Bitter Fruit: All Things Dark & Magickal, #2

By SF Benson

Sometimes actions can be more poisonous than any fruit, especially when dark magick is involved…

When Arabella Cuthbert stumbles across a name in an ancient tome, it leads her to the crotchety proprietress of White's Antiquities and a malus malum. Suddenly, there's a way for Arabella to have everything she's ever wanted.

All she has to do is fill the bad apple with the souls of seven evil men.

Has she bitten off more than she can chew? Or is it too late for Arabella to make changes again?

All Things Dark & Magickal is a young adult series featuring time travel and retold fairy tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avanturine Press
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223093176

SF Benson

SF Benson, a Michigan native, resides in Southern California with her husband, a human daughter, and a couple of miniature fur kids (two female short-haired guinea pigs). At one time, she wrangled a household which included three Samoyeds, saltwater fish, a hamster, and three guinea pigs. She’s an avid bookworm who appreciates a well-written book regardless of genre. SF prefers writing stories about strong, diverse protagonists set in dystopian, science fiction, or paranormal worlds. Connect with Author SF Benson: Be the first one to find out news about releases and giveaways! Email List https://bit.ly/3GnDYCk Facebook www.facebook.com/bensonsf Twitter @bensonshantella

Book preview

Dismal Beginnings

ARABELLA

"W omen are, in fact, so much degraded by mistaken notions of female excellence…"

—A Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft

There were two things guaranteed to every person alive—death and taxes. If you’re fortunate to survive birth, you can’t escape either one. The first could be construed as a blessing after enduring a miserable existence while the other could very well be a curse haunting you unto the grave if left unpaid. Of course, living came with plenty of obstacles before you checked out permanently. I had been fortunate not to have encountered those things. Yet.

My life came with other issues—being a female and being magickal. Either category had its own difficulties, but when combined they turned into a complicated stew. It was bad enough that as a girl my world focused on eligible bachelors and endless hours learning the fine art of womanhood. But being born female and magickal meant being unappreciated on a whole different level. It could be just as harsh as not having enough finances to carry you from day to day. I called it devalued worth.

Female Spelltwisters didn’t own property. We didn’t get to display our skills because no one trusted us. Men said we were too flighty to be taken seriously. Honestly, they believed we might get the vapors or some nonsense right in the middle of an incantation.

Male Spelltwisters were different. Everybody who was anybody—even those who claimed to have no interest in spells and things—craved the status. The male gender was afforded better jobs and the right to own property. A better lifestyle came with magick. Being able to get whatever you desired practically made a man royalty.

Of course, nobody wielded their powers freely without a certificate from the Institute of Prodigious Arts (IPA), the school for training Celestine Spelltwisters. The Abra Guild, that haughty group of magickals who dictated what could be done in Crowley, oversaw the IPA. Needless to say, there wasn’t a female within their gilded walls.

My mistake. I misspoke.

I should have said that some males were given the privilege of practicing magick. There were those like my half-brother, Lance, who weren’t magickal at all. His lack of ability combined with my power gave Mother reason to hate us. She called my brother and me her greatest disappointments—useless and unable to improve her lot in life.

You see, Eleanora Alderdice Cuthbert, our esteemed mother, was a Sage capable of perceiving all types of magick, but she possessed no power of her own. She wrongfully thought that by harnessing herself to men with capabilities that she would produce the right children—Celestine males. Instead, she gave birth to Fractals—offspring with only a fifty percent chance at magick. Fractals were unpredictable. Even the Abra Guild suggested that marriages between magickals and non-magickals be avoided at all costs to prevent giving birth to one. Any unfortunate children born to the couple were supposed to be tossed into the Void—a wasteland for those who practiced without permission.

I was pretty certain that Mother knew about the Guild’s dictates. Thankfully, she didn’t listen and saved us from a fate worse than death. Unfortunately, she failed to realize that her dark intentions would have never create Celestines—those born pure of heart. All she’d ever produce would be children with inherent evil coursing through their black souls—Murcurials.

Like me.

Call me the zounderkite for believing that one day Mother would recognize that I was her greatest gift. I’d been wielding magick since I could walk, but no one could ever pin anything on me. I was as guiltless as a priest. Whatever I wanted, I got. Well…almost. What I truly wanted was Mother’s respect and appreciation.

