Bewitching Hannah

By Leigh Goff

Sixteen-year-old Hannah Fitzgerald has always known she is descended from a troubled legacy of dark magic. Although a stranger to her coven in Annapolis, she is no stranger to grief and denial. However, when an ancient prophecy reveals the rise of a young, powerful witch and the impending death of another, she realizes she can no longer afford t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirror World Publishing
• Release date: Sep 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781987976304

Leigh Goff

Leigh Goff grew up in Maryland where she resides today. Her writing is inspired by an eclectic childhood, a vivid imagination, and compelling historical events. After taking several writing courses in college and attending professional writing workshops after she graduated from the University of Maryland, she joined the Maryland Writers' Association and Romance Writers of America.

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Bewitching Hannah

Leigh Goff

E-BOOK EDITION

Bewitching Hannah © 2017 by Mirror World Publishing and Leigh Goff

Edited by: Justine Dowsett

Cover Art by: Jan Doseděl

Published by Mirror World Publishing in September, 2017

All Rights Reserved.

*This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons is entirely coincidental.

Mirror World Publishing

Windsor, Ontario

www.mirrorworldpublishing.com

[e-mail]

ISBN: 978-1-987976-30-4

Also by Leigh Goff:

Disenchanted

To Brian, Carson, & Chase

Most gods throw dice, but Fate plays chess, and you don’t find out til too late that he’s been playing with two queens all along. –Terry Pratchett, Author

1.

I didn’t know if fate could be altered, but I hoped for the possibility. The reason was simple—sometime ago, my bewitched ancestors co-mingled and permanently effed up my life. Thanks to them, the inherited magic I’d have sacrificed my virginity to live without was stirring again, most likely triggered by the stress of leaving Green Briar. It whispered to me from its lair like a beast luring a curious creature to her doom. Not now, I thought. I was twelve hours away from starting fresh at Truxton High and desperate for an ordinary junior year, not to mention a deliriously ordinary life.

Chillax, Hannah.

What was that damn mantra? Right. Acknowledge, focus, and breathe deeply. I inhaled enough air to make myself dizzy. Crap. This was not working.

The magic hummed to life, quiet at first, then loud like a banshee unleashing in my head. On the outside, I tried not to make the weird face. Instead, I focused my gaze on the dashboard and clenched my jaw, waiting for the magic’s slow crawl back to its dark cave.

Aunt Jocelyn, or Aunt J as I liked to call her, tapped her thumbs against the steering wheel to a crappy disco song on the radio. Everything okay, darling? You look like you have cramps.

Ten minutes from her home in Annapolis and I was already wishing I was back at Green Briar, mostly because of the cramps comment, but the bad music wasn’t helping. I swiped a blonde tendril away from my eyes and shot her a look. Gross. Not cramps. Head hurts.

She pursed her lips in the way that always filled me with dread. Your head hurts? Or are you trying to suppress the family legacy?

A hard lump formed in my throat as she unleashed her suspicion. You know I don’t want to talk about it. Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t talk about if I wanted to. A year and a half ago that legacy of magic drove my mom so crazy she killed herself. A few months later, my frustrated dad followed her lead. If only I’d done something to stop them. If only.

Days after your dad’s funeral, when you begged me to send you to Green Briar, I guessed it wasn’t just grief and anxiety that was overwhelming you, but I let you go because it was what you wanted. However, it’s been a year now, and all I’m asking for is the truth.

I hated when her guesses were spot on. "I wanted help—to deal with it." A single tear betrayed me, trailing down my cheek.

How could ordinary therapists help you stifle your extraordinary magic?

I ignored her attempt at a compliment and wiped my face dry. I needed to learn how to suppress the emotions that bring it to life. She’d witnessed the damage it had caused.

Where’s the fiery spirit you once had?

My gloom phased to anger and my eyes flashed fire. It’s dead along with my parents.

That’s enough. She lowered the radio volume. It’s not dead. You’re suppressing it, but you can’t suppress what you are. Only in accepting your true self can you live a happy life.

