Daughters of Hecate: The Complete Urban Fantasy Series: Daughters of Hecate

By Meredith Medina

An ancient betrayal set in motion a thousand year feud between vampires and witches, and only the 'chosen one' can set it right…. The only problem? I'm definitely not the chosen one, and this is the literal worst idea that anyone's ever had in the history of ever.

When one danger seems to have been pushed aside, another looms, and Ophelia Turner will need all her courage to face not only the future, but the past as well. A dark path winds through the desert, and enemies lurk in the shadows on the streets...
If they can't find strength in themselves, they can find it in a sisterhood of magic that binds them together.

From the streets of Brooklyn to the foot of Hecate's throne. Experience the heart-pounding Daughters of Hecate series in its entirety with this box set.

The Complete Series ~ Daughters of Hecate
(PREQUEL) ~ Witchmark
(PREQUEL) ~ Vampire Punk
BOOK 1 ~ Sticks & Stones
BOOK 2 ~ Moonlight Burns
BOOK 3 ~ Power of Three
BOOK 4 ~ Haven
BOOK 5 ~ Sands of Time

• Language: English
• Publisher: FireHive Media
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201721589

Book preview

Daughters of Hecate

Daughters of Hecate

The Full Series (Books 1-8)

Meredith Medina

FireHive Media

Copyright © 2018 - 2020 by Meredith Medina

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Daughters of Hecate

Witchmark ~ Prequel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Vampire Punk ~ Prequel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Sticks & Stones: Book 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Moonlight Burns: Book 2

Chapter 1 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 2 - Maia

Chapter 3 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 4 ~ Maia

Chapter 5 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 6 ~ Maia

Chapter 7 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 8 ~ Maia

Chapter 9 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 10 ~ Maia

Chapter 11 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 12 ~ Maia

Chapter 13 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 14 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 15 ~ Maia

Chapter 16 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 17 ~ Maia

Chapter 18 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 19 ~ Maia

Epilogue ~ Ophelia

Power of Three: Book 3

Chapter 1 ~ Lacey

Chapter 2 ~ Lacey

Chapter 3 ~ Maia

Chapter 4 ~ Lacey

Chapter 5 ~ Maia

Chapter 6 ~ Lacey

Chapter 7 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 8 ~ Maia

Chapter 9 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 10 ~ Lacey

Chapter 11 ~Ophelia

Chapter 12 ~Maia

Chapter 13 ~Lacey

Chapter 14 ~Ophelia

Chapter 15 ~Maia

Chapter 16 ~Ophelia

Chapter 17 ~Ophelia

Epilogue

Haven: Book 4

Chapter 1 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 2 ~ Maia

Chapter 3 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 4 ~ Lacey

Chapter 5 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 6 ~ Maia

Chapter 7 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 8 ~ Lacey

Chapter 9 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 10 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 11 ~ Maia

Chapter 12 ~ Maia

Chapter 13 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 14 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 15 ~ Maia

Sands of Time: Book 5

Chapter 1 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 2 ~ Maia

Chapter 3 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 4 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 5 ~ Maia

Chapter 6 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 7 ~ Maia

Chapter 8 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 9 ~ Ophelia

Chapter 10 ~ Maia

Epilogue ~ Lacey

About the Author

Daughters of Hecate

Each instalment in the Daughters of Hecate series is an individual, yet connected, part of the series.

---

To read in order:

Witchmark - Prequel (Ophelia’s history)

Vampire Punk (Eli’s story)

Sticks & Stones - Book 1 (Ophelia’s story)

Moonlight Burns - Book 2 (Maia’s story)

Power of Three - Book 3 (Lacey’s story)

Haven - Book 4

Sands of Time - Book 5

Witchmark ~ Prequel

1

My story starts the same way they all do. Well, maybe not exactly. One of my earliest memories is of my aunt teaching me to read. She taught me about herbs, and the good and evil they could do to the body. She was a healer, a midwife, a comforter and confidante who also happened to bring babies into the world. Turner women had been midwives and healers for as long as anyone could remember. My grandmother had been a healer, and her mother before her. My sister and I would take over their herb gardens when they were gone. When I was nine that didn’t seem like the most thrilling of careers, but before that I had wanted to be a pony when I grew up, so it was something at least.

I didn’t have to ask about my father, he was gone before I was born, but it was better this way. My mother taught my sister and I everything we needed to know to help her in the work she shared with our aunt. All that mattered was that we had each other.

Well, that and keeping our mouths shut about what we really were.

My sister, Hannah, had a temper, and if she had been able to remember that one simple rule, my life might have been very different.

---

Iknow what you’re thinking, midwives in a small English town at the height of the witch hunting craze, of course we were witches. And you’d be right. We were. All of the Turner women were Daughters of Hecate. Men came and went, and my mother and aunt were very open about it. They had lovers, but never married. It had been this way for centuries... and every so often someone would get wise to what was going on. That’s why my grandmother brought my mother and aunt here in the first place. Someone got wise and they left before shit went sideways. We didn’t get that lucky.

It started quietly enough, as these things always do. My mother took a lover. Unfortunately for him, he was already married. His wife was a frail thing, but she was also the daughter of the magistrate. She had heard whispers in the market about her handsome husband and Ellyn Turner. Rumors spread like windblown fire in towns like ours. Leaping from house to house as the fire smouldered deep in the thatch.

The rumors started as something small, just a comment here and there. Things said in passing over the purchase of some eggs. A snide remark taken out of context... and the familiar suspicion that always followed unmarried women. Especially unmarried women who looked like my mother.

To anyone who asked, she always said that my father was dead, killed in a farm accident. People would nod sadly and pat my head, offering their condolences and prayers for his soul. My sister and I always found it funny, but we knew better than to giggle at their unnecessary comments.

