Wicked Blood: Blood Witch Series, #1

By Majanka Verstraete

As a blood witch, Kieran is one of the rarest breeds of witches and heir to an impressive family legacy.

Unfortunately, Kieran's powers are nowhere near as spectacular as her sister's powers were before she was attacked and severely injured. Her survival now depends on the blood of their sworn enemies: vampires.

To get the vampire blood her sister desperately needs, Kieran is forced to commit the ultimate sin: offer a vampire her own blood in return. That isn't even the worst part, though. The worst part is that she enjoys it when Arthan, the century-old vampire with whom she's struck a deal, drinks her blood.

When a Baba Yaga shows up in Hexagon, the underground market for witches and other supernaturals, and demands Kieran's assistance with a death curse, Kieran has no choice but to obey. Not even a blood witch can deny a request from a Baba Yaga.

But when the fearsome witch's true intention is revealed, Kieran will need Arthan's help to fight the legendary wicked witch and survive.

The first book in a brand new series of witches, seduction and mayhem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whimsical Press
• Release date: Jul 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393644453

Majanka Verstraete

Author Majanka Verstraete has written more than twenty unique works of fiction. A native of Belgium, Majanka’s novels explore the true nature of monsters: the good, the bad, and just about every species in between. Her young adult books include the acclaimed Mirrorland (YA Dark Fantasy) and Angel of Death (YA Paranormal) series of novels. At Firefly Hill Press, Majanka is currently publishing a YA shifter series with a fresh take on fierce female detectives called THE ADVENTURES OF MARISOL HOLMES. When she’s not writing, Majanka is probably playing World of Warcraft or catching up with the dozens of TV series she’s addicted to.

Book preview

Chapter One

I glanced at my cell phone for the third time in less than ten minutes, sighing when it still showed no text messages.

The music was blasting through the speakers of the home stereo installation, and the room was filled with the sweat-covered bodies of half-drunken teenagers. For some teens, this was the perfect Saturday evening. For me, it was torture.

This many people cramped in such a tight space, the alcohol and the rhythm mixing into adrenaline that caused their blood to pump in their veins, speeding to their hearts like freight trains.

I would rather be anywhere but here. Sitting on the couch at home, reading a book while tucked under a blanket and not a single sound to distract me, except for the occasional chimes of the grandfather clock in our living room—that was my scenario for a perfect night.

But Camille and Dean had dragged me along, nagging me for the umpteenth time about why I should join them to this party, which was already duped to be ‘the best party of the year’, only because the hostess was none other than Nathalie, perfect princess Nathalie, queen bee and captain of the cheerleading squad. If Nathalie held a party, then everyone was there.

Everyone, it seemed, except the one person I was waiting for.

Camille elbowed me in the side. Don’t space out on me, Kieran, she shouted over the music. Move! She demonstrated how exactly I should move by swaying her hips in a rhythm that did not match the music’s rhythm in any way, shape or form. Camille, with her blonde curls and petite frame, looked like a pixie, light and elegant, no matter how terrible her sense of rhythm was. If there was someone who could be called the epitome of ‘cute’, then it was my best friend.

Next to her, I sometimes felt like the epitome of ‘boorish’. I was at least a head taller than Camille, which still only made me of average height, but when standing next to her, I always felt like an oversized giant. My long, brown hair was straight, so stubbornly straight that even when Camille and I attacked it with a curling iron, it refused to hold a curl for longer than half an hour.

You guys want a drink? Dean asked, tipping his empty cup from left to right demonstratively. Dean was the third member of our friend’s circle, and he looked like the regular guy next door: the kind of blue-eyed surfer boy your parents would be thrilled about if he came to pick you up for a date.

No, thanks, I said.

I want some! Camille pushed her empty cup into Dean’s hands.

Okay, see you in five. Dean turned and vanished into the crowd, his blonde hair disappearing in seconds.

Camille moved in front of me, grabbing my hands. What’s up? she half-yelled at me.

No— Before I could even respond, a new song came up, and Camille’s eyes went wide, her mouth dropping to the floor.

That’s my song! Woo! She started dancing with more enthusiasm, dragging along several people who were dancing next to us—classmates, vague acquaintances, for Camille it didn’t matter. She was a social butterfly, including anyone easily into her social circle.

If you wanted to get into my social circle, you practically had to lay siege on the walls I had pulled up, survive a bombardment of sarcasm and supposed-indifference, and then maybe, just maybe, I would let you in. At least, that was how Dean and Camille always described it.

While Camille danced with another girl from our class, Evelyn, I dug out my cell phone and pressed on the screen.

One new message.

A wave of relief rolled over me. Finally, he’d replied.

The only reason why my two best friends had managed to pull me away from my couch, which had looked more and more attractive with every passing minute before they had arrived to pick me up, was because going out was a good excuse to see him. The alternative, namely sneaking out of my bedroom in the dead of night, was far more dangerous—not that I hadn’t done it countless times before, but I rather erred on the side of caution.

Because if my parents knew what I was up to...

If they’d knew what I had been doing for the past months, nearly a year... I could consider myself lucky if they only grounded me until I was in my eighties.

