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CHAPTER THIRTY

S o as I said, losing my virginity to Rath turned out to be a wonderful experience. I’ve heard so many women say their first time was awful or just not very good. But the big Orc was such a thoughtful and giving lover, sex with him was great every time.

I tried not to think about the family curse or the fact that Rath and I might be Heartmates, and I successfully ignored it until it was shoved in my face again a little while later.

It happened when I was searching through my Grandma’s Grimoire, looking for another recipe I hoped would impress Celia at The Lost Lamb.

As I thumbed carefully through the pages of the ancient book, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—at the very back there was a whole clump of pages that were stuck together.

I frowned as I teased gently at one of the pages, trying to pry it loose.

What had happened here? Had someone been making a recipe with something sticky in it and accidentally glued this part of the book together?

I didn’t know but I did know I wanted to see what was on those pages—they felt important somehow.

Taking the Grimoire down to the kitchen, I put the old-fashioned tea kettle on to boil. When it started to whistle and steam, I held the kettle and aimed it at the glued-together pages, carefully steaming them until they began to loosen and pull apart.

I sat at the kitchen table and carefully aired the pages.

As I peeled them away from each other, I saw that they held a lot of writing.

It wasn’t recipes or anything—it looked like someone had written almost a kind of story.

Then, on one page, I saw something that gave me a shock—it was a drawing of a thin male face, twisted with anger.

The eyes were pure evil—staring with malevolent hatred in a way that made my skin crawl.

“That’s it—that’s him!” I exclaimed, staring at the page. It was the face I had seen in my dreams—the same one I thought I saw when we spent the night in Baba Yaga’s hut. But who was he?

With trembling hands, I turned back to the beginning of the pages and began to read…

“Know then that we are Cursed. We, the female descendants of Mercy Pruitt who was the first witch of our line, have a Curse upon us and we shall not soon be rid of it,” the story began.

I read on, my eyes getting wider as my stomach twisted in knots.

The story—which was written in a flowing, old-fashioned cursive handwriting and had capitals in odd places—was an account of my ancestors, dating back to the time of the Salem Witch trials.

According to the story, my many-times-great Grandmother, Mercy Pruitt, was one of the women accused of witchcraft, not in Salem, but in another small town in the same area called Andover.

I frowned. I had read about the Salem Witch trials back in school—I had even done a report on them. But I hadn’t read about anything similar to the Salem trials happening in other towns.

I also didn’t remember seeing any mention of a woman named Mercy Pruitt or the villain in the story—a man who was described as a “Witch Finder” by the name of Milas James.

But maybe that was because these trials had happened in a different town and the events hadn’t been as publicized as they had been in Salem.

According to the story, (which was written by Mercy Pruitt’s great granddaughter, Charity,) a Witch Finder by the name of Milas James came to the township of Andover. Accusations soon started flying and he had many of the women of Andover arrested—including Charity.

“My mother, of course, was indeed a Witch—but not the sort that Milas James Claimed. For she did not dance naked in the moonlight with the Horned One, nor did she Fornicate with Satan and his Imps,” Charity wrote.

“Indeed, it is only that she had THE POWER—which all we of her line did so inherit—that we are able to bend the Natural World to our Will through the use of Spells and Cantrips and Potions.”

Hmm…I had brewed a potion, but that was by accident. Also, I didn’t seem to need spells to make my magic work. I wondered if the power Charity wrote about had somehow mutated over the many generations?

“Milas James did lock Mercy up and then he Condemned her to Die,” the story went on. “For not only was Milas James a Witch Finder—he was also a Warlock of the most Evil kind and he wished to steal her Power for himself.”

Wow—that was a twist! I kept on reading—I was now on the page with the awful face. It was a drawing of Milas James, apparently. I wondered what had happened to him…and to my many-times-great Grandmother.

“He tried to Drown her and he tried to Burn her, but each time Mercy cast a Charm of Protection on herself,” the story went on.

“And then, one night, she did escape His Clutches. But she knew that Milas James would never stop hunting her—such was his Lust for her Power that he would follow her to the Ends of the Earth. And so, through her Magic Arts, she found a way to lock his spirit away in the Dark Realm. Behind the Black Door he resides and so lives on forever, though he is Banished from the Land of the Living.”