Regrettably, the only thing that mattered to her was finding me an appropriate suitor. Her goal was to find a man who would see my abilities as useful talents and put them to use tidying his household and keeping him fed. As the saying went, magickal daughters were a boon. If she was of pretty face, admire her from afar but never ever test her.

But I’d had enough of being the invisible child.

The under-appreciated child.

A girl that no one in Crowley took seriously.

Trevor, my stepbrother, didn’t fear what I could do to him. Even Lance doubted what I could do. Everyone pushed aside my powers but no more. Even if it killed me, I would find a way to make them all notice. I was ready to be tested.

And I would pass with flying colors.

Chapter 1

Standing My Ground

ARABELLA

The conduct and manners of women, in fact, evidently prove, that their minds are not in a healthy state…"

—A Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft

January 1839

Crowley, England

A chill, much worse than the one outside, hit me as I opened the front door to our townhouse at One Aleister Way. Ever since my stepbrother disappeared to who knows where with Tamar Bartholomew, we’d been doing without some of life’s essentials—fuel for the fire and money for food. Lance refused to take on Trevor’s former chores or find a job, and I certainly was not about to do any of it. And it wasn’t like Mother was about to lift a finger to do anything but find a man. It was her lot in life—to be a woman waiting upon a man to save her.

Only someone lacking in education would allow herself to be subjugated in such a matter. I owe my enlightenment not to Mother but to the great authoress Miss Mary Wollstonecraft. She didn’t want women to have power over men but over themselves. It’s a notion that my mother wouldn’t accept. Instead, she continued treating me like a useless waif. Disrespecting what I could do and keeping our family mired in debt and degradation. I was willing to embrace her nescient mind if it kept me from engaging in forced labor. Besides, I had the ability to keep myself warm and fed without any wasted effort.

Low voices coming from the parlor captured my attention. I walked through the frosty, dark foyer and into the dimly lit front room where I quickly froze, not from the cold but by the presence of yet another fopdoodle. This one at least had the good sense to keep his coat on—either from the frigid temperature or the knowledge that he wouldn’t be here for long.

Ah, there you are, Arabella. I’d like you to meet someone, Mother announced as she rose from a side chair. She shook out her voluminous gown—no longer the black of mourning. Instead, she sported a monstrous dress in a dusty rose taffeta with a wide neckline and enormous, puffy lace sleeves. A pelerine, a sheer white cape-collar with whitework embroidery, blanketed her thin shoulders. Apparently, Mother had someone courting her affections. If not, she drained the last of our resources just to outfit herself. Selfish.

Removing my bonnet as I walked, I took a good look at the latest in a string of suitors. Mother must have been blinded by the sun when she chose that one. He was overdue for a good meal with his gangly limbs, too long neck, and absent chin. Dull, acorn-brown eyes anchored his gaunt, pockmarked face while the pièce de résistance was the matted, reddish hair covering his diminutive head. His brain must have been the size of a pea. However did he think?

Mother smiled demurely—a hypocritical gesture even for her. Octavius Browning, this is my daughter, Arabella.

He dipped his head and grinned—pleasant enough—but when he opened his mouth I got a glimpse of the imperfect, rotting teeth inside. The pleasure is all mine.

My stomach roiled, and suddenly my only wish was to be any place other than inside that room. Trying not to show my frustration, I said, Mother, might we have a word in the kitchen?

Nonsense. You have a guest. She tilted her head toward the chesterfield and arched an eyebrow. Please, sit down—

No! I will not! I’d grown tired of that horse and carriage show Mother insisted on performing. No matter how many eligible bachelors she paraded before me, I’d never choose. Marriage wasn’t on my agenda.

Her faded blue eyes bulged as she pressed her pink lips together in a thin line. Mother wasn’t accustomed to anyone standing up to her. Her nervous gaze shot over to Mr. Browning. Please, forgive my daughter. She hasn’t quite been herself since her brother went missing.

Lying doesn’t become you, Mother. I smiled sweetly at her guest and added, I’m sorry, Mr. Browning, but I am not interested in a partnership with you. Not now and not in the future.

The stranger bobbed his head while fingering his worn top hat. Understood, Miss Bella.

I cringed as he chopped off my name.

Mr. Browning pointed to the tea cup on the low table. I am much obliged, Mrs. Cuthbert, for the tea. Your hospitality has been appreciated.

