The Lost Witch: The Lost Universe Trilogy, #1

Chapter One

My mother spoke fondly of Edinburgh. She loved the old cobblestones that ran the Royal Mile, the tiny hidden alleyways that felt like they were going to snake you off into another world, the castle perched on an ancient, extinct volcano. She told me that it was about as close to magic as you could get in this universe.

She did not, however, mention the dragon.

He might have been a hallucination. I had spent a lot of time on psychiatrist couches growing up, a side effect of insisting that I had a twin brother who disappeared the night my mother was murdered, despite any official record he had ever existed. Oliver was a figment of my imagination, so probably the dragon was, too. Stood to reason.

No one else seemed to notice him, perched on top of the castle, waving his massive blue tail back and forth like a lazy cat. Silver eyes blinked slowly at me as I stared at him from where I stood frozen on the sidewalks that ran alongside Princes Street. I had come to buy some clothes for my new waitressing job at a nearby cafe, but I was a bit distracted by the dragon.

I touched the silver charm on my necklace. A dragon that looked very much like this one hung there, a tiny silver version of the massive thing that should surely be crushing the castle by now.

His name is Greit, my mother had told me. He will always protect you.

The necklace was all I had left of my mother. She had left me some money, sure—enough to get me to Edinburgh when I aged out of the foster care system in Texas—but nothing else. Just some warm memories and a little silver dragon.

Greit the necklace dragon was about the size of my thumbnail. His long tail coiled around his body, and his mouth was open in a roar or a yawn. I could never decide.

This much larger dragon looked quite a bit like Greit. His long tail was even coiled around the base of his body in much the same way. And his molten silver eyes were watching me.

It seemed silly to think that he would pick me out of the crowd. Then again, I was the only one who seemed to notice him. There was a prickle along my skin when he looked at me, like someone was rubbing ice on my arms.

And then, with as little fanfare as he’d appeared, the dragon was gone. Just like that, flickered into nothingness. I felt like a weight had lifted off of my chest, and the bustle of the real world around me burst against my senses.

Not real, I told myself. Not possible, and not real.

I didn’t really buy it. But I also had no desire to find out how mental health care in the UK stacked up against mental health care in the US.

With one final glance back at the castle to make sure he was really, truly gone, I turned and walked into the clothing store that was my original goal.

Two days later, I saw the knight.

I thought he was an actor at first. I was walking to work, head down as I navigated the cobblestone street, and I heard the sound of hooves on the pavement. I frowned at the unexpected sound and looked up.

There he was. A full-on knight in freaking armor.

He was tall and chiseled, blond hair an effortless halo above a bright suit of silver armor. Underneath heavy, metal-clad legs, a sturdy horse pranced impatiently. He was holding a matching helmet, and a shield emblazoned with a vengeful dragon.

My dragon, I thought again. It looked like the same dragon.

But this guy is just some Ren Faire actor, I told myself. It didn’t explain why no one else seemed to notice him, but there had to be some explanation grounded in reality.

The world spun. Something was not right. I was seeing things that shouldn’t be here, and I so did not want to go down that path again.

Everything was fuzzy for a minute, and then I realized I was on the ground, butt planted on hard stone, hands splayed to keep me from falling onto my back. I took a deep breath, waved off a concerned stranger, and looked back up.

The knight was gone.

One week later, my imaginary brother showed up at my door.

Chapter Two

It was evening . I was watching the sun set, jagged streaks of color sending the castle into shadow as they slowly darkened into dusk. I had worked a long day, and I was looking forward to finishing the evening with a book by my flat’s little fireplace when I heard a firm knock on the door.

Years of being alone had taught me to distrust things that seemed out of place. The only knocks on my door since I’d moved in had been food delivery. I hadn’t ordered any food, and I didn’t know any of my neighbors. I didn’t have any friends here. No reason for someone to be knocking on my door in the evening.

So I approached the door with a healthy dose of caution. By the time I’d overcome my initial disbelief and started in that direction, the knocks came again. I padded the last few steps quickly and looked out of the peephole.

No one there.

I frowned and leaned back. It must have been someone knocking on a neighbor’s door. Nothing to…

Knock, knock, knock.

This time I didn’t bother with the peephole. My heart was racing and I couldn’t explain why I was so terrified, but I drew out a knife I kept in a drawer near the front door and held it tight against my leg. I left the security chain latched and inched the door open with my free hand.

The boy outside was around 18, like me, tall and gangly with a messy shock of red hair that was a carbon copy of my longer version. His eyes, like mine, were large and green. He smiled a crooked grin, one cheek dimpling.

The knife fell to the floor with a startling clatter. I didn’t even realize I’d let go.

Hey, sis, Oliver said. Gonna let me in?

I slammed the door in his face.

