Taglock Witchcraft Novels & Stories

I walk around the room, searching for anything to help me pick the lock on my cell door. It's made of silver, so trying to break it down is out of the option. My actions suddenly halt, hearing the cell door squeak open. I whip my head toward the door, praying in my heart my mate isn't back to make good on his threat. I exhale when I get a different scent than his as the lights come on in the room. Eric and a woman with a herby scent tread into the room. The woman must be a water witch. Most of them are healers and deal with a lot of herbs. Witches are grouped by elements of nature, fire, water, earth, and air. They cast spells based on which element they are gifted with.

Now Luke was in danger if he couldn’t kill Pearl. “Damnit,” Luke cursed silently. He must do something, or Matthew will kill him soon. *** Taggart stepped closer to his bed while staring at Pearl. She was wearing the sweet satin one-strap lingerie, lying on the bed unconsciously. Taggart was ready to do the ritual. Pearl would drink his blood, and then they would have intimate intercourse. The desire was peeking through the air. He would never spare her time to breathe. The sex would be intense and beautiful.

How Alpha Lawrence had managed to run his pack without any of them and still accomplish the title as the most feared pack was beyond anyone’s knowledge. Alpha Lawrence watched the older woman with careful eyes, judging her every movement, she looked harmless, weak even and as she cradled a decomposing corpse in her arms, he sneered in disgust. As she cradled her sister's head to her chest, whispering quiet incantation, she had tilted her neck a little to the side and the mark was visible. It was an infinity sign that was the trademark of the most dangerous and powerful line of black witches. The Doom Family.

Igniting the sage, the fragrant smoke curls and dances in the air, filling the room with its purifying energy. Mumbling words under her breath, Dawn invokes ancient incantations, tapping into the hidden depths of her spiritual power. Each syllable carries intention, a shield of protection woven with her words. The combination of sage and incantations creates a barrier, a sanctuary against the forces that seek to harm Zelda. As the smoke envelopes the space, its ethereal tendrils ward off negativity and evil, forming an invisible shield around Zelda. The atmosphere becomes charged with a palpable sense of safety and tranquility, a haven in the midst of chaos.

“He’s my grandson, yes. But he locked me in this dungeon for a reason.” “But you can escape,” I argued desperately. “You just showed me you can teleport or whatever that was.” The witch lifted her black thorn and gothic gown. Her ankle had something wrapped around it that made my stomach turn. A thick band of dark metal embedded with strange symbols that seemed to move when I looked at them too closely. The skin around it was scarred and raw, like the metal burned constantly. “What is that?” I whispered. “A Bloodiron Shackle,” the witch explained. “Used to hold witches and powerful wolves in chains. It binds not just the body, but the spirit. My magic is trapped inside me, unable to manifest

Before it can settle in, I drag her by the neck, down the hallway toward her room. “I bind you, Leticia Latmus. In the names of our mother, Selene, Goddess of the Moon and Hecate, Goddess of Magic and Witchcraft, I bind you from using your given abilities or abilities you have gained over your lifetimes,” My voice booms as I lug her down the hallway. She claws at my hand desperately, trying to escape, but it’s no use. I lock my grip and there is no way I’m letting go.

Bram’s absence feels like an ache beneath the skin of the pack, but none doubt he will return when it matters most. Upstairs, Thalia kneels beside a scatter of charms, her breath fogging the cold glass of the window. The talismans she’s made glimmer faintly, each bearing a strand of her own hair, a drop of blood, a single thread from Fyre’s old robe. Around her, the witches murmur spells of concealment and protection, hands entwined, weaving their magics into a shield that covers not only the land but the hearts of those within it. Agatha’s voice calls up from the kitchen, rough and cheerful:

He understood how trusting I was being at the moment but apparently this was a ritual that dated back centuries between the lycan and witchcraft communities, as part of their longstanding truce. “They are gorgeous Aida, and you looks so well.” “Thank you Fern.” I politely reply, playing my part as the King’s mate well. “What’s in the bowl?” I quirk my eyebrow as I look into a wooden bowl in her hands. “A mixture of lavender, dill, oregano and parsley to ward off evil spirits and provide protection against witchcraft. Shall we begin?” She turns to smile at our guests as she starts to lay sticks out on the ground into the shape of a pentagram.

“The best thing was to stay back and defend our pack. No matter how we tried to escape, they would've caught up with us.” It wasn't making sense to her, but she didn't want to push further too. “What do you guys know about mindlock?” she suddenly asked. Both of them stopped in their tracks, turning to stare at her. “That's a ritual forbidden to do on anyone.l because only witches can do that,” Aragon's disturbed voice let out. He continued to lead the way. The tour was beautiful but uninteresting for Lana as her heart was fixed somewhere else. They soon ended it and went back to the main house. Tyler was already packed, his bags ready to go.

The way his paws gid into the ash like he’s trying to pull himself back and can’t. “You need to let him go,” I snarl. She smiles, not unkind. “I’m not the one holding him, little wolf. The lock is, the wolves made it with witches all those years ago. They needed an anchor from each side of the bloodlines. A weaver to braid it together, an Alpha to weight it. Did you really think that only the witches were guilty?” The ritual crescendos. Light wrapping around her chest, pinning her in place. Chains of glyphs dig into her skin, sinking beneath it. The air splits like a seam, and something behind her pushes forward against the veil.