A Witch's Trial (Witch's Path Series: Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Michelle

  Chapter 2: Michelle

  Chapter 3: Michelle

  Chapter 4: Elron

  Chapter 5: Michelle

  Chapter 6: Michelle

  Chapter 7: Michelle

  Chapter 8: Michelle

  Chapter 9: Elron

  Chapter 10: Elron

  Chapter 11: Michelle

  Chapter 12: Elron

  Chapter 13: Michelle

  Chapter 14: Michelle

  Chapter 15: Elron

  Chapter 16: Michelle

  Chapter 17: Michelle

  Chapter 18: Elron

  Chapter 19: Michelle

  Chapter 20: Michelle

  Chapter 21: Elron

  Chapter 22: Michelle

  Chapter 23: Michelle

  Thank You

  Also by N. E. Conneely

  About the Author

  Connect with N. E. Conneely

  Copyright © 2015 N. E. Conneely

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or author. Requests for permission to copy part of this work for use in an educational environment may be directed to the author. This book is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons or locales, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A WITCH'S TRIAL

  N. E. Conneely

  To Nana,

  because these books have

  made you smile and laugh.

  Tom and Dad, your support was invaluable.

  SJ, thank you for much-needed perspective.

  Chapter 1: Michelle

  Tears gathered in my eyes as I watched Elron page through the book. His hair blocked my view of his face, but I could see his hands shaking. He turned the last page and back cover, closing the book. Elron held the book between his hands, shoulders shaking, and the strong man I'd come to know regressed into a youth stricken by his first broken heart.

  "Do you want me to stay?" I blinked rapidly as the tears escaped my eyes.

  Minutes passed with us sitting in silence.

  "Do you want me to get Landa?"

  Elron's shoulders continued to shake, but he still didn't answer.

  I scrubbed the tears off my face. "I…I'll be next door if you need anything. D…don't hesitate to ask." I stood to leave the room, then stopped when I reached his side. "I'm sorry."

  Through the closed door I heard him sobbing. I leaned against the door, wishing I could go back and undo this pain, but there was no rewind button.

  My brain briefly moved past our shared pain and patched a few coherent thoughts together. Demons could create sorceresses, so it stood to reason Gremory had created Carrie, the sorceress who'd helped free the trolls. The creature breeder had references to Gremory in her house. Ergo, Carrie and the creature breeder worked for the same demon, Gremory. I didn't have an angry troll lover hunting me. Instead, I had a demon threatening to kill me because I'd ruined three parts of its plan.

  A demon was after me.

  The strength left my legs, and I slid to the ground, crying my own tears.

  I could still hear Elron crying when I got off the floor and stumbled into my apartment. Closing the door behind me effectively blocked out the sobs escaping his room. They were replaced by silence and the soft static that came from listening too intently. My footsteps disrupted the nothingness, and one by one, the lights chased away the shadows. If only flipping a switch would chase the shadows from my mind.

  Standing smack-dab between my living room and kitchen, my thoughts began to circle. I should have found a better way to show Elron the book. There must've been a softer, kinder way to break the news. Perhaps Landa, or an elven friend of his, should've been there. He had more secrets that he'd shared with me, and more than a few of them were related to Sylvia's death. Longtime friends might have been able to reach him when I couldn't.

  I shivered and did my best to focus on something, anything, else. A dust ball in the corner attracted my attention, and I rushed into action. If there was one dusty corner, there would be more. I hauled the vacuum out of a closet and attacked. The trim between the wall and ceiling was my first target. It hadn't been cleaned in months. The shape of the molding was wrong to collect dust—it was wider at the ceiling and tapered until it met the wall—but I sucked up some cobwebs and a few webs that still had spiders on them. Usually I would leave those guys alone, but my recent experience with spiders had been less than positive.

  When the trim was clean, I turned my attention to every horizontal surface above the floor, vacuuming and dusting in equal measure. The floor was my next mark, and I attacked it with the same focused vigor I'd used before. As long as I thought about vacuuming, I didn't have to think about the broken man living next to me or my part in his most recent heartbreak.

  I turned off the vacuum, and the silence rushed back. In the silence, I could almost hear my voice recounting every move I should've made and every choice I could have changed. I turned on the radio and started scrubbing the bathroom. When I finished there, I returned the cleaning supplies to their home and washed my hands.

  The running water broke the delicate balance I'd found. I ended up on my bed, crying. The radio wasn't doing a Narzel-blasted thing to help me.

  The tears running down my face and the ache in my soul didn't care which song or commercial was on the air. All that mattered was my pain and his. His pain wasn't something I could fix, and time was the best remedy for mine. Being alone wasn't helping, because I couldn't get away from the thoughts long enough for the pain to dull.

  As soon as I got my eyes under control, I tossed clothes and toiletries in a bag and called Mom.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Mom," I said, rubbing tears off my face with my sleeve.

  "Hi, Michelle. I was about to call you. Greg and I want you to come over for dinner."

  "Oh, sure." I sniffled and wiped my nose on a tissue.

  "What's wrong? It sounds like you're crying."

  "I've had a bad day. Could I stay with you tonight? We could do the family dinner."

  "Of course. You're always welcome here. Are you sure you're all right?

  "I'm sad, not hurt. I'll be there in an hour."

  "Be safe. I love you."

  "I love you too, Mom." Before she could hang up, I said, "Thank you."

  "Anytime." I could hear the smile in her voice.

  When I fled my apartment, I didn't hear a sound from Elron's place, but that could've been the earmuffs I was wearing.