He stood, and I got a good look at his shabby, outdated clothes—the threadbare pants, a black satin vest with missing brass buttons, the scuffed Hessian boots with worn-down heels, and the too short Greatcoat. I smirked. The man had pulled a fast one on Mother. She thought she had secured a prize for me. He probably assumed he was getting a catch as well. Shame on both of them. Never underestimate a woman with an educated brain.

Mother barely waited until the door closed behind Mr. Browning before she blasted me. What has gotten into you, Arabella? That man was a decent match.

Come now, Mother. He was more a match for you than me.

She folded her arms and tapped the floor with her well-heeled shoe. What does that mean?

Takes a gold digger to know a gold digger, I said haughtily and walked toward the hall.

Where do you think you’re going? she shouted.

I glanced out the window and noticed that it was getting dark. Staying in was probably my best bet, but I had no desire to spend it in Mother’s company. It was unfortunate that Lance wasn’t home. My disheartened brother had taken to keeping late hours, stumbling home from the taverns in the wee hours like a boozy. So it was unlikely that I would see him that night. Instead of going out the door, I climbed the stairs, but staying cooped up in my room didn’t interest me either.

Tiptoeing, I made my way to Trevor’s corner room. His quarters were cramped, cold, and dimly lit—even with an oil lamp. Since his departure, the only thing occupying the space were vermin and spiders. The rest of the attic contained cobweb-covered crates and steamer trunks of unused stuff belonging to Mother and my stepfather, Bertram Cuthbert.

Without money, we couldn’t buy colza to light the lamps. Honestly, I could have simply used magick to light my way, but I didn’t want to alert my mother the bloodhound. Thankfully, I found an old tallow candle and a box of matches in Trevor’s room. I struck the match and lit the wick. A small flame giving off a tiny portion of heat appeared. It would have to do.

Outside the room, I found a trunk that appeared to be cleaner than all the rest. The lock had been opened as well. Flipping the lid up, I found a series of lift-out trays. Underneath one was a black leather tome with sigils engraved on the cover. I placed the candle beside me on the floor and huddled up against a stack of crates. Inside of the book was a page indicating that the grimoire belonged to my stepfather.

Grimoires were magickal textbooks that weren’t allowed outside of the Institute. They contained spells, instructions for using charms and amulets, and step-by-step details for invoking the dark arts. Had Trevor discovered the book? It didn’t matter because now it belonged to me.

Quickly, I turned the pages hoping to find something—anything—that would strengthen my powers. When Trevor returned from wherever he traipsed off to, I made a vow.

I don’t care what it takes, but I will get even with you.

I didn’t take it lightly. Trevor claimed to have found his powers. If I could get stronger, become more powerful, I’d make him regret ever having those abilities. Unfortunately, the spells and instructions made no sense to me. I slammed the tome shut and peered back into the trunk. Digging deeper, I found a parchment scroll.

Unrolling it, I saw it, too, was covered in runes. I was never any good at deciphering them and gave up on it when my professors said the symbology wasn’t used much anymore. How I wished I studied harder!

Arabella! Are you up there?

Gadzooks! If Mother caught me with these things, she’d take them away and I’d never see them again. I gathered up the items, closed the trunk, and doused the flame. I hurried into Trevor’s room before she reached the top stair.

I grabbed a couple of his textbooks, placed them on top of the grimoire and scroll, and walked to the door. What did you want?

Mother looked down her fine-boned nose. Why were you in Trevor’s old room?

I nodded at the stack in my arms. Just catching up on my studies.

It was a plausible prevarication since Mother could no longer pay for us to attend the Golden Dawn Academy. Lance enrolled at the local public school while I was expected to study from home. Mother felt it more of a necessity that Lance receive his diploma. Magickal females didn’t require a proper education—not in books, anyway.

It’s not like he was coming back for these things, I stated.

Very well. She patted her graying blonde hair as if it had shifted on its own. I have a gentleman caller coming this evening. I’d appreciate it—

I know, I know. I’ll stay in my room, I said as I walked toward the staircase. I had no intention of spending anytime with her.

Once I was certain that Mother was busy entertaining, I locked myself in the study. I needed help with the scroll, and I was certain that there was a dictionary on a shelf in my stepfather’s personal library. My eyes scanned the titles, all in French—Le Secret Magique, Sanctum Regnum, and L’Art Magique du Grand Grimoire. It surprised me that my Celestine stepfather owned so many references on the dark arts. Maybe it was required reading or some other nonsense.

