Shadow Witch: A Slow Burn Paranormal Witch Romance

By Veronica Shade and Rebecca Hamilton

So…Verika’s parents run a Voodoo Academy. When, exactly, were they planning on telling her? Apparently not until she almost kills half her school.

When Verika’s shadow magic nearly takes out the cast of her school play, her parents send her to a voodoo academy they run in New Orlean’s mirror world to get her powers under control.

It’s there, at Académie de Marie Laveau, that Verika learns the hot man from her dreams isn’t just a figment of her imagination…but the most feared student ever to walk the academy’s halls.

So when things start to go missing from her teachers’ classrooms, and it appears someone is aiming to pin it on Mr. Dark and Dreamy himself, Verika knows no one is going to step in to save him.

No one but Verika, anyway.

Except, Tobias isn’t looking for a hero, and Verika’s not cut out to be a detective. Considering she’s been shadow walking in her sleep and can’t account for her own whereabouts after the lights go out, it seems she’s better suited as a suspect instead.

Fans of the Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead and the Harley Merlin series from Bella Forrest will love this new adult, slow-burn paranormal academy romance from Veronica Shade.

Scroll up and one-click to see if Verika can find a way to make life at Voodoo Academy work…all while dealing with bullies, would-be boyfriends, and worse…herself.

Voodoo Academy is a spin-off series of Academy of the Damned but can still be enjoyed by readers who haven’t read Academy of the Damned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evershade Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781949112511

Veronica Shade

Veronica Shade writes fast-paced young adult and new adult paranormal romance reads. When she's not busy writing about snarky heroines and darkly dreaming vampires, she spends her time binge-watching Game of Thrones and reruns of Firefly, playing with her cats, or gaming. Veronica’s love for writing comes second only to her love of reading. If you like her books, she recommends you also check out Bella Forrest, Kiera Cass, and Cassandra Clare. The Veronica Shade pen name is a joint-venture persona of authors Rebecca Hamilton, Heather Marie Adkins, April Canavan, Anna Applegate, and Leigh Anderson.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I’ll admit right now: I’m not always right. In fact, I’m almost never right. But there’s one thing I know for certain at this exact moment.

I’m definitely, absolutely not supposed to be here.

But I can’t help but be drawn to this place. To the smoke in the air, to the thrumming baseline that keeps in perfect time with my pulse, while the beat might as well be thudding the words, Your parents are gonna kill you.

And then maybe resurrect me again.

I giggle to myself. Resurrect me? Where did that idea come from?

The club is darker than pitch, and the swirling mass of the crowd bumps and grinds against me. They push, they pull. I ricochet from one twisting body to another, absorbing their energy.

Literally.

The dimly lit bar somewhere in the French Quarter smells of sweat and bourbon and just a hint of blood. Surely a fistfight has spilled out onto the street. But no one bats an eye at a little blood. Not here.

Despite all of this, my attention is focused on the stranger in front of me. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with an embrace I could lose myself inside for weeks. Talk about arm porn. His skin is dark like midnight, and his head is cleanly shaven, giving him a Vin Diesel-like appearance.

Licking my lips, I let him wrap his arms around my waist as we continue to move together in wild undulations. While it’s always hot in New Orleans, none of that heat compares to what builds between us. My body is on fire, and the lightest touch from him sends me spiraling out of control.

I don’t know him.

I don’t even know his name.

But I’ve seen him before, a glimpse here and there. Always in dreams.

He spins me around so that I have to face him as we dance. Dark eyes, fathomless as the sea and in their own way as sparkling as obsidian, regard me with an intensity that makes me sweat.

He’s a mountain of a man. Well on his way to six-and-a-half feet tall, and although I’m not short myself, I have to stand on tiptoe to reach as he leans forward to kiss me. His lips draw tantalizingly close to my own. Just a few more inches, and then he’ll be—

A knock sounds at my door hard enough to crack the wood, and I sit up in bed, gasping.

Another dream? Well, at least it was a damn good one.

What a loss, though. Not even a kiss.

A premonition, a voice seems to whisper into my mind, but I shake it away with the cobwebs of sleep. I don’t have premonitions. I don’t even have brainstorms.

I rub the side of my face with a groan and, from below, I can hear my father wrestling around with pots and pans as he works on cooking breakfast. Mother yells something to me that I’m pretty sure means I’m going to be late for school if I don’t hurry. The door muffles her voice, but not the intention behind the words.

Pure threat.