Unfortunately for us, Sarah Hawkins had big ears, a big mouth, and a short temper. Her father’s money and position in town had purchased her husband for her, and she knew it. It didn’t take much for the seed of jealousy to be planted either. A casual question from one of the other women about Jacob Hawkins’ ailments is what started it all.

Nosy bitches.

That Jacob of yours spends a fair amount of coin on the Turner woman’s herbs. Has he taken poorly, Sarah? I hope you haven’t been cooking for him yourself... the woman who sold mead was a busybody, everyone knew it, but she was always the one with the best gossip too.

Jacob is just fine, I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of our business, had been the tart reply. Sarah Hawkins was as precious about her cooking as she was about her husband’s whereabouts. But after that, Sarah Hawkins watched our house so closely that it began to make my aunt nervous.

If she walks by again, I swear I’ll throw a bucket of slops in her superior face. My aunt dealt with her emotions like I did. What is she looking for?

Proof, I suppose, my mother had replied calmly. She didn’t care who knew that she was dallying with Jacob Hawkins, but my aunt had another reason to worry.

You should be more careful, Ellyn. You heard in the market, just like I did, that a priest is traveling through the country... burning witches.

My mother had scoffed and waved her hand, We Turners have survived worse than Sarah Hawkins.

Famous last words, right?

---

Sarah Hawkins haunted our doorway for weeks, and my mother took every opportunity to make a show of greeting her brightly and attempt to engage her in conversation. Hannah felt the same as my aunt, and Sarah Hawkins’ stares and constant surveillance were starting to make her upset.

We had been taught since a very young age that we weren’t allowed to use our magic to punish each other, and especially not others. Sure, we broke that little rule every so often when we were fighting with each other, but even though I don’t want to place blame, if Hannah had been able to keep her magic to herself, things might have been different.

Sarah Hawkins was on her usual route from the market to her house, with a detour to peer through our windows and Hannah decided that she’d had enough. As Sarah Hawkins turned her pinched face away from our kitchen window, I felt... no, I heard my sister send out her magic against the jealous woman. With a strange cry, Sarah Hawkins fell on her face in the muddy street.

Someone ran over to help her up, and I remember my heart hammering in my chest as Hannah giggled uncontrollably.

Hannah! Be quiet! If she didn’t get control of herself, and Sarah Hawkins heard her laughing...

Sarah’s Hawkins’ face was covered in thick brown mud, her pale blue eyes wide and staring directly at us. I was frozen in place, trapped by her watery gaze, but at seeing her victim’s shocked face, Hannah’s laughter overtook her.

I whirled around and pushed my sister around the side of the house and into the garden where our aunt was tending the herbs.

Aunt Sybyll, Hannah pushed Sarah Hawkins... I felt her do it, you must punish her!

I was very concerned about justice in those days; I’ve lightened up a little since then.

My aunt’s face paled under her summer tan and she took my sister by the shoulders and shook her gently, her brown eyes wide. What did you do, Hannah?

I hate that woman! She is always peeking in our windows and saying rude things to Mama. I just pushed her a little... I didn’t mean for her to fall. I’m sorry. Hannah didn’t look the least bit apologetic, and I probably wouldn’t have been either, Sarah Hawkins was terrible and deserved more than the mouthful of mud she’d just eaten.

Oh, Hannah. Sarah Hawkins does not need any help in believing the worst about us. Let’s hope that she believes that she tripped...

I wandered back to the garden gate, curious to see if Sarah Hawkins had taken herself home, but she was still standing in the street, covered in mud, surrounded by a small knot of women. She was gesturing wildly, pointing at our house.

That little witch, she pushed me! I felt it, like two little hands on my back. Pushed, I tell you! I’ll never forget the way her voice sounded. Angry and frantic... but there was something else. She sounded happy.

She turned, her pale eyes settling on me. There, there she is! Little witch! Her mud covered hand pointed at me, and several faces turned in my direction. I shrank back against the side of the house as my aunt came to pull me away towards the herbs.

Ophelia, you sit here with Hannah, she directed me sternly, pushing me down beside my sister. I will take care of this. Your mother should be here.

I don’t know what my aunt said to the women who had gathered on our doorstep, but I was too scared to move. Even Hannah was quiet, and that never happened. She was six years older than me, and she was always reminding me of it. But in the face of what she had done, she was scared, just like I was.

You shouldn’t have done it, I whispered. I was really good at stating the obvious... that’s a habit I should have grown out of by now, but I can’t seem to shake it.

Hush. I did not mean to do it, I just wanted to make her walk faster, but she fell. Clumsy cow.

I could hear my aunt talking to the women who were no doubt crowded around our front door. That is, I could hear them talking, my aunt had a way of using her powers subtly to diffuse difficult situations, or to put nervous mothers at ease, but it didn’t seem like it was working.

We waited nervously together, but when my aunt returned, her face was drawn and pale, and I wasn’t so sure that Hecate’s gifts had come in handy in whatever conversation she had been having with Sarah Hawkins.

She said nothing about Hannah’s actions, but led us inside to wait for my mother to come home. When she did finally arrive, Hannah and I waited by the empty hearth while my aunt argued with her elder sister. They tried to keep their voices down, but we Turners weren’t known for being able to keep a cool head, and Hannah and I heard almost everything.

To spare you the details that I can’t quite remember, Sarah Hawkins was childless, and she was blaming us. My mother specifically. My mother, of course, found this hilarious and she brushed off my aunt’s dire warning about ending things with Jacob Hawkins.

I may have a shitty memory for important details, but I will never forget the next morning.

---

We were woken by the front door being broken in.

