WICKA: The Chronicles of Elizabeth Blake

By Christy Deveaux

While mourning the loss of a mother figure, Elizabeth Blake, a smart but socially introverted seventeen year old girl from Ann Arbor Michigan, thinks she's enrolling in an international school in the south of France to finish her final year of high school. Instead, she falls in love; finds out that she is a witch from an ancient family –– who weren’t thought to exist anymore; and discovers that her life is in danger, as the Elders believe that she is the heir to a legend they fear above all else.

Wicka, the debut novel by Christy Deveaux, has been compared to other fantasy paranormal tales such as Twilight, written by Stephanie Meyer and Harry Potter, written by J.K. Rowling. Young adults and grown ups alike are sure to love this adventure filled magical romance.

I truly enjoyed Wicka, a paranormal fantasy with love, jealousy, betrayal, and of course, magic. Young adult-friendly, the book contains its own mythos that really added to the interest in the story for me. It has a truly original take on witch lore, with its own quirks and novelties, that enrich the existing idea of witchcraft. The interpersonal story here is also compelling, and it’s perfect for teens. All in all, fantastic. ~ Sam G.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christy Deveaux
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311765352

Christy Deveaux

Christy Deveaux is the author of The Chronicles of Elizabeth Blake series (former #1 Amazon best seller in Children's Paranormal & Urban Fantasy Books). Her highly anticipated first book in the series, WICKA, was released in 2014. Inspired by traveling across Europe solo at a very young age, and many travel adventures since, the character and story line behind Elizabeth Blake was born. Christy majored in political science and earned a cross-disciplinary degree from the University of Western Ontario. She lives in Toronto, Ontario with her husband, three children and a fish named Cow.Official author website: www.christydeveaux.com_________________Please watch the information book trailer under the video section of this page! Note: This presentation contains images that were used under a Creative Commons License. Click here to see the full list of images and attributions: https://app.contentsamurai.com/cc/23782

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WICKA

The Chronicles of Elizabeth Blake

By

Christy Deveaux

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Christy Deveaux

CONTENTS

PREFACE

1. MY ESCAPE

2. SWEET BLISS, WITH A HINT OF ANXIETY

3. SHAW MANOR

4. REVELATION

5. CHRISTMAS AFTERNOON

6. DISCOVERING WITCH HOOD

7. THE THOMPSONS

8. OMA RETURNS

9. MEETING THE ELDERS

10. JAMES

11. A CHANGE OF VENUE

12. THE RUGBY DEBACLE

13. SPRING BREAK

14. HOME

15. THE HOUSE OF OMA

16. THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

17. RETURN TO SCHOOL

18. NICE

19. OXFORD

20. THE SHADOW

21. THE FALLOUT

22. CLOSING CEREMONIES

PREFACE

I guess it started when I was too young to determine age; but, in hindsight, it was always with me. Some call it second sight; some call it instinct. I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am a witch.

It was never easy to recognize, although the signs were always there. I remember my mother used to say to me that I always seemed to be searching for something without ever really finding it. She never knew. She felt that I was different, but she didn't know why or even how. We had a strange relationship: both wanting to be closer than we knew how to be.

The witch gene came from my father’s side. His mother, my oma, met an army officer during World War II. She accepted an offer of marriage and emigrated from Holland during a particularly difficult time for people who weren't conventional in their religious beliefs. I remember the stories of her birth. She weighed two and a half pounds and wasn’t expected to survive.

A miracle came in the form of a doctor whom her mother knew. He put her in a roasting pan and placed her above a fire to keep her warm. Generally, witches don’t gravitate towards fire. It is the most commonly known way to kill witches and cleanse the world of their wickedness.

Witches are born small. The smaller they are when they are born, the stronger they are said to be—assuming they survive. I have yet to meet anyone, witch or human, who weighed less than two and a half pounds at birth and survived.

This doctor was the head male in the largest, oldest, and most influential coven of witches in the world. Together, he and the rest of the coven were referred to as the Elders. The doctor’s attendance at my grandmother’s birth was to be both honoured and feared.

Word had spread of my great grandmother’s pregnancy. She was so small you would have never known she was with child. The Elders associated my omas birth with an ancient prophecy, a prophecy that spoke of one barely born existing to lead. This was the legend that the Elders feared above all else. They desperately wanted to discover the heir to this particular legend so that they could eliminate any threat to their empire.