I try to blink the last vestiges of the dream from my eyes and return to reality, but it’s hard. I was so close to having that familiar stranger’s lips on mine this time. I growl, wanting more.

This dream, along with the few I’ve had before, disappears in my mind like sand through an hourglass and I’m left with nothing except an ache in my chest and a deadline to prepare for school. Or else.

Too bad, though; I’m going to miss that hottie.

I could’ve done with a little birthday kiss, even if it’d been a dream one.

Yeah, school beckons, but first I hop out of bed and head into the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth and trying to wake up like it’s my job.

Because it is.

I stare at my reflection, at my fine cheekbones and the long black hair framing dark skin and wide, eager eyes. Not the best but not unattractive.

Even though my skin’s darker, I think I take after my mother, at least in the face. She always has a curious twinkle in her eyes and a look that says she’s scheming. Well, not scheming as much as thinking deeply. Sometimes I get the look too, a cunning, where I’m always trying to find the right angle or understand someone else’s.

I didn’t get her curls, though. Pity.

Not too bad, I think again with a small smile. My mom always made me look into the mirror as a kid when I was getting ready and say affirmations, and it kind of stuck. I am smart. Biracial is beautiful. I am kind. I am strong, independent, and confident.

I am grateful for my journey and its lessons.

Hmm, where’d that last one come from? I’ve never told myself that before.

I shrug, then rinse out my mouth and spit into the sink. It will have to be enough.

Do I have time for a shower, or am I super late this morning? I glance around the corner into the bedroom and crane my neck to see the clock.

A quick one.

It doesn’t seem to matter how late I sleep these days. Exhaustion is my constant companion. Any time I have those dark dreams, I wake up extra tired. It’s like the dreams are taking more from me than they’re giving...but what can I do?

As I debate, something odd catches my eye.

It’s a hint of shadow as I move, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about the shadow...

I know where the angle of the sun is, since it streams from the window right beside my mirror and sink every day. This shadow, though...my shadow...isn’t facing the way it should be.

I stop cold, and something inside of me goes numb.

Instead of angling behind me and stretching all the way out diagonally toward the bathtub, this shadow is bent laterally at a ninety-degree angle to my left. It’s… I…

My stomach drops, blood running cold at the sight. Not possible. So not possible.

I rub my eyes to get them to clear. I must be exhausted; it’s the only thing that makes sense.

When I open my eyes, my shadow is back to normal.

See?

I tap my cheeks a little rougher than necessary to snap out of whatever funk I’m in.

This is what happens when I don’t sleep. Or, more accurately, when I sleep and dream of sexy men instead of getting any actual rest. It’s gotta be that, because anything else is impossible.

There’s nothing wrong with my shadow; there’s nothing wrong with my shadow. Nothing is wrong…

I ignore the sick feeling in my gut and cycle through my mantra several thousand more times as I shower.

Over the last few months, I have grown extremely talented at ignoring weird shit. I think my deliberate ignorance is an important life skill. Because either I’m going a little bit looney tunes, completely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, or something odd is happening to me.

Something I can’t think about or reason with right now.

I don’t want it to be the latter, so ignoring all the strangeness is the best I can do, and I do it well.

Score one for me!

I hurry up and get my hair dried, then set a land-speed record dressing for school. Once I’m presentable, I rush down the stairs like a bat out of hell. My mom yells at me to hurry.

Verika!

I’m coming! I screech out in equal volume. The woman taught me well.

Noise and heat flow through the open kitchen windows. I stumble into the room, feeling awful as I grab the nearest banana off the table and shove it in my backpack.

My suspicions are correct, and my father has made one hell of a birthday breakfast for me—a birthday breakfast I don’t have time to eat.

I’m a high school senior, and this is my eighteenth birthday. I should be happy.

Soon, I’ll be off to college. Just don’t ask where, because I’m anxiously waiting for the envelopes to return from a few schools around New Orleans, and so far...nothing.

Seems like the more I want news, the slower it comes, so I try not to think about where I’ll be in the next few months.

Just not here. I know that much.

However, looking at the crepes and quiches all set before me, the fresh fruit and yogurt and bacon, I wish I could stop and eat with my mom and dad. There won’t be many more chances like this when I finally bolt from the nest.

My father looks at me and beams. "Happy birthday, ma chérie."

His grin is so bright that I should wear shades to look at him. Tall and muscular, he might be in his forties, but he still looks closer to twenty. Tribal tattoos stand out across his forehead, and when he speaks, his French accent colors his words.

