Runaway Witch Read online

  RUNAWAY

  WITCH

  N.D. MACLAINE

  Copyright © 2019 N.D. MACLAINE

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-0736-8356-7

  AUTHOR'S NOTES

  I started writing Runaway Witch in 2010, when I was 26. At that time, I was in the middle of a terrible addiction to technology that ruined my productivity and essentially destroyed my life. It was a true addiction, and one for which I finally got help. The only way for me to handle it is to stay "on the wagon" and avoid technology. I do not own a computer or smartphone. I have no Facebook or Twitter. I've never conversed with Alexa.

  This does not make self-publishing easy.

  When a friend of mine started pushing me to finally finish Runaway Witch, I laughed at him. I'd long since given up on that dream. But he persisted and said that he would take care of the publishing part if I just got it written.

  So I wrote it. On a typewriter. For real.

  What followed was an almost year-long process involving OCR software and a lot of patience. And there are several people to thank for it.

  For talking me into it, and for serving as a copy editor and project manager, I have to thank Tim. His parents, Dan and Kate, are the ones who actually transformed the book from typewritten manuscript to eBook and paperback, so I definitely owe them a TON of gratitude.

  Thanks also to my earliest fans, for their support from the start of all this: Aunt April, David, Stephanie, Steve and Cris, Chad and Carly, Chris and Annie, Stacey, and anyone I'm forgetting (I'm not actually forgetting you–I just don't want the others to be jealous because you're my favorite!). Huge thank-you to Aunt Terry for the innumerable things you do for me. I'd be lost without you.

  And speaking of being lost without someone, on to the most important: Thank you, Mom, for the undying support, and for putting up with me for over 35 years now. I know I've made that difficult. A lot. I love you.

  Finally, I dedicate this book to the two people I miss most. To Dad, who I wish so badly could have been here to see this. And to Grandma, the real Ruth, who always nurtured and encouraged my creativity.

  I hope you enjoy this story, Reader, and that you'll overlook whatever errors remain from the typewriter-to-digital conversion. I'm working on book two of Ally's adventures even as you read this. Unless you read it years later, after book two has already been released, in which case I may be working on book three or four or fifteen. Or I may be retired on a beach somewhere. Who knows? Anything's possible.

  PROLOGUE

  I was having a bad day.

  I don't mean, like, a “car won't start, late for work, get fired, can't pay the rent, get evicted, wind up living in a refrigerator box under a bridge” kind of bad day. It was more of a ''sitting in the back of a van in the middle of the night with a few of my friends and one is pointing a gun at me and I can't remember how I got here” kind of bad day.

  Ever had one of those?

  The last thing I could remember, it had been daylight and I'd been talking to my best friend, then–poof!–I was here in this van, and everything in between was a complete blank.

  Here's what I did know: the driver of the van was a Hispanic guy, twenty years old, named John. He had short, spiky black hair and was wearing a black muscle shirt that showed off the lean definition in his arms.

  Sitting with his back to the passenger's seat, facing me, was John's identical twin, Joseph, and he was the one pointing the gun at me. He had the same hair, the same muscles, the same caramel skin, the same strong jawline. Not that I could really see all of this, since the only source of light was the full moon, but my mind could fill in the details. I'd known these guys a while now. I could make out the look on his face, though, and he seemed to be torn between annoyance and amusement.

  The nineteen-year-old girl sitting next to me was the easiest to see since the moonlight was shining right on her. This was Chloe, and she was staring venomously at me. She had dark blue hair with silvery white highlights (though this tended to change pretty frequently) that framed her narrow face. She wore matching dark-blue lipstick and glittery eyeliner that sparkled eerily in the moonlight. Based on her expression, she could easily have told Joseph to pull the trigger. She and I had never been besties, but I'd never seen her look at me with such raw, open hatred before.

