Gray Haired Witch Novels & Stories

She was young, mixed, with very strong makeup, gray eyes, dreadlocks and tied a capulana. — We will give a great reward. Nacula: — Many of us who went to those islands never returned! Neither the witches nor the pirates who followed them. Igor: — Why? Jafana: — Our powers are strong, but not to the beyond! We are more seers than sorcerers… Go to Kayndra Island. Igor: — Why Kayndra Island? Àgata interjected: —For unknown reasons, the witches on Kayndra Island have stronger vibrations, capable of unraveling the mystery.

Aminda said sweetly, “perhaps we might speak in private? With King Kian and King Zibor present.” “Of course. Please, follow me.” Inside Gray’s study, his wives joined him: Claire, the brunette; Inessa, the blonde; and Elana, the newest, with fiery red hair. Aminda’s eyes lingered on Elana. “Did you know, Lord Gray,” she said smoothly, “your new wife is a witch?” Gasps filled the room. Elana shook her head desperately. “I’m not—I swear I’m not!” she protested. Gray wrapped an arm around her protectively. “My queen, she is from the noble house of Toren in Scotland. She has no magic.”

The space was vast, and the low light from the torches Rhea had placed on the walls barely illuminated the far corners. "Stay alert," Max whispered, his eyes scanning the shadows. I nodded, my instincts on edge. We hadn’t come this far to fail now. We didn’t have to wait long. The witch appeared out of the shadows, her presence almost as if she had materialized from the darkness itself. She was cloaked in deep blue robes that shimmered with faint traces of magic, her silver hair cascading down her back. Her eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, the color shifting like the ocean during a storm.

She struggled slightly to get in and looked up at me somewhat embarrassed. “Short people problems”, she laughed shyly and shrugged her shoulders The moment she got in I got hit with the most intoxicating smell. It smelled like cinnamon and sugar mixed with something floral that I couldn’t quite recognize. Ajax started pacing in my head practically salivating over this girl we didn’t even know, who wasn’t even a werewolf, but a witch! What was his deal? “So Sierra, is it? Your dad tells me you’re in your senior year! That’s exciting”, my dad said breaking me from my own thoughts.

My hands shivering badly as I take them off the silk fabric of my green frock. The same frock I was wearing when these werewolves decided to massacre my whole clan and burn them alive. Burned my parents alive. Now am feeling cold, my bones are shivering as my teeth kept chattering due to the severe cold. I shouldn’t be feeling any cold since am a witch who could control our body temperature as we are comfortable. Then why am not able to use my magic. Fear drops in the pit of my stomach making me shut my eyes more tightly as if it’s possible.

she said, gesturing at me to follow her. Harriet was an old witch, although I had never asked how old she was. She had long grey hair that she always tied up in a cute granny's bun, and mesmerizing green eyes surrounded by tiny wrinkles, which only added warmth to her expression. Whenever I saw her, she kept wearing long black or dark-brown gowns, and I teased her that I would once buy her a pointy hat to complete her look, resembling a fairytale witch.

That wretched scream, and laughter, soft feminine, terrible voice. A woman emerged from the haze. Her dress flickered like shadow and flame. Her hair fell in a thick and tangled way around her shoulders, strands silver as black as nightmares. Zaira Blackthorn. I did not know how I knew her name, but I knew. The same way, I knew that she was a witch. "Such chaos," she whispered, voice like smoke and poison. "So much effort to protect something you were destined to lose." Behind her floated symbols drawn in blood, pulsing with sickly green light. I tried to run forward, to throw myself at her, to stop her, but my body would not move. My feet were rooted. My throat locked.

I lean back on him when we part our lips, resting my head on his shoulders, closing my eyes as he holds me and continues to kiss my neck. Feeling a peace I haven’t felt in a while, images begin to run through my mind. I drift into my memories—the same one I almost had before, but that had faded away. And there it is again—Hilda, my grandmother, locked in battle with another witch. But this one is different. Something writhes within her veins, crawling beneath the surface. Her skin has turned a pale, sickly gray, as though death itself clings to her flesh. The witch lies bound on a wooden table. The memory unfolds within the same cottage I have seen before—Hilda’s home. She circles the table

Lots of choices, more witches to ask. “Hello! Is anyone here?” – Brayden asked when he entered the door “What is it, Great Beta?” An olden women answered. Her hair was all grey, with a pointed chin and deep-rooted eyes. A cloud of smoke can be perceived behind her; perhaps in the middle of concocting something. “Come with me. I have an emergency concern.” The witch was puzzled but followed Brayden. When they reached Alora’s room, she opened the door with a frown.

The younger ones drop to their knees. Cold. Starved. Ancient. She radiated ancient times. Older even than Mira. The witches fell to their knees instantly; foreheads pressed to the stone as if compelled by something far older than obedience. “Mother,” the eldest whispered. The woman lifted one elegant, lethal hand and pushed back her hood. Dark copper hair spilled free, streaked with threads of shimmering amethyst. Her eyes—slanted, black-ringed, pale lilac at the core—burned with intelligence and a grief so sharp it bordered on madness.