Why don’t you stop and have a breakfast fit for the princess you are? he asks. You deserve to start your birthday on the right note. Not just cram a banana on your walk.

My mother nods from beside him, a stark contrast to him in both appearance and personality. But they always tell me I got the best of both of them.

While my father is long-legged and dark and I tend to favor him in terms of physicality, my mother is short and bright-eyed, her brown hair often kept in long, wavy curls. Mom has more energy than your average tornado. She’s a force to be reckoned with and definitely the one in charge of the house.

This is her domain, and Dad knows it.

Today, the longer she looks at me, the lower her smile droops until, finally, it’s a full fledged frown. She seems a bit duller than usual, those bright eyes somewhat sad.

Are you all right? she asks.

I nod. Yeah, of course. I’m just late.

"For once, you’re allowed to be late, Dad says cheekily. I know I shouldn’t say this as your father, but you have perfect attendance. And you’re such a great daughter. Couldn’t senioritis happen just this once?"

Laurent! Mom exclaims.

He shrugs. What, Julieta? It’s true.

True and tempting.

I mean, my father has made my favorite type of crepe. I’m practically panting over it. They’re the strawberry ones piled high with fresh whipped cream and berries and everything else a girl can dream of.

Besides, I kind of like the idea of starting the celebrations early and opening my presents now...

I shoot Dad a smile. As far as parents go, mine are pretty cool. But after a dream like last night’s and a morning with a shadow that just isn’t right, I’m not sure I should stay. Talk over breakfast will most certainly derail into how I slept last night, and I’m not a good liar. Kind of wish I was right now.

We’ve always been honest with each other in this family, and I have no talent for bullshitting.

Sighing, I pull my backpack closer over my shoulder and shake my head. My stomach and taste buds hate me right now. Guys, I would any other day, but I have this test I’m prepping for, and I promised Aurore I’d help her...

"Bebe," Dad complains.

I can’t tell if they know what I’m saying is a lie or at least that it’s kind of flimsy, but both look at me with disappointment.

Technically, there is a test coming up in Calculus, and I did promise my bestie I would help her with it. But the test is not till Friday. Still, I hope they understand.

It’s the shadow thing.

Because it’s happened more than once in the past few days, and…I’m afraid to have my parents see that something is happening to me. That something is wrong with me. Better to run and avoid it happening again with them both around.

I’d be much safer having dinner with them tonight. Less light, less shadows.

That’s my bright idea and the only reason why I’d bolt on a badass breakfast like this one.

Tonight, after the play, we will have the biggest birthday bash ever, I say to appease them. Well, not exactly big, because it’s going to be the three of us, but you know what I mean. Love you so much! Bye!

I leave fast—before they have a chance to question me further—so I run down the hall and let the door slam shut behind me as I rush to the car since I’m now too late to walk to school.

The fact is, when it comes to what’s going on with me, they won’t understand the questions, and I probably won’t like their answers.

CHAPTER 2

Today, as I walk down the hallway and outdoors into the crushing heat with my best friend, I know I’m tempting fate by asking her about her dreams.

Only because it’s her, though. And anyone who knows her might tell me to bite my tongue, but I’m not exactly known for making the best decisions.

We grab a seat at the lunch table outside under the shade of a weeping willow, one of the few blessings in the heat on this New Orleans day. I have a pudding pack in hand to go with my banana, and I push the chocolate around with my spoon, as if the motion will help me understand the mysteries of the universe.

Yeah, right.

Do you ever have weird dreams, Ror? I ask finally, squinting over at her.

Aurore Sanchez has been my bestie for ages, tall like me though we contrast each other from there. She has a willowy, lithe build with golden skin, and would look at home on any runway in New York or Milan. Like, sign her up, and she’d be good to go.

Aurore fiddles with the hoops of her earrings and shakes her head, her sleek, dark ponytail swishing behind her slender shoulders. Weird dreams?

Then she dives into a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

The girl can eat six bags of those suckers in a day, I swear, and never gain any weight. Meanwhile, I have a bit more junk in the trunk; another gift from Mom, even though most of my classmates would assume it’s from my dad’s side of the family.

I like to think of it as that Kardashian swagger.

Like…what kind of dreams? she asks through the crunch.

I shrug. I don’t know. Just…strange. Off.

Beyond the booty, Aurore and I still make an interesting case in opposites attract. It’s not just our builds. I’m quiet, but if you force me, I’ll clap back in a heartbeat, whereas Aurore always lets you know what’s on her mind.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the principal, the most popular girl in school, or the entire football team; if she wants you to know she’s mad at you, you’re going to know. And quick.