This could not be happening. I was having some kind of breakdown. I leaned my back against the door and slid to the ground.

In the back of my mind, there was a nagging voice telling me that I knew it was him. I had always known he was real, that I didn’t make him up. No matter how many cops and therapists and social workers tried to tell me my twin didn’t exist, I knew that he did. And I had known he was alive. That was part of what had kept me so insistent with those same therapists and social workers and cops for so long, no matter how much trouble my refusal to adjust to reality had caused me. I needed someone to believe me. I needed someone to help me find him and make sure he was safe. But no one would, and I was a kid. I had to give up.

Now he was here. Standing outside my door, alive, and over a decade older. But what was to say this wasn’t another hallucination, like the knight or the dragon? Those things obviously could not be real. Maybe I really was crazy.

Oliver and I, seven years old, walking down a street with our mother. We had ice cream cones, big ones, and my ice cream dripped down the cone, leaving chocolate streaks on my hand. My mother laughed, her hearty guffaw, and it made me smile up at her. She smiled back, her teeth bright against red lips—the same red as her hair—and she leaned down to wipe my face with a napkin.

Such a pretty lass, she said. Can’t tell when your face is covered in gook.

She straightened, taking my hand as we sped up to catch up to Oliver, oblivious that he had left us behind as he licked his strawberry cone. He grinned at us as we reached him, and my mother ruffled his hair affectionately.

My skin goosebumped in a cold wind that bit through the air out of nowhere. Ahead, a shadow stepped out of the darkness.

This time, the knock was more uncertain.

Kenzie? Oliver called through the door.

No one called me that. No one except my mother, and…

Oh God. That was my brother out there.

You can’t be real, I said. Loud enough for him to hear, but I didn’t want to yell and involve the neighbors. Or maybe I did. They could tell me if there was a lanky redheaded guy standing outside my door or I needed to put a call in to a psychiatrist.

There was a moment of perplexed silence, and then Oliver called back, Definitely real. Pretty sure.

They told me you weren’t real. That came out more like a whimper. You can’t be here because you don’t exist. I made you up.

I’m here and I’m real, Kenzie. Please let me in and we can talk. I’ll explain everything.

I was shaking when I stood up, but I needed to face him. Real or not, he was standing at my door and I needed answers.

Trembling hands turned the knob and opened the door enough to give me another look at him. Messy red hair, green eyes, one imperfect dimple. All grown up, but… this was my brother.

I swayed a little as the memory overwhelmed me.

I couldn’t tell if the shadowy person was male or female. Nothing unusual about someone lurking in the street in the city at night. Except they were the only person out, on this usually busy street. My seven-year-old self was starting to feel that something was off, just as my mother stopped dead in her tracks.

You are not welcome here, she said, and it came out almost a growl. A chill was seeping into my bones, colder than the wind that had picked up so fast. My mother pushed me behind her, and I couldn’t see the shadow ahead anymore.

The voice was deep, guttural.

I only need one.

My mother stiffened.

Never, she said. They are not yours.

I could hear her muttering quick words under her breath, could feel the rapid tap of her fingers on her leg, knocking out a steady beat. I peer around my mother, who is distracted trying to do whatever she is doing and trying to push my brother out of the way. Oliver stands straight as an arrow, staring at the threatening entity with no more obvious concern than a furrowed brow. My brave, naive twin.

You’re being very stupid, Shea, the shadow said, and even as I saw it begin to move, my mother was shoving me backward, yelling.

RUN! she shouted. The word pushed at me, and though I didn’t want to leave my mother, my legs seemed to move of their own volition.

The shadow made a quick movement, and I saw blood fly through the air.

But I was already running, as hard as I could, tiny feet pounding into pavement. I couldn’t see anything—I think I was crying. By the time I realized that I was alone, by the time my feet seemed to come back under my control, I could no longer see my family or the shadowy figure.

I sprinted back to the spot I had left my mother and brother. My mother was there. Lying motionless on the ground, her red hair spread around her, a lighter red than the dark blood that had soaked the concrete, that still seeped from a jagged cut across her throat.

I screamed and screamed and screamed. Eventually, someone came. But it was too late. My mother was dead. My brother was gone.

And yet… here he is, I told myself. And then I let myself believe it. A rush of joy sent me jolting forward, and I was hugging him before he could make it through the door.

I knew you were alive, I breathed into my twin’s collarbone. And I felt him laugh as he hugged me back.

Chapter Three

Ichecked the hallway before locking the door behind Oliver to make sure it was clear. Somehow, none of neighbors had heard my hysterical shouts, and as far as I could tell there were no evil shadows following my brother.

