Warrior Witch: Book Two Read online

  WARRIOR WITCH

  BOOK TWO

  S.L. PRATER

  Copyright © 2021 Stephanie L. Prater

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798749427332

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: 100 Covers

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Jessica, my sister, my first best friend

  Contents

  WARRIOR WITCH

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Warning

  Chapter 1 (Jack)

  Chapter 2 (Marnie)

  Chapter 3 (Jack)

  Chapter 4 (Marnie)

  Chapter 5 (Jack)

  Chapter 6 (Marnie)

  Chapter 7 (Jack)

  Chapter 8 (Marnie)

  Chapter 9 (Jack)

  Chapter 10 (Marnie)

  Chapter 11 (Jack)

  Chapter 12 (Marnie)

  Chapter 13 (Jack)

  Chapter 14 (Marnie)

  Chapter 15 (Jack)

  Chapter 16 (Marnie)

  Dear Reader

  Warning

  This book contains adult content, foul language, tobacco use, and some explicit sexual scenes.

  Chapter 1 (Jack)

  Jack loaded another bag onto the ferry. Briny air filled his lungs. The sun would set soon. It hovered over the horizon, flanked by fat gray clouds. Waves lapped the wharf, and smoke and steam billowed from the ship’s chimneys—The Soshua, it was called. Pistons spun and clockwork ticked as massive claw-like limbs lowered from the stern into the water, ready to steer the vessel to its destination across the Lorelean Sea.

  “Are you certain you’ve packed enough?” he teased Marnie, eyeing the small mountain of luggage. It had taken several trips up and down the slip to retrieve them all.

  “Don’t get me started,” Marnie groaned, hefting a heavy suitcase in her mechanically braced hand. “My mother insisted. Here at the capital, it’s always hot, but in Acheus, the seasons change frequently so she bought me four versions of everything for any weather.” She dropped the suitcase with the others and planted her palms on her hips, glaring at the mess. “I’m completely intimidated by it all. I’m so accustomed to being bossed around by that woman now, I’ve forgotten how to dress myself.”

  Jack looked her over. Her maroon frock was a rich velvet suited to a Sophia, showcasing the newest changes in her station, but it was not something Marnie ever would have selected on her own. This dress hugged her lean height, the bodice pushing up her full chest—an aspect of current fashion he greatly appreciated.

  She wore her chocolate hair down in loose waves, shoving strands out of her face against a wet breeze. Women were always pinning their hair up in Loreley, but Jack thought it suited Marnie best when she embraced witch customs and let it fall naturally, as untamed as she was.

  “Choosing clothing is definitely not a problem I can help you with.” He glanced down at his worn trousers and bare feet. Witch ink, unpopular in Loreley, decorated his forearms in spiraling ram’s horns. They made quite the pair, the untamed Sophia and her barefoot magician, drawing eyes everywhere they went. “Where’s Bran?”

  “We said our goodbyes last night.” Her cheeks bloomed with color. She had a soft complexion, light skin with a hint of olive. “I decided he shouldn’t come and see me off. He thought if he was here, he might board the ferry and no one would be able to talk him back into the palace.”

  Jack eyed the towering white walls of Loreley’s island capital, Loreley City, trying to imagine what it would be like to be emperor over it all. The notion had his throat tightening. He longed to make a difference for witch-kind behind those walls but preferred to do so with as little responsibility on his shoulders as possible. “Better to go to the academy with you than be stuck here, tediously ruling the empire, I suppose.”

  “Or he’d beg me to stay and put off the academy a while longer . . .” Marnie chewed her lip. Jack knew the gesture well and flicked her chin to make her stop. Her returning glare warmed his heart.

  A spider, brown and furry, crawled out of his pocket. He pinched it gently between his fingers and tucked it away with the rest of the spell ingredients stashed in a string pouch there. Jack always carried the spirit Diridge’s favored elements, like insects and antler shavings, tumors, and assorted growths, just in case. A witch never could be too careful.

