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  Shattered: A Tempest Coven Novel

  Tempest Coven

  Wendolyn Baird

  Published by Wendolyn Baird, 2019.

  Shattered

  Copyright © 2019 by Wendolyn Baird

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced or used without written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, incidences, and locations are either the products of the author’s imagination, or else used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  Cover photo by Justin Patterson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Tania

  Chapter 2: Tania

  Chapter 3: Tania

  Chapter 4: Atlas

  Chapter 5: Atlas

  Chapter 6: Atlas

  Chapter 7: Atlas

  Chapter 8: Tania

  Chapter 9: Atlas

  Chapter 10: Atlas

  Chapter 11: Tania

  Chapter 12: Atlas

  Chapter 13: Tania

  Chapter 14: Atlas

  Chapter 15: Atlas

  Chapter 16: Tania

  Chapter 17: Atlas

  Chapter 18: Tania

  Chapter 19: Tania

  Chapter 20: Tania

  Chapter 21: Tania

  Chapter 22: Atlas

  Chapter 23: Tania

  Chapter 24: Atlas

  Chapter 25: Tania

  Chapter 26: Tania

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  For the people that never gave up on me, or my writing.

  For the third grade teacher who taught me how to write a story, and for the college professor who exclaimed with relief over my very late assignment, “Oh thank God! You’re a writer!”

  For my cousin who left behind a book at our grandparent’s house and inadvertently opened the door to fantasy for me, and for everybody who has had to put up with my bookworm tendencies ever since.

  And for you, dear reader. Thank you.

  Chapter 1: Tania

  FAR ABOVE ME, THE MOON sings in the night, allowing darkness to cover the Earth as the coven gathers together, our footsteps clattering against the stone pavilion. They link their arms into an unbreakable mass, and I hide my hands to quell the shaking as I prepare to say goodbye. This is my sentencing, this is my fault, and this could be my final hour.

  Miles behind me is the city, refineries still lighting the air with their burning towers, homes and businesses obscured in the darkness beyond them. Somewhere among them is my sister, safe. That's the only thing that matters now.

  “Tania Juliette Tempest, you stand accused of associating with a Death Coven, nearly losing the life of your charge, and hiding the girl from this gathering. How do you plead?”

  I don't know where the voice comes from, it seems to echo from beneath the shadows of every darkened face that stares me down. My aunts, my neighbors, my mother even. Each one prepared to strike me down for the sin of being weak. Screw them.

  Raising my chin to the moon, I close my eyes, and spit out my words, “Unabashedly guilty.”

  Shrieks and growls fill the air as the elders’ wilder familiars protest my obscene refusal to kneel in apology. They demand my humiliation and groveling, scream for my retribution, and step in closer, closing the circle around me to nothing more than a space where I can feel the heat off their bodies and saliva from their words. My heart pounds at the uproar, and deep within my pockets, my hands quiver and grow cold. Anger will keep me upright, but my fear will keep me still.

  Chapter 2: Tania

  WIDE EYES STARE DOWN at me, disapproval etched in every facet of her face and posture. The room is large enough to be called a suite, but like any hotel, it isn't truly comfortable. My feet shift on their own accord, and I can feel the muscles in my hands locking in place as I wrap my fists around my seat.

  “The punishment is clear enough. You can keep your name, your trailer, and the mirror, but that is it. I don't want you to expect any money, favors, or even a single word from me. The coven is done with you, and stars help me, so is your sister.”

  I expect the words to sting, but after twenty years of cold attention and formal hugs, the harshness is familiar. So, I take it like any other passing criticism- with a blank face and silent mouth.

  “We will find her, wherever you stashed her, and she'll have to face her own jury, so whatever your game is, you should give it up now.”

  Heat rises through my chest, and my lungs expand in my attempt not to scream. “I couldn't give her to you if I wanted to, but whatever you think this is, it isn't a game. It's never been a game. Not when we were little and you told us not to bother you unless we set something on fire, not when you took up those arcane meetings and left us alone every night, and not when you wrote her off and decided I needed to clean up the mess.”

  Heat attracts fire, and wild, dark eyes dance in my face as my mother rears back. “Little girls should learn to care for themselves, it's not my fault you were too weak to carry that burden. Maybe if you'd learn to control that temper of yours, your sister wouldn't be half dead and hiding from the family that loves her!”

  It's just too much, all of it. I've nearly killed myself over the past week first hiding Sasha, and now trying to find her before I'm shoved out, but it's clear that I won't find help here. So I do the only thing left to do.

  Standing, I grab my bag, and stare her in the eye. My voice wavers through the pain, but still I manage to choke out my words. “You've never loved Sasha, or me.”

  The force of her slap doesn't register until I'm halfway to the parking lot, but the red handprint shines like a beacon against every side mirror and window that I pass. It's not until I can collapse in the safety of my RV, that finally let myself cry.

  I cry for my broken family, I cry for the loss of them. I cry for my disgrace, but most of all, I cry for the sister I can't find. And finally, I cry because the only thing I have left to resort to, the only thing that can help me find her, is a reminder of all of those things.