Angry shouts filled our small house along with the sound of breaking crockery and splintering wood as our things were overturned and destroyed. They were looking for something, but I didn’t know what.

I was nine.

I was terrified.

Ellyn Turner. Sybyll Turner. Hannah Turner. A man I didn’t recognize was shouting at us as we cowered together on my mother’s bed. My mother’s hands clutched at me tightly, and I could feel the power inside her as it boiled through her veins. She couldn’t lash out at these people, it was against Hecate’s laws, but I could feel her straining to keep it under control.

You stand accused of witchcraft. Of using spells and witchery, of bedeviling the good people of this town and turning them away from God, the man’s monotone voice was loud and echoed in my ears, but I didn’t understand what he was saying. You have written your names in the Devil’s book and take your dark power from him.

Of course we were witches, of course we used magic in our herbs and ministrations... but I didn’t know anything about the Devil’s book. We went to church with everyone else in town; we just didn’t drink the wine or eat the stale wafers.

Who accuses us? My mother’s voice was strangled; she hadn’t planned for this. My aunt looked terrified, and her eyes were wide and shining.

The name of your accuser is not important...

The sound of more crockery being broken in the kitchen made my mother flinch.

I found it! I found it, the poppet they’ve been using to witch me!

Sarah Hawkins. It could be no one else.

She burst into the room, a small fabric object clutched in her hand. She held it over her head triumphantly, her expression crazed.

My mother recoiled, her nails digging into my shoulder.

This woman has bewitched my husband, taken him from my bed, you have taken the child from my womb...

There was no child to steal, Sarah Hawkins, you will be barren until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east… my mother’s words were bitter and the women in the room recoiled in horror.

Even now she curses me! Sarah Hawkins’ voice was shaking, but she didn’t sound terrified, she sounded justified, and it made my blood run cold.

We had heard about other accusations in other towns, but none of those women were Daughters of Hecate. My mother had often scoffed about the accusations, saying that they rarely got it right.

Sometimes they did.

---

Overseen by the magistrate and a beaming Sarah Hawkins, my mother, my aunt and my sister were dragged from the house to await the good justice of Elias Maycotte. His name had been whispered in our house, he was a Witchfinder, traveling the country seeking out the Brides of the Devil.

It sound ridiculous to say it now, but that was a serious business back in the day. We all knew that he took bribes to make the accusations stick, and gleeful neighbors, jealous of success would fling their accusations and watch innocent women burn. As they pried my mother’s fingers from my shoulders, she muttered an incantation that only I could hear. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but now I know that it kept me hidden from the gaze of those who sought to hurt me.

It was the only way to explain how I was overlooked and abandoned in the destroyed remains of our house while my family was ripped away.

2

Ispent the next few days trying desperately to clean up the house. My mother would be back any minute, I was sure of it. I repaired the slices in the mattresses with my big clumsy stitches and burned pot after pot of whatever I could find to eat.

Give me a break, I was nine and I didn’t have any coping skills.

I swung on the garden gate, listening to the people talk as they drifted out of their way to walk past our house to gossip.

Elias Maycotte is coming.

I heard he’s only a few towns away.

I heard he’s leaving ashes behind him wherever he goes.

Serves them right.

Serves them right? The woman who had said that had taken ill last winter and my aunt had stayed by her bedside to nurse her back to health. Saved one of her children too. Who needs loyalty when piety is on display? The good wives and mothers were the loudest in their refusal to believe that my mother and aunt were innocent. These women envied my mother’s beauty, my aunt’s free way of speaking, the way that we were able to live without the protection of a man.

---

The day that Elias Maycotte came to town, the streets were filled with people, watching and waiting. Eagerly anticipating the trials, they had heard about for so many months. Finally, something exciting was happening. There was talk of other trials, how the accused had screamed curses, and sent out their spirit birds on their accusers, how they had babbled their regrets and their secrets as the fire was lit beneath them and began to lick at their toes.

They had all been innocents, poor women with nothing magical about them save their natural gifts. My mother had been sure that none of them bore the same birthmark that all of Hecate’s Daughters did. Witchmark they called it. Men like Elias Maycotte looked for witchmarks, and my aunt told us that when the mark couldn’t be found, it was simply drawn on with charcoal and taken as authentic.

We all had it. The touch of the goddess that set us apart from other women. A small crescent moon on the back of my left thigh marked me as a part of the tribe. My mother told me that when I had been born she had looked for it frantically, terrified that I would be born without the gifts of the goddess. My sister used to tease me and say that that if the mark had not appeared our mother would have left me on a doorstep for some other poor wretch to adopt. She was probably right, but it hurt to remember all the same.

Elias Maycotte’s wagon was a fine one, drawn by four of the most beautiful horses I had ever seen. Some people applauded his arrival, a few cheered. The older widows, women who counted my mother and aunt as their friends shrank back. They had avoided the house as well, but had left small things by the garden gate for me. Loaves of salt bread and sausages, small apple cakes, little things that kept me from going hungry but did not single them out as supporting an accused witch and her family.

He was tall and slim, sitting tall in the wagon, with silver hair that spilled over his shoulders. His peaked hat gave him the impression of being even taller than he was, and to someone my size, he was terrifying. He had pale green eyes; the pupils tiny pinpricks, giving him a ghostly look that unnerved me and left me feeling hollow. Thanks to my mother’s glamor, he did not see me, and my face would only appear in his memory as a smudged blur. Hiding in plain sight.

Sitting on a bench in the back of the wagon was a hooded figure. I could see long tendrils of dark hair trailing over the nondescript grey woolen dress the woman wore. Her hands were long and pale, and I could see that her fingers were stained almost black, with charcoal or ash, and with a shiver, I remember wondering who she was.