  The sky darkened, warning them it was the rainy season on the island. With a crack of thunder, the clouds opened, pouring out buckets of fat droplets. Jack fetched a black umbrella from the heap of Marnie’s things. He unfolded it and gave it to her, shielding his friend—the term didn’t quite do their relationship justice—from the rain. They were witches with amiable magics, Amigtas de Magus, a bond stronger than family.

  He was going to miss the hell out of her.

  And so was the organic magic that favored him. He could feel it combining with hers, forming a pleasant humidity in the air around them. It was warm and inviting now, smooth against his skin, comforting, but after she left . . .

  Marnie touched his rough cheek; he hadn’t shaved that morning. “I shouldn’t have asked you to stay behind.”

  He scoffed. “Don’t start that up again.”

  “You should be coming with me. You’d love it at the academy.”

  “I’ll love it next year, and I’m already licensed as a house magician. It’s not a necessity.”

  “You don’t fool me. You want to come.” She tugged on his dampening shirt, welcoming him under the umbrella, out of the rain.

  He resisted. Jack needed to get off the ferry. Like Bran, he worried he might find himself a seat, and then no amount of reason would make him disembark. Marnie would understand, and that wasn’t helping matters.

  “The other witches need me here. Bran and your mother and the people at LaFontaine Manor need me. We shouldn’t both leave at the same time. We’ve made important progress in the capital. We can’t risk it slipping away. Besides, you’ll visit when you can.” Against his wishes, he felt that invisible weight he fought to avoid growing heavier on his shoulders.

  “Are you sure?” She worried her lip.

  “I’m sure we’ll all survive without the great ‘hero witch’ for a few months.”

  Marnie pinched his arm until he yelped.

  Grinning ear to ear, he rubbed his bicep where it smarted. “We will make it without you. Go on, make yourself useful, and don’t come back until you have that alchemy license.”

  She flung her arms around him. The sudden press of her body pushed the air out of his lungs. The pole of the umbrella rapped against his chin, and another of his spiders escaped the pocketed pouch. He picked it out of her hair quickly before she could shout about it.

  Marnie pulled back, gray eyes watery. “I’ll miss your birthday.”

  “I’ll have another one.” He tweaked her nose to stop her tears.

  “But I’ll miss your twentieth birthday. We only have one of those.” She sniffled. “I’m being terribly selfish. I shouldn’t leave you all right now.” Her eyes, glassy and wet, stared longingly past him, beyond the white walls of the city, he suspected, to its emperor who was likely pacing in a library somewhere.

  The ferry whistle blew one sharp blast. Jack patted her head. “The schools on t
he island are shit, and what you’re doing is important. You’ll send me a letter. Maybe a present on my birthday. Be sure to make it something foolishly expensive, something that will irritate your mother, and everything will be fine. Get going. I’ll see you when I see you.” He turned and hurried down the ramp, not waiting for her to reply.

  He didn’t look back. It was better not to. With each stride, the pleasant balminess of her magic ebbed from his body, replaced by the cold moisture of rain droplets. It soaked into his honey-colored hair, dripping down his neck and the collar of his shirt, pebbling his skin.

  He passed through Glint, a village of ferry workers and fishermen, weaving between their limestone and clay houses. Low waters surrounded the hamlet, dumping into the eastern swamps, a space few people dared traverse. It was ideal for privacy, and a rich source of rare spell ingredients. When Jack wasn’t serving the LaFontaine estate as house magician, he collected there. It was safe from prying eyes, so he experimented as well, casting new spells, waiting out the effects when natural magics misbehaved unexpectedly.

  Two miles beyond the towering iron and timber beams of Glint’s church, a thatch cottage nestled in a marsh of tall grass and reeds. Owned by the LaFontaine estate, it had been built to house seasonal workers while they fished and trapped crabs and crayfish for the kitchens. Jack craved its solitude now. Like most buildings outside the walls, it lacked proper plumbing, but it was sturdy enough to suit his purposes.