Her transparency is the thing I love the most about her. It’s also why I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for her to stop looking so thoughtful while chewing her Cheetos instead of actually answering me.

Thing is, a person has to really want her flavor of transparency in their life. Because if they ask if their haircut looks terrible, and it does, then bless their heart, Aurore will tell them straight away.

Sometimes, she says finally. "I mean, my abuela always said she could see things in her dreams and that, if you look closely enough, they tell you the future. I’ve never had anything like that happen to me. I swear, if I had, I’d have played the lottery by now and be living in Los Angeles. She quirks her head and stares quizzically at me before shrugging. Why?"

Lips pursed, I look up from my pudding. To tell or not to tell? She’s my best friend in the world, and if I can’t trust her with this, then who else?

Well, I keep having dreams about this guy... I drift off and then stare down at my hands, not sure how to continue with the rest of the story. I don’t know. They don’t feel like real dreams. They feel so real.

It seems almost stupid now.

A guy? Aurore’s eyes go wide, and she perks right up. Oooh, now you have to tell me everything. What kind of dreams are we talking about?

I swear her eyebrows are waggling.

Even now, I can’t force myself to make eye contact, because it feels stupid to get this worked up over something that isn’t real. Nothing intense has happened anyway. I mean, at least on paper, they wouldn’t look intense.

So what? I’ve danced at a club with a dream man. A dream man who I know deep down can’t possibly be anything other than my imagination because he’s too pretty.

We haven’t even gotten to kiss...in the dream, I mean. Yeah, we were close last night, and if the dreams progress from there, I’m not going to say no to anything. But I don’t exactly want to tell Aurore that.

Am I a dream pervert? I open my mouth to tell her but then zip my lips.

Nothing gets past Aurore. She focuses on me, and the glee sharpens in her eyes for a moment before dimming. "Verika, we’ve been friends forever. I’m eager to hear about your dream, and even if you’re embarrassed, you can still tell me. If it’s about a hot guy, then I hope it’s a psychic dream because, damn, you can use the break, chica."

She’s right. I have the absolute worst luck with boys. They like to run in the opposite direction when they see me coming.

At last, I look her in the eyes. "Yeah, there’s this guy in my dreams, and he is gorgeous, girl. We always seem to be in this same club, and it’s one I’ve never been to in the city. Somehow I know we’re still in New Orleans."

I pause, worrying my spoon between my fingers. But other dreams never feel this vivid. Like, I can actually smell the air and feel the other bodies dancing with me. I only wish this one didn’t leave me less rested than before I go to bed. I swear, I’ve got world class insomnia going on from these dreams.

Aurore makes a face. If he’s as fine as you say he is, then at least he’s something good to lose sleep over.

It’s so like her to focus on the hot guy and not the rest of the story.

I roll my eyes and toss one of her hot Cheetos at her. I’m going crazy without any sleep!

But what a way to go, she says dreamily. "Tell me more about him. Please!"

I glare at her and shove pudding in my mouth to deny her of any information.

Aurore sets her hand on my elbow to get my attention, and this time, her words are genuine. Honestly, Ver, we all have weird dreams sometimes. I have one about having to solve a trigonometry equation on a whiteboard, and I’m up there wearing nothing but my underwear. It’s awful! At least yours are sexy. It’s not like you have anything else going on, right?

I swallow hard, and since I’m already talking part of my weird stuff over with her, I end up going for the gold. The real psychotic gold. Does your shadow ever do anything weird?

Ummmm, no? Aurore’s head is so tilted to the side now that I swear it’s like being stared at by a bird of prey. Nothing escapes her. Define ‘weird?’

Nothing, I say, shaking my head. It’s dumb. It has to be the lack of sleep last night. Mine just looked like it was at a crazy angle this morning. It’s no big deal.

"It’s definitely the lack of sleep, dude. You’re starting to see stuff, or it feels like it’s all kinds of off because you’re tired. You get some rest, tell your literal dream guy to give you a couple days to relax, and then be ready to help your bestie with math, because I do not want to repeat senior year. She pokes me in the leg. Help meeee."

I laugh at her pleading tone, deciding to try and push the bizarre parts of my life aside to focus on normalcy. I hold up one of her fallen Cheetos, waiting for her to toast with me. We clink the corn snacks together, and I chuckle. You’re going to pass, Miss Sanchez. I wouldn’t leave my BFF behind.

I decide against going any further. No good would come from telling her how my shadow seemed to be operating on its own recently.