So much time has passed, since the first day I saw them, but some things are seared into your memory, whether you want them to be or not.

Seared is probably a poor choice of words, but there’s no other way I can describe it.

The market square was full of people; prominent citizens crowded specially built seats to separate them from the press of the lower classes who clamored for the trials to begin. I didn’t watch, but I heard the platforms being built… the stakes and the gibbet that waited for my family.

These trials are not to prove guilt or innocence, my mother always said.

They’re murder, plain and simple, my aunt had agreed, those in charge don’t give a bean for the truth you have to tell. All they care about is their judgement, and writing your name in their book.

Just so they can cross it out when you’re dead, my sister’s flat comment had given me chills, but I knew that she wasn’t saying it just to upset me. It was true.

When you’re dead.

I shivered in the morning sunlight, trying to make myself as small as possible. The magistrate, Sarah Hawkins’ father sat in a tall chair that had been set up for him. He would preside over everything, but the final decision would be made by the witchfinder.

A hush fell over the crowd as Elias Maycotte made his way up the hastily constructed wooden stairs. A few enterprising business owners wound their way through the crowd selling pies and tarts, but their cries were silenced by the tall man’s arrival.

He was dressed plainly; a heavy black cloak flung over one shoulder, and his moonlight pale hair spilling down his back. His ghostly eyes scanned the crowd as the dark-haired woman who accompanied him signaled the magistrate.

The prisoners were brought forward, thrown to their knees before the men and women who would judge them.

I pressed my hand to my mouth to smother my cry of fear and anger. They had been beaten and mistreated, and my beautiful mother’s face was marred with crusted blood and bruises covered their arms and legs. My aunt struggled against her captor, and his hand lashed across her face, splitting her lip with ease. In a moment, her chin was stained with bright red blood. Tears welled up in my eyes but I could not make a sound.

My mother and aunt were dragged to their feet and accused once more by Sarah Hawkins. The woman’s shrill voice was triumphant, and echoed out over the murmuring crowd. After the sharp prodding of her elbow, Sarah’s husband, Joseph, my mother’s lover, mumbled his own accusation of witchcraft. Claiming to be bewitched into betraying his wife.

I watched my mother’s face closely, memorizing every line that made up the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheekbones and the color of the braid that fell lifelessly against her shoulder. Her eyes were on me, and I could hear her voice in my head, telling me to run. To run for the docks and to get as far away as possible from Elias Maycotte and the dark haired woman that accompanied him.

The woman.

My eyes darted to her, but she was standing back from the group of accusers, her head bent, and her hair covered by the hood of her thick cloak, just as it had been when their wagon had arrived in town. Her long fingers were twined together, cradling something I could not see.

Burn them!

The shout came from the crowd, and my mother’s shoulders straightened. My aunt leaned against her briefly and then she too stood tall. I could see her lips moving and my sister’s shoulders straightened too. My tears threatened to spill over my cheeks, and I rubbed them away with knuckles, biting my lip to prevent my cries from giving me away.

You will not confess to your crimes, and you will not ask for God’s mercy. Elias Maycotte’s voice was calm and smooth, rising above the noise of the crowd as clearly as though he had shouted them. Ellyn Turner. Sybyll Turner. Hannah Turner. You are condemned to death for your crimes against these good people, and against God. If you confess now, your souls will ascend to heaven… deny the mercy I offer and you will burn forever.

A collective gasp when up from the crowd as my beautiful mother, my stoic aunt, and my sister all stood silent before they were dragged to the posts that had been erected just for this purpose. Another poor woman, a widow from a neighboring village who had been accused of bewitching a farmer’s pigs into eating its litter fall to the rough wooden stage, crying for God’s mercy and the mercy of her accusers.

She confessed everything. That she had witched the pigs, and laughed while the sow had eaten her young. Tied to her stake, my mother shook her head. This woman was not one of our kind. She was terrified, but she was no Daughter of Hecate. She was just an old widow in possession of a good tract of prime farmland.

Unfortunately for her, whether she confessed or was found guilty, being accused of witchcraft meant death, and she was secured to a post just like my mother and sister. The poor woman shrieked her dismay, cursing God, cursing her accusers, everyone watching… so much for that confession.

Run.

My mother’s voice whispered in my head, her green eyes burning into mine.

Run.

My aunt’s voice joined her sister’s and they bounced around together in my head as my eyes filled with tears. My feet were rooted to the mud beneath them, my body frozen. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wanted to send every single shred of power inside myself up into the cloudless sky and pull down the rain that would douse the flames that were even now being lit.

But I couldn’t do it.

The smoke was rising from beneath the old widow’s feet, and her screams and curses grew louder as the grey tendrils rose around her shoulders. She coughed loudly and I covered my mouth to keep from sobbing as the torches were touched to the bundles of dry wood that had been piled at my mother’s face.

Her green eyes pierced mine, and the witchmark on the back of my thigh began to burn. I gasped and lurched to the side, trying to regain my balance as my leg went numb.

The woman who accompanied the witchfinder stepped forward, pushing back her hood to reveal raven black hair and eyes so dark that they may as well have been made of obsidian. She stretched out one of her slender arms, pointing a long, dark stained finger in my direction.

My breath caught in my throat.

She could see me.

RUN!

My mother’s voice screamed in my head, and my body vibrated with the force of it.

Elias Maycotte with his pale, dead eyes followed the women’s pointing finger and opened his mouth to shout for someone to grab me. The woman next to me gasped as the glamor broke and she realized that I was there.

