Witchcraft Literature Novels & Stories

I wondered if Sofia had somehow been using her power in the void to guide any new information on magic into the library. There were whole sections on enchantresses and witches and the main differences between them. Apparently, the main way to tell them apart was in the main type of magic said woman practiced in. While witches dealt mainly in potions and cauldrons, enchantresses mainly focused on spells. And, as I knew from Sofia, curses. I ventured further into the library–past the shelves on shape-shifters and sprites. The section on Dragon Knights had to be here somewhere, and I wanted to do a little research of my own.

“Lake Tahoe is human territory. We protect it, or we become the threat everyone fears.” Silence followed. Not resistance but serious consideration. Seraphine tilted her head slowly. “There were… ways,” she said at last. “Long ago.” My heart skipped. “What ways?” I asked. Her gaze flicked between me and Inferno, knowingly now. “Healers once worked with witches and warlocks. Bloodcraft. Preservation amplification. It wasn’t common. It wasn’t easy.”

The word burned in his mind like a brand. He stalked past the familiar sections—Werewolf Histories, Lunar Cycles, Pack Law—until he reached the dimly lit alcove marked "Supernatural Relations." His claws pricked his palms as he yanked out the first relevant tome: The Bewitched & The Beastly: Supernatural Attractions. The wooden chair protested as he threw himself into it, the lamplight casting jagged shadows across the pages. Dust motes swirled around him as he flipped to the chapter on witches.

The book landed in my hands with a satisfying weight, its leather cover cracked with age, its title etched in fading gold. A Compendium of Ancient Witchcraft and Binding Laws. Good. Very good. This wasn’t light reading. This was the kind of book that bit back if you skimmed. Spells layered atop spells. Margins filled with warnings. Cross-referenced disasters. I carried it to a long wooden table and opened it carefully, the pages whispering as they parted. If Selene had created the curse, then she had followed rules—even if she bent them. And if there were rules, then somewhere in this library, in these forgotten texts, there had to be a crack. A flaw. A way in.

A book on curses was as rare as encountering a dark mage since owning one would immediately label one as an enemy of the state. “Why not?” Still, Sylvia preferred to be relentless. “Because … well … it’s not legal to own such a book, my lady.” ‘Yet you got your hands on one.’ Sylvia took the book from his hands. It was massive and heavy, bound in old leather. “Then … I’ll read this, young master,” she said, radiating gratitude. As they headed back to the seats, she held it close to her chest. “Does the lady wish to become a priestess?”

Her eyes drifted to the heading at the top of the page. {The Chronicles of Sorcerers.} Curiosity replaced her relief. She began reading. The book spoke of an age long before the kingdoms of today. An age when sorcerers lived openly among dragons, wolves, and hybrids. Some wielded magic to heal the sick. Others used it to conquer entire nations. Many were celebrated. Many were feared. As Adriana continued turning the pages, one chapter heading immediately caught her attention. ~The Flame Witch.~ She frowned. The title stirred something deep inside her.

“The kind used to call things through from places witches keep their darker allies. I recognized the symbol from an old text in the archive. I wanted to be wrong, believe me.” Elowen was on her feet now, staring at the parchment as though she had never seen it before, which, to be fair to her, she probably hadn’t. That was the beauty of a well-placed lie. It didn’t require the target to have done anything at all. “I’ve never seen that before in my life,” she said.

“Draven’s father despised anything non-shifter, so you won’t find much about witches here. But the elders might have hidden a few things away, if they ever kept such records.” I thanked her and turned toward the Moon Goddess section. Most of the titles looked more like moral guides than history or myth, but two leather-bound volumes caught my eye. They had more wear on their spines, as though they’d been read and reread, and their titles hinted at a broader scope. ‘Moon’s Blessings and Shadows,’ and ‘Forgotten Paths of the Goddess’. Tucking them under my arm, I headed for the door, taking one last look around at the quiet library. It wasn’t much, but I had a feeling these books were the best

My mother’s grimoire. I opened it, the pages humming faintly under my fingertips. Most were written in her looping hand, but one section, toward the end, was different. The ink was darker, the words less neat. I traced the heading with my thumb: “Prophecy of the Bridge.” My pulse stuttered as I read aloud, whispering each line: “When wolf and witch unite in forbidden breath, one born of both moons shall rise. Bound by blood, marked by flame, to bridge peace or burn every line.”

On page 999, I found what I was sent here for. The number nine represents dragons throughout human history, while it has little meaning in the dragon world, which puts emphasis on prime numbers. I began reading about Draconian Wicca. There's a duality in this religion, just as there is in life. Some seek to worship, praise, and heal, while others seek power, darkness, and destruction. I found the spell that the hooded figures used. I allowed Clint to read it too. “Witches; fucking dark mages!” he tersely mumbles.