  The cottage’s thatch roof leaked. He placed a pot on the floor to catch the drips. Inside was tidy and spartan, like his nest at home but without all the spell books. Nets and rudimentary hunting equipment dotted its walls: a recurve bow, arrows made from yew, and a few rusty clawed traps.

  The salty swamps polluted the well outside, rendering the pump sink useless. Ceramic jugs of fresh water rested on pine boxes in the cramped kitchen. Two dusty barstools sat next to a low counter. He ladled himself a cup from a jug. Then he sat on a stool and drank slowly, feeling tired down to his bones. Dreading Marnie’s departure, he hadn’t slept well the night before.

  A handwritten note, tacked to the bedpost in the adjoining room, drew his eye. He crossed to it, plucked it off the wood, and read.

  Warrior Witch,

  I knew you wouldn’t let me talk you into coming along to the academy. I also knew you’d stay here tonight. You like to be alone when you’re feeling cranky, and this is becoming one of your favorite hideaways. I’ll be cranky being apart from you, too. Please know how much you will be missed. Take good care of Bran while I’m gone. Someone needs to make sure that man eats and sleeps every now and again. Too much depends on him.

  And watch out for my mother. I know you care for her more than you let on. Be good to each other. Write to me often.

  Marnie

  P.S. In case I’m wrong about you staying at the cottage, I left a copy of this letter on your pillow, wedged in your favorite spell book, beside the fruit bowl in the kitchen, and in my chambers in case you choose to sleep there. My bed is superior to yours. I asked Lady Becker not to give you a hard time about it. Have at it.

  A rising moon the color of butter glowed between thick clouds out the cottage window. The trollies stopped operating an hour ago, and he didn’t want to spend the last few notes he had on a train. It wasn’t advisable for a witch to walk the streets at night. Well-meaning witchkind always avoided the appearance of wrong-doing, and this required keeping respectable hours. He didn’t need the hassle of running into suspicious watchmen in the dark while he was already ill tempered. Better to avoid such things.

  Jack bolted the door. He planned to spend the night at the cottage and head home in the morning. Maybe he’d hike the swamps at first light, searching for mushrooms and insects and other sources of rare organic magics suitable for spells. Despite its scratchy woolen blanket, the bed looked inviting, as tired as he was.

  The muggy night air weighed on his skin and clogged his lungs. Jack flicked his wrist, aiming a bit of his magic at the lantern hanging by the window, dousing the light. He climbed into bed, rolling in the sheets to a growing chorus of crickets and lazy raindrops, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.

  ***

  Jack stirred awake, confused, unsure what had roused him. He blinked into the dark. The buzz of insects and call of bullfrogs filled his ears. The nearby window quivered like water where the glass used to be. He felt the enchantment tugging at his skin.

  Jack sensed the woman’s form in the room before he spotted her.

  He leapt out of bed and snagged a fistful of her hair.

  “Shit,” she squealed. They tumbled to the floor in the dark, a tangle of arms and legs.

  A small fist struck him on the chin. With a grunt, he caught the offending hand and pinned it to the floorboard. It was a good hit. He opened and shut his mouth to work out the ache spreading through his jaw.

  The water spell in the window dried up, and Jack’s eyes adjusted further. The young woman beneath him had skin so fair and hair so white the moonlight turned her entirely blue. She had the pale features common in Stejin: narrow chin, large eyes, and a heart-shaped face.

  Lying over the witch and the natural magic that clung to her was like rolling into the sunlight. Jack felt it, soft and billowy, brushing his skin like cotton in a breeze. Hers was a strange magic. It distracted him for the moment, and he investigated it with his fingers.

  “Get off me!” She had the lilting accent of the mountain people. The witch lifted her chin, gaze hostile. The curtain of her fair hair shifted, revealing her right eye, the socket discolored and swelling.

