Secrets Of The Silent Witch Novels & Stories

Something wasn’t right. “What’s going on?” Mya asked, being the one to break the silence and try to get everything out in the open. Paul and Julia glanced across the wooden table at each other. Amy sat up a little straighter, curious of the answer. “No more secrets,” Amy stated, backing her twin. She wanted to know what was going on and now. The silence was agony. “What’s wrong?” Julia cleared her throat, signaling to Paul that it was time to come clean. Paul Hancock ran his left fingers across his tie, straightening it against his chest. He sat up tall. He gulped and looked as if he was facing his death.

But inside she found something else —a mess of Gothic architecture sketches, topographical diagrams and hastily written notes that looked like the fevered scribbling of a medieval cartographer gone mad. “That’s remarkable. Where did you find it?” Christina asked with a notch of suspicion. “Here, in the chalet, in that hidden place I’ve told you about. Wolfie and I were saving the owl that managed to get in through the broken attic window.” Christina leaned closer to the lantern’s dim light, tracing the hasty ink sketch with her finger. The combination of drawings, faint script and crude shapes made the page look like a treasure map drawn by some drunken medieval monk.

The witches were lucky because they couldn't hear such a noise. I didn't want to belittle her , or embarrass her in front of anyone. But she needed to learn , and I needed to protect what I knew was growing in her womb. Keeping the secret was killing me. Looking behind me, I looked at Shirer and nodded. She came forward and placed her hands on the door and started chanting. "Aperio, tenebrae, lux mea Aperiatur, porta clausa, meavia Tenebrae, abscondita, revelare

But before I could get an answer, she broke down completely, tears streaming down her face. The next thing I knew, we were at the Spade Club. Katastrophe was pounding shot after shot of whatever she ordered, drinking herself into a stupor. I tried to stop her, but the Witch wasn’t listening. She just kept going. To be continued...

Silas cautiously approached the entrance, but before he could enter, a figure stepped out from the shadows. It was the witch. She was tall and thin with long, tangled hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall of dark tendrils. Her eyes were a piercing green, and she wore a tattered cloak that fluttered in the wind. Silas could feel her power emanating from her, and he knew that she was not to be trifled with. He demanded to know if she knew anything about Sara's whereabouts, but the witch simply smiled and said, "Oh, I know all about your little friend. But she's not here."

It sharpened it, because the very thing that made me love her — that fierce, stubborn, self-erasing courage — was the thing keeping her hidden from me, and I couldn't hate her for it no matter how it burned. It was Bram who first spoke the name, and he spoke it the way you'd name a sickness. We were three days back from another dead road, sitting in the cold blue light of the kitchen while my mother slept, and he said, low, "There's someone I haven't told you about. Because you'd have gone to her a year ago, half-mad as you were, and she'd have eaten you alive." He turned his cup in his rough hands. "They call her the Witch. Out past the eastern flats." I told him I had no time for stories a

"Don't worry, most of them were complimentary. Mostly." An older woman with steel-grey hair stepped forward. "Ignore her. I'm Margot. We're here to work, not cause trouble." "Speak for yourself," Sienna muttered. I led them toward the packhouse, hyperaware of Sienna walking just slightly too close to my left side. The other witches fell into quiet conversation behind us, occasionally asking questions about territory layout or defensive positions. "So." Sienna's voice dropped lower, meant just for me. "The photographs you sent were interesting. Ancient magic, blood sacrifice, corrupting influence designed to turn wolves against their nature. Someone really doesn't like your pack."

It was not obvious to anyone who wasn’t paying attention, but I noticed it instantly, the smallest fracture in her calm exterior, like fear briefly slipping through a carefully built mask. For a moment I studied her more closely, because witches were never easy to read. They learned early how to survive in silence, how to deny what they were even when the truth stood in front of them. They hid their scent, masked their energy, and lived carefully among humans as if nothing about them was different. Quinton’s gaze remained locked on her, and I realized what he was doing before she even reacted fully. Compulsion.

I whispered, my hands shaking as I sprinted toward the towering, wooden shelves filled with the oldest leather scrolls in the territory. I began tearing the heavy books down, my claws accidentally slicing through some of the fragile, yellowed parchment as the desperate panic inside my gut grew into a deafening roar. The spirit realm was always treated as a myth by the modern Alphas, a bedtime story told to young pups about a dark, parallel forest where the souls of the dead Alphas go to rest after their mortal bodies turn to dust. But as I opened a massive, silver-bound text titled The First Threshold, the true, horrifying nature of that hidden world began to bleed through the ancient ink.

~Elvira~ “Not all bad?” Silas questioned incredulously. He leaned over to me… his eyes had a warning that went deeper than words. “Be careful around them, child. A wolf knows where his ally stands, but a witch doesn't, they only go where serves them the most. They don't form lasting treaties and they can unravel you from the inside out.” I rubbed my bare wrist out of reflex the skin was still tender where the wooden beads had been for the past few months.