Oliver looked a little abashed as I turned back to face him. His gaze drifted over my bookshelf, my fireplace, my couch, and then finally back to me. A lump rose in my throat as I tried to figure out what to do next. I wanted to cry, and I wanted to yell at him, and there was so much I wanted to tell him and to ask him.

You probably have a lot of questions, he said. I know I do.

Let’s sit down, I offered. Too much time as a waitress—my customer service skills kicked in automatically. Can I make you some tea?

As the water boiled I bustled around the kitchen, finding excuses to keep myself busy. Oliver sat awkwardly on my couch, waiting, as I poured the boiling water and arranged the cups on a small silver tray I’d found at a local secondhand store. I tried to keep my hands steady as I lifted it and carried it to the living room.

Something wasn’t right. I’d known that right away, and it could be dismissed by the fact that I’d been told for nearly half my life that this person sitting in front of me was a figment of my imagination. But it was more than that. Where had he come from? Why was he in Scotland, of all places, when we’d lost each other in Texas? And why was he turning up now, grown and fine and acting like he never left me?

I set the tea tray down on the coffee table and arranged myself in a chair across from him. Oliver smiled and took a cup, and then stared at the hot liquid for nearly a minute before speaking again.

I don’t know where to start, he said.

Neither do I, I admitted. So why don’t we start at the beginning?

I went first. I told him my memory of that night.

I thought you were behind me when I ran, I said. I never would have left without you, but…

He shook his head. You didn’t have a choice, Kenzie. I would have done the same thing.

You didn’t, I thought, but I took a deep breath and forged on. "After… when the police got there, they took Mom’s body away. After that, they took me back to the station, and they just kept asking me questions. They wanted me to describe the person I’d seen, but I could only remember the voice. I told them over and over that they had to find you, and at first, they jumped on it.

But after hours of looking…the police officer and the social worker who had been talking to me came back in, and they told me there was no record of you. That I didn’t have a twin. They told me to stop lying, and when I insisted you were real, they started ignoring me.

I paused and sipped my tea. It was still too hot, but I didn’t care. Oliver was staring at his.

I wondered why no one came for me, he said.

My voice cracked as I tried to respond. I wanted to, Oliver, I wanted to so badly. But no matter how much I insisted, they wouldn’t believe me. At first they were patient—they thought I was traumatized or something, and they tried to explain that you were an imaginary friend and I was just finding a way to cope with this horrible thing that had happened to me… but after awhile they stopped being so nice. And then they just decided I was crazy.

I told him about being in the hospital. How they had tried to put me in foster care, over and over, but it never worked out. I cried too much, I wouldn’t stop asking for my brother. I ended up in group homes, and then…

I didn’t tell him about the really weird stuff. The little fires that would start when I got angry. Objects flying from across the room at the girls who bullied me. I didn’t trust him enough. Not yet.

Instead, I just told him about being bounced around, from place to place, never settling anywhere until I was old enough to age out of the foster care system. I skimmed past the waitressing jobs I’d taken for a few months to add to the little bit of money our mother had left behind, and my decision to come to Scotland. He would understand that it reminded me of our mother, that it was the farthest and most welcoming place I could land, once I was completely on my own.

When I finished I noticed that I was crying, and so was Oliver. Without a word I set down my tea and moved from my chair to the couch next to him, slipping my hand into his. He gripped hard and I let him. I couldn’t believe how much I’d been missing him. It was a part of me I’d just shoved way down, after so much time and so much denial, and now our twin connection came surging back in a wave of devastating emotion.

We sat in silence for a few minutes before he told his side of the story.

Chapter Four

My brother had very hazy memories of the night our mother died. He remembered eating ice cream with me, and walking ahead when mom and I lagged behind. He remembered a shadowy figure ahead of us, and just as I did, he remembered our mother murmuring words under her breath, the shadow arguing with her, our mother shouting, RUN!…

After that, everything was a blur for him. The shadow grabbed him. He screamed, but he was caught in what felt and looked like a solid fog. Every movement hurt and required a massive amount of effort. When he tried to speak or cry out, nothing happened. And then everything went black.

When he woke up, it was daylight. He was in a room on a ship. No one was there, but he could feel the rock of the water beneath him, and he could smell the salt. After awhile, just when he was starting to feel hungry and scared, a woman knocked and entered the tiny room.

She was beautiful, he said, in the way that the women in Renaissance paintings were. Tall, curvy and wistful, with crimson waves of hair that fell past her waist.

Hello, Oliver, she said as she entered, with a warm smile that made him feel immediately at ease. I’m your Aunt Evelyn.

He was confused that day, he told me. He didn’t believe her when she told him our mother was dead. She told him she didn’t know what had happened to me, but she promised to find out.

A few days later they reached Scotland, and traveled into the Highlands, where Aunt Evelyn lived. In a castle.

She gave me a large room and every amenity, he said. "But after a couple