Witch Born - LJ Swallow Page 0,10

aunt climbed from the coffin in a room filled with almost a dozen people. My dickhead fiancé thought the whole scene was hilarious and filmed it on his phone.

Thanks to him, there’s evidence against me.

My father is caught on camera destroying Mabel before she managed to leave the house, and my mother is caught beside him screaming at me for revealing my secret.

I swear Ivan turned me in to the authorities as punishment. Eloise, his betrothed, refusing to be his meek little fiancée who'll fulfil his whims. Me, the fiancée he caught with another guy—Cooper—who taught me men could be kind-hearted and wouldn't all try to sexually assault me at every opportunity.

Ivan's evidence ensures I’m locked away like Rapunzel in a tower. Only I’m not alone, and the residents could be as bad as him—or worse.

Angus sinks back in his seat. “I understand the situation was swiftly dealt with, but your decision to perform this spell shows you are a danger.”

“It was an accident,” I protest again and rub my forehead. “I didn’t realise what would happen.”

My palms slick as he sneers at me. “Nobody, Eloise, nobody can perform necromancy without trying.” He sets his spectacles on the desk beside the folder. “You are a trinity witch—you possess the ability to control the elements, the living, and the dead. I fully understand your parents’ desire to hide and protect you, but somebody like you cannot be loose in our world.”

The finality in his words ices my veins. “Ever?”

With a small shake of his head, he tucks the papers away. “Well, unless Francesca’s art classes and meditation fix you.” He sneers at the idea. “But, no, I wouldn’t count on leaving any time soon.”

The room lurches sideways and I grip the chair arm. “What?”

He sighs. “If you’re fortunate, you’ll avoid adult prison at twenty-one.”

Two years. I have two years here.

“I don’t know how I can be rehabilitated when I didn’t commit a crime,” I protest. The tears prick at my eyes with the biggest fear and frustration I’ve had since the evening of the funeral.

After the incident with my aunt, the authorities locked me in the attic, surrounded by powerful wards, overnight. I had no chance to say goodbye when shipped out to Ravenhold the next day. I’m unsure the shock has caught up with me yet—I'm in a surreal dream.

“You raised the dead. You have the possibility to control any race, to create powerful creatures under your control. As if this isn’t bad enough, you could manipulate the elements to protect yourself and your creations, and possibly mind control other supernaturals. This is a dangerous combination, and if you’re doing this ‘accidentally’ that is as doubly dangerous.”

Angus doesn’t believe me.

Nobody believes me.

There’s one benefit, though—when others discover who I am, they'll keep away.

Chapter Six

I’m passed along to Francesca as if I’m on a conveyor belt, escorted from Angus’s room into hers. I almost step back outside to check if I’m in the same building, because this room doesn’t belong at Ravenhold.

Angus’s desk was positioned beneath the window with only two chairs. Francesca's room contains a circle of colourful beanbag seats, the yellow, blue, and red picked out by matching gauzy curtains.

The room is painted bright orange, with pictures and photographs filling the space between woven rainbow fabric hanging from the walls and ceiling.

Angus’s rooms smelled of pine and bleach cleaning products, whereas Francesca’s smells strongly of roses and lavender, as if I walked into a garden.

Francesca stands in the window, her back to me, and her red hair hangs halfway down her back, sleek and brushed straight. The long skirts and loose shirt she wears flow in the same way, the skirt covered in a flower pattern in blue to match her shirt.

A witch or shifter? She turns as I click the door closed and holds out her arms in greeting. “Eloise!”

Silver bracelets and anklet charms jingle as the woman steps towards me and the flowery scent grows stronger. Soft green eyes meet mine and her cupid’s bow mouth spreads into a friendly smile. Her aura immediately sets me at ease, after my stressful meeting with Angus.

Lamia? Pneuma vampire? No. All vampires have similar facial features from their shared heritage, as if sculpted from the same mould. Her face is rounder and friendlier.

I take Francesca's outstretched hand and shake. Her grip and skin are soft and I can’t sense magic.

A shifter.

“Do sit down.” She gestures at the beanbag and I stare as she settles on one, curling her legs under