Wake Up, Witch

Chapter 1

1822

I remembered Brie running toward an awaiting carriage with just one bag. I remembered being furious as I returned to the ballroom, cursing the man who stole my sister away from me.

But then I also remembered the shutting of the doors and the few seconds of silence that followed. A brief moment of curiosity hung in the air before hell broke loose in the ballroom. First came the smoke, then the crackling fire that gnawed everything that breathed. The smell of burning flesh was stronger than the wails of pain.

It all stopped, replaced by a deafening silence, and I was back to where I woke up.

Motionless, staring at the dark ceiling, the pain from last night's winter solstice ball lingered on my feet. Even the tie of my dance card was fresh around my wrist. Images of whirling gowns and the sound of climbing music flooded my senses for a moment as I struggled to make sense of where I was or how I came to be here.

Did I just dream? But I never dreamed. Never for as long as I could remember.

If it wasn't a dream, what was it?

A memory.

My breath hitched as a smoke of confusion clouded my mind.

What in the bloody hell?

There are many ways to trick a witch, but I've only heard stories. You see, I was never someone susceptible to deception. I'd know if I was being played at.

Or would I?

Did someone rescue me from that ballroom? Did it happen at all? Maybe one of my stupid, amateur cousins played a trick or...

Did Evensen do something again? Did I fall into one of his stupid games again?

I balled my fist. I hate it when someone tries their tricks on me. And I despise it if they succeed.

When I realized I could move my hand, I took a lungful of air. Experimenting, I wiggled my feet. Then bent my legs. I tried to sit. Arms shaking, it took a few tries before I succeeded. My throat felt dry. Whatever they did to me last night, whoever they were, they would pay. I'd decapitate them in their dreams. I'd make them walk up to a guillotine and wait until they opened their eyes before dropping the blade.

No one plays tricks on Lady Aster Byrne.

Catching my breath because it was a struggle to even breath, I looked around. I had been lying on a small bed, a quarter of what I was used to. I really hoped I was just experiencing the worst hangover of my life. That maybe, with what happened with Brie, I drank myself to oblivion and transported myself in someone else's bedchamber.

But the wide glass window across from me and the view outside triggered the first thought that I may be in serious trouble.

The sight of what would have been my family's vast, rich fields was no more. It was everything I couldn't even have conjured in the dreaming realm. It was nighttime, but instead of the plain silhouettes of rolling hills, bright lights of different colors attacked my eyes. Some were moving, a few were even flying around slim towers.

The backdrop of lights made it a little difficult for my eyes, but as I focused, the image cleared just enough for me to recognize the woman with long, dark hair and a small face. I looked better yesterday at the ball, for certain, but the young lady looking back at me was still... me. She just needed a little sunlight because she was as pale as the victim she tortured in her father's cabin three weeks ago.

Definitely not just hangover.

My eyes frantically searched for a blemish—a flickering light, a door that wasn't supposed to be there. Any sign that I was not in the waking world. Mayhap I made a stupid mistake and trapped myself in someone's dream? But there was no blemish. And I knew dreams. I knew its every facet, every trick of its deceptive world. How it could be invaded, influenced, and morphed into a terrifying nightmare.

No. This was not a dream.

I was awake in the real world.

Which looked nothing like my world.

Gone were my heavy curtains, my mother's portrait on the wall, my closet of poppets, strings, and needle box. My cards, candles, and stones. The hairs and nails of my enemies.

There was nothing but white walls and muffled whirring sounds from outside. Feeling dizzy, I looked down. And because I would never dare put on such a horrible drab of a nightdress, I scrambled out of bed in utter and genuine panic.

Then fell. Right there on the floor in a heap of flesh and feeble muscles. A groan rolled up my dry throat, then a whimper as confusion took its place. I tried to stand, hanging on to the side of the bed, then failed.

I sputtered in frustration and fear. And wrath. I was furious. That's a given. I had never been a good-tempered witch, not even as a child who grew up with an uncle who was a priest.

Reaching for the bedpost, I pulled myself up with a grunt. My legs gave in almost instantly. But I've always been stubborn. If that fire really happened, it wouldn't be proper to waste my second life—if I truly died. My cat, who was down to its sixth life, would have laughed if it was there with me.

My mind, however, could not control everything. Not even my legs. So, I crawled. Or slithered. Whatever I looked like, it was not for the gossip section of the London paper. It would be crippling for my reputation. What would my enemies think of me? Oh, the horror!

Suddenly, I froze. The windows turned white, covering the view from outside and blinding me like sunlight on a good summer day in the countryside.

The moving portrait of a woman in white shirt and trousers gaped at me, disbelief and hope in her eyes. Whoever she was, however she acquired such a magical mirror, I didn't care. I'd kill her for this.

"Aster." The sound of her voice echoed in the room.

Apparently, she knew me enough to be shedding tears. I had never seen anyone look utterly tidy. Her straight dark hair was cut chin short, her face smooth and bare of color. "Oh, Saints. We've waited so long."

"Who..." I tried, but ended up coughing. Was I supposed to know her? Was she one of the young girls who would follow me around desperate to be my friend so I didn't become the villain of their woeful lives? Or was she one of the many who wanted me to give them a dose of my drug so they could escape their pathetic waking hours for a moment of blissful dream? Or was she a witch hired by Evensen?

"My name is Brenna Byrne."

I froze, frowned.

Brie.

But Brie was gone. She left us...

She must have realized my confusion because she immediately said, "I'm sorry. Of course, I'm not your sister. I'm one of your descendants."

She took a step forward, then stopped. Wherever she was, she was not there with me. As I stared at her face, as my mind tried to replace that horrid hair with Brie's long and shiny waves, a part of me thought maybe she was not lying and—

Descendant? What bloody concoction did this woman take this morning?

"We've been waiting so long for you, Aster. So long."

The question was at the tip of my tongue, but my throat remained dry. Nothing came but a cracking sound. As if I've not used my throat for ages.

"Two-hundred years." The woman gave the answer. "We've been waiting two centuries for you to wake up, Aster."