Witch Born - LJ Swallow Page 0,8

parents took me to other covens, and I'd perform my secret magic like a circus animal. Otherwise, my status as the only trinity witch meant my parents kept me hidden.

I was surprised when my father brought home a small black poodle, and the gesture warmed me to the cold man. Perhaps he understood how lonely I was too and bought me a companion. I had little contact with people outside my home, so this dog became my best friend.

A year later, at six years old, I found my dog lying in my mother's rose garden with his neck broken. My memories of that day are hazy, but I sobbed over his body until my father arrived with two strangers. He whispered to me to 'tell the nice men' my poem.

Every 'poem' he taught me to perform over the years created a strong spell.

And this spell raised the dead.

Eloise, the witch child with the darkest magic flowing through her veins, recited the poem and reanimated her dog.

To this day, I'm convinced my father killed him.

As I grew older, I learned how unique my powers are.

And how illegal.

Finally, I found a way to escape my family.

I raised the dead again last week, but this time the corpse wasn't a dog.

I cross my arms over my chest and startle as a door slams at the opposite end of the hallway. A tall man strides purposefully towards me and I wait for him to address me.

His white hair strikes me first, as I've never seen any as pale as his. The black suit is tailored to fit, and the smart shoes shine against the dirty floor. His eyes startle me more than the noise from a few moments ago—blue eyes rimmed by white to match his hair. Without using contact lenses, this man could never disguise himself amongst humans.

The slender man pauses and slides his eyes towards me. “Eloise Thornbrook?” He’s softly spoken but something about him triggers hairs on my neck.

I nod.

“Welcome. I’ll speak to you in a couple of days.” With an attempt at a friendly smile, the man continues towards the main academy area.

I watch. Why not introduce himself?

“Eloise Thornbrook.”

I jolt for a second time as another man’s voice interrupts. This one stands in the right-hand doorway and stares at me. The man who walked by had a thin-lipped cruelty in his face, one I’ve often seen with vampires. This man’s face is sun-baked and battle-scarred. His keen brown eyes flick a look over me before he takes the folder the mid guard hands to him.

Without introducing himself, he turns, walking inside the room stiffly. I glance at the guard, who nods at me to follow him.

Taking a deep breath, I follow.

The man slaps the folder onto a table and yanks out a leather-backed chair to sit. A second seat faces him, and I hesitate. Do I sit or wait for instructions? There’s a picture hung on the wall to his left—a photograph of a group of men in combat gear. To the left, framed certificates with Confederacy logos.

An ex-military head of the academy, as I expected.

“Sit,” he says gruffly, and I obey in the blink of an eye.

His desk is clear and behind him is a window and the first I’ve seen without bars. He places his spade-like hands onto the folder.

“I apologise for not processing you on arrival last night. We had issues with one of the residents and I was called to intervene.”

Dorian?

“I don't mind. I was tired.”

“That won’t change. You’ll be occupied the whole time you’re awake." He grunts and flicks open the folder. "My name is Angus McPearson. I oversee Ravenhold.”

“Hello. Sir.”

Another grunt, this time with amusement. He takes a sheet of paper from inside and slides it across the table. “This is a list of classes and sessions you must attend. A note will be made of any absences. Three absences in a week and you lose privileges.” He catches my confusion. “Privileges include one ten-minute phone call per week. Or one item from the mainland delivered—food, clothing, anything that isn’t dangerous to the academy, or magical. If you miss more than five classes, you spend time in solitary confinement. You probably want to avoid that.”

My mouth parches and I nod. Angus pulls a pair of spectacles from his pocket and places them on his nose as he scans a second sheet, eyes moving rapidly.

“Although, I don't believe you'll cause trouble. You've no real history.”

“I know. One transgression and I’m here,” I mumble. “How long