  “Damn me to hell with all its devils if I caused that,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

  “Then stop crushing me,” she hissed.

  As gently as he would stroke a bubble, he touched the bruising around her eye.

  She cringed. “You didn’t do that.” Then she pushed at his shoulders which were twice as broad as her own. “Now, get off!”

  Jack didn’t move. “What happened to you?”

  She shoved hard, but his weight exceeded hers considerably. Her shaking arms gave out.

  “Done now?” His torso pressed her into the floor. “Talk to me, then I’ll see about letting you up.”

  “I was selling furs in the ferry village, over there.” She blew hair out of her eyes, lips pursed. “I had an unfortunate introduction to the pastor of Glint. He asked me a series of foolish questions. I was rude . . . there you have it.”

  Jack’s teeth came together with a snap. “He deserves to rot for that. Now, why in hell are you trespassing here? You’re a fool for using a spell. The Church of the Cloth kills witches for less, and there’s nothing worth stealing in here.”

  “No, no.” She shook her palms at him. “I’m not a thief. I swear. I just—it’s complicated. Look, search me until you’re satisfied. I took nothing, so there’s no harm done. One witch to another, can we forget this ever happened? Please?”

  Jack looked her over, head to toe. She was barefoot and dressed in the fitted leathers common to hunters, trousers hemmed at the knees. They fit too snugly for her to be hiding anything in them. Witch ink peeked out from under the guards at her wrists. Her hair was a splash of snow, spread out on the floorboards. The bruise bloomed around her eye, purple and glassy in the faded light.

  He hadn’t needed another reason to hate Glint’s pastor, not after he sold out his own daughter in a bargain with a demon. Jack wanted to break something.

  “Don’t move.” He whispered a prayer to the spirit Tortua and added a dab of his organic magic, which felt cool around him, and a blue flame sprang to life in the oil lantern hanging by the window.

  The witch snorted at him. “I’m grateful you haven’t hurt me or called for watchmen—I probably deserve a little of both—but I’m not going to just lie here until you decide to do one of those things. You need to let me go. Now!”

  “Why are you here at all?” He lifted his weight off her hips
and helped her sit up with a hand on her armguard.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll just go now.”

  The witch jerked free. Jack grabbed for her as she rolled away, catching nothing but air. She bolted from him with surprising speed, leaping to her feet and sprinting for the door. He overtook her in three of his longer strides, catching her around the waist.

  “Put me down!” she screeched, scaring nesting birds out of the tall grass outside. Their thunderous flight drowned out her growls.

  Jack hoisted her high and tossed her over his shoulder. She kicked at the air, her fair hair spilling into his face. She smelled like trees and sunlight. Her magic poured over him, a caress of soft, soothing warmth, like falling into a bed of heated blankets in the middle of a cold spell.

  “Stop acting like I’m going to murder you,” he grunted.

  “For all I know you are going to murder me!” She jerked and wriggled, loosening his grip.

  “Then you shouldn’t . . . have . . . trespassed . . .”

  She resisted, and Jack didn’t want to damage her. The pastor had already done plenty.

  The witch was less careful with him in return. Her fist met with his gut, blasting his breath away. He coughed, and for some inexplicable reason, a grin stretched his lips. He wiped it off his face quickly because its sudden appearance only made matters worse. She fought him with renewed fierceness, bit his arm, and tried to knee him between the legs.

  Jack muttered a prayer to Diridge, a spirit of sleep and death. Some of the ingredients tucked in his pockets dried out with a sizzle.

  The witch’s hazel eyes popped wide. “Don’t you dare jinx me!”

  His hard, cold magics pushed against the warm softness that shrouded her. The ram, a Diridge spirit symbol, blazed in the wood of the door, and the witch went limp, slipping down his body. Jack caught her, lifting her easily.

  “You’re a jackass!” She writhed against him, arms useless at her sides.