Page 1 of Payback is a Witch

Chapter 1

Lesson number twenty-one: If you can’t beat them, join them, although old habits die hard.

I didn’t follow anyone, by principle.

I learned this one on the day as I stood at the bottom of the steps leading toward the great double doors of my coven building, more so than any other time of my life. I couldn’t say why to save my life, and it truly pissed me off.

My eyes traveled slowly from the bottom of the steps, over the monstrosity of the building, until they settled on the very top of the glass dome, and I swallowed thickly the fear that tried to claw its way up my throat. While I was too busy self-loathing and doing my best not to die, they rebuilt the damage I caused to the structure, not once but twice.

Just as I was rounding the corner at the edge of the last bookshelf, my shoulder bumped into a line of stacked books protruding from it. It made me stagger, and the grimoire I had in my hands dropped on the floor with a heavy thud. That was followed by another smack when the damn book, which jabbed me in the arm, hit the ground too, falling on the spine, and it flopped open somewhere in the middle. An invisible breeze skirted across my skin, and goosebumps covered my arms. My heart jammed in my windpipe, and I flipped around searching for some asshole with air magic trying to pull a prank on me.

No one was in the library but me.

Dread pooled in my stomach, and I really didn’t want to be in the damn room anymore. The first traces of dawn were peeking through the tall windows, casting purples and pinks over the wooden shelves and leather tomes. What little light was poking through the brightening sky pierced the liquid in the jars, giving all the eyeballs, fingers, and such a menacing vibe. I had every intention of snatching the grimoire and hightailing it out of there, but when I bent at the waist to grab it, the text on the opened book got my attention. It was a siren song overtaking my mind.

I was powerless to resist it.

A horn blared somewhere in the distance pulling me out of whatever rabbit hole my damaged braincells were pulling me in and I realized my fists were balled so tightly, my nails were cutting through the skin of my wet palms.

“You are seriously pathetic.” I muttered to myself as I wiped my sweaty palms off my pants in disgust. “Witches don’t get PTSD. Get your shit together girl.”

The pentagram on the side of my finger tingled at that, reminding me that my life was no longer the same. I was no longer that same person every member of the coven gossiped about and whispered insults behind her back. Well, they still did that but for entirely different reason now.

I was no longer a dud.

I was the monster all of them feared.

Even Danika thought twice before squaring off with me these days.

Yet, again. Here I was….

A scared little mouse with shaky knees, too afraid to kick in the damn doors and walk in like I owned the place.

As I said, I was seriously pathetic and should be put down immediately preferably in my designer clothing. I would be turning in my grave if I ended up in the afterlife dressed in polyester.

A shiver skirted up my spine.

Instead of keeling over right there and then, with each step I counted the slow exhales of my breaths until I was certain that my heartbeats no longer resembled galloping like a racehorse while making sure no one saw the ridiculous display of weakness. Stupid, I knew, but, old habits die hard as I said. Deep down I was still the old Hazel. The one that hid her inadequacy behind a smart mouth, lots of bravado and a legendary sense of fashion if I could say so myself. My designer shoes and the leather wrapped around me could attest to that last statement even to a blind person.

On one side though, a very hidden-don’t tell to myself hidden-space, I liked the new Hazel better. She was everything I ever wanted to be while growing up thinking I had zero gifts. Powerful supernaturals cowered in front of the power of her magic. It was who I prayed to the Goddess to make me growing up. What I never expected was for the people I cared about to be near constant threat of dying because of it. I wanted magic so bad so I could protect them better, not get them killed faster. For that reason, that part of the new me I disliked with passion as much as I loved it.

Which was the main reason I now stood in front of the closed doors of my coven staring up at the three red keys marking it as a tribute to Hecate. None of the skeleton keys were crooked and they all looked brand new as if the Goddess herself was pointing out to me that no matter how powerful I was, she could erase me from existence without a second thought. Like I never existed. Deep down I was sure that I was working on borrowed time and had to do something before it was too late.

Something had to change, and I knew just the person to talk to about it. The problem I had was I had to swallow my pride along with the new formed lump in my throat, to actually walk in, and get it over done with.

Danika didn’t bite. I mean, what could she do now? She couldn’t kill me if she tried.

I should’ve asked Sissily to come with me, but I thought she could use a day off from my drama. Good thing too because she never would’ve let me forget it when the double doors unexpectedly opened and I jumped almost a foot in the air. Luckily, I clamped my mouth shut and only a tiny squeak escaped me, hopefully low enough that the person barging through the damn entrance didn’t hear it.

The male that walked out was someone I’ve seen in passing a lot around the coven, but I couldn’t remember his name to save my life.

“Hecate help me, Miss Byrne.” The middle-aged witch gasped, pressing a flat palm at the center of his chest. “You scared me.”

My glare reminded him that I was not a friendly person on best of days for that type of a conversation, so he rushed to backtrack in the same breath. “I just didn’t expect anyone to be standing there, that’s all. Not that you are scary.” My glower deepened more at that and he gulped, going as far as taking a step back and bumping the slowly closing door which made him jump a little to the side instead, as if physical difference would save him from my anger.

My magic reared its ugly head with those thoughts, churning at the center of my chest like a cobra waiting to strike. What was worse, was the fact that I felt justified to attack him according to the emotions filling my head. And all that from a simple, accidental bump in passing.

Who was I? What in the goddess name was happening to me?

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