The Unlocked Legacy: Burgundy Hart, #2

By Lucy True and Jea Hawkins

Unregistered warlock? Check. Date with the Witches Council? Check. Inevitable explosions? Check.

 

Hey, it's not like Burgundy Jane Hart asked for this, no matter how dull life as Rock Grove's librarian is. But ever since her father showed up and told her the truth - that she's actually a warlock - she's had plenty of time to think about her life choices. 

 

Between movie nights and town meetings, not to mention an unexpected promotion, Burgundy thinks she might get the hang of this warlock thing, after all. Oh, and get the girl. (Which one? Turns out, that's trickier than she expected.)

 

Except the Witches Council has other ideas and things take a dark turn even Burgundy couldn't have foreseen. It's live free or die when Rock Grove is placed under martial law, and only one person has the sass (or stupidity) to stand against the Finders.

 

Decision's made. It's time to quit the bitching and start the... warlocking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Persephone Press
• Release date: Jun 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393107828

Book preview

Chapter One

Aunt Iris bustled in a way that Burgundy knew she, herself, never could or would.

Even knowing that, Burgundy appreciated her aunt’s fussy way of moving. She certainly didn’t expect anything less from Iris Hart, nor would she have been as thoroughly amused under current circumstances if not for the way the woman who’d raised her got from one end of the yard to the other. Because, as painful as it was to try and fail at her witching lessons, at least she had her aunt to entertain her.

Iris bustled when she moved from here to there, to and fro, from house to garden, garden to fire pit, and Burgundy loved to watch. The way the middle-aged witch walked recalled a bygone era of ladies in Victorian mourning. That might be because she was born in the Victorian era, if not earlier. A polite person never asked how old a supernatural was. And while Burgundy couldn’t always be counted on to be polite, she knew her aunt’s impossibly advanced age was neither here nor there.

In the house, Burgundy simply loved to watch her aunt bustle from the stove to the pantry, from the pantry back to the stove, to the hearth to toss Arthur a treat. She could sit and watch for hours, smiling idiotically and wondering what life would have been like if she, too, had been born more than two or three hundred years ago.

But when magick was involved, Burgundy couldn’t smile. Especially not when her aunt scolded her to pay attention to work instead of her funny way of walking.

Because, for Burgundy anyway, using witchcraft was like trying to drag a thick, heavy chain across hot, fresh blacktop slapped down over existing pavement, inch by painful inch. Every attempt to coax the mystical energy out of her and into the form of a spell was torture. A light sheen of perspiration on her forehead and neck cooled in the spring breeze, and the tightness of her muscles told her how hard she was working. No bustling about it.

At this point, she was thoroughly disgusted with herself for being not only a failure as a witch, but a sweaty failure, at that. Furthermore, there was no time for silliness about her aunt’s fussy way of moving now that Burgundy knew the truth about why she failed at witchcraft time and again. A truth she barely dared think, because Iris didn’t allow the word in their house.

Ever since the Winter Solstice, Burgundy bit her tongue and kept her secret, hoping maybe Aunt Iris would come around and see that it wasn’t such a bad thing. Three months later, however, her aunt most definitely had not come around. If anything, Iris seemed more determined than ever to cram her into the perfect witch mold. Pretty much impossible when Burgundy turned out to be something entirely different.

She finally let go of the energy she’d been able to force into at least some semblance of intention, and turned to her aunt. I can’t do it. This isn’t how my power works. Stir coffee, make a broom sweep, and turn on the washing machine – yes. My witchcraft can handle those things. Just don’t ask it to do any heavy lifting.

You can do it. Arms folded, eyes narrowed, Iris now stood in her I’ll have none of your lip, missy! pose across the way from Burgundy. You’re trying too hard, rather than letting the magick flow through you. Iris gestured to the center of the magick circle. Try it again without pushing for something to happen.

I can’t and you know it. We’ve been through this for months and months. Burgundy flailed her hands at the sky. "The moon is in the right sign, the planetary aspects are correct, and we’re here on a Saturday evening, using the best timing possible for the spell. But I can’t do it and you know why."

When her aunt let out a sigh, Burgundy put her hands to her face and rubbed at the sweat coating it. Gross. Cold, clammy moisture now slicked her fingers, too. She needed a shower because of course things weren’t going her way, and right before Movie Night, too. She couldn’t go to the theater looking like this, especially since she was meeting Charlotte.

