Charmed by the Salem Witch: A Witch Romance (Appalachian Magic Series Book 3) Read online

  Color flooded her pale cheeks, but she didn’t push him away.

  He had to kiss those lips, if she was willing. Slowly, he leaned into Sarah, giving her plenty of opportunity to turn aside. When she didn’t stiffen, he pecked her chastely on the mouth. “Goodnight,” he whispered.

  Her hands suddenly cupped his face. “I want a real kiss,” she said, her voice soft and breathless.

  Her lips were on his, searing and searching. A fever consumed him.

  Abruptly, she pulled away and opened the passenger door. A cool wind drifted in, bringing him back to his senses. A mere kiss had never packed such an oomph before, had never turned him on so quickly.

  As Tanner blinked, Sarah rubbed her scarlet neck and slipped out of the truck, putting distance between them. “Sorry, I—I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I’ve never . . . forget it. See you tomorrow.” She waved absently and shut the door.

  He scrambled out of the truck. “Wait,” he called, “you forgot your bike.” Quickly, he unloaded it, and she took it from his hands with an embarrassed whisper of thanks. Tanner watched as she parked her bike and entered the grand building, making sure she got safely inside.

  The shy, proper girl from the library was full of surprises.

  Salem just got a lot more interesting.

  2

  Sarah tightly cinched the robe at her waist and sat on the bed. She laid the feather on the pastel bedspread and stared at it, creepiness tingling the nape of her neck. Who did it belong to? Not that she’d return the feather, even if she discovered the owner’s identity. Binding spells were taboo, only to be cast as a last resort against evil.

  But it didn’t feel right to just throw it in the trash, either. Maybe if she burned it, the bound person would be set free. But if she did that, she might unleash a power worthy of being bound. She wished she’d never seen it. Tanner would have thrown it away, and then she wouldn’t be worrying over the right thing to do.

  The grimoire might have an answer. Sarah went to the old oak desk and pulled out the top drawer where she hid the book from plain view of the other students and the RA.

  It wasn’t there.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Where could it have gone? She opened the second drawer, and then the bottom one. Nothing. Her heart began to pound so loud that she heard blood roaring in her ears. Frantically, she went through the textbooks stacked on top of the desk, and then her hands gripped familiar, worn leather.

  Relief washed through her body as she hugged the spell book close to her chest. If anything had happened to it . . . well, it would be an irreplaceable loss. It was the only connection to the mother she’d never known and her most cherished possession. Sarah sat back down on the bed and reverently turned the yellowed, handwritten pages. It appeared undamaged. She must have been careless when she’d returned to the dorm from her last class and ditched her books before heading to the library.

  No. I’m always careful. Always.

  Sarah tapped a finger on her lips. This wasn’t the first time something of hers had been misplaced. Nothing major, nothing sinister. A piece of costume jewelry or a scarf would go missing, only to appear days later in a slightly different location. She figured one of the other girls in the dorm had decided to help herself to some trinket she took a liking to and wanted to borrow. It wasn’t stealing if the items were returned.

  She had to be mistaken. There was no reason for anyone to come into her room and go through her stuff. If they’d wanted to steal something, hers was the last room they’d search. She was the proverbial church mouse among these rich girls who’d been raised with every advantage she’d been denied.

  Shaking her head, Sarah returned her attention to the grimoire. Her mother’s spells were mainly blessings, but there were a few that dealt with practical magic and how to protect one’s self from evil. She knew most of the spells by heart but scanned them quickly to see if she had overlooked anything.

  Nothing. She started to close the book but hesitated. With a prick of awareness, she flipped back to the inside cover, where her mother had written a blessing for her and taped a lock of her fine, black baby hair.

  The tape had been lifted, and the strand appeared thinner.

  She gulped, trying to quiet her growing unease. There was a rational explanation, of course. That tape was almost twenty years old, and the adhesive had broken down, letting a few hairs slip out. Yes, that made sense. That ridiculous feather had put her on edge.