  I'm alone in the world with only my cat, and a heavy, silver mirror; its face a sparkling darkness that can swallow the world.

  Chapter 3: Tania

  THE WONDERFUL THING about crowds is they're deliciously easy to get lost in. I should welcome the heat that presses on me from all sides, and the pulsing flow of energy that conforms to my every move as people walk around me. But gratefulness has never been my strong suit.

  Yellowed grass crunches beneath my feet, as the sun scorches the brush just as much as the people who flatten it. My fingertips dance along the counters of the booths I pass, twisting around the festival goers and grasping at the stray tendrils from the air that float off their auras.

  My throat is parched with thirst and nerves, and a metallic taste remains on my tongue no matter how many desperate cups of water I consume. It's been six days since I lost Sasha, three days since I felt the presence of another witch, a good five hundred miles since I felt like I was in my own territory, and approximately eighteen hours since I passed the city limits marker heading into this hell hole. I'm still not sure if the homemade sign beside it was a joke or a law, but I'm trying to keep my head down just in case.

  No witches allowed.

  Yet here I am, and here I'll stay, damned until I can save Sasha. Damn the mirror for leading me here. Damn my mother for forcing my hand to scry.

  With bitter annoyance and anxiety pulsing through me, I pick my way through crowded aisles, painfully aware that the flashiest
booths are at the forefront. No doubt they were picked by the organizers as the obvious favorites without giving the others a chance. I know she's far away, I know an entirely different crowd of people was responsible for that choice, but it still makes me cringe. Mother always loved to give me the illusion of choices while neatly sending me straight down the path she wanted me to take; and these small aisles are hauntingly familiar in that regard. I've had enough of that manipulation to last a lifetime, and now that there's a deadline, I don't have time to play this game again.

  Waves of canvas hats pass back and forth in front of my eyes, as the festival’s mundane activities distract both locals and tourists alike. My legs are sticky with sweat, and the humidity that inches about my body leaves a persistent discomfort that follows me from one canopy to the next. The longer I walk, the more irritation floods my veins like the heat that's barraging me from above, and emphasizes the stifling energy of each passing person.

  Mortals, all mortals.

  The only edge of magic I can sense are the unmoving slabs of power that echo off of the mages that are hiding somewhere on the other side of these counters. I want to pull at the energy the mortals are so casually letting off, swat them away, just to find one of those mages. I'd do almost anything to get back to some form of civilization with comfort, but harming mortals isn't on that list.

  With a sigh, I flick my fingers away from my body and watch as the energy dissipates back into the crowd causing small fumbles and head turns as it flows.

  A woman stumbles, and her paper cup spills at my feet. It's my fault, though she assumes it's her own, and her face crumples in embarrassment, while I stare with stunned detachment. Her mouth is moving, but between the chatter of the crowd and my own distress, I can barely make out what she's saying. Probably apologies, or questions of some sort, and I really should respond.

  But a few errant bees are converging at my feet, and it's so much simpler to watch their desperate search for the spilled liquid. In this heat though, it's already gone. Every drop of lemonade has dispersed into the arid ground, leaving only the faintest trace of sugar, and it seems that even the earth is starving for a reprieve.

  Concerned eyes watch me with trepidation, and I can't bring myself to care. The noise and heat are inescapable, but even worse is this feeling of being trapped in my own head. I'm standing in a place where the Earth itself is dying off, how am I supposed to find Sasha here? Why would she come to a place like this? Tremors of panic build inside my chest, threatening to escape, and I clamp my jaw tighter to keep the anguish in.

  A jumble of movement jars me from myself and anchors me back to the world about me with dizzying speed. The blonde woman has wandered off to buy another drink, and I find myself in the midst of a family impatiently pushing their way around me. Elbows, shoulders, and hair whip about in the dry wind, and with disgruntled confusion, I push my own hair out of my face.

  It's a small action, and nowhere near true telekinesis, but it does hurry the family on their way as the breeze picks up with a flick of my hand. That's another thing I love about crowds. So easy to manipulate people without their notice. Forcing a smirk, the closest to a smile as I can get, I press on, allowing the anxious knot in my stomach to drag my feet forward. through the crowd.

  A red balloon bobs about at shoulder level, and the small, freckled hand that tugs it along catches my eye. The young girl clinging to it twists her face around to stare at me, apparently aware of my gaze. Beyond her, the balloon bounces on, drawing static into the sun bleached hair that dances about her ruddy cheeks, and her fair brows pull down inquisitively.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I have to stop my hands from reaching out to hug her. She reminds me of Sasha, when Sasha still loved me. That feels like years ago now, but this isn't my sister, and I force myself to focus on the energy about me and keep looking.

  All families have their secrets and fights, and I'm betting that even includes the mortals in a tiny town like this.

  “Come on, El. Let me help.” A single voice rises above the rest, and I jerk my head towards the words, caught by a familiar cadence in the sound. A vibration as faint as a hummingbird's wings pulls on my chest, but as I turn, I know I've never met these men.