I clicked to open the message. On my way. I’ll be there in five.

Sent at 11.14. And it was now... I glanced at the clock on my phone. 11.20.

Cursing under my breath, I pushed a way through the crowd, toward Camille.

She had thrown her hands up in the air and was jumping up and down, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Cam. I touched her arm, startling her.

What? She stopped jumping, while the music kept on trying to make my eardrums pop, as if someone was deliberately crunching up the volume every minute.

I have to go. I’ll... Looking at her face for a second, I tried to decide whether to tell the truth or a lie. I didn’t want to see her disappointed in me, again. This wasn’t the first party I had bailed out from.

I’ll be back soon.

Wai—

She didn’t get to finish her sentence, because I stormed off, nudging people here and there as I struggled to get out of the mass.

With Camille and Dean next to me, I could manage somewhat. It helped to focus on them. But without them, it was pure torture. Every person I bumped into was another pulse, another rhythm, their own beats a thousand times louder than the blaring music, swelling into a cacophony that made my head hurt.

I finally made it to the front of the house. The front door was wide open—Nathalie clearly couldn’t care less if her neighbors called the cops on our semi-illegal house party or not—and the hostess herself was leaning in the doorway.

As soon as I reached the door and breathed in the night air, I let out a sigh of relief. The cacophony of noise, that haunting symphony, was behind me. Before me, loomed the night—calm and tranquil, so much more enticing than the day.

Nathalie chuckled, and I turned toward her. She was sipping from a cup that, judging by the smell of it, was obviously filled with liquor. Her eyes were a little glassy, and she was obviously tipsy, but nowhere near as drunk as half the people inside her house were. Are you tired of my party already? She seemed amused by the thought, as if it was a ridiculous idea, and maybe for someone like her it was.

Just catching some air. I tried to keep my tone neutral, while I started walking off the stairs that led up to her home.

Don’t catch a— She stopped mid-sentence, blinking as she gazed at something in the distance. Who’s that?

I didn’t even have to look to know it was him.

Arthan.

I could see it just by watching how the features changed on Nathalie’s face, how her glassy eyes turned focused, glistening with interest, how her lips curled into a smile that was supposed to be seductive.

He had that effect on people.

Rather, his kind had that effect on people.

We were hardwired to like them, to feel attracted to them, because how else could they lure us into their trap, whisper sweet promises to us that led to nothing but death and despair, and how else would we be stupid enough to believe them?

The wind carried his scent. To Nathalie, no doubt mesmerizing—a mysterious, ancient aroma, a bit musky, similar to vintage wine. But if you inhaled deeply, you could catch a wisp of death in his scent, however vague.

I turned toward the street and saw him standing there, at the bottom of the stairs, clad in black jeans and a dark red shirt the color of blood. How fitting.

His hair was as black as a starless night sky, but his eyes were the color of garnets, brown with a hint of red.  

A dark god walking amongst humans, using us for his own pleasure and entertainment. A creature of hell, a demon who preyed on the weak and innocent.

I rushed down the stairs toward him, two steps at a time.

You’re late, I spat at him, trying to muster as much annoyance as I could.

He shrugged. I’m not at your beck and call.

The first time I had met with him, I had been terrified. I had trembled with fear when he had come closer, when his ice-cold skin had touched mine, feverish with heat.

Part of me was still terrified when he was this close. Then, I tried to tell myself it was good to be afraid; it was wise to be on my guard.

Always. It’s like handling a tiger at a zoo: even if you’d done it a thousand times and you knew the tiger quite well, could predict most of its behavior, you still had to be watchful, because one day, that tiger might turn on you, seemingly without reason or cause.

He was like a tiger—no more fitting comparison existed. Glorious, powerful, a predator, capable of reigning destruction on everything in his path.

But I was quite good at keeping up my bravado, at trying to fool him that I wasn’t as scared as my heartbeat no doubt gave away. Seems like you are, I said with all my false bravado, because whenever I call for you, you show up.

Arthan smirked, not in the least phased by my sneer. Yet, you’re always the one calling me.

Touché.

Let’s go. Too many eyes here. I glanced up at the front door, from where I could feel Nathalie’s eyes burning into my back.

We walked away, him following my lead.

Nathalie’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and besides the immediate neighbors who were, no doubt, being kept awake by the musical bombardment, the rest of the street seemed very much asleep.

You know, since we’ve been doing this for this long, I was kind of hoping you’d become a bit more open by now, Arthan said with a hint of amusement in his voice. More like: ‘How are you doing, Arthan? How is life on the dark side? Still looking gloomy up there?

I grinned, and for a second, I had trouble sticking to the sarcastic, fake-tough persona I always put up with him, the self-defense I had developed so that he wouldn’t get too close.

As if he’s not already way too close. You’re only fooling yourself, Kieran. You became way too close from the moment you started this madness.

The trouble was, I realized while I moved in the shadow of an overgrown tree in the front garden of one of Nathalie’s distant neighbors, hiding from the moonlight, that he wasn’t as bad as I thought he was. He wasn’t as