Iris turned away, the stray strands of dark brown hair that’d fallen from her bun fluttering in the early spring breeze. In profile, she resembled a vintage silhouette cameo, her face all hard angles, which even age didn’t seem capable of softening. You need to keep trying. That’s all there is to it.

I’ve tried for almost twenty-seven years and this is as far as I’ve gotten, Burgundy pointed out, gesturing toward the circle as she stepped out of it. For a while, I thought I was a late bloomer, but now we know what’s really wrong. My birthday is in a little over a month, which means I need to declare a path, and I can’t because I’m not a witch. You have to accept that I’m a—

No! Iris interjected.

Yes! Burgundy propped her fists against her hips and glared back at her aunt. This was getting to be too much, trying to pretend she was a witch, when they both knew better. You may have over two or three centuries on me, but you need to listen. I know my body, I know my spirit, and I know my magick. This has nothing to do with not wanting to be a witch and everything to do with genetics. Why can’t you accept that I’m more like my father than my mother? I’ll never be a witch, because I’m a warlock and I still don’t see why that’s such a bad thing.

Her aunt’s eyes closed and her shoulders sagged, centuries-old taffeta skirts rustling with the sigh she released. Because, Burgundy, I promised your mother I would do everything I could to keep you on our path, to protect you from the Witches Council. If you choose to walk with the warlocks, it is a much more difficult road. Especially for a woman.

When Iris met her gaze again, Burgundy held up her fingers to illustrate her points. Maybe a nice, logical list would get through to her aunt.

First of all, there are warlocks on the Witches Council, so there’s proof they aren’t all bad. Second, from what I understand, not every warlock goes all cray-cray and power-hungry. Third, how can I make an informed choice if you won’t let me at least try? Fourth, I don’t have much of a choice, anyway. My body and magick refuse to witch it up. Finally, if I don’t declare a path, the Council is going to suspect that something’s wrong and if they’re as Inquisition-like as you make them out to be, they’re going to ask questions.

Every point she stated made sense to Burgundy. What didn’t make sense was her aunt’s insistence that she not say the w-word aloud, let alone own to being a warlock. Worse than that was the fact that Iris never explained herself. Ever. She simply gave the same excuses time and again, and Burgundy braced herself for them now.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, child. The warlocks on the Council earned their places there after decades – almost a century – of proving themselves trustworthy after the Burning Times. I don’t want that stigma for you, dear girl. As harsh as she’d sounded before, Iris reached out and gently tucked Burgundy’s blue-tipped dark brown hair behind her ears.

It was a maternal gesture Burgundy was familiar with and loved. The woman had raised her, after all, when her own mother decided it was best to dump her on Aunt Iris and go serve on the Witches Council.

With that raising came all the things Burgundy figured came with being a parent or guardian. The times her aunt had to yell at her to get to safety because a car was coming, scolding her about leaving her toys on the stairs, and nagging reminders to do her homework, study, and keep her grades up. Even the occasional Don’t run with scissors or You’ll put someone’s eye out with that thing.

But to be called a child and reminded her mother chose the Council over her own flesh and blood? Burgundy swallowed the lump of frustration that’d formed in her throat.

What made matters worse was knowing Lily Bloom didn’t just dump her so she could work for the Witches Council. She’d left to become a Finder, which was the equivalent of a magickal cop. Burgundy had to admit, she’d never wondered about her mother’s motives and didn’t respect her position the way she probably ought to. Just because the woman gave birth to her didn’t mean any attachment remained between them.

If anything, Burgundy was more inclined to listen to her father. He, at least, had decided to step forward and tell her the truth when no one else had the courage to do it. Too bad she had no way to get to him, since he was a prisoner of the Council. She almost missed his talent for showing up when least expected, and causing trouble to boot.

You know my warlock side is stronger than my witch side, Burgundy said, shoving the thoughts about her parents out of her mind. Much stronger. That’s why no one wanted me around my father. You and Lily thought if you raised me, I’d turn out more like you, instead of turning into what I really am. The thing is, if the Council knows what I am, they can have the right person teach me. A warlock they trust, who knows what he’s doing. Don’t you see how that would fix everything?