  Tanner said he’d found it on the floor of the library steps. Tomorrow, she would return it to the same place. This wasn’t her business, and she wouldn’t take responsibility for either releasing a bound evil or drawing the wrath of a nasty witch. Most likely, it was created by one of the many dabblers at WCS. Someone who had no power and no business trifling with a person’s soul. As such, the feather was worthless.

  Sarah tucked the feather into a zippered wallet and dropped it in her purse.

  High-pitched laughter and giggles drifted from the end of the hallway, and her heart pinched. She’d always been an outcast. The new girl at every elementary, junior, and senior high school as she’d been switched from one foster home to another. A more outgoing girl could have adjusted, but she’d been shy and reluctant to get close to anyone. Her fault.

  The scholarship to WCS had been the most exciting event of her life. Here, she’d hoped to meet like-minded women of magic and develop the sort of deep friendships she’d always craved. But that hadn’t happened—not yet, anyway. Her reserved nature was too deeply ingrained, and she had no clue how to approach other girls and loosen up.

  But then there was Tanner.

  The cute guy with the slow southern drawl. The one whose smile had warmed a lonely place deep inside. She blushed, remembering her eagerness in the kiss. Sarah drew her knees to her chest and dropped her head, grinning like a loon. That electric kiss was unexpected. He was unexpected. Had appeared out of the blue like a gift from the gods.

  The chattering from the hallway grew louder until it was right outside her closed door. She recognized the voices as belonging to the group that always hung out together, all orbiting the red-haired Bridget like satellite moons. All four of them were in her Special Studies class, History of Witchcraft.

  A sudden silence descended, broken by a sharp rap at the door.

  Sarah jumped as if a firecracker had exploded. They’d never spoken to her before, other than a perfunctory nod or hello in passing. “Come in,” she called, uncertain.

  Bridget spilled into the room, filling it with her strong personality. “Hey, Sarah. What’re you up to tonight? Why are you in pajamas? It’s way too early for bed.” Uninvited, she flopped onto the mattress beside Sarah, and her three ghosts drifted in, hovering near the doorway.

  Sarah didn’t protest the invasion. “I already had a bath and thought I’d read for a couple of hours.”

  “Bo-ring!” Bridget laughed.

  Priscilla guffawed, and Sarah inwardly winced for Pris, the awkward girl who acted pathetically grateful the others let her tag along.

  “Is that all you ever do? Read and study?” Rebecca patted her long, platinum hair and strode to the mirror. She pulled a tube of baby-pink lip gloss from her purse and swiped it over her full lips—lips so full that Sarah suspected she’d already fallen into the plastic surgery enhancements camp. Her boobs were also suspiciously full and perky. Sarah wrapped her robe more securely over her own body, which suddenly felt too thin and boyish.

  Priscilla followed Rebecca to the mirror and powdered her long, horsey face. “For Goddess’s sake, Pris,” Rebecca said with a huff, “you need to start contouring instead of just swiping that shit all over. And do something with that frizzy hair.”

  Priscilla reddened but managed a thin laugh, patting down her potato-peel locks as best she could.

  What a bitch. If this was how girlfriends treated each other, she was better off alone. Scratch that. Being alone and left out sucked.

  Bridget sp
rawled across the bed as if she planned to stay all night. “Hey, what’s this?” she asked, picking up the grimoire.

  Sarah snatched it out of her hands. That was a private memento from her dead mother, and she shared it with no one. Ever. “Nothing, just an old book. I’ll get it out of your way.” With practiced casualty, she gathered it up, along with her wallet and a few scattered papers, setting everything inside the drawer of her nightstand as if she were merely tidying up.

  “What’s the old book about?”

  Sarah turned to Ann, who leaned against the doorframe, almost forgotten. Ann was the quietest of the bunch, the one who spoke the least in class. Her eyes were not unkind, and on the rare instances when she smiled—like now—her somewhat plain face transformed to a vague beauty. The smile was her best feature, as her hair was a dull brown, her skin too pale, and her lips small and nondescript.

  “I love antique books,” Ann continued. “Have you ever visited the rare book room at the library?”

  “I thought it was just for professors.”