On the verge of my fresh start, my aunt had the nerve to sound like a philosopher. Didn’t she understand that all I wanted was to not be a Fitzgerald for once? I’m not worried about my spirit, or being happy. I just want to be ordinary and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Ordinary? As if you could be.

I bit down hard on my tongue, crossed my hands in my lap, and focused on the piece of jewelry I cherished. Beneath the passing streetlights, the enchanting gold ring shimmered in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.

I always loved seeing that ring on my own dad’s finger. He always told me the Irish heirloom held tight to a secret.

I nodded, not taking my eyes off the Fitzgerald crest. That’s what Dad always said to me. He promised one day I’d prove worthy enough to unlock its mystery, but I don’t feel very worthy. And don’t say it’s because I’m suppressing what I am.

She said nothing.

I just don’t feel much of anything.

You’ll feel better once you take something for that headache. I have magnesium citrate powder at home. Your dad used to take it.

I shot her a half-dazed glance. Magnesia what?

A subtle smirk appeared on her face, hinting at a secret. Don’t worry about it. She stopped at a light before entering the city limits of Annapolis.

We’re almost there. She probably forgot I wasn’t a little kid who couldn’t remember where she lived, although now it was where I lived, too.

I know. I glanced out the window at the historic marker noting the Witch’s Grave—a gnarled tree leaning over the Spa Creek bank where centuries before three witches had been executed and buried beneath its shade. A shiver shook through me. What else could come of being a witch? Nothing good—I knew that much already.

"And everything will be chrysanthemum."

I’d nearly forgotten about your shop talk, I said with a half-smile.

That’s what happens when you work with flowers all day.

Chrysanthemum means wonderful, right?

A breeze swept through her cracked window, tousling runaway strands of chestnut brown hair across her prominent cheekbones.

Yes, everything will be wonderful, she said with certainty in her voice, but I wasn’t so absa-freaking-lutely sure.

Lightning flashed, followed by a rumble of thunder, jolting me alert. A tempest churned over the Chesapeake Bay and was rolling toward town. I stared at the clouds, ready to calculate how much time we had before the rain hit. Another bright flash of white-hot lightning forked across the purplish-black sky. One, two…twenty.

Boom.

The storm was at least four miles away. I pressed a hand over my chest, feeling the thumping slow.

I glanced at Aunt J, who was no longer bopping her head to the bad music. Instead, she blinked over and over, and rubbed her eyes with one hand.

If you’re tired, I can drive. Who needed a license when I’d already mastered a moped along with the Green Briar golf carts?

Her slender fingers searched for me as if I were a ghost she could only hear. She grasped my arm tightly.

Hannah? Panic drenched her voice.

My eyes widened. What’s wrong?

I can’t see. I mean, I see something, but it’s not the road. What’s wrong with me?

I peered out the windshield. A distant telephone pole grew bigger as her foot stuck to the accelerator.

A frightening swell of adrenaline flooded my veins, sending my heart into a frenzy. Stop! I yelled, but she was frozen with fright. I grabbed the steering wheel and threw my leg over to jam on the brake pedal.

It was too late. Absolute silence fell over us in the grim second before we plowed into the pole. My lower body slammed into the dashboard while the seatbelt squeezed hard against my ribs. Metal groaned. White bubbles deployed. Glass shattered with a scream. Or maybe the scream was mine. The car groaned to a halt with a hiss and clank.

Stillness settled over us. My head was reeling as I checked myself for injuries. Bursts of pain sparked from my chest and leg.

Hannah? Aunt J’s quivering voice reached out.

I pried my eyes open. She had escaped her seatbelt. Her lips and hands were trembling, but I saw no blood or broken skin. Inwardly, I sighed with relief.

Are you okay? she asked.

I sucked in a shallow breath. Me? Fine, I managed, not wanting to stress her out, but I struggled to breathe and my left leg was wedged under the intruding dashboard.

She reached over, wiping her hands across my cheeks and forehead, dusting away crumbs of glass. She touched her trembling fingers to the seatbelt release and pressed on it, over and over. Come on, dammit. Let go.

I pushed her hand away, restraining a whimper. It’s okay. Go get help.

