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Wicca: The Witches of New York: Wicca, #1
Wicca: The Witches of New York: Wicca, #1
Wicca: The Witches of New York: Wicca, #1
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Wicca: The Witches of New York: Wicca, #1

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Wicca

Jessica, a Rebellious New Yorker, uncovers a world of magic and meets dangerous enemies when she unwittingly  discovers witches in her city.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherW H Benjamin
Release dateDec 31, 2016
ISBN9781542726573
Wicca: The Witches of New York: Wicca, #1
Author

W H Benjamin

Tendo começado a escrever desde cedo, iniciando o primeiro romance aos dezesseis anos de idade, o autor completou desde então: - Uma coleção de poesias; "O Sino da Revolução", da qual um poema foi selecionado e apresentado na seção Poemas de Amor, Forbidden Love, no popular app de leitura Wattpad para promover o lançamento do filme Romeu e Julieta. - Assim como o romance "Não chove na Colômbia", um best-seller do Amazon Kindle, que alcançou o número 13 na categoria Literatura e Ficção YA (Top 100 gratuito no Dia dos Namorados), - O livro infantil, história de aventura e ação, "Thomas e A Máquina do Tempo", e - "Minha Princesa", um Thriller Jovem Adulto ambientado em um internato suíço. W.H. Benjamin gosta de pintar, desenhar, ler, livros de ficção e história, e adora escrever em todas as suas formas

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    Book preview

    Wicca - W H Benjamin

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    Table of Contents

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    Further Reading: It Never Rains in Colombia

    Books by W .H. Benjamin:

    The Revolution Bell (A Collection of Poems)

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    Wicca

    By

    W .H. Benjamin

    Wicca: The Witches of New York

    ISBN-10: 1542726573

    ISBN-13: 978-1542726573

    Printed and Published in Great Britain by

    BrightSpark Books 2016

    Published: December 2016

    Visit our author's blog: notecandy.wordpress.com

    Copyright © October 2015 by W .H. Benjamin

    Bright Spark Books Ltd

    86-90 Paul Street

    London

    EC2A 4NE

    enquiries@brightsparkbooks.org

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

    transmitted in any form or by other means without permission in

    writing from the author, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

    Copyright permission was sought by the author for the use of the images used in this book, but where this was not possible and amendments are required, arrangements will be made at the earliest opportunity.

    Wicca

    Jessica, a Rebellious New Yorker, uncovers a world of magic and meets dangerous enemies when she unwittingly  discovers witches in her city.

    Contents Page

    Chapter 1  – All Hallows’ Eve

    Chapter 2 - The Witches of New York

    Chapter 3 - The Beginning

    Chapter 4 –  The Witching Hour

    Chapter 5 –  Sentinel (Part 1)

    Chapter 6 –  Sentinel (Part 2)

    Chapter 7 - Witchling

    Chapter 8 - The Dragon Keepers

    Chapter 9 - Dragon’s Blood

    Chapter 10 – Helen...of Madison Avenue

    Chapter 11 – The Daywalker (Part 1)

    Chapter 12 – The Daywalker (Part 2)

    Chapter 13 – The Poison Cup and Past Lives (Part 1)

    Chapter 14 - The Poison Cup and Past Lives (Part 2)

    Chapter 15 - The Witches’ Council (Part 1)

    Chapter 16 - The Witches Council (Part 2)

    Chapter 17 - Ashes to Ashes (Part 1)

    Chapter 18 - Ashes to Ashes (Part 2)

    Chapter 19 -  The Wicked Witch

    Chapter 20 - Toil and Trouble (Part 1)

    Chapter 21 - Toil and Trouble (Part 2)

    Chapter 22 - The Lucky Pearl

    Chapter 23 - Ice Witch

    Chapter 24 - Silver Falls

    Chapter 25 - The Fates

    Chapter 26 - Moriarty’s Curiosity Shop

    Dedication

    I dedicate this book to my parents who always encouraged me and my brother and sister who mean the world to me. You all inspire me everyday.

    Chapter 1 - All Hallow’s Eve

    ––––––––

    The Prophecies were half lie, half truth, like most prophecies they relied more on intelligent guessing and the falling together of random events which bore nothing more than a coincidental resemblance to their description to give them worth. But the settlers thought that there was some truth in these, that was what mattered and perhaps there was.