  Ann edged in a little closer. “No, you can go in if you have a note from a professor saying you need access for research.”

  “Bor-ing,” Bridget pronounced with an exaggerated yawn.

  Sarah smiled at Ann. She could be friends with someone like her, even with Priscilla. But Rebecca and Bridget could kiss her ass.

  “What kind of books do they have—” Sarah broke off as Rebecca, having finished her perennial grooming, walked straight to the nightstand and opened the drawer. “Hey, what do you think—”

  “Look what we got here.” Rebecca held up the grimoire and read the cover script. “Spells and Blessings.”

  Sarah jumped up and grabbed it from Rebecca, holding it close to her chest. Anger flushed her skin and quickened her breath. “I can’t believe you did that. This book is . . . private.”

  “Lighten up,” Bridget said with a sneer. “It’s not like we haven’t seen a grimoire before. Now we know you’re one of us.”

  That wasn’t especially cheering news. She’d learned over the years to hide the strange dreams and the shiver of electricity she sensed when magic was nearby. It had been strong with Tanner, but then again, it could have been her raging hormones. Hard to tell. She’d never been so drawn to a man, so instantly caught up in a mere kiss.

  They stared at her intently, no doubt waiting to see if she denied or admitted the truth, and Sarah nibbled the inside of her mouth. She’d come to WCS for this reason, to meet others like her, to explore what it all meant. “I’ve dabbled,” she said past the lump in her dry throat.

  “We do more than that,” Bridget boasted. “I’m the high priestess of our own coven.”

  Rebecca ran a hand down her long hair. “And I’m her assistant.”

  “Who all is in this coven?” Sarah asked.

  “I am,” Priscilla said, a tinge of pride and smugness in her voice.

  “Me, too,” Ann said quietly. “Just the four of us. We prefer small and cozy.” She sat on the bed next to Sarah and smiled. “We’d love to have you participate in a circle one night, if you’re interested. No pressure, though.”

  Too bad Ann wasn’t the high priestess. Still, it could be worth going if Ann went. Perhaps they knew a way she could understand her recurring dreams. Find a way to control them. She shot a questioning glance at Bridget. “I’d like to try your circle, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Are you free tomorrow night?” Bridget asked.

  “Sure.” She nodded, then raised a hand to her mouth. “No, wait, I have a date tomorrow. Maybe next time.”

  “You planning on spending the night with the guy?” Rebecca asked. “’Cause we don’t start until after midnight.”

  “No. It’s a first date.”

  “Who with?” Priscilla asked, a wistful look shadowing her plain brown eyes. “I haven’t been on a date in months. Tough finding a guy in an all-girls college.”

  “His name’s Tanner Adams. He’s a tech in the IT department.”

  “I know who he is,” Rebecca cut in. “I’ve seen him around campus wearing a name badge. Cute, but a cripple. Probably doesn’t have much money, either.”

  Sarah frowned at Rebecca. “He’s not crippled, he just has a bad knee. And as far as him not having money, he couldn’t be any poorer than me.”

  “Whatever.” Rebecca shrugged. “Guess someone like that will do until a better prospect comes along.”

  Bridget poked her in the side and winked, emphasizing her heavy-coated mascara. “Don’t do anything on a date I wouldn’t do—which means you can pretty much screw your brains out.”

  They all broke into a raucous laugh, except for Ann, who only shook her head in amusement.

  Permission or not, Sarah had no intention of screwing anyone. No matter how hot Tanner was, sex on a first date was a no-no.

  Ann stood. “It’s getting late. Let’s leave Sarah in peace.” She gave her a tiny wave. “Until tomorrow night.”

  Bridget trounced off the bed, her charms and crystals clinking. “Later, gator.”

  The others filed out until only Ann stood at the doorway. “It’ll be fun,” she said with a reassuring wink. “We’ll knock on your door tomorrow when it’s time.”