She nodded and with a hard push, shoved her door open. I’ll be right back.

A heavy silence fell over the car’s interior until a hiss sounded from the engine. Within seconds, the smell of burning oil seeped in through the vents.

One toxic breath went deeper than I meant it to. Ow! I coughed and writhed beneath the unyielding seatbelt like a five-year-old having a tantrum. Panic swept over me as I struggled for freedom.

Stress vibrated deep in my gut. Self-soothe, self-soothe, I reminded myself. The air grew thicker with burning oil and a starburst of pain wracked my body. I was going to die. Unless…

No. How could I even think it? There had to be another way because what if I couldn’t send it back? What if it took me to the same terrible place it had taken them?

I peered out the windows, searching. There was no one. I turned my focus on the glove box. Maybe Aunt J kept a knife in there or a pair of floral scissors. I pushed the button hard, again and again. Jammed. My heart raced.

A burst of smoke puffed into the car’s interior. I coughed and closed my eyes. The pressure on my leg intensified and the sickening fumes filled me with dread. Eff it. I balled my hands into fists.

I recalled the spell I’d overheard my dad utter once. I recited it in my head before casting, making sure I had it right. By the power of fire, I do summon and churn, and call thee forth to blaze and burn.

I stopped breathing, trying to sense any changes. I felt no different. And then it filled my core like a warm sphere of energy. Quickly, the power expanded into a blazing inferno. My back arched, pressing me harder into the seatbelt as my internal fire surged. Every cell jolted awake. My heart pounded out of control as I imagined channeling the smoldering energy. Suddenly, my hands tingled with intense power. I swallowed hard and aimed my fingers at the strap. The fiery threads trickled out in a wiggly pattern until I steadied my hand. The seatbelt burned orange, then cooled to black before separating.

I sat there wide-eyed for one full second, partly in disbelief and partly in revulsion. I leaned back, drained, feeling the heat recede up my arm and back into my core where it simmered down. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited to feel ordinary again.

A thunderous boom roared. The car shuddered, sucking me out of my daze. Flames licked up from the engine and through the broken windshield. Suffocating billows of black smoke glugged in from the vents, urging me to get the hell out of there.

With shaky hands, I jerked the loose belt through the latch and grasped the door handle. I jiggled and jiggled, while shoving my shoulder into it over and over, with no success. I leaned toward the driver’s side to escape, but a jolt of pain shot up from my trapped leg. Crap. I rammed my shoulder into the passenger side door again as hard as I could. My weakened muscles quivered. I slapped the vents flat and bashed my hands against the partially open window.

Another flash of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating a tall, shadowy figure in the distance. Was it a hallucination? Was I already going crazy from tapping into the magic? I stared hard.

The figure approached quickly—like mercury racing toward the car. I drew back, stunned, while he fought with the door. He seemed real enough.

Who are you? I asked through the window’s narrow opening.

Darkness obscured most of the boy’s features. However, the glow from the fire radiated on the skin of his neck where the tendons strained as he wrestled with the jammed metal. The faint light also illuminated his eyes. The color was several shades lighter than arctic ice, lending them an otherworldly quality.

Thunder rumbled louder. Someone who shouldn’t be here, he replied. The tenor of his voice caused my heart to pause on a whisper of breath before speeding up again.

W-what does that mean? I stammered, pressing a hand to the window.

His gaze settled on my ring as if he were taking in the details of the Fitzgerald crest. Then he froze, his chest and shoulder muscles bunching beneath his black jacket.

My lungs filled with another gulp of rancid air. I coughed and gagged, fanning the smoke away. I glanced over my shoulder, remembering the family picture that was tucked away in my duffel bag. I wasn’t leaving it behind.

My gaze drifted back to the boy. He was no longer frozen. Instead, his hands slipped from the car door and gripped around the sides of his head. Then he doubled over as if he were in agony.

My stomach dropped. Oh, no. What’s wrong? Tell me. Please.

He straightened slightly, offered me an unforgivable look, and took off running into the darkness.