  There's two of them, lounging amongst glittering tables, and my panic slides away in a brief moment of surprise. Everything in their reach is metal, sleek or shining. The array varies from delicate jewelry adorned with gemstones and Celtic knots, to mailboxes and weathervanes proudly engraved with sigils and runes; each and every piece obviously and purposefully made with magic. I can't hold back a gasp as the hollow feeling in my stomach is replaced by a quick flutter of nerves and amazement. I may not have found my sister yet, but there's a certainty in my soul that tells me I've found someone who can.

  “No! You're just going to laugh at me more!”

  El is clutching his temple and seems to be in pain, with a grimace etched across his face as he waves his partner away.

  The leaner of the two holds his hand up in a show of solemnity and angles himself just enough for me to see his face.

  “I promise, I won't even smile. But come on, I need to take the stinger out or it's going to get worse.” His voice is rich, and good natured as he reaches towards the first.

  They look like brothers, or maybe cousins, and as I stand in the shadows, with my heart pounding against my ribs, I find that I can't take my eyes off the one speaking.

  He seems so stable. Rooted. His feet actually appear to be planted below the top layer of soil, and as he leans against one of the tables and stretches out his arms, his silhouette resembles a tree twisting its branches to the sky. Dark hair falls over his forehead, and he rubs his face free of sweat that is plaguing us all in this insufferable heat. Laughing again, I can see the slightest dimples appearing in his grin, then flashing away as though they never existed at all.

  El shoves his shoulder lightly, “What happened to not laughing?” He demands, his forehead crumpled, no longer in pain but rather annoyance.

  His partner tilts his jaw up and shrugs, “There's a possibility I was lying.”

  Flexing his arm out in front of him, he twists his wrist with a purposeful movement, and I fixate on the band of ink that surrounds it. Glancing up the rest of his arm, it’s clear that the heavy sleeve of tattoos that run across his skin are magical symbols, and the buzzing in my ears grows louder.

  “Man, get out of here Atlas! Just give me some space, okay?”

  Brothers. Definitely brothers. The way El kicks half-heartedly at the other's leg is the familiarity only siblings possess.

  The one named Atlas starts sauntering off into the crowd, and without a second thought, I run after him. My neck is prickling with a chill that creeps up my spine, in spite of the sun, and my hands shake, desperate to catch up with this man.

  Chapter 4: Atlas

  “ALRIGHT, SO WHAT LEVEL are you?”

  A slender pair of legs, clad in denim cutoffs, come into view over the top of my novel, and I glance up in mock surprise.

  “Excuse me?” Bold of her to question me, as though I hadn't noticed being frantically followed away from my booth. I am surprised she let me order my coffee and sit though, before rushing up.

  Her dark hair is pinned back by silver crescents, and sharp collar bones peek out from her loose tank top, as she holds herself in a slight, restless stance. Setting my book across my knee, I assess her carefully. Her expression is fierce and she's disturbingly desperate for something, but not necessarily dangerous.

  “Your level,” she repeats. “Come on, what are you?”

  Dragging my gaze from each of her ink-free arms to the barest bits of her shoulders, I can assume she has no hidden tattoos, which tells me she's most likely not a mage. My mouth ambles its way to my cheekbones on its own accord, and without fully considering it, I lean closer towards her. “I'm not sure, witch, what would you say I am?”

  It's a gamble, calling her out. If I'm wrong, I'm going t
o have to deal with a very offended woman who obviously has no trouble raising her voice or making demands. The other patrons in the cafe don't seem bothered by our exchange, but one of the baristas is already glancing at us nervously. Either our body language is uncomfortable, or they want us to clear out and make room for other customers.

  “I'd say you're a very high class, if you can identify a witch within a few seconds, and made all the work that I saw in the booth back there. All your designs have a very Gaelic feel to them, add that to all of your tattoos, and you're a dead giveaway for a mage. But I am interested. If you really are so well versed, shouldn't you be working somewhere else besides a little festival?”

  Her words come out like a flood, falling over themselves in one rushed exhale, as though she doesn't have time to speak. I ought to walk away now, maybe find someone else to talk to a little more... sane. In fact, I know I should alert the Council and let them figure out why a witch is here, but there's something about her gaze that holds me to my seat. She almost looks like she is hovering above the ground, as much tethered to it as I am, but floating just out of reach.

  Maybe it's sheer surprise, but somewhere between the demanding angle of her jaw and the raw questions in her stare, my heart begins to skip. I could walk away, I could lie. I should.

  Instead, my mouth opens to answer truthfully. “I'm a level six. And I can do what I want. I don't have to work the festivals, I like to work the festivals, this is my home and I happen to enjoy meeting the people that come through. Most of them. Your kind is usually the only exception to that.”

  Her demanding demeanor flickers as she takes a quick step backwards, and something close to fear flashes in her eyes.

  “No offense,” I continue in a calmer voice. "But most of you fly through this place like there's not even a name on the map. Then the ones that do stay awhile, well by the time they're through, half the people in this town are either magicked into next year or heartbroken by someone who couldn't find it in themselves to stay more than a couple of months.”