3

The fire caught the edge of my mother’s dress, and I felt her hands push me away from the crowd, and finally my legs started working. With tears streaming down my face and sobs tearing at my throat, I ran. I crashed into people, pushing them out of my way as I went. Hands tugged at my clothing, trying to stop me, and I felt a chunk of my hair ripped away from my scalp as someone tried to catch me.

I ran until my legs felt numb and the marketplace was far behind me. My mother’s hands were pushing me towards the docks, pulling me around corners, taking me to places I had never visited as though I knew them.

I could hear shouts behind me, but my ears were full of my mother’s voice telling me to run, telling me to hide. It was so hard to run when my lungs were full of smoke, I was choking and coughing, and my vision was blurry with tears. But she pushed me hard, kept me running, tripping, careening around corners, just steps ahead of the men who chased me.

Elias Maycotte’s men.

Men who would take me back to the stage to be burnt just like the rest of my family.

My bare feet slipped on the hard cobbles as I turned another unexpected corner and I tumbled to the stones, scraping my palms and knees and rolling into a puddle. My body was hot, so hot. My lungs filled with smoke, and my eyes watered. My heart pounded in my chest and everything hurt.

It hurt so much.

My mother’s voice had quieted, and her phantom touch had faded away and I knew what had happened. I pulled myself to my knees and forgot all of the hiding I was supposed to be doing. I screamed my rage and fear into my mud covered hands, how could they do this. How could they?

I could hear the sound of heavy boots pounding after me and as they came around the corner, I reached out with my powers, the ones I was forbidden to use outside of our house, and I sent those huge men sprawling on their faces in the street.

A tower of barrels, stacked and ready for carting, shook and swayed before tumbling down on top of them. Some of the barrels burst open, spilling their contents over the street and the prone bodies of my pursuers.

Serves them right. Drown in beer and molasses for all I care.

My head ached, my legs were jelly, and my witchmark burned. The pain in my leg brought me to my feet and I lurched against the wall of a nearby building, trying to catch my breath. I coughed, tasting smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

They were dead… they were all dead.

I reached out to them with my magic, desperate for something… a whisper, a sign… but there was nothing.

That was the worst moment of my life. Running unsteadily through the streets that had suddenly grown so cold under my feet, my mind utterly blank. I didn’t know what to do, where to go… nothing. There was nothing. I had been abandoned. Stolen. Suffocated.

I didn’t dare look behind me, the bodies of the men I had crushed with the barrels and the plumes of dark smoke that rose from the marketplace… there was nothing for me here, but there was also nowhere for me to go.

---

My mother’s magical guidance had led me to the dockyards and the ships creaked at their moorings, their decks swarming with men carrying ropes and crates of trade goods headed across the sea to the colonies. The smell of the sea was faint in my nostrils, overpowered by the choking smoke that lingered. I needed to clear my head, clear my lungs, clear my eyes. I stared into the dark water that lapped at the dock. Seagulls called faintly, bobbing calmly on the surface.

There were more shouts from the alley. More men. More men coming to take me away and put me in the flames. Without thinking, I jumped into the water.

It was cold, blissfully cold, and I let my weight carry me deep below the surface. I opened my eyes, letting the salt water wash away the smoke that stung them. I knew that they would be waiting for me on the dock, and I couldn’t hold my breath forever.

I swam as far away from the dock as I could, until my lungs were screaming for air and my head began to pound. An extra push from my magic, spurred by the panicked hammering of my heart forced me above the surface of the water and I gasped for air, floundering briefly in the water as the sunlight hit my face.

The rope that bound one of the great sailing ships to the dock hung low in the water nearby, and I watched a long black rat scurry nimbly across its thick, twisted length on its way onto the boat.

With my teeth clenched in determination, I grabbed the rope and wrapped myself around it. It was slippery with algae and I clung to it tightly as I shimmied up towards the deck. I could feel my magic surging through me and hoped that the glamor I was projecting covered me as it should. I had only just started learning that particular skill, and all I could do was hope that my heightened stress levels were pushing the glamor to where it needed to be. Hannah had always been able to do it perfectly.

Hannah.

I choked on a sob and almost lost my grip. The men who had been chasing me were searching the docks. Shoving long sticks into the water and moving boxes and bales in their quest for a redheaded girl in a ragged woolen dress. They had seen me running away from the fallen barrels, and heard the splash as I jumped into the water. If I fell now, they would find me, and it would all be over.

I clung tightly to the rope, my legs shaking with effort, and my arms moments away from collapse. I gritted my teeth, picturing my mother’s face, her bright red hair floating around her face in the heat of the fire. Not me.

Hand over hand I pulled myself higher until I was level with the deck and could crawl through the opening that was barely large enough for me to slip through.

I lay on the deck, my heart hammering in my chest, staring up at the mast and the furled sails. The wood was warm under my back and I could hear the cries of gulls and the shouts of the men on the deck.

Sitting up slowly, I crawled across the foredeck towards an open hatch before sliding inside. Despite the glamor that shimmered around me, I was so focused on getting out of sight that I pushed my torso through the hatch before looking at what I would be falling into.

Thankfully, I landed on soft bales of cotton fabric, sailcloth and woolen blankets. Dry goods bound for the colonies no doubt. It was quiet inside the hold, and I could hear the sailors walking around on the decking above my head. I moved into the pile, covering myself as best I could with the bales. The last thing I wanted was to be discovered and turned over to Elias Maycotte’s men. Something told me that they were still swarming the docks, and that I was safer here.

I breathed my first sigh of relief, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to drop my glamor just yet. After sunset I would be able to move about the deck freely, and then I could escape back to our little house. I would pack a small duffel and point my shoes in the direction of a new life, wherever that would be.