My hands slapped against the hot glass. Was he leaving me, too? I couldn’t handle another person leaving me when I needed them. Inwardly, I freaked out. Tears trailed down my cheeks. Don’t go. You can’t go. Come back!

I moaned from the intense pressure on my leg. This was not happening. I was so not going to stay trapped in a fiery sedan while the remnants of a stupid disco song played in my head.

I sniffled the tears back and stared at my plastic captor. With a huff, I worked on the dashboard, trying to free my leg. After several intense palm heels, my hands went numb. Drained of energy, yet desperate, my eyes searched for another way; a possibility. Then I saw something by my feet—a spraypaint can, probably dislodged from under the seat during the crash. I reached for it and brought it closer to my eyes—water-based floral spray in midnight blue. My aunt’s flower language came to me without effort; I’d never been so agrimony in my life.

The smoke grew thicker. I held my breath and wrapped both hands around the can, aimed, and thrust the hard cylinder against the glass, over and over. A small crack appeared and filled me with hope. Operating on pure adrenaline, I threw my shoulders into the action and slammed the can as hard as I could against the barrier.

Smash.

The safety glass crumbled. I used the can to clear a bigger opening and then I gripped onto the window frame and pulled. My arm muscles shook. A shock of pain shivered through my leg. I screamed, but kept heaving my body upward. With one last grunt-filled effort, my leg released.

I dropped onto the street in a fume-filled stupor, hacking and gasping for air. I groaned from the hard landing, but I didn’t care about the pain. All I could think about was how that bonehead had left me. Who leaves a girl trapped in a burning car? A shadow of a boy, I thought. Then I remembered my bag. Crap. The rough cement pressed into the tender skin of my palms and the blood pulsed through my tingly left leg as I struggled to stand.

I wrestled with the back door, which wasn’t as damaged. After several heaves it opened just enough to remove the duffel. I hobbled across the street with my hard fought prize and plunked onto the curb.

Alone and in the dark, I peered around at the empty side street.

Hannah! Aunt J shouted.

Over here.

She rushed to me, cupping my face in her hands. Holy salt, sulfur, and mercury.

I glanced at her with surprise. That’s what Dad used to say when he messed up one of his chemistry experiments.

Chemistry? she remarked, turning her head toward the burning wreck. Stress washed over her features, causing every tiny facial muscle to crease. The parking garage attendant called nine-one-one. I’m so glad you got out. She tilted her head. "How did you get out?"

I bit my lip, not wanting to worry her with what happened. The seat belt finally released.

Well, that’s a relief.

Who cared about the seat belt when that wretched shadow of a boy had left me pissed off and with a zillion questions in my curious brain?

Sirens screamed, growing louder as they raced toward the blazing car. Within seconds, the area filled with firefighters, working to extinguish the flames. I looked at Aunt J. What went wrong with your eyesight?

I don’t know. She stared at the wreck; her eyes glazed over with shock. And now…

I squeezed her hand. And now, we’ll be fine. I assured her even as I silently cursed the instincts that told me that was a big, fat lie.

2.

The storm winds off the creek stirred the Tree of Life wind chime hanging from Aunt J’s front porch, setting the copper leaves tinkling like raindrops. After a shortcut and a four block hike, we stepped inside. When Aunt J shut the door, the storm unleashed itself on the house with a roar.

It’s going to be a long night, she said, wiping her brow while I took in the familiarity of my surroundings. As always, her homemade bee balm flower essence perfumed the house and the first floor rooms, painted in a rainbow of soft pastels, soothed my frayed nerves. I peered around wide-eyed, making sure everything was as it used to be when I’d visit. It was an easy way to distract myself from the tears welling up behind my eyes.

You’ll be sleeping in the rose room at the top of the stairs, two doors down on your right. Aunt J was my dad’s older sister, but more whimsical in her ways than he ever was. She was in her late thirties, obsessed with the nineteen-seventies and flowers, and had never had children of her own. When she volunteered to be my guardian, she assured me her shop made enough money for the two of us to live comfortably, and I loved her for the ordinary-enough she was offering, even if she wanted me to be far from ordinary.

Thanks, Aunt J. Thanks for everything.