For this reason, oma was constantly under watch tested by those hopeful that she was, in fact, the heir, and put in danger by the Elders, who feared the same.

So, at seventeen, to ensure her survival and the survival of her family, she left home, married my grandfather, and secretly settled in a new land. She had four children but only one daughter: Aunt Kerry. The witch gene passes through the females in my family only. That’s why no one else in my family is a witch; it’s just me, my oma, and my aunt.

I have one brother. We are very close—as close as you can be to someone when you don’t really know who you are. I’ve lived in Ann Arbour, Michigan my entire life.

The earliest memory I can recall is as simple as wishing upon a star. Both of my parents worked. They worked a lot. I had a nanny, who would occasionally let my brother and I stay up late. One summer night, I snuck out to the porch and sat on the step. I looked at the sky and saw only one star. Out loud, I said, Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight. Please have my parents drive around the corner and come home. They did. I chalked it up to coincidence.

I also remember writing stories when I was young—much too young to be writing stories. I had the most amazing closet that was like a fort. It was a walk-in closet that I could step into. There was a nook beside the shelves where I would sit, behind hanging clothes, and pretend to write things that were very important. I would see things that had happened, or that would happen, and write them down like. My mother would say that I had an amazing imagination, and then she would sign me up for some form of sports team. Somehow, I got the feeling that she was trying to run the weird out of me.

When I was six, a new family moved next door to us. Our families became instant friends—we were the perfect match. Mrs. Hill was a stay-at-home mom while Mr. Hill worked for an export company. They were English but moved here from Greece. They had two daughters: Sasha and Gwyneth. Sasha was ten and would take care of us while our parents socialized. Gwyneth was six. We became best friends.

Because my parents worked so much, I spent more time at Gwyneth’s house than at my own. Mrs. Hill became like a second mother to my brother and I. She would feed us, bathe us, and take care of us with such love and compassion you would think she had four children instead of two. She and my mother became best friends. In no time, the Hills had become such an integral part of our lives that it was hard to imagine life without them.

As I got older, Mrs. Hill became more interested in my writing. She was always asking me to tell her stories. She was so supportive. She would listen intently to my every word and then help me tweak my writing to make it more realistic.

Gwyneth and I shared everything. We were inseparable. When I was seventeen, the Hills had relatives visit them from Greece. They seemed very anxious to meet Gwyneth’s best friend. I guess they had heard a lot about me, so I didn't think anything of it. A week later, Mrs. Hill was in the hospital. The doctors said it was cancer. A week after that, she died. It wasn't until after I found out I was a witch that I discovered the Elders had killed her because she was protecting me.

You see, as a descendant of my oma and with the legend still outstanding, I was being monitored and tracked by the Elders. This was the job of the Hills. But, neither the Hills nor the Elders had anticipated the bond I had formed with Mrs. Hill. To protect me, she would report back to them that I was showing no remarkable signs of witch hood and that I seemed to have no idea of who I actually was. To this day, I don’t know who reported her to the Elders. Whoever it was knew that Mrs. Hill had been training me, modifying my behaviours to make them less obvious to everyone including myself and my unsuspecting parents.

But the Elders were not fooled. After all, they were the oldest, most knowledgeable witches in the world. They knew, and they were furious. Her betrayal was considered an act of high treason and punishment was inevitable. Never known for their forgiveness, the Elders cast a spell on Mrs. Hill that infected her organs and brought about her death.

It was only later that I found out that they had killed her because she didn’t expose me as the powerful witch that I would become. The Elders instructed Mr. Hill to maintain a relationship with my family. The friendship I had forged with Gwyneth might be useful to them someday. Fearing for his daughters’ lives, Mr. Hill obeyed.

1. MY ESCAPE

Alone. Horribly and utterly alone was the most positive feeling I could muster. I longed to be free from the despair that engulfed me. I could barely focus. Gwyneth, my best friend, had been excused from exams. When your mother dies, you’re afforded certain concessions. When your mother figure dies, you get to write exams.

I looked around at my peers, who were concentrating on their papers, trying to write as much as they possibly could before the clock ran out. Their pens moved furiously. I chuckled out loud at how insignificant the entire process was when the teacher cleared her throat and gestured for me to continue with my exam. To appease my intrusive teacher, I glanced back at my paper even though I knew there was no hope of concentration.

