A Witch in Time Saves Nine: Witch series book 1, #1

By nikki broadwell

When Emeline Chase walks through a portal and ends up in Salem of 1692 she reallizes that her grandmother's stories were actually true--there are witches in the family, and she's one of them.  But why is she here? Her conclusion that she's in the past to change history puts her into mortal danger. What she doesn't realize is that the more she meddles in the past the more her own time line will be affected.

With witch hunters after her and an uncertain  future, Emeline must find a way to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: nikki broadwell
• Release date: Jul 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533764911

nikki broadwell

Nikki Broadwell has been writing non-stop for sixteen years. From the time when she was a child her imagination has threatened to run off with her and now she is able to give it free rein. Animals and nature and the condition of the world are themes that follow her storylines that meander from fantasy to paranormal murder mystery to shapeshifters--and along with that add the spice of a good love story. 

Book preview

Chapter One

I GATHERED MY DARK wool cloak around me and pulled the hood up before heading away from the gruesome scene. I didn’t want to take the chance of being noticed by those searching for others to execute. The town square was filled with gawkers, young and old, who had come to see Nettie hang.  I could hear them even now, their cries of ‘death to the witch!’ making me feel sick. According to the court’s findings, Nettie was doing the devil’s work.

She still hung suspended, her swan-like neck broken, long blonde hair in filthy tangles down her back from the time she spent in the dungeon, her body limp and swinging. I ran, only pausing before the bridge to catch my breath, wondering if my stomach would turn on me, but the feeling subsided.

If they wanted a real witch they should have picked me. If they knew I was able to travel through time I would have been burned or hung along with her. But I’d taken care to stay off their radar as much as I could.  As it was they had chosen the sweetest most innocent person I’d ever come across, a young woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. If she hadn’t been associating with the likes of me this never would have come about. I swept away tears with my sleeve and started across the bridge, but when I was half way a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

Emeline Chase, why are you here?

Over my shoulder I stared into the face of Nettie’s original accuser, now my neighbor, Jonas Hale. He was the one who’d reported her to the authorities and kept up with his accusations until she was tried and found guilty. Nettie had done nothing but show me how to turn herbs into oils, the pungent odor of these bringing Jonas running from his house a mile away. He was sure we were brewing up some kind of potions, his cry of witch! carrying on the wind and bringing others to our door. When Nettie was dragged away I begged and pleaded with the ones who took her, but their stares of hatred made my blood run cold.

His skin was florid as though he’d been running, probably to catch me. He was overweight, around forty or so years of age, his fine waistcoat straining over his protruding stomach. I shook free and faced him. You bear all the responsibility for killing an innocent young woman.

He let out a low laugh. I only took her to the court, nothing more. She had the mark of the devil on her cheek. We both know who the real culprit is though, do we not? I had hoped you would come forward to save her, but instead you decided to save yourself.

Why did you never accuse me, then?

His piggy eyes narrowed even further. I have told them of how you vanish as though taken by the wind and then return dressed in odd clothing, and yet they never come for you. Why is this, Emeline?

I stared at him, surprised that he’d actually seen me disappear. I’d been sure my comings and goings from the twenty-first century were done in secret. This was not good. I merely came here to see if there was a way to save an innocent woman. You hang the ones who never did a thing wrong. Look to your own kind if you want to find evil.  I hate you and all you stand for.

Remember, Emeline, it was Goody Putnam who gave Nettie away, not I. Hate me all you want, but I will eventually bring you to justice. You and the others.

What others? When I shook my head my hood feel back, revealing my dark hair filled with red streaks. But that was not where his focus had gone. The breeze had come up, blowing the thick bangs off my forehead and revealing the tiny blue spiral tattoo.

Jonas’s eyes went wide and he crossed himself. You bear the mark of the devil, he hissed, backing away. Be assured you will come to justice.

I laughed and hurried the rest of the way across the bridge, leaving him to his religious nonsense.