Her cheeks tugged up. "I wish you moonflower, darling. She easily read the confusion on my face as I struggled to recall the meaning of that one. It means ‘dreams of love’."

A boom of thunder vibrated through the house, shaking the floor beneath us.

That’s a beast of a storm out there. A little too ominous for my taste, especially on your first night back. She sounded rattled. If you need the magnesium citrate powder for your headache, it’s behind the bathroom mirror. Take one teaspoon with water.

I was more worried about swallowing that chemistry experiment than I was about the storm. Thanks. I hugged her goodnight and trudged up the winding wooden staircase and into the hall bathroom.

I tossed off my pink T-shirt and kicked out of my dirty jeans before stepping into the shower. Steaming hot water rinsed away the chargrilled smell and relaxed my strained muscles. I dried off and staggered zombie-like into my bedroom, relieved my duffel bag was safe next to my bed. I removed my parents’ picture and set it on the night table. I stared at our similar faces, remembering. My shoulders heaved up and down with each sob, matching the tempo of the rainstorm lashing against the windows. I tried to stifle the sound as best I could so Aunt J wouldn’t worry. She’d been so strong for me, and I needed to show her that I could be strong now, too. I wiped away the tears. Tomorrow would be better. A new beginning.

With a few sniffles, I carefully slipped under the pink flower quilt draped over the full-sized bed. After the bizarre trip from Green Briar I’d barely survived and the horrible encounter with the Shadow I’d never forget for as long as I lived, sleep beckoned like a comforting embrace calling me into unconscious oblivion.

The eerie mist surrounding me gave way to a flash of brightness. Climbing flames licked off the masts of a tall merchant ship that was like something out of the bedtime stories my mom used to tell me. The blaze illuminated the night sky and everything around it, including the unfamiliar, yet beautiful, gold and white gown I was wearing. I leaned over a man holding tight to a tricorn hat. A layer of smoke fragrant with tea drifted between us and prevented me from seeing his face, but somehow he was familiar. So familiar, yet I couldn’t recall his name.

Elizabeth, we’ve broken their rules, he whispered with a hushed groan. His voice was gruff and concerned, and his eyes misty.

Dude, I’m so not Elizabeth. My sight had to be failing me, so I relied on my other senses.

Aren’t you? He tugged me closer so my face hovered just an inch from his lips. His warm breath brushed across my cheek. I inhaled his musky scent and reached for his hand. Stomach-tightening tension sent my heart racing.

Do you know what I am now? His voice phased to another’s. Now he sounded like the Shadow.

Curiosity outweighed my anger. Tell me.

The cool evening air chilled to a wintry temperature and the smoky wind whistled its warning. The hair on my arms stood on end as I waited for his reply.

Cursed, he whispered.

Everything went black. A blinding light exploded in front of me, whisking me from the fiery past to a hazy present. The brightness faded. A girl’s silhouette creeped in along the edges of my dream. Curious, I tried to make out her face, but a dense fog obscured her features.

Wake up, Hannah.

She pointed at me, drew a hand to her face, and blew a glistening powder into the sky. Screams rose from a sea of faceless people below her and a sense of urgency descended like a black vortex, sucking the life out of me.

No!

I shot up in bed and wiped my damp forehead with pruned fingertips. My eyes flitted back and forth until my panting slowed. I wasn’t at Green Briar anymore, but after the creepy dream I wondered if maybe I should’ve stayed there. In the near distance, chimes tinkled like a glass chandelier being played by a storm. I waited for the memories of the strange dream to subside before I tossed the quilt to the side.

Outside, the storm had softened to a steady drizzle. I peeked into the hallway and listened, but the chimes weren’t coming from outside the house. The music called to me from beyond the white door at the end of the hallway. I tiptoed toward the mysterious portal I never dared enter as a child, afraid of ghosts. However, I was no longer a little girl and the only ghosts I feared were those that haunted my grieving head and heart.

With a twist of the knob, I pushed in and pressed the door to the frame as quietly as I could. I sneaked up the steps toward the light, breathing in the strong cedar scent. On the far end of the attic I noticed another tree wind chime hanging near the half-open hexagonal window.