I found myself staring out of the window. It seemed to be a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining, leaves and flowers were blooming, and birds were chirping. Why, with such bright and beautiful prospects in front of me, did it feel so dark and cold?

The bell rang, startling me and bringing me back to reality—a reality where, upon glancing at the half empty pages in front of me, I had next to no hope of passing this exam. I wondered if it was even worth turning in. I didn’t care. I just wanted to leave but had nowhere to go. The teacher had to insist twice that student’s stop writing, I had already packed up my bag.

Up until two weeks ago, grade eleven was proving to be an amazing year. I was at the top of my class academically, my soccer team had just won the championship, and socially, let’s just say, I was no longer a pariah. Things were great.

Gwyneth wasn’t as athletic as I was, but we pretty much did everything else together. We lived beside each other, and our mothers were best friends. Our families were always together, and so, we felt very secure around each other.

That may have been why neither of us had ever really had a serious boyfriend. There was never a void that needed to be filled or a guy either of us liked enough to spend any real time with.

About six months ago, we overheard our mothers chatting about how lucky they were that we never got into any of that foolish boy stuff. It’s funny that we never felt abnormal; I suppose most people would have.

Our summer was set to be incredible. Gwyneth’s family had friends who lived in Bay City. They kept a boat at their local marina and had invited us to stay with them for a couple of nights. It was going to be our first road trip. We would drive up together, spend a couple of days on the boat, and catch a concert before heading home. We were so excited. We had never been away by ourselves before.

It had taken a lot of convincing by Clara Hill, Gwyneth’s mom, but my mom eventually conceded that my staying with family friends at seventeen wasn’t the worst idea in the world. Although she would never admit to it being a good idea, the best we could hope for was that it wasn’t the worst idea.

Gwyneth wanted to go shopping, insisting she had nothing to bring with her on our road trip. I didn’t like to shop but agreed to go with her as I always did. The longer I could go without having to enter a mall, the better. Gwyneth or my mom would always show up with a new shirt or pair of jeans when they felt I had sufficiently loved my current ones enough.

I brought a book to occupy myself with while Gwyneth tried on clothes. Vampires that wreaked havoc on normal societies while trying not be detected were my guilty pleasure. For some reason they intrigued me although I never understood why they didn’t just rise up and take over if they were so much more powerful than humans.

I wasn’t a chapter in when Gwyneth came out of the change room empty handed. Still looking at her phone, she said, My mom just called. She wants me home for dinner. Apparently, our relatives from Greece decided to surprise us with a visit. She said for you to come too. She was still staring at her phone as though she was in a daze.

Gwyn, are you alright? I asked, feeling like she wasn’t telling me everything. Snapping out of it and looking at me with what seemed like a forced smile, she said, Yeah, I’m fine. Come on, let’s go.

The entire way home she was unusually quiet, concentrating way harder than was necessary on the road. It was like she intentionally didn’t want to make eye contact with me; she seemed very uncomfortable. When we pulled into her driveway, she just sat there, staring at her house with the car still running. It wasn’t until I asked her again if she was okay that she smiled and turned off the car.

When we walked into the house, everyone was waiting for us in the living room. As soon as I walked in, I could feel the atmosphere stiffen. There were four relatives; all were men and all were very old. They were dressed in suits; I found this to be strange for an impromptu dinner visit. The youngest looking of them stood up and stretched out his hand to introduce himself. I shook his hand and thought I saw him shudder. He smiled and looked at Mrs. Hill who looked down uncomfortably, unwilling to return his gaze. I had never seen her lacking in confidence before.

He then returned his smile to me; it wasn’t warm. He said, Hello, my name is Christopher. It is nice to meet you Elizabeth.

Yeah, thanks. You too, I replied pulling my hand from his intense grasp. I found it strange that he didn’t acknowledge Gwyneth. He was still holding out his hand, staring at it. He looked up while wiggling his fingers and smiled, but it was more sinister than genuine. He then looked at the other three relatives and paused in their gaze. It was strange.

I really wanted to leave but was afraid to. Christopher answered my wish when he said, Okay, Gwyneth, Elizabeth. You may go upstairs. Giving orders in the Hill’s house, while they sat there and said nothing—it made no sense. If I hadn’t been so grateful for the opportunity to leave, I may have questioned it more. I turned to go, but Gwyneth didn’t budge. She just stood there, looking at her mother, fear and defiance outlining her demeanor.