But on the other side of the creek a chill entered my body. Jonas and those in power were determined to rid Salem of all who did not fit the profile of Puritan. They were terrified of anyone different from themselves.  I‘d seen the look of rapture on their faces as Nettie had pleaded for her life, the smug expressions that lit them up when they pulled the cart from beneath her feet. The rope hung from a branch of the hanging tree where several other women had met their deaths. And if I didn’t do something to stop it there would be many more.

The people responsible for these hangings were Puritans who had settled here in the early 1600’s. They had come here to the mouth of the Naumkeag river, the site of an ancient Native American village and trading center, settled and changed the name to Salem, a Hebrew word that meant peace. What a joke that was. I still thought it strange that a king back in England had given these people permission to settle this land, as though they owned it. Bad luck to the people already living here.

From my studies I’d learned that the Puritans left England hoping to start a new religious colony that was more pure and austere. Their goal was to get rid of the music and ceremony prevalent in church practices. On the other hand the Pilgrims came to America seeking religious freedom. They wanted to separate from the Church of England and get rid of bishops and priests. They wanted a direct relationship with God. These two opposing ideas were bound to cause conflict, but so far it seemed to me that the Puritans had gotten the upper hand, at least here in Salem of 1692.

I hurried up the stone path to the cottage, looking forward to a fire and a cup of tea. This house had belonged to Nettie. With her trusting heart she’d taken me in the first time I’d appeared, not even questioning why I was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and had strange red streaks in my dark hair.  I figured I could stay here until such time as the courts seized it. My comings and goings were erratic at best and I never knew how long my time in the past would be. I was sure there was a way to control my shifts but so far I hadn’t discovered it. The portal that allowed me into the past didn’t always work the way I expected.

The herb garden in back of Nettie’s one room, dirt-floored cottage was barely growing at this time of year, but if I were still here in the spring I could cultivate and work the soil and plant what I needed for my herbal remedies—my ‘potions’ as Jonas called them, a word that meant witch to him. Inside the house many dried herbs hung from the rafters, including peppermint and chamomile, the scents reminding me of Nettie. I checked out the window, hoping Jonas hadn’t followed. At this point he was probably running back to town to describe my tattoo to every authority he knew. The seventeenth century in Salem Village, Massachusetts was not a favorable time for women, and this particular year left much to be desired.

The sun was a pale orb through the cirrostratus clouds above the woods behind the house, and it wouldn’t be long before it was completely gone. With no electricity I would need a warm fire tonight. There would be a frost. I thought of poor Nettie again, wishing I had never befriended her. Her death was my doing. I had vowed to myself to stop any more hangings, but so far had not come up with a good idea of how to accomplish this. My one plan of taking the accused into another timeline had been shattered when I realized that my trips from the twenty-first century led directly to 1692 and back again. Without having control of where, and more importantly, when I traveled, my options were limited.

Before I’d had a chance to build up the fire and heat water for tea the familiar headache began to pound in my temples. Apparently the portal that I’d trusted as my system back and forth was no longer the only way in and out. I gazed at the wattle and daub wall, watching it crumble.  And then wind was whistling by my ears as I sped through time, heading to my home in the future.

Chapter Two

EMMY! WHERE HAVE YOU been? And why are you dressed like that? My sister frowned, staring at my hooded cloak, the long homespun dress I wore under it and Nettie’s laced up leather boots covered in mud.

I tried to focus, but my eyes were still blurry from the time shift. I didn’t have any idea what day it was or how long I’d been gone. Time spent in the past didn’t necessarily correlate with time in the present. This was the first time the time shift had happened anywhere other than the forest where the two ancient oaks seemed to create a portal, and I wondered what had changed. What day is it?

What? You don’t know the day? You’re more of a flake than I thought. It’s Tuesday, you idiot. We were supposed to meet at the library after school but you weren’t even there today. Mom’s really pissed.

Was I here yesterday?

Are you for real?

Sorry, Jean. I think I’m coming down with something. My head feels fuzzy and I can’t think. I coughed to prove my point.