---

As I settled into the noises of the ship, and the smell of the things that surrounded me, the grief and pain of everything I had been through washed over me. The silence of my family had left me hollow. Every day of my life I had carried my mother, my aunt and my sister with me everywhere. I knew where they were, what they were doing, even what they were feeling… but now I felt nothing. My mind was blank, and my heart was heavy. My witchmark itched, but I was afraid to scratch at it. Hannah had told me that if I scratched it too much I would scratch it off, and then Hecate would never speak to me because she wouldn’t recognize me.

Kids can be cruel little shits, and Hannah had been awful to me sometimes. Now she was gone, and she would never be awful to me, or loving, or laugh at my terrible jokes.

The tears ran down my face in an unending flow and I sobbed all of my pain and heartache into the soft blankets and my mind tumbled into darkness.

4

Idon’t know if it was the motion of the ship, or the change in the light that woke me, but I was definitely fully awake when a burly arm reached out and pulled me from my hiding place.

I’ve found me a little red mouse! the man had shouted, lifting me high so that my bare feet dangled above the wooden floor of the cabin.

I could have begged for his help, but I was still shaking off my exhaustion, and my stomach was empty, and my family was dead. So I did what any nine-year-old witch who couldn’t hide behind her glamor would do.

I cried. Hard.

Here now, little miss, stop your blubbing. I didn’t mean to scare you, the man said gruffly, setting me down. It was working, tears from a little girl always made rough men uncomfortable. I’ll take you to Mrs. Askew. She’ll know what to do with you. Wipe your face, girl. I snuffled lightly and wiped my face on the sleeve of my woollen dress. If I couldn’t hide, I would have to play along until I could escape the ship. Why he was taking me to see this Mrs. Askew I didn’t know, but if it meant that I was going to avoid punishment, I was willing to do just about anything.

As the large man led me out of the cabin I had been hiding in, he kept a light grip on my upper arm, as though he expected me to bolt away at any second. He would have been right, but I would use my power on him, and make him open his hand. Hecate would forgive me for something like that.

As my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, I realized that we were no longer at the dock. The creaking of wood, the splash of the ocean and the cries of gulls that floated above had replaced the sound of the bustling sailors and workmen moving cargo and shouting to each other. The sails were unfurled, snapping gently in the wind.

We were at sea.

Panic settled in my stomach and I planted my feet firmly on the deck until I was tugged forward, stumbling as I felt the tears begin to well up again.

We’re at sea, I finally choked out. All I could do was state the obvious. All of my plans were gone. Everything I knew was gone. Everything.

Everyone.

Aren’t you the observant one, the man remarked dryly, tugging me forward again. We’re at sea, and you’re a stowaway. Come on then. He seemed amused by my reaction, but I was genuinely stunned. I had never imagined that the ship would be leaving port, if I had known; I never would have climbed aboard.

I closed my mouth and allowed the man to lead me along the deck. Sailors went about their duties, scrambling up the masts and securing the sails as the wind freshened. I could see the town disappearing behind us, but I didn’t dare ask where we were going. I had a feeling that I would find out soon enough.

Dorithie Askew was a large woman with a pinched but kind face, and the burly man who had found me pushed me towards her without much ceremony.

I found this in with the blankets. I can’t put her to work, but you might have some use for her.

Mrs. Askew’s eyes were a dark grey, and they narrowed in my direction as she examined me. Come closer; let me see your face. She reached out a hand that was heavy with gold rings and sparkling stones and I hesitated for just a moment before stepping forward.

Mrs. Askew gripped my chin and stared in to my eyes, examining me closely. She licked the thumb of her other hand and rubbed it firmly against my cheek.

Nothing a good scrubbing wouldn’t fix, she muttered. Her eyes flickered to the man standing near the door, but she retained her grip on my chin. You found her in the blankets, you say? The man must have nodded, and she turned her attention back to me. She tugged at my dress and clucked her tongue at my bare toes. You are quite a mess, aren’t you? No matter. I need a helper on my journey to New York, and you will have to do. She released my chin and I resisted the urge to rub my jaw.

What is your name, child. It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, but as I opened my mouth to reply, she waved her hand dismissively. No. No, do not tell me. I am sure it is something plain and common. I will call you Sarah. She glanced absently at the large man once more. Write her name down in the passenger roll as Sarah Smith. She waved the man away, and I allowed myself to look around the cabin.

Mrs. Askew had begun to unpack her trunks, and the small dressing table was draped with fine fabrics and lace the like of which I had never seen. I longed to touch it, but I knew that I would be scolded if I did.

Well, Sarah, she addressed me by my new name and I swallowed thickly. I had a dream about you. A woman with red hair like yours brought you to me, and told me to look after you and take you to the colonies.

My mouth dropped open. My mother had pushed me towards this ship for a reason, even as the fire was taking her away from me; she had been guiding me to this woman. My witchmark itched and I fidgeted with the urge to scratch it.

Come now, let us find you something to wear. That ugly old thing will never do. She tugged at my ragged dress and I felt a sudden protectiveness over it. My aunt had made it for me out of one that Hannah had outgrown. Mrs. Askew smiled kindly and I felt a comforting warmth replace the knot of fear that had tightened in my stomach.

I nodded, and tried to return her smile. If my mother had brought me to this woman, then I was resolved to honor her wishes and behave myself.

I allowed Mrs. Askew to dress me in clothes that were finer than anything I had ever owned and took to following her about the ship and catering to her every request. I fetched her supper, brought her paper and ink for writing letters, and listened to her stories about the colonies. Her late husband had been a merchant, and he owned this ship, which was stocked with goods bound for a place called Salem.

I couldn’t very well allow my dear Abraham’s final shipment to be delayed! Mrs. Askew was determined to see the colonies on her own and establish her own contacts there. It seemed a lofty thing to me, but I suppose I was a little young to understand at the time. All I had done was nod and agree with her.