Christopher elaborated and said, We need to discuss…family business. Gwyneth’s gaze never left her mother’s. Mrs. Hill stood and walked over to her daughter. While brushing the hair away from Gwyneth’s face she said, It’s okay. You girls go and have fun, she said. Her smile was warm, but she definitely wasn’t herself. A smug looked traipsed across Christopher’s insincere face. Gwyneth hesitantly turned to leave.

On our way out of the room, I told Gwyn I was going to go home. She didn’t discourage me in any way. She just hugged me and walked me out. It was the strangest interaction I’ve ever had with her and her family.

That night I slept very little. My dreams were plagued with monsters. Every time I would fall asleep, I would see terrible things inflicted by faceless people. Everyone was faceless except one: Christopher. His face was haunting me but in some unreal, paranormal way.

The third time I woke up it was in a cold sweat. I immediately blamed my recent vampire reading coupled with the strangeness of the real Christopher. In my dreams, though, he wasn’t a vampire, but he was torturing people—well one person actually. I couldn’t see who it was and didn’t really want to know; I was just grateful it was over.

I lay back down afraid to close my eyes again. I couldn’t get the image of him torturing that person out of my head. I couldn’t see him using anything to hurt his victim though. He was just standing there with his arms stretched straight out, his palms up, speaking words I couldn’t understand while his victim writhed in pain before his evil, uncaring eyes.

I shuttered. I looked at my clock. It was blinking 3:23 a.m. over and over as though it had stopped at that exact time. I turned on the lamp beside my bed to check my phone. It was almost 4 a.m. I decided that I had to find a new guilty pleasure; 4 a.m. wake ups do not work for me.

Gwyneth called me later that morning and told me she wouldn’t be walking with me to school as she was going to spend time with her relatives. I didn’t hear from her again until the next morning. I was getting ready for school when she called. She didn’t even say hello. Her first and only words were, My mom is in the hospital. The doctors say it’s cancer. It’s not good. I’m on my way there now. Tell your mom. I’ll call you later. And she was gone.

I looked at the phone, unable to digest the information she had just relayed to me. She was cold, lifeless. There wasn’t any emotion in her voice. It was like she had already come to terms with the inevitable.

I ran downstairs two steps at a time as though the faster I told my mom, the easier it would be for her to fix. How childish. After retelling the story I still didn’t believe was true, my mom sported the same astonished, disbelieving look I imagine I had after receiving the news. It was a very rare occasion that my mother was at a loss for words.

After a prolonged silence that none of us were used to, my mother snapped out of it and went into planning mode. I didn’t even know she was sick! she said to me as though I must have misunderstood Gwyneth.

Me neither, I replied. That must have been why everyone was acting so strange the other night. She must have just told their relatives.

My mother immediately called her assistant to cancel her meetings, classes, and anything else on her calendar that day. She wanted to go to the hospital to see if she could help. You need to go to school. I will let you know as soon as I find anything out, she said as though she could read my mind and knew I would be intent on going with her. There was no point in arguing; there never was.

The school day could not have been longer. When you’re tired and worried the clock practically stops ticking. Finally, after a day that seemed like a week, I raced home to meet my mother. She was already there, in the kitchen with my dad.

As I entered the room, my mom just looked at me; her eyes were red as though she had been crying the entire day. She seemed afraid to say the words that I was afraid to hear. Saying things out loud so often makes them more real. My mom just shook her head from side to side, keeping me in her gaze, unable to speak.

It was my dad who eventually said, It spread through her entire body. She doesn’t have long.

Tears immediately started streaming down my cheeks. I don’t think I even realized I was crying. Panicked and completely unaware of my weakened state, I replied, Well, I have to go and see her. There has to be something we can do—something somebody can do!

My mom continued to shake her head, unable to do anything else as the grief over her best friend started to overtake her. My dad replied, No, she doesn’t want to see anyone. She wants everyone to remember her as she was. Your mother said goodbye to her today, and she wants you to know how much she loves you and how proud she is of you. He gasped at those last words, which made my mother flee to her bedroom for the solace of solitude.