You played hooky today and you’re going to be grounded. Where did you go, anyway? she whispered.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, I answered, looking into the hall mirror. What I saw was my sixteen year-old-self, cheeks chapped from the cold, a haunted, somewhat insane expression in my blue-gray eyes. I thought again about Nettie’s hanging, a shiver moving through my body. If only I could go back in time to before it happened and save her, but so far I was at the whim of the time travel gods or whatever force it was that transported me back and forth. 

Emily? Is that you? My mother emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron and an angry expression. Where have you been, young lady? she demanded with hands on hips. And what outlandish outfit is this?

I tried to come up with some plausible explanation for why I was wearing a very patched homespun dress and a cloak of wool that had belonged to my friend in 1692, or where I’d been for the past twenty-four hours.  I needed some time to research my project on the witch trials so I spent the day in the library in town.

And you thought you’d dress the part? My mother shook her head wearily. That’s the same excuse you came up with last time this happened. Now tell me the truth.

"I really did, Mom. I saw—I mean I went to the library and read about one of the hangings. The girl’s name was Nettie. She was only fifteen." My eyes filled with tears before I could stop myself.

Fifteen? How perfectly awful! I can’t believe Massachusetts has this horrible history. When is this project due?

Mom, you said she was grounded! Jean shouted. Are you going to let her off again?

I glanced toward my angry sister. I could understand her frustration. Somehow I always managed to weasel out of my punishments. I had a feeling it had to do with my talents, although how it happened was not something I could trace.  I’m really sorry, Mom. I won’t miss school again. But you know how important this is, especially with our history. I knew exactly what my mother was thinking: I was the smart one, the one destined to do great things. If only they could keep me in line. Little did they know what great things I hoped to achieve.

My mom actually came over and hugged me. I should never have told you about our ancestors, Emily. You’ve been obsessed with witches ever since. You have to realize they’re just stories made up by your grandmother.

I’m not a witch, Jean said, hotly. It freaks me out when you talk about it.

Our mother let me go and turned to my fourteen-year-old sister. Your grandmother would have said something very different, Jean. Don’t ever say this to anyone, but...

At that point the door opened and my father came in. So what’s all this? he asked, staring at the three of us.

Emily played hooky and Mom said she was going to ground her, but now everything’s forgiven! Jean wiped at her eyes and then ran for the stairs, pounding up them two at a time. Her bedroom door slammed a moment later.

What’s going on? my bewildered father asked, running his fingers through his thick wavy brown hair. He always had a somewhat dazed look on his face, as though he didn’t quite understand how he’d ended up in the life he was in.  

Oh, Henry, it’s all a misunderstanding, my mother explained, turning toward the kitchen. Would you like an alcoholic beverage, dear?

I smiled, watching my father trail after her. My mother never admitted that Grandma’s insistence that we came from a long line of witches had any validity, but I saw how she led my father around by the nose. She’d been about to reveal something to the two of us, but now the opportunity was gone.

When I hurried up the stairs to my bedroom to change out of Nettie’s clothes, I heard my sister crying in the room next to mine.

Jean? I said, knocking. Can I come in?

Go away! I hate you! she yelled.

Please, Jean. I have something to tell you.

I don’t want to hear it.

I went into my own room and closed the door, rummaging through my drawers for something to wear, finally choosing a pair of sweats and a faded black T-shirt.

The time traveling had begun one day when I was walking in the woods behind our house, a place I often went to get away from the noise of the television, cell phones ringing and the flickering brightness of the various computer screens and television sets that sat on every available surface of our house. The solitude under the trees, light slanting through the heavy branches of oak and maples, the damp pungent aromas of decaying leaves, the scurry of small animals searching for food, seemed to settle something deep inside me, as though this modern life I lived wasn’t really who I was. The forest was thick, massive first growth trees dating back hundreds of years. At first I hadn’t been sure how I ended up in 1692, but when it happened a second time I realized that the two ancient oak trees standing three feet from one another, their upper branches twined together, made up a portal into the past.

On my initial trip I only registered a difference in the atmosphere, the woods less dense and with smaller trees, the sound of cars on the road disappearing into a silence I wasn’t used to.  The light was changed and the scents of moss and swamp were stronger than I remembered. When I came out of the woods my house had been replaced with a rustic clapboard-sided cabin. When a rider galloped by on what now was a rutted dirt road, his dark waistcoat and buckled top hat dating from the period in history I’d been researching, I knew something extraordinary was going on.