    Professor Jacob Brown, American History, Yale

    It started in 1698 in the colony of New Haven, a child was born, on the brink of a dark winter's eve; on Halloween night, under a full moon. There was nothing special about the boy to the midwives' eyes except the half-moon crescent on the side of his leg, it appeared as a scar on his newborn flesh and she took it as an omen and crossed herself as he cried weakly. Outside, a coach rattled by. A harried coachman cracked his whip at the horses as their hooves dug down in to the english dirt. The driving rain pelted him from all directions and he shivered as the moon turned a blood red colour. At that very moment, a woman appeared from the trees by the roadside, she seemed to slink out from among the woods as a shadow or a wraith would, almost a snake on its belly. She stepped in to the road drew herself up to her full height and the horses reared up against her; in fear. The horses' legs stopped in motion; in mid air. The coachman shouted an oath at her and shrank back at her still form.

    Her white, ghostly, face covered by the hood of a heavy black cloak, alone blocked the road, she held one hand outstretched in front of her, a talisman, a silver necklace sparkled against her palm and held the animals entranced; hooves in the air frozen as if encased in ice.

    Agatha. He breathed into the chilly night air, a white cloud of warmth rising with his words as though from the smoke of hell's embers, as if, he'd spoken the name of death itself.

    The air around the coach shimmered as she spoke to him.

    All Hallow's Eve, it is said that the dark will rise and good shall fall against its might and on this night I bring a curse, on to you and yours, your children's children and all those you touch, they who are blinded by the light. Let night take them and make of them what it will. You will live forever as a creature, wicked looking, dumb to human ears and invisible to sight, speak and you will not be heard for yours is the life of the lowly bird. She snapped her fingers.

    The coachman froze, shook, his body rattled, moving from side to side at speed as he shrunk within his clothes, his mouth and nose extended into a beak and soon among the clothes there was nothing left but a pile of slightly muddy clothes where the coachman had been. Inside the nest of jacket, trousers and shirt; a thing moved, small and unsettled trying to escape, it was trapped.

    Meanwhile, at the back of the coach, the little girl unlocked the coach doors as quietly as she could and jumped down onto the muddy earth making a run for the woods. Her mother ran after her. Agatha disappeared as a mist would on the moors with ease; as quiet as you please chasing them across the woods in the stormy night.

    The thing on the driver's seat had grown and seemed to swell. It was freed, some minutes later when a band of robbers came to scrape a living by unharnessing the expensive looking horses from the coach. At first the robbers rode away with the two lead horses when their pistols poking into the back of the coach found no prey to make their sport. The two front horses were gone hurried away by two of the robbers. Whilst, the last two horses were being set free; to collect in a few hours a tidy sum for their new masters. A dirty hand came across the pile of clothes on the driver's seat, reached into the pockets of the abandoned coat and came away with a letter bound for Paris that was duly cast aside, falling to the soil. Searching further still moving the clothes aside, the robber yelled when something bit him and a mighty bird took flight. An owl, gripped a chain with an emerald stone in its beak, soaring away from the coach, it circled above the trees, flying up, up into the driving rain with the pale moon at its back, leaving the thieves below to wonder at it as they crowded around their compatriot, Isleworth, who was still crying out and holding on to a piece of his finger.

    It seemed as if a hundred men and women were following the little girl and her mother; the Comtesse Genevieve Louise de Rochechouart. The trees trembled, the roots digging deep into the quaking ground underfoot.

    Genevieve was descended from the oldest noble family in France and could trace her bloodline all the way back to the Carolingian age. But, Agatha, Agatha was descended from the oldest evil in the world...hate.

    The whole of the woods shook. The leaves stirred by a frightful gust of air.

    Mama who is it? the little voice had cried out in french when the coach had stopped, she asked again when the two had taken refuge by the side of a small ditch.

    Below them, a small brook shone in the moonlight and the water trembled as if something, Mermen as the settlers thought, just below the water stared on in fright.

    They clung to each other in desperation. Her mother in the dark reached out to silence the terrified girl shushing her softly in whispers, pleading with her to keep quiet, when the cry came. A shriek.

    Who am I? The Wicked Witch, the Wicked, Wicked Witch! The night formed into a shrouded figure moulding itself before their very eyes. The trees, starlight above and darkness all around became one solid form. Agatha grabbed the girl and she screamed, her fingers slipping from her mother's grasp.