  *******

  Mom's hand stroked my hair again, and a few more tears trickled down my cheeks.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly.

  I shook my head ever so slightly. Talking wouldn't help right now.

  "Okay, but I'm here when you need me."

  She continued to run her hand down my hair, and I stayed curled up against her with my head resting on her lap. I heard her say a quiet thank-you, and the empty box of tissues vanished, replaced by a box with a tissue sticking out the top. Unclenching my hand, I tossed the dirty tissue in the trash and replaced it with a fresh one.

  I'd never forget the anguish in his voice. The book
, and the secrets it contained, had opened a barely healed wound. Maybe I would've felt better if he'd let me comfort and watch over him, but we weren't good enough friends for me to stay without an invitation. Hopefully, he'd called Landa or another friend to his side. It wasn't good for him to be alone. That was the type of news that could destroy a man, especially one as fragile as Elron.

  Why did it have to be a demon? There were plenty of nasties that could have been making a ruckus without the long-forgotten great-grandfather of all evil showing up. Now I had to figure out how to fight something that had been in hiding long enough for the stories about them to pass into fable. That was a tall order for a young witch.

  A spell wafted over me, but I didn't care enough to brush it away. As I drifted off to sleep, I silently thanked whichever parent had been kind enough to help me sleep. I woke up to the sound of dishes clanking and voices murmuring.

  In the bathroom, I splashed water over my face. After resigning myself to puffy eyes and a red nose, I meandered into the kitchen. Mom was stirring a pot on the stove, and Dad was setting silverware next to the plates on the table.

  "Michelle, you're up." Dad smiled.

  I nodded. "What's for dinner?"

  Mom turned away from the stove and looked me over, no doubt to see if I was up to par. "Pasta with a red sauce, sautéed mushrooms, and asparagus. Leftover Kalamata olive bread is in the oven, turning into olive-garlic bread."

  "Yum, thank you." I looked away, blinking furiously as I tried to stop my eyes from overflowing. After our date, I'd had visions of Elron and myself talking and laughing over homemade dinners and my pathetic attempts at cooking.

  "Are you all right?"

  I cleared my throat. "I'm as good as I'm going to be right now. Could you guys do something for me?"

  They looked at each other before focusing on me.

  "Can we pretend I came over for quality time with my parents? Let's say Dad and I are working on getting to know each other, and we'll ignore the crying, sadness, and puffy eyes."

  "Will you tell us what's bothering you when you feel better?" Mom asked.

  I nodded.

  Dad smiled, winked, and said, "Michelle, it's good to have you over for dinner. With the excitement, we haven't spent much time together as a family."

  Mom shook her head at the two of us before turning back to the stove. Dad and I didn't have the best relationship. Due to some witch politics and Mom's mother being crazy (or so they said), Dad had absented himself from our lives to keep us safe. The past few weeks had been a rapid education on parental relationships. It would take time to get us back on solid footing, but I didn't doubt his love for Mom or me.

  I forced the corners of my lips up into something resembling a slight smile. "I was so happy to get the invitation. I needed a relaxing evening."

  "Michelle, could you make a pot of tea for us?" Mom set a kettle on the stove.

  Picking a box of jasmine tea up off the self, I marveled at the variety of Mom's collection. The pantry door had rows of shallow shelves packed full of bags and canisters holding dozens of teas. I'd inherited my love affair with tea from my mother, though my tea rack had only a paltry twelve varieties.

  The kettle whistled, and I pulled it off the stove while Mom fished the garlic bread out of the oven. A couple of minutes later, I carried the pitcher of tea over to the table where Dad was setting out our mugs.

  Before long, we were passing around serving dishes. It felt normal… and fake. From the outside, we looked like a regular family having dinner; however, there was no hiding our lack of familiarity with this ritual. I wanted to be bothered by our overcompensation, but I didn't have it in me. Today I was happy that we were pretending. I would pretend with everything in me if it meant I could push the hurt away for a few minutes.

  Maybe if I pretended enough, the fake feelings would be real. We would be a real family, comfortable and happy around each other. Elron would be himself again, not the wounded person I'd left behind. If I were extra lucky, I wouldn't hurt inside.

  "The garlic bread is really good, Mom." Some things were real, like the bread. It was real and delicious.

  She smiled. "I'm glad you like it. I had the olive bread and couldn't resist."

  We lapsed into an awkward silence. You could blame it on me. Both of them would look at me, glare at the other, focus on their food, and repeat the process. They could've worn signs proclaiming them concerned and curious parents and been less obvious. I couldn't begrudge their curiosity since I'd arrived on their doorstep without an explanation and had all but forbidden them to inquire about the circumstances.

  Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I'd tell them everything.

  Dad cleared his throat loudly enough that Mom and I turned to look at him. He ducked his head, and his cheeks turned pink.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "It happens," I said.

  Mom sighed and set down her fork. "Michelle, I know something is bothering you. You're still my child, but you are an adult, and I trust you to tell me in your own time. This is a less-than-ideal time to mention it, but there's something Greg and I need to discuss with you."

  I sat there with a forkful of mushrooms halfway to my mouth. The fork came to rest against the plate, and I tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind. I was numb, insulated from shock by virtue of pain. In the seconds she took to look at Greg and steady her nerves, I didn't have the energy to speculate or worry about the next blow to my ragged life.

  She focused on some point over my head and started talking. "As you know, we want to get married. We would like you to come to the wedding and reception."

  "When are you getting married?" I was so glad they'd told me about wanting to get married before now. I hadn't had time to think about it, but time did make the idea less