  The door shut, and Sarah relaxed against the pillows, enjoying the warm glow inside her stomach. She’d actually been invited to a coven meeting. Even though Rebecca was a pain, and Bridget a little bossy, the other girls were fairly nice, especially Ann. Real friends were a part of the experience she’d longed for ever since applying to WCS. What a bust high school had been—six schools in four years, always the new girl, and, even worse, always the stigma of foster girl.

  First, a cute guy had asked her for a date, and then she’d had unexpected offers of friendship. A momentous day. Sarah scrambled off the bed and went to her closet. From underneath a jumble of boxes, she pulled out a leather-bound journal. She’d saved money from her summer job at the Purple Onion deli and splurged on the journal with its cream-colored pages delicately etched in patterns of wildflowers. So pretty, it was almost a shame to write in it.

  She glanced over the latest entries, mostly peppered with disturbing dreams or laments of loneliness. Nice to have good news. This was how she’d envisioned her college years. She scribbled away until her eyes grew heavy and her penmanship degenerated into an almost eligible scrawl.

  Maybe tonight would offer good dreams.

  She gathered her journal, and after a moment’s deliberation, the grimoire, then stuffed them both in her closet hideaway. No one had ever bothered her journal, so perhaps the spell book would be safe there as well. Her feet padded across the cold pine flooring as she rushed back to the bed. Turning off the light, she huddled under the down comforter, her haven against the chilly darkness of the night.

  A growing heat, and the haven of her snuggly bed vanished. She cowered inside a miserable hovel. A prison, more precisely, the Witch Dungeon. An old-fashioned jail with iron bars, no windows, and straw on a concrete floor. In the room, over a hundred women of all ages huddled in misery. Sweat trickled down their faces and necks, staining their dirty chemises and long brown dresses. A few were starving, their faces gaunt and wrinkled with suffering.

  She was of one of them, and yet . . . not. Her misery ran deeper, her shame as scarlet as the setting Salem sun in July.

  Sarah strained to understand the recurring nightmare, even as she became one with it. Somehow, she was responsible for the imprisoned unfortunates, which made no sense.

  A jailer, filthier than the unwashed women, approached with a heavy set of skeleton keys, which he rattled ominously. Most of the incarcerated looked terrified, although there were a few hopeful faces. No doubt, the hopeful were the most fortunate ones. They had family to pay for their meals and to send fresh clothes. Always, they were on the lookout for their next provision.

  No family, no food.

  “Your turn to face the judge, Elizabeth Howe,” he announced.

 
; All eyes turned to one of the middle-aged women—late fifties, Sarah guessed, judging by her lined face. Her eyes looked ancient with the weight of fear and dread. Her mouth parted, forming an O of horror. She kicked out thin legs, scrambling backward like a crab on the matted floor that stunk of urine and rotted food.

  “Nooooo,” she moaned. “No, no, no, no.”

  Another man appeared at the cell door with a white cloth draped around his neck. His clean suit of clothes and eyeglasses pegged him as important, special. A Bible was open in his hands. His deep, clear voice echoed in the chamber and hallway: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus 22:18.” He turned a page, never sparing a glance at the condemned women. “A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them. Leviticus 20:27.”

  The dungeon door creaked open, and two unkempt jailers entered, roughly pulling the unfortunate Elizabeth to her feet. Her white cap fell from her head, and a cascade of silver hair tumbled down her shoulders.

  Sarah tossed in bed, caught between now and then. In the way of dreams, she was suddenly transported inside a courtroom stuffed with people in Puritan attire. Elizabeth lay prostrate on the floor before the judge, a white-wigged old man with chilly blue eyes.

  “Guilty,” he proclaimed. The crowd tittered, and a few clapped. “Get off the floor,” the judge ordered. “You’ve been accused and found guilty of witchcraft.” He motioned to a heavy-set man at the back of the room. “Take her outside for execution. Death by hanging.”

  The crowd murmured in apparent approval and rushed outside for the latest coming attraction. Elizabeth appeared to be in a stupor as she was roughly placed into a wooden cart for transport to the Witches Hill for hanging. A young boy, perhaps six or seven years old, picked up a rock and flung it at her, a vicious throw that connected with her left eye.