The journey was a long one, but not unpleasant, and Mrs. Askew was determined that she would teach me to read. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I already knew how to read, and that my mother and aunt had not skimped on my education. I knew which herbs to use to alieve the symptoms of gout, and which tea to make to speed the arrival of a stubborn child. Where my aunt and my mother had taught me to read useful things, Mrs. Askew taught me to read frivolous things like sonnets and even sang songs to me.

It was very strange, and while I enjoyed her attentions, I longed for the dusty books that my mother would bring out of a wooden box at the foot of her bed. The ones that had pressed flowers between the pages and the smell of herbs on the frayed fabric covers were my favorite. I would have taken those with me when I left the town. But now they would never leave the box, and I would never be able to read them again.

Mrs. Askew was kind to me, and while I never confided in her, she knew that I carried a heavy secret. One that caused me to lapse into long silences without warning. She tried her best to cheer me, but I did not know how to tell her that the wound was still too fresh, and that I did not know if my heart would ever heal. Mrs. Askew had the good sense not to try to treat me like a daughter, but I was a treasured companion who slept in a little bed beside hers and accompanied her everywhere.

---

The voyage passed quicker than I had expected, and the sailors who shouted for land were thrilled to see the end of their journey drawing near. Mrs. Askew had not told me what I could expect from Salem, but from what she had said, I assumed that we would stay for a short while, sell some of the goods that she carried, and then set sail for New York.

As the ship dropped anchor in the harbor, I helped Mrs. Askew choose the goods that would be taken ashore. The village looked quiet, and the smoke from the chimney’s rose gently into the air. The sight of those gray plumes filled me with just a little jolt of fear, but I did my best to hide my trepidation as Mrs. Askew bundled me into one of the little boats and we were rowed to shore.

Men from the village, severely dressed and firm faced welcomed us ashore and the goods were set out upon several rough tables for the women to peruse. The frosty reception continued until Mrs. Askew produced letters that had been written to her husband from one of Salem’s wealthiest citizens, a Thomas Putnam, inviting him to bring his goods to Salem.

Mrs. Askew expected me to help her with the sales, and I did as best I was able, but I could not shake the feeling of unease that gripped me as we stood in the center of the village. There was a tension in the air, as though something terrible were about to happen. Women exchanged distrustful looks, and Mrs. Askew and I were examined with hard eyes and whispered comments.

These Puritans, Mrs. Askew huffed as another woman asked a price for a length of lace and then walked away without purchasing it. I nodded distractedly, my eyes on a young woman who hung back from the groups of women milling around examining the wares. My witchmark itched suddenly and I slapped at my leg to make the sensation go away, but it only intensified, making me chew my lip in frustration.

The young woman was dressed as severely as the rest of the villagers, and her dark eyes were fixed on me. I thought it might have been my hair that had drawn her attention, a few of the other women had commented on it. I did not take their interest to heart, and not all of the words they said were unkind, but Mrs. Askew had told me not to mind what they said.

Leave.

A voice whispered in my mind.

I looked up in shock, my eyes wide as I strained to hear more. The young woman with the dark eyes had disappeared from the edge of the crowd, and I could not find her.

Leave. Not. Safe.

Could there be one of us here? Another Daughter of Hecate so far away from England. I wanted to meet her; I wanted to speak with her. What did she mean? Why wasn’t it safe? I was desperate to speak to someone who understood how I felt, how empty I was. I wanted to see her witchmark, was it the same as mine? But she was nowhere to be found.

As the sun began to set, Mrs. Askew accepted the kind patronage of Mr. Proctor, who invited us to stay for supper and gave us a room in his large house for the night. Seated around the table with Mr. Putnam’s family, my feeling of unease didn’t fade.

Mrs. Putnam was a pale, slender woman who did not say much, and Thomas Putnam’s wide smile seemed fixed to his face in a permanent way.

You have come at a difficult time, Mrs. Askew, Salem has been plagued by some troubles of late, Mr. Putnam said, his smile did not falter. Our daughter, Ann, has been ill, but we trust that she will recover soon.

I am sorry to hear it, Mrs. Askew said, her concern written plainly on her face.

Yes, it has been very trying.

He did not seem to be overly concerned, and Mrs. Askew did not press him further. I didn’t like Mrs. Putnam’s silence, the look of the girl who brought out our meals, or the smile on Mr. Putnam’s face.

Mrs. Askew slept soundly that night, but I stared at the ceiling, listening to the house as it creaked. We would be leaving for New York in the morning, and it could not come fast enough. All I could think about was the young woman I had seen in the village, the one who would not stop staring at me. The one who had whispered her warning in my mind.

THUD.

I must have drifted off to sleep, but the sound of something hitting the floor of the room above us made me sit up.

Mrs. Askew’s soft snoring was the only sound. My heart hammered in my chest and my breathing was short and shallow. It could have been nothing... but something wasn’t right.

5

Igot out of my bed as quietly as I could, moving towards the door, which opened with the barest hint of a creak. I let out the breath I had been holding and crept down the hallway. The house was quiet, but I thought I could hear the sound of crying.

Standing on the stairway was the girl who had served our dinner. She wore a long sleeping robe, and her hay colored hair was braided loosely over her shoulder.

Another loud thud echoed in the silent house. The girl turned to me and laid her finger upon her lips.

Ann is very ill, we must be quiet.

Even though I knew that I should go back to bed and pretend that I hadn’t heard anything, I came closer.

Goody Bishop is sending out her spirit... I saw it in the house. It had taken the shape of a red bird; it flew around the room, and swooped low over Ann’s head. Then she took ill... The girl’s voice trailed away and I had the distinct feeling that she didn’t quite believe what she was saying, but had rehearsed it several times to get it right.