  Someone else was sitting in the front passenger seat, but from my vantage point I couldn't see them. It was most likely one of two people, and I hoped it wasn't the one I was afraid it might be.

  “Can't you go any faster?” Chloe spat. Her right foot was tapping impatiently.

  John shot back, “We're almost at the bridge, and I don't feel like dying tonight. But, hey, you're more than welcome to drive if you want.”

  Chloe grunted and waved her hand dismissively.

  “I'll drive,” I offered before I could stop myself. I have a problem controlling my mouth when I'm nervous. “You know, if it would help.”

  Chloe elbowed me hard in the stomach, and I grunted and buckled forward. “Shut up, traitor! You're lucky you're not dead already.”

  Traitor? What the hell had I done to merit that? I struggled to remember something from that blank period and came up with nothing.

  I felt the van slow, and through the windshield I recognized the rickety old bridge that led to the place I'd called home for the past six years. Raw panic bubbled in my chest, and I fought it. If I got home, I was pretty sure I was going to end up dead tonight, and like John, I didn't find the concept appealing. Call me crazy.

  As we came to a crawl to cross the single-lane bridge, I acted, grabbing the door handle and sliding it open. I threw myself out before Chloe could grab me, rolling to absorb the impact when I hit the ground and launching myself back to my feet immediately, running for the bridge.

  I heard a gunshot and the ground next to me exploded. Chloe shouted something, but I wasn't listening. My pulse pounded in my ears. I got to the bridge and vaulted over the edge. It was a thirty-foot drop to the river below, and I hit it at an awkward angle that once again knocked the wind out of me, and I struggled to the surface. More gunshots rang out and the water splashed around me, but the current was rapid and pulled me away from them.

  I let the river drag me along for about twenty minutes, then came to calmer waters. Ahead, I saw a small pier and grabbed it, dragging myself out of the water. I sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, considering my options. It was a hot summer night, I was soaked, and there was nowhere to go. Chloe and the others would be in pursuit, and they knew where the river led. I was pretty much screwed. All I'd done is buy a little time.

  And pissed them off more.

  I surveyed the area and realized that I knew where I was. It was a small town, and it had been completely abandoned. A few years ago, the last time I'd been here, it had been full of people.

  Actually, what had happened the last time I was here was the reason the town was now empty, but that's a different story.

  Suddenly, I realized I had an option after all. I stood and walked toward town. On the horizon, a hint of light had appeared. Dawn was approaching. I reached the edge of town and started walking up an empty street. If you've never been in a modern-day ghost town, let me tell you, it's eerie.

  In the distance, I heard an engine, and I knew immediately it was them. I needed some cover, and I knew how to get it.

  Did I mention I'm a witch? Yep, a real one, with powers and everything. I know what you're thinking–why didn't I use said powers back at the van? Because they're all witches, too, and flinging magic around in close quarters, especially where a gun is present, isn't exactly prudent. I can't just twitch my nose and make whatever I want happen.

  But here, in town, I could do something.

  I reac
hed out for magic and found it. It's everywhere. It flows through everything and connects it all. Kind of like the Force, but in my opinion more versatile. I gathered it around me, into me, and began to shape it to my will. I called upon the moisture in the humid summer air, made a few tweaks, and a nice blanket of fog fell over the town. Through it, I could see headlights, so I darted down an alley just as I heard the van door roll open.

  “I know you're here, Ally,” said one of the twins, likely Joseph since John was probably still driving. “I felt you work the spell. Chloe's already starting to counter it. Why are you making this harder on yourself? It's your own fault. You betrayed us.”

  There it was again, that accusation. What had I done? These people had been my family for six years, ever since I'd lost the last of my real family. They'd taken me in, taught me, helped me. What would I do to betray them?

  I sensed the tug of Chloe's magic working to disrupt my own. I didn't have a lot of time. I began to run down the alley, past a dumpster covered in roaches. (Ew.) I heard Joseph's footsteps behind me and groaned.