    Chapter 2 - The Witches of New York

    October 2009

    Once Upon a Time in New York City...If I was writing the story of my life it would start like that with a girl in a nice house with a loving family who were always laughing, I don't know what they'd be laughing about but that's how I'd start it. Things used to be like that before,

    The teacher interrupted. Jessica the assignment was what I did for my summer holidays not the story of my life.

    The class roared with laughter and she sat down folding the paper up.

    Before my mother died, her voice had been drowned out by a rising sob and she was glad to be able to sit down again.

    I'm sorry, I didn't have time to do the homework. Jessica admitted glibly.

    Please see me after class.

    The teacher met with Jessica after class but she didn't have much to say other than telling her to try harder.

    The school was in a red brick building on the wrong side of the Hudson River, the kids that went there weren't the kind of kids that were ever going to be great at anything. According to the teachers the most they could hope for was to be average at everything and maybe just maybe if they were lucky one day they'd get a job in middle management in some big corporation with a desk with a little name card on it; their own little corner of the earth. These were the little things, sad observations and dispassionate commentaries on young lives that the nine year old Jessica had overheard the science teachers joking about near the car park once.

    Madison School, with it's beat up school bus and tattered looking principal wasn't much to be proud of but for the nine year olds and other children there was so much to look forward to in going to a new school; new friends, new information, discovering a whole new world seemed wonderful even if that world was made up of rags sewn into a patchwork quilt.

    Once upon a time in New York City there lived a girl in a little house, on a corner of a busy street in Brooklyn, she had a mother and a father and a little dog who followed her wherever she went. If Jessica had been old enough to write the story of her life that's how she might have started, she'd go back to a few weeks ago when these things were true; she had had a house and a foster mother and foster father but the little dog came later.

    She had been scared to go home, afraid to go in to that house and say the wrong thing and come out with bruises on her arms that she couldn't explain from where her foster mother, Angela, had shaken her. She only did it when Ed got upset about something. He only got upset when he shouted, he only shouted when he slurred his words and that happened about twice a week. Only Jessica didn't know when that would be, she'd been there for three weeks, and everyday after school finished she'd get home just before 4pm and unlock the door, sneak in as quietly as she could, take her shoes off and creep along the darkened corridor in her socks trying to reach the stairs before they could hear her come in. She would check on the twins; her three year old baby brother and sister who were usually napping and then creep back down to the pantry.

    The curtains were drawn in the living room that day, as usual, she could see him through a crack in the door, stretched across the sofa like a beached whale, the buttons of his bowling shirt popping open over the hump of his heaving belly but she couldn't see Angela and that worried her.

    Jessica rushed upstairs taking the steps two at a time bouncing up as lightly as she could, holding her breath as she approached her door. She crouched down to look through the keyhole, placing her shoes and backpack quietly on the ground next to her.

    Through the little pyramid of light below the door knob she saw Angela, in bed, as usual, huddled up under the blankets like a big storm was coming. She had the sheets pulled up to her chins and as Jessica looked a fat hand extended over the sheets reaching out blindly for the remote control, patting the food stained duvet cover around her, searching, her eyes glued to the screen. She was watching her shows. Jessica breathed out a little sigh of relief. She calculated that it would give her a good two hours of peace. She turned away to gather up her shoes and backpack, settled against the wall, and a gust of air made the peeling wallpaper tremble when the door swung open.

    Come here, you little brat! Angela grabbed Jessica's arm and dragged her down the stairs, lifting her bodily, digging in her nails so that little Jessica's eyes watered. When they were outside Angela said, You see this, she pointed to the pile of boxes in the front yard, This is your fault. If you had dumped them in the park like I told you too we wouldn't have...

    But I haven't, I didn't put them there.

    Hey, did I tell you that you could speak. Why I ought-a, she raised a hand and then lowered it a modicum to wave at one of the neighbours who was passing by just beyond the fence. Eileen, how's business? She called to the butcher's wife, she was just about the only person that Angela liked, largely, because she kept her in with a good supply of meat for the barbecue.

    Good, good, Mrs Edwards smiled at the little girl and her foster mother as she pushed her pram past. The people in the street hardly blinked at the two of them as Mrs Edwards passed and said, Are you being a good girl?

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