Why would Goody Bishop do that? I asked, knowing that the answer would be one that I had heard more times than I ever wanted to hear it.

Goody Bishop is a witch. She’s been witching Ann, sending out her spirit. She’s punishing Ann for being so good. For her father being so wealthy. She is jealous... and wicked. The girl sounded very sure of herself, and I began to feel nervous. Mr. Putnam says you have come from England... did they punish witches in your village too?

Yes... yes, they burned witches. I tried to keep my voice from shaking, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to have this conversation. The girl nodded gravely, looking back up the stairs as the sound of sobbing filled the air.

I hope that Goody Bishop and the other witches in Salem will be punished. Their sins should not be allowed to stain the village.

I began to back away, but the girl grabbed my elbow and pulled my closer, Come and see what Goody Bishop has done to Ann.

I tried to pull away, but the girl was bigger than me, and stronger. Her fingers pinched painfully into my flesh. She tugged me with her as she climbed the narrow staircase that led up to Ann Putnam’s room.

She pushed the door open to reveal a small room that was bare of furnishings except for a small bed covered in white sheets. A small form was huddled on the bed, one arm secured to the bedpost with a length of fabric.

Ann...

The other girl turned, moaning and tugging at the tie that held her to the bed.

Mercy? Mercy you must untie me, please untie me. Ann’s voice was plaintive, but the girl next to me shook her head.

You know I cannot, Ann. Your father would whip me if I untied you. Do you remember hurting your mother? Mercy’s voice was soft and even, and it chilled me to the bone.

I hurt my mother? I cannot...

Don’t worry, Ann, we know it was Goody Bishop lashing out through you, taking her anger out on your poor mother.

Ann Putnam began to cry again, knocking her head against the wooden headboard in desperation. I backed towards the door; I had seen enough... and I knew I would not be able to sleep until Salem had been left far behind us.

Mercy didn’t seem to notice that I was retreating, and as soon as my foot hit the stairs, I turned and ran for the room I shared with Mrs. Askew.

I closed the door to the room behind me, my heart pounded in my chest and I felt cold all over. Mrs. Askew’s gentle snores filled the room as I climbed back into my bed. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, knowing that above us, Ann Putnam was confined to her bed, possessed by something that I couldn’t quite understand.

I didn’t know what Goody Bishop had done to deserve Mercy’s harsh words, but if the knot in my stomach was any indication, she had done nothing to Ann Putnam.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to force myself to sleep, but I could hear everything happening in the house.

When dawn broke I was sitting up in my bed, listening to wood being chopped outside the house and the sound of the family beginning to stir. Ann had quieted as the sun rose, but I could not shake the feeling of dread that sat heavily on my shoulders.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, with Mr. Putnam and his younger children in attendance. Mercy served us our breakfast, and her cold eyes held mine as she set down our plates. I wondered if she knew what I was, and if she did... what she would say.

Are you sure that you won’t stay, Mrs. Askew? Mr. Putnam’s wide, unsettlingly calm smile had not left his face. We are expecting another visitor in the village today.

I do apologize, Mr. Putnam, but we really must move on to New York today.

A shame indeed, Mrs. Askew, he replied, his eyes glittering in the light that streamed through the high kitchen window.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave immediately, but Mrs. Askew was determined to do some last minute sales for some women who had hesitated over the lace the day before. She was convinced that they would return to make their purchases and of course I could not argue.

---

It was while carrying the last of our wares down to the little boat that would take us back to the ship when my witchmark began to burn. It was a sudden, sharp pain that made me cry out and I stumbled just a little, trying to catch my breath.

Behind me, someone cried out a greeting and the sound of a wagon approaching and the unmistakable sound of hoofs beat in time with my heart.

Run!

My mouth dried up and without a backward glance I ran for the beach where Mrs. Askew waited. The voice echoed in my head, repeating that one word over and over again.

Run!

Run!

Are you quite all right, Sarah? Mrs. Askew was all concern as she reached for me, but I nodded my head quickly and clambered into the boat.

Mr. Putnam and his wife stood at the edge of the village, watching us depart. Mrs. Putnam’s face was blank and emotionless, and Mr. Putnam wore his signature smile that never seemed to move.

As the boat was pushed into the water, Mr. Putnam was joined by two figures cloaked in black. The man wore a conical hat with a broad brim, his pale silvery hair, spilled over his shoulders like moonlight.

Elias Maycotte.

Mr. Putnam seemed thrilled to see him, shaking his hand eagerly. But Elias Maycotte’s ghostly pale eyes were set upon me, and his face was as hard as stone. The woman I had seen with him, the one who had seen me in the crowd, she stood at his side, her black eyes burning into mine.

My witchmark stung, and I winced, trying my best not to sob as my eyes filled with tears.

They had found me, and we had to get away. We had to leave Salem far behind. My mother’s face danced in my mind’s eye, her red hair floating around her face as the fire licked at the edge of her woolen dress.

The boat pulled farther and farther away and Mrs. Askew continued to talk about her sales and how pleased she was that she had honored her husband’s contract with the elders of Salem. Very pleased indeed.

I nodded in agreement, but I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Elias Maycotte in his black cloak. If only I could help Goody Bishop... but I couldn’t.

What about the young woman who had whispered in my mind? What would happen to her?

As the ship set sail for New York, I knew that I had to get away from Mrs. Askew; I had to disappear. If Elias Maycotte had found me in Salem, he would find me in New York. Mr. Putnam would tell him who we were, his strange smile spread across his whey colored face, and I would have to run again.

That was a long time ago now, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of rebellion, death and injustice, and you’d think that the