  “I think I can catch up to you, Ally,” he said. “I think you're going to regret wasting time. It will only make it worse.”

  I gauged by his voice when he was near the dumpster, then I sent some more magic flying at him.

  “What are you–aaagh!” Joseph screamed as the cockroaches from the dumpster, hundreds of them, suddenly abandoned what they'd been doing and swarmed him, covering him. I could only see his silhouette through the fog, but even that looked hideous as his body seemed to swell.

  I ran. I knew where I was going, even in the fog, which was beginning to thin. It had been a few years since I'd been here, but I have an excellent memory (present situation not withstanding). I found the old store a few moments later. It had, at one time, been a dress shop, but now it was as empty as the rest of the town, the glass picture window that had adorned the front now shattered. That's how I entered, glass crunching under my shoes.

  I gasped when I saw someone standing there, waiting for me, then felt like an idiot when I realized it was just an old mannequin. In the distance, I could hear the van again.

  I darted to the back of the former shop. There was a door, which I pulled open, leading to a flight of stairs to the basement. “Please still be here,” I whispered.

  Years ago, as the people of the town had been running for their lives, we had installed a portal here in case we'd ever needed a getaway. It was something my adopted father and mentor insisted on, and we had similar portals all over the place, each leading to a different location. I didn't know where this particular one led, but anywhere would be better than here.

  The stairwell was pitch black, but my presence triggered the candles that lined the wall, just as it was supposed to. If that old spell still worked, it gave me hope for the portal. I walked carefully down the stairs to the dimly lit basement. The room was filled with metal shelves, on which were boxes of who-knows-what. And, on the wall at the other end, there was a brick outlined in white chalk. It was exactly what I was looking for.

  Unfortunately, Chloe was standing a few feet in front of it, pointing the same gun at me that Joseph had used earlier. ''End of the road, Ally,” she said, a smug smile on her face.

  “I don't know what you think I did, Chloe, but I'm sure this is a mistake.”

  “Bullshit!” she spat. “The only mistake was taking you in. I've been telling my dad for years not to trust you, and you finally proved me right.”

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. “I would never do anything to hurt you guys. You're all the family I have.”

  “Since you killed your real family!” she shot back.

  Okay, that pissed me off, and rage temporarily overpowered my fear and confusion. Without giving her time to sense it and react, I sent a blast of unguided energy at her. The naked power lashed outward and she fired the gun wildly as the shelves around her collapsed on top of her. I weaved around them, stretched out my arms, and my fingertips made contact with the outlined brick.

  Instantly, the world around me contorted, I felt as though I was yanked forward, my ears popped, and I was standing back outside in another alley. The sounds of a city surrounded me. My hand was on the wall of a building, touching another chalk-outlined brick.

  Quickly, I ran my fingers over the chalk, channeling a little bit of magic into it. The outline disappeared, and they would not be able to follow me through the portal. Then I leaned back against the wall and breathed for a minute.

  My name is Alyssa Jane Barrett. My friends call me Ally. And I guess you could say I'm a runaway witch.

  ONE

  The sun had risen here, so I knew I must have crossed time zones, but I had no idea where I was. The portal could have been to anywhere on the planet. I stepped out of the alley and onto a city street. Pedestrians immediately started giving me a wide berth, and I could only imagine what I must look like.

  At the corner of the street was a newspaper box displaying the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, so now I knew where I was. The date on the paper was August 3rd, and I realized I was missing five days. I had to find out what had happened in that time.

  But first things first: I was starving, and I needed some money. I fished an empty plastic water bottle out of a trash can and unscrewed the cap. I began pulling magic from the world around me, shaping it into a spell, and funneling it into the bottle.

  Magic is affected by its environment. Pittsburgh may not be the steel city it once was, but its magic left a metallic taste in my mouth as it filtered through me. The bottle seemed to fill with a pale blue mist. I recapped it, then poked a small hole in its side with a loose piece of wire on the trash can. The mist began to slowly leak out of the bottle, disappearing into the air.