I scanned the cache of treasures, noticing Aunt J’s old, red leather recliner and a desk with an antique sewing machine. Two different-sized steamer trunks hidden away long ago added to the normal atmosphere of an ordinary attic. With my family, everything always appeared normal on the surface, just like me. However, underneath the façade, dark secrets lurked, threatening to destroy any chance of ordinary. Annapolis, with its secret population of witches, wasn’t much different in that way. I kneeled in front of the smaller trunk, my imagination running wild, wondering what was concealed beneath the pretty lid. I grasped the tiny padlock and tugged, but the lock held tight. I twisted and tugged again, but the iron did not yield.

Humph. I ran my hand across the textured leather. My dad would say I’m not worthy yet to know your secrets, but when I am, I can’t wait for you to share them with me. Next to the trunk, my aunt had retired a stack of books. I eagerly searched through the titles and recognized my surname on one of them, The Fitzgerald Dynasty. Why not? I was feeling sentimental like a child wanting to traipse through the pages of a familiar, although dark, Grimm’s fairy tale. With a yawn, I plopped in the red recliner. A swirl of dust spun in front of me like a twister. I fanned it away and brushed a finger over the word Dynasty, leaving a trail in the thick layer of pale dust.

Dynasty of madness, death, and bad magic.

I glanced at the family tree that included the Irish Wizard Earl, Gerald Fitzgerald. I’d been told stories of the Fitzgerald enemies whose descendants liked to dabble in dark magic and how all of their heirs had sailed to Maryland, set up a coven, and became discreetly known as the Chesapeake Witches.

A groan hitched in my throat. There was no escaping my family history, especially now that the magic felt stronger than ever. I feared the Green Briar treatments wouldn’t be enough to suppress the emotions that triggered the problem, and I wondered if therapy could have saved my parents. I recalled my mom’s despair, brought on by her haunted visions, and my dad’s extreme frustration from his failed experiments. All that was left was me, the potentially combustible product of an elemental witch of air and a wizard of fire.

With as much mental oomph as I could muster, I shoved the thought out of my head and flipped through the yellowed pages until the fingers of sleep lured me under again.

When I startled awake, the sun spilled through the small window. I leaped out of the recliner, showered, and applied mascara and lip gloss. I grabbed the first outfit my hands brushed across in my duffel bag, gray leggings and a T-shirt. Aunt J had already left to open her shop, so I heated up a scoop of crab dip and plopped it on top of a soft pretzel. I sunk my mouth into the warm, salty snack. Ahh, delish. It had been a year since I’d noshed on one of her crab pretzels.

I locked the front door behind me and cursed the nervousness bouncing around in my chest, concerned it might become a possible trigger. I twisted my ring round and round on my finger. If the whispering began, I’d have to quiet it down, because failing on my first day was not an option.

Truxton High was larger in size and number than the small Episcopalian school where I’d spent my elementary and freshman years, and profoundly louder than Green Briar where the tutors for my sophomore year had always spoken in librarian voices. As I made my way to the main office, pungent clouds of Axe Body Spray overwhelmed my nose and the squeaking of new Chuck Taylor’s on the tiled floors hit my ears like a squeegee on glass.

I retrieved my schedule and locker number from the overwhelmed secretary and while I searched the bustling halls, I found my attention drifting to every tall boy, searching for some resemblance to the detestable Shadow. I wanted to unleash on him. Ask him what he meant when he said he shouldn’t have been there, and how in the world he could have possibly left me like that. I shuddered from the memory.

You look new. A girl’s sweet, clear voice came from behind as I popped my locker open. Surprised, I spun around. She was exotic-looking, with lightly tanned skin, wide, emerald green eyes, and white corn silk hair.

I’m Summer Roca. Looks like we’ll be locker mates this year.

Her T-shirt said, Baristas make it hot and creamy. She looked around, seeming suddenly confused. Do you smell crab?

I cupped a hand to my mouth, exhaled, and sniffed. She must’ve had a good nose because I couldn’t smell any trace of breakfast.

"Probably my