She swallowed the tears that threatened to close her throat. Family was a touchy subject, after all. Particularly one that’d abandoned her. As much as she resented her parents for that, however, curiosity about her father burned in her mind ever since their first meeting last fall. He held the key to answering all her questions about who she was, where she came from, and where she fit in with the paranormal world.

On the flip side, she hated to disappoint her aunt by giving up entirely on witchcraft. Iris Hart had dedicated nearly thirty years of her life to rearing Burgundy, to helping her live a normal life in their community of shapeshifters, fey, and other supernaturals. But no amount of Burgundy walking in her mother’s footsteps in the small town of Rock Grove – from going to the same school to taking the same job at the library – would turn Burgundy into the witch her aunt hoped to raise.

I did it to protect you, Iris told her, eyes shining. Great. If she started crying, then Burgundy wouldn’t be able to stop herself from following suit. All it would take was the glimmer of a tear to thrust her into a spiral of mental self-flagellation for being an ungrateful niece. You are the first female born to a warlock in a very long time. There haven’t been female warlocks since before I was born and with good reason. For a moment, Burgundy thought her aunt would say more, but then her gaze became hooded and she turned toward the house.

From tender to evasive, that was Aunt Iris. Burgundy stifled a grumble. The woman’s mood could turn on a dime. Before Burgundy could follow her, she heard a mellow, British-accented voice say, "It’s not that she doesn’t want you to come into your power. It’s just that she wants you to have a normal life."

Burgundy rolled her eyes, then dashed the offending tears away. Woe-is-me moment gone. Rebellious But I’m an adult, damn it mode activated.

Right. Normal. Please, Arthur, tell me what that even means. She sat down in the lawn chair and glanced at the one across the fire pit from her. With one heel, she traced circles in the dirt. They kept forgetting to turn this barren circle into a lovely stone patio. For more years than she could recall, they’d been saying they’d get to it... one of these days.

Curled up on the cushion of the chair opposite her, tail hanging over the edge and swinging lazily, Arthur looked like a normal housecat. Except no cat in the world had iridescent scales. Or could breathe puffs of fire. Tiny Dragonbutt was what Burgundy called Arthur, though never to his face. Because one didn’t insult one’s aunt’s familiar, especially when that familiar was a 350-year-old firedrake capable of interdimensional travel. No one in their right mind would offend such a powerful ally.

It’s not my place to tell you these things. Not that I don’t want you to know. In fact, you should know. I disagree with keeping you in the dark, but Iris hasn’t quite made peace with the idea. Knowledge is power and if there’s one things warlocks are hungry for, it’s—

Power. Yeah, yeah. Burgundy couldn’t help but sound petulant. Here she was, about to turn twenty-seven, an adult with a master’s degree in library and information science, a good job, and her aunt clearly didn’t trust her judgment. I have no interest in accumulating power. All I want is to unlock what I already know is inside of me, what my father showed me I’m capable of. I’ve gotten a window into who I really am and instead of opening the door, Iris wants to barricade me inside the house.

She’s scared, Burgundy. Not just of the greater possibilities for your magick, but other things beyond your control.

Burgundy scrubbed her hands over her face, then grimaced as she looked at the shine on her fingers. She’d only made things worse. That shower sounded like a good idea, right now. Pushing herself out of the chair, she muttered, I hate how every decision she makes is out of fear. Maybe she could explain things better, or at least put herself in my shoes and think about what I want.

Arthur’s grumble sounded equal parts worried and resigned, something Burgundy didn’t expect. I don’t think she’s capable of doing that, he said as she turned toward the house, because what you want might get you killed.

Chapter Two

Rock Grove’s weekly movie night should have been fun and, for the most part, it was with a few exceptions. Like the time someone forgot to clean spilled soda off an entire row of seats after a cluster of pixies on a drunken bender from Omaha decided to stop in for some entertainment. Late-arriving moviegoers had stuck to them every weekend until the manager finally got them properly cleaned.

The weekly event went off without a hitch now that life was back to normal in Rock Grove. No hammered pixies and no more warlocks popping into town on a whim meant everyone felt safe walking the streets.

There was no reason to feel otherwise in this town of a little over six thousand people. Everything on Main Street was as it should be on a Saturday night – 1950s music playing from the speakers mounted on light posts, storefronts illuminated with displays that said things like "Prom is only two months away –