  And instantly, every camera within a hundred feet of me started recording static and would continue until the bottle was empty. I had about five minutes.

  I walked up to an ATM, made sure no one was watching me, and placed my palm against the money slot. Focusing, I could feel the mechanics inside. I fiddled with them a bit, and the machine started spitting out twenties. I collected about $500 worth and stuffed them into my damp pockets.

  I walked into the first McDonald's I could find–it didn't take long–and ordered a McMuffin and a coffee, ignoring the sidelong glances people kept shooting my way. I sat down to eat and considered my next step.

  I needed to sleep. I had been running on adrenaline, and the rush was starting to fade. I would crash sooner or later.

  As I was thinking things over, an older woman with short silver hair quietly sat down across from me. “Honey,” she said kindly, “he's not worth the bruises.”

  I blinked and looked down at my arms, and I noticed for the first time that I had several black-and-blue marks. I snorted softly and said, “Oh, it's not like that.” A battered girlfriend I was not.

  She gave me a pitying smile. “It never is.” She reached into her purse and handed me a card that identified her as a victims' advocate. “If you want to talk, call me.”

  I shook my head. “I appreciate it, but that's not what's going on. Listen, do you know of any che–er, affordable motels nearby?”

  She directed me to a place called the Carlton, a few blocks away, and offered me some money. I thanked her but declined. Stealing from a faceless bank was one thing, but I wouldn't take money from a sweet old woman. I wonder what that says about me.

  After I finished eating, I found a Dollar General and bought a few things, then I made my way to the Carlton. It was a hole-in-the-wall, but the office was clean. The desk was manned by a middle-aged, overweight man with horribly out-of-style glasses. “Eight bucks an hour or fifty for a night,” he told me stiffly. I got the impression that my appearance didn't mean a thing to him, that he'd probably seen it all working here, and I appreciated not feeling judged after all the glances I'd been getting.

  “I'll probably leave early, but I'll take it for a full night,” I told him, and handed h
im three twenties. He grunted and gave me a ten back, along with a key marked “15.”

  I found the room, which consisted of a bed, a nightstand with an alarm clock, a TV, and a bathroom. The carpet was old and faded, and the paint was peeling in a couple of spots. But, like the office, it was clean, and at the moment it felt like heaven.

  I went into the bathroom, took a look at myself in the mirror, and groaned. No wonder I'd made people nervous. My coffee-brown hair hung in tangled strings. There were dark circles under my eyes. My clothes were muddy. I was almost amazed that no one had called the police. I stripped off my clothes and turned on the shower, and a moment later I was standing under a glorious stream of hot water, watching it run, brown, down the drain.

  The motel soap and tiny shampoo bottle were as cheap as it gets–and I don't have expensive taste to begin with–but I felt like I was at a spa. I let the water beat on my tense shoulders and started breathing slowly and deeply, willing myself to relax and consider the situation.

  I knew that chances were slim that my amnesia was a natural thing. It was almost certainly magical, a deliberate effort to block my memory, though I had no idea why anyone would want to. I also knew that if Stephen–Chloe's father and my mentor–had authorized Chloe and the others to bring me back at gunpoint, I must have done something pretty serious. Perhaps whoever had erased my memory had also framed me–or, possibly, they'd forced me to commit whatever act had angered my friends so much.

  After about twenty minutes, I reluctantly dragged myself out of the shower and dried off. I wrapped the towel around myself and grabbed the bag from the store. First, I pulled out a hairbrush and went to work on those tangles. When I finished, my hair fell in a cascade of ringlets to my shoulder blades.

  Next, I pulled out the clothes I'd bought. They hadn't had a huge selection–it was a Dollar General, after all–but they'd had a bit. I'd gotten a black tee, a pair of no-name jeans, new underwear, and some socks.