I crouched down and found what I was looking for—L’Histoire de Crowley. The deep red book was massive in size and extremely heavy. I tipped the book out and it fell onto the floor. The cover opened and the pages rifled, turning themselves. Seconds later, they stopped on a handwritten entry.

Esther White still proves to be an issue. The Abra Guild has added her to its Murcurial Watch List. As long as she does not attempt to reach The Void, she can be contained.

What was the Watch List? Better yet, how could I find out more about Esther White? If she was a Murcurial, she might be able to translate the scroll or even help me unravel Stepfather’s grimoire.

Mother’s cackling reached my ear. It would be a while before her guest departed for the night. I closed up the history book, walked over to the window seat, and tucked Stepfather’s grimoire and scroll beneath the cushion. Despite not wanting Mother to know where I was, I had no intention of freezing all night. I waved a hand in the direction of the wrought iron hearth and concentrated. Soon, warm, glowing embers filled the firebox.

In the morning, I’d venture to Abra Guild Hall and see if I could learn more about Esther White and the Watch List. Until then, I shut my eyes and gave into slumber.

Chapter 2

Revelations

ARABELLA

But not content with this natural pre-eminence, men endeavor to sink us still lower, merely to render us alluring objects for a moment…

—A Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft

The offices of the Abra Guild were housed in the largest building in Crowley. It was an extravagant medieval-styled structure with flying buttresses, enormous rose windows, twin towers, pointed arches, and even a spire. On its rooftop were a series of ghastly gargoyles who protected not only the structure but the entire town. Although most businesses were covered in layers of soot and grime, somehow the Abra Guild managed to keep a pristine exterior.

Most residents never saw the inside of the Guild. Only those certified to practice magick—think men—were allowed within its hallowed halls. Spelltwisters with municipal or court affairs could enter the building with a special permit. Once the matter was solved, the permission was rescinded before the person even crossed the threshold.

Someone who wasn’t enrolled in the Golden Dawn Academy—like myself—had no right to enter the structure. However, there was a way but if I were caught, I’d be in a world of trouble. Behind the ostentatious building was a smaller, plain one which housed a four-story library. Students could access the circular reading room on the ground floor. Only advanced scholars and select dignitaries had unlimited access to all parts of the library.

What I was after was kept in the basement. Getting inside the Master Registry required a little ingenuity along with a bit of magick. Casting a spell from inside the building would possibly go unnoticed. Members of the Guild would only assume that it came from a practitioner who had the right to be there.

Ducking behind one of the oversized statues gracing the lawn, I concentrated on the image of one of my instructors—Mr. Oppenheim. He taught metaphysical science, and no one questioned where the elderly man went. After a few minutes, I checked my new appearance in a window—unassuming height, gaunt physique, graying hair and mustache, threadbare suit jacket. Perfect.

No one paid me any attention as I stepped from behind the sculpture and headed for the main entrance. As I pushed open the door, all I received were a few quick greetings from the men hurrying through the lobby.

Professor Oppenheim, started one of the librarians, glancing up from a desk. I didn’t expect you today. Are you here about a class trip?

No, no, I cleared my throat and deepened my voice. I’m doing research. A little Crowley history lesson.

The rotund woman gave me a curious stare. Are you feeling all right, Professor?

I waved my hand as if I were swatting dust motes. Nothing serious. Just choking on a bit of the bad air.

There’s a lot of that I’m afraid along with consumption. Be sure to take care of yourself. She smiled. As far as what you’re looking for… You’ll find all the history materials in the basement. Check the cells on the far left of the room. If you need any help, just stop by the main desk. Any librarian can assist you.

I nodded and walked toward the stairs. So far, so good.

It was early enough in the day making the library fairly quiet. No one stopped me as I walked down the narrow hall leading to the Chamber of Annals. With my hand on the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Thankfully, nobody had followed me, and my entry into the tiny room was unobserved.

Rows and rows of card catalogs housed the individual records for each and every magickal being in Crowley. Inside each file were details for the type of Spelltwister—whether Celestine or Murcurial—along with a last known address. Updates to the information were done as needed with a little enchantment.

The cabinet containing Esther White’s record