I stood there utterly terrified until the door to the cottage opened and a girl around my age gazed at me in surprise. Are ye lost? she asked in an accent I could barely understand. She wore a long brown dress, an apron over it, a small white cap covering her blonde hair that had been braided and pinned to the back of her head. She glanced away, her blue eyes scanning the road. You’d best come inside, she finally said when I didn’t respond.  I had on a short skirt and tights, an oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder and over my hips, my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. I can’t imagine what she must have thought when she saw me. And yet she took me in, odd clothes and all. And from that moment until the day of her death we were fast friends. Even my odd story of where I’d come from didn’t seem to faze her.

I’d only known her two weeks before the authorities dragged her away, and that two weeks was only in dribs and drabs as I came and went from present to past and back again. But in the short time we’d spent together she’d managed to impart a lot of her herbal knowledge, helping me understand what many of her potions were used for and how to apply them. She’d learned herbal lore from her mother and would have followed in her footsteps to become the village healer if she hadn’t been hung as a witch. Her family had come to this country to make a new life but had fallen into hard times brought on by the religious conflicts between the Quakers and the Puritans. All my earlier misconceptions about the colonist’s lofty ideals of religious freedom had been dashed after only a couple of conversations with Nettie.

Ye should go back where you came from and never set foot here again, she called over her shoulder on the morning they took her away. It sounded as though she wanted her captors to assume I was no friend of hers. Or maybe she was serious and was warning me to go back to my time. Whatever her reasons I hadn’t taken her advice, especially with what I knew of coming events. I had the sense that some unknown force had sent me here to save the others. And that’s what I intended to do.

After she’d been sentenced and I’d visited her in jail, Nettie had told me to use her clothes and to stay in her house. We were close to the same size. Her words of warning rang in my mind: They will take my house soon enough, but you will be safe there for a while. Be mindful, Emeline.

I’d spoken to the magistrate, I’d begged and pleaded, even cited her mother’s knowledge of healing and the herbal cures that Nettie had learned from her—how her potions were only meant to help the villagers. But everything I’d said had fallen on deaf ears. Jonas and his vitriol had condemned her. I tried my best, but I hadn’t been able to save her.

THAT FIRST FEW DAYS in the Salem of 1692 had given me a taste of what I’d been searching for to complete my research paper—the reality of life in a fishbowl that led to mass hysteria. All my reading so far had been dry and lifeless, and when I tried to put it into my own words it became even more so.  Meeting Nettie had opened my eyes, and that first time when I retraced the path I’d taken through the woods and found my way home I knew exactly what to do. I would write the paper from Nettie’s point of view. Little did I know at the time that Nettie would be hung right in front of my eyes.

After her hanging I was positive that writing my research paper was peripheral to my real purpose—I was here to change things, to keep these women from being accused in the first place—a heavy task. My grandmother’s stories about being a witch and how I was one too, began to resurface, her prophetic words coming back to haunt me.

Don’t listen to your mother, Emeline. She never believed me. But you are different—you’re like me. I can see it in your eyes. You’ll be faced with something when you’re older, a task that will seem impossible. Embrace it, sweet one. It will be your destiny as a witch.

I was nine years old when my grandmother died and since then I’d forgotten what she’d told me—until now.

Dinner! I heard my mother shout. I put down my journal and left the bedroom.

When I reached the dining room Jean was already seated, her eyes on her plate. Dad was at his usual place at the head of the table, a newspaper blocking his face.

My mother carried in steaming dishes and placed them on the table. Henry, put that paper down, she said, annoyed.

My father gazed at her blankly and folded the paper up. So, girls, how are things? he asked.

Jean gave me a hostile look and continued her perusal of her plate.

I’m working on a paper for my history class, I said.

What’s it on? he asked.

The Salem witch trials.

My father laughed. Hasn’t that been done to death? he asked.

My mother slipped into her place on his