His words made me sink to the floor. I wished that it would open up and swallow me whole, that it would save me from the abyss that was promising to consume me. As though knowing where my mind would go to next, my dad continued, Gwyneth is with her mom and will remain at the hospital until… he trailed off, searching for the least devastating word. …Well, until it’s over. With those words, my dad made his way to me, and I crumpled into his arms like a child who had been pushed by a bully on the playground. I wasn’t sure what to do next; or where to go from here. My life would never be the same.

We hadn’t heard anything from the Hills since that horrible day. Occasionally, we saw their car in their driveway late at night. I imagine they were getting a change of clothes or whatnot. It actually gave me comfort to have no contact; no news was good news.

It was two weeks after we found out Mrs. Hill was sick. We were eating dinner; it was unusually quiet. The phone rang, and we all looked around, daring each other to answer. Somehow, I think we all knew who was calling and why.

My father eventually got up to answer the phone. As soon as he said, I’m so sorry, my mother left the table and retreated to her room. I sat there frozen. My brother seemed to have no idea what to do. My dad hung up the phone, which was behind me, and put his hand on my shoulder. I felt like a deer caught in headlights, frozen, unable to run away to save myself.

My dad explained, She passed. Everyone is by her side saying their goodbyes. The funeral will be in a couple of days. He hugged me and went to check on my mother. I just sat there in a state of shock.

Time flew by—as it always does when you’re dreading something—but we found ourselves dressed and ready for the funeral way too early in the day. Trying to waste time while you’re waiting for something horrifying is not the easiest thing to do. It would be the first time I would see Gwyneth since that horrible night—the night I met Christopher.

The funeral was small and tasteful—only Mrs. Hill’s close friends and family were there. The casket was closed. I was relieved. After a ceremony, which I tried very hard not to listen to, there was a brief reception during which I finally got to see my best friend. I really had no idea what to say to her.

We stood there for a few moments, both with tears in our eyes. When words escaped me, I reached out and hugged her. What could you possibly say to make anyone feel better about this kind of situation? We both cried in each other’s arms and were reluctant to let go. My brother Robbie tried to console Gwyneth’s older sister Sasha but was so uncomfortable that she ended up comforting him.

Gwyn told me she wouldn’t be finishing the rest of the school year. It wasn’t a big deal since only exams were left, which she had been excused from anyway. I told her I understood, but I secretly wished I could join her.

School used to excite me. It represented all of my interests and all of my dreams. Now, walking the halls by myself and experiencing the grief I felt without Gwyneth was excruciating. I didn’t feel like socializing with anyone. I barely heard people when they said hi to me in the halls. Once again, I had become a pariah, only this time it was self-inflicted.

After Mrs. Hill's death, I was devastated. I had never known real tragedy, and I didn't know how to deal with the loss. I felt like a piece of me had died with her. But in some way, I felt that she was still with me. This made me feel even more abnormal, if that was even possible.

Our summer plans were definitely off but I seemed to find solace in the idea of travel. Getting away seemed to be the only reasonable thing to do. I had very strong feelings for France. With the entire world available to me, France was the obvious choice. Maybe it was the food, or the romance, or simply the fact that it was far enough away for me to escape, but close enough for me to get back. Regardless, everything about that country seemed to appeal to me.

I was able to convince my parents to let me finish my final year of high school at an international school in the south of France. After that, I would return home and go to university. They agreed that it might be good for me to leave behind the tragedies of home and flee to a different country, at least for a while.

There was just one small problem. Ever since I met Gwyneth, I had never been away from her for longer than a week or so for a family vacation. Even then, she usually came with us. It would be strange going away to France for a year. I could tell she didn’t want me to go, but I knew she would never ask me to stay.

The day I left, she came with us to the airport to say goodbye. She had just lost her mother. And my mother had just lost her best friend. I secretly hoped that they would find in each other what they had just lost and so desperately wanted back.

Even though my mother would never let me see her cry, I found out later from Gwyneth that she had cried all the way home from the airport. I guess the thought of me being so far away was harder for her to take than I had realized. I just wanted to leave. To be completely honest, I was very excited to have a whole year to get away from the sadness that had been overwhelming me.

In France, I was supposed to board with a girl named Sophie. We would live with the Jardines, an older couple whose kids were all grown up with families of their own. Sophie was British, from a town not far outside of London. Like many students from the posh boarding school she attended back in England, she was completing her last year of high school abroad.

There were a few other students from her school there. All the girls were boarding with families, and the boys were staying in dorms at the school. I felt very lucky to be handed a social group. Even though