Viv is all Zen and organized and quiet and serene and always meditating and “one with myself” (who else would she be one with, I’d like to know—she says I don’t “get it” and after she explained it, I still don’t get it so I decided I’m down with not getting it).

  I already described Su.

  I’m about designer clothes, martinis and every one of the girls at the MAC Counter at Cherry Creek Shopping Center knew my name. I walk in and I was like Norm in Cheers. (That was before I moved to England for more than a year. I was going to have to work on getting my Mall Mojo back.)

  Anyhoo.

  Was staring at the flounced canopy over my bed wondering what I was going to do.

  See, for the past couple of weeks, I’d been sneaking out and into Aidan’s bed to spend the night with him (no hanky panky, well, no serious, penetrating hanky panky, though we’d gotten to third base).

  Did this because Aidan might be my future husband and father to my children.

  Also did this because I’d just survived some major, life-changing traumas, not the least of which was Ash getting shot.

  But also there was the fact that found out the dad I grew up never knowing was not only deep cover in Le Société and a Senator for the great State of Colorado, but also a vampire.

  Not only that, but also found out that I had a brother I never knew existed.

  Then, of course, there was Althea, who I’d dragged into the pre-War of the Supernatural World mess in England by kind of kidnapping her during a shootout (another long story). Althea was an oracle, a tough old bird, a bit of an alcoholic and she could be mean, but she was also someone I’d grown to like.

  And she died for me, that is, she put herself in front of a bullet.

  For me.

  What could I say? With all that, I needed a warm, hard body next to mine.

  Believe me, you would too.

  (And, as I mentioned, Aidan is hot.)

  (And, as I might not have mentioned, I was in love with him.)

  (PS: I was in love with Ash too.)

  (PPS: Confused much? Me too!)

  The thing is, now Ash was also down the hall.

  Aidan and Ash preferred to be neck-and-neck in the Get in Mathilda’s Pants Race.

  Since Ash nearly died for me, it was kind of not fair that Aidan was pulling ahead (though, these boys didn’t really bother much about “fair” in the fight to get in my pants—again, you would think this was great, even delicious (and it was, in a way) but mostly, it just messed up my head and flipped me out).

  I knew there was no way I could sleep alone. Sleeping alone meant being in a dark room, by myself, without a strong guy with a six-pack (and not the beverage kind) close enough to chase away the mental demons.

  Aidan had two weeks of un-Ash-adulterated time with me (and he’d used it well).

  But, if I went to Ash, well, he had still not fully recovered. I might do something in the night and rip out some stitches or something.

  Quandary.

  Decisions, decisions.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Got up, left my room, went down to the second floor and opened a door.

  Aidan was lying on top of his bed, fully clothed, all sorts of papers and books spread out on the bed around him.

  Do not ask me what he was studying, probably teaching himself neurosurgery. I figured he could do that, considering he was a genius.

  “Matty.” He looked surprised when I entered and closed the door behind me, putting my back to it.

  I was wearing charcoal gray, flannel pajama bottoms, a tight, long-sleeved, white thermal and thick, white, cotton socks.

  It wasn’t my sexiest bedroom attire, but it was cold in the house in December. As I said, Mom was an Earth Mother and a witch (witches care about the environment, like, a lot, since we get our power from the earth). As a rule, the thermostat went way down the minute it hit nine o’clock.

  “Please don’t be mad at me,” I said to Aidan.

  Didn’t say any more, he knew what I was telling him.

  Something moved over his face, there and gone, that I did not like (but I oh so totally got, or I thought I did) before he pushed off the bed, walked to me, pulled me in his arms and laid a hot, heavy one right on my mouth.

  “Sleep well.”

  He let me go and walked back to the bed.

  I stood there panting and rethinking my decision.

  Not to mention, was a little surprised he gave up so easily.

  Oh well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Went out of Aidan’s room, down the hall, to the other guest room (we had six bedrooms, Mom and Dad in one, Josie in another, Rory in another, Gabe in another, not to mention the Carriage House (where Ash’s dad, Marcus, was staying) and Mother-in-Law Cottage—what could I say, it was a big place because witches need lots of room for all their crap).

  Should have knocked but Ash had gone to bed early, what with being shot and jetlagged and all, he was probably dead to the world (not that kind of dead to the world, thank the Goddess).

  After I closed the door, I saw the drapes were pulled so it was pitch black. Wished BecBec was with me, since faeries gave off a little light. I let my eyes adjust and I saw Ash on his side in bed.

  Made my way to
the bed, pulled the covers back carefully and stretched out beside him.

  Thought I’d sneaked in under the radar when I heard his deep voice say, “I don’t need a vigil, Mathilda. I’m past the point where I may die in the night.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not to the point where I can do what I’d like to do right now.”

  Mm.

  Wonder what that would be.

  Instead of asking, I said, again, “I know.”

  “Mathilda –”

  “Since the whole scene on The Tor, I can’t sleep alone,” I explained.

  Silence.

  “If I’m going to disturb you, or cause you pain, I’ll go.”

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “You’ll go where?”

  An uncomfortable question.

  “Um…”

  “Where have you been going?”

  An even more uncomfortable question.

  “Um…”

  An arm closed around my waist and I was pulled so my side was pressed against Ash’s front.

  “Two weeks, every night, you sleep with me.”

  May have forgotten to mention that Ash was very bossy.

  However, I didn’t forget to mention that Ash and Aidan liked to be neck-and-neck.

  There’s your proof.

  “Okay, but once we even things out, the three of us are going to make some ground rules.”

  “What would ‘evening it out’ entail,” (Uh-oh) “exactly?” (Yikes!)

  “Do I have to get into ‘exactly’?”

  “You fucking well do.”

  Ash may have been recovering from a gunshot wound but was sensing that he hadn’t taken that time to reflect, perhaps to soften, be more understanding and sensitive to my plight.

  The thing is, I’d decided that since both Ash and Aidan lived their lives since childhood knowing they might die for me and were (for some totally insane reason) willing to do it, I cut them both some slack (Ash usually needed more slack than Aidan, truth be told).