The Unmarked Witch Novels & Stories

Ilyra explained, her voice gentle but firm as she held the old woman’s hand. "The Nexus? You're both fools if you think you can just walk into the center of the marsh and take what you want, because the path is guarded by the Drowned Witches now," Hestia said, and she looked up at me with a grim, knowing smile that chilled me to the marrow. "They are the spirits of the women your pack threw into the black pools during the raids, and they’ve spent the last twenty years waiting for a Rauvenhollow wolf to come back so they can pull him down into the silt and keep him there forever."

Neva. I surfaced from the stone slowly. Stood in the dead garden in the dusk with the carved piece of rock warm in my palm and a name sitting in my chest that had not been there ten minutes ago and already felt like it had been there a long time. Neva. The third witch. Older than Vael. Taken before my mother was born. The one the Architect had been told was dead and had chosen to believe because the alternative required harder questions. Not dead. Northwest. Far. And apparently capable of leaving carved stones in locked gardens and unsigned letters in locked rooms and a rose bud that had not been there this morning.

Those witches snickered as they walked closer, their lips parted and joined and they appeared at Weston Hills High. “Come on.” Dania said. A werewolf was seen holding the firestone while the oak tree opened up leading into the emptiness called the unbinding. The school was so quiet. It was sixteen years back, but they weren't many differences. The oak tree was smaller than it was in the present day, but it was more alive. These women surrounded the oak tree while Edmond and his comrades collided with it before being consumed by the nothingness. A dagger appeared and each witch cut their palms, their blood dripped on the floor, quickly creeping up to the oak tree. The tree glowed when their b

the hot black girl in a pixie cut says with a grimace on his face. “Why a werewolf, though?” They all circle me, and they look at me with so much hatred on their faces. I don’t back down, and I don’t fear. “Who the hell are you girls?” I ask. “You haven’t figured it out yet?” Figured what out? I do know what they are, though. They’re not werewolves, and neither are they vampires. They’re witches. All witches have a mark on their right arm, the shape of a star.

"This has got to be the one T-bone was talking about before we shot him... At least we got a name." Keegs lit up his phone and began thumbing through the screen. "Got it. Lasses Birgitta. A Swedish Witch that, apparently, tried to raise the dead in a churchyard by using the stole of a priest. She confessed that she sold her soul to the devil, renounced God and was beheaded. Sounds just like the woman you want to bring home to Mom... Well, I would anyway," Keegs grinned.

“Stronger than prophecy said.” A smaller wolf trembled. “The elders say she must be ended. Or controlled.” The leader snapped his jaws. “And when has a witch ever been controlled?” They moved closer. The Witches Behind them, witches in dark cloaks marched with staffs burning blue-white. Elder Marlowe’s voice was thin but sharp as glass. “She is becoming what should never exist,” she hissed. “If we do not cut the thread now, she will unravel us all.” A younger witch hesitated. “But if she is the axis—”

The street was narrow and old, cobblestones still visible beneath the tarmac at the edges, trees lining both sides and meeting overhead. "Twelve years ago," I said, "a witch from the Aldercroft Coven was fated to a wolf from the Cassin Pack. Southern territory. No previous alliance between the two families. The witch's name was Maren. She was young—late twenties—and, from what Rave described, she wasn't unlike you. Contained. Capable. Deeply invested in not being perceived as someone things happened to." Isabella said nothing. But she was listening with her whole body.

“Name your price, and do it.” The witch leaned forward, eyes glittering with dark amusement. “Oh, I will mock you, wolf. For your request is folly. But folly is what feeds me best.” She trailed her nails through the bubbling stew, lifting them slick with impossible colors. “You ask me to unravel a mark that is more than flesh. It is soul. To blind a bond so deep that even death cannot undo it. And you—” she tilted her head, lips curving into a cruel smile “—believe that if I do this, she will come to you. That she will see you as her salvation, her mate, her love.”

Maud sighed. “This is true,” Agnes replied. “The Witches’ Mark—or Devil’s Mark as it was also known—could be anything from a wart or mole to any raised blemish on the skin, a birthmark for example. It was meant to represent the physical acknowledgement of a witch’s servitude to the Devil.” Maud appeared grim. “As sad an’ perversely interestin’ all this is, it ain’t clearin’ any of the fog around this mystery of ours.”

"I don't even know what you're talking about, bitch!" "Where did you get that mark, Sage? Cooperate willingly and I'll let you go." Pacing back, I slid down against the wall and stared back to her. "You can question me all day but you'll never get any answer. Because I don't even have a clue what you're talking about." Sarah clenched her jaw. "That witch mark belongs to the Witches of Forsaken. Who put this witchcraft on you?!"