The tech booth at the high school is my home away from home because, hey, nerd alert.

I don’t have the type of musical talent I’d love to have, as in, nothing good enough to be a lead in any play. Ever. Still, I’ve always loved working with the lights, the soundboard, and everything behind the scenes to make a play succeed. And I’m pretty good!

This year is gonna be a working birthday.

The annual spring play is Pippin, and I’m the head lighting technician. Another difference between me and my bestie: Aurore operates best in the spotlight, while I’m her behind-the-scenes wingman. Wing-woman?

We’re just coming back from intermission, and Aurore has given one hell of a solo to close out the first act.

Between being a techie and supportive of my actually talented best friend, one can totally call me a theater geek.

Or at least theater geek adjacent.

The muffled hush of the booth is a stark contrast to the merry chatting of the auditorium below. My hands relax on my lap, pliant. Comfortable.

My domain.

I raise the stage lights, poised for the music to begin.

With the new song, Pippin takes the stage, dancing with a host of young ladies. I know all my cues for this scene, so I try to relax and roll a little tension out of my shoulders. It’s frickin’ hot in the light box, and I tie my hair at the top of my head in a messy bun.

I’m still edgy from lack of sleep and the suspicious looks my parents gave me when I skipped out on breakfast. But I’m managing.

I push a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a small smile pulling at my lips. Hardly noticing how the shadows in the booth grow darker around me. The moment it comes to my attention, the smile drops into a frown, almost an exact mirror of my mother’s this morning.

Shit, did a light go out on stage? I mutter to myself.

Panic sets in as I struggle to figure out what’s wrong. Or what I missed.

But a check of the controls shows everything in working order. The lights are all still working. The booth, however…it’s midnight dark.

I shake off the sensation and push the house lights lower. Movement at the corner of my eyes has me jerking around, seeing nothing. Bending forward, I search the rest of the booth, because there’s a possibility I just see some cords dangling. Swaying in some kind of breeze as the AC kicks in.

It’s still super creepy, and I press a hand against the squirming in my stomach. Something isn’t right here, clearly. I’m wigging out!

The song grows in volume, and I crane my head toward the computer, checking what cues I’ll need for the next scene. And I catch the movement again, from the corner of my eye.

Whipping around, I expect to see those cords moving, but there’s nothing. It’s—

My shadow, I whisper.

Moving. Growing, crawling up the dark wall…

I go absolutely still, afraid to move.

This is worse. Way worse.

My shadow is billowing. It’s shifting and changing form, crowding the entirety of the booth.

My lower jaw drops. Good thing I’m the only one up here, so no one has to see me freaking out about what’s probably just a hallucination.

But hallucination or not, I’m struck by fear, and my blood runs cold. I blink, trying to clear my eyes, because this is crazy.

Nope. My shadow is still taking on a life of its own. Still growing and now it’s...it’s...looking at me?

No clue at all what I would do if someone else were here to witness this, too. I’m afraid to look away. Blinking doesn’t make my shadow go back to normal. If anything, it gets larger, growing like a cancer. Then it starts to reach out toward me.

Oh, crapballs!

Terrified, I rush out the door, and the shadow follows me. I don’t know what else to do, so I keep running from the booth and down the aisle toward the auditorium exits.

Glancing over my shoulder, I catch my shadow in hot pursuit. I pump my arms to gain a little speed, a little distance, and I honestly don’t know how no one else sees this mess.

Then again, the audience lights are low, and every eye in the house is still glued to the big musical number on stage. No one even notices me.

I make a wild turn to the right, desperate to get to the door before my own shadow catches up with me. I burst through the doors and slam them behind me, then lean against them and let the air condition-cooled metal seep through my cotton t-shirt to my skin underneath.

Drawing in a deep breath, I struggle to calm my fears. There’s nothing wrong with my shadow; there’s nothing wrong with my shadow. Nothing is wrong…

Yeah, right. My mantra isn’t working tonight because I know what I saw.

Looking around the well-lit but empty hall, I see I currently have no shadow. Like, at all. Well, um, as long as I’m not being chased, then I can cope. I think.

I let out a deep breath and try to get my muscles to relax and unclench. The adrenaline leaves me feeling limp. My pulse is still racing a mile a minute.

For now, it’s over.

For now, I’ve at least outrun the pursuing shade slash figment of my imagination.

Except…I haven’t exactly.

Because as I try to relax, screams shatter the silence. The music screeches to a halt, and a stampede of