I frowned as I studied the drawing again. Though it was done in black ink, I could almost see those menacing eyes glowing angry red as they narrowed in hate. Lust for Power indeed—I bet that Milas James was one of those men that hated women and wanted to harm them all. A seventeenth century incel.

At last I dragged my gaze from the disturbing drawing and went on reading.

“Mercy left Andover and founded the town we live in still—Hidden Hollow—banding with the Creatures around her to form a barrier of magic which holds the Outside World at bay. At first she thought herself Safe. But she WAS NOT,” the story went on ominously.

“For the Evil of Milas James was too much to Completely Contain. To Mercy’s great Sorrow, he laid a Curse on her and her descendants—that every time a Pruitt woman finds her Heartmate, he shall be able to open the black door and come forth to wreak havoc on the One she Loves. ”

Here it was—the family curse! I read on, my heart sinking as I scanned the lines.

“For every Heartmate of a Pruitt woman must and shall die by the hand of Milas James,” it went on. “His Spirit enters into them and drives them MAD until DEATH takes them. It is a most Vile and Terrible death and none has yet been able to break the Curse.”

I thought of that black door with the red X painted on it opening…thought of the gaunt-faced man with the burning red eyes coming out and going to find Rath…

“No!” I said out loud, pounding with one fist on the table. “That can’t be it! There has to be something I can do!”

There was more so I kept reading, but the image of Milas James and his glowing red eyes wouldn’t leave my mind.

“However, Hope has been given to us in the form of a Prophesy—which is why I am writing this account,” the book went on.

“For today, the fifth day after the death of my beloved Heartmate, John, I was Scrying for to see the Future.

And it was given to me to know that in the Eleventh Generation the daughter of a Pruitt Witch shall be born.

She shall be a Natural Witch and need neither Charm nor Potion to work her magic.

She will be strong enough to defeat Milas James once and for all and free her Daughters of this Curse.

These are the Words that were Given to me for Her.

Where the stream runs Swift and Pure

There our Sorrow She shall Cure

There the Evil one she’ll Take

And at last the Curse she’ll Break

Though it may invade your Dreams

Evil cannot Cross the stream…

I frowned as I read the little poem several times. I knew that many superstitions held that evil things couldn’t cross running water, but what stream was my ancestor talking about? The stream that ran at the end of the backyard, maybe? The one that marked the boundary of my Grandma’s property?

But how did that help me if the mysterious door was appearing here in the house? What was I supposed to do—lure the spirit of Milas James out the back door and through the backyard to edge of the water? And even if I got him there—then what?

I went on reading, hoping to get more clues on what I was supposed to do, but there were only a few more lines—very sad ones.

“Until the Natural Witch comes, we must Endure. I weep for my John and I Pray to see him again some day in the Afterlife…”

These last words were blotched, as though my ancestress had been crying when she wrote them and the tears had made the ink she was using run. Poor woman! I wondered how long she’d had her own Heartmate before he was taken from her?

A bigger question was, was the prophesy talking about me?

Was I a “Natural Witch?” But even if I was, how was I supposed to defeat the evil spirit of Milas James?

I didn’t know and I was afraid for Rath.

What if something happened to him? What if Milas James came through the black door and drove him crazy or killed him somehow?

I went back to the front of the book and looked at the family tree. Under the names there were dates. My heart sank all over again when I saw that the men in my family had all died young.

My Grandfather had been forty when he died and my own father had only been thirty-eight.

He and my mother had been together about five years before he passed, I remembered.

And it was shortly after that she’d had my magic bound and asked Baba Yaga to put the memory spell on me, so that I would forget my Grandma and all of Hidden Hollow.

I remembered now that Madam Healer had said that my Mom had just lost my Dad when she’d made that decision. She must have been half-crazy with grief and had decided that she would do everything she could to keep me away from the magical world in an effort to keep the Curse from affecting me.

But Grandma didn’t agree with her. She believed that I could break the Curse. Rapidly, I counted the names and lines. Yes, I was the eleventh generation removed from Mercy Pruitt. But was I really strong enough to take on the evil spirit that had been tormenting and killing my family for centuries?

I didn’t know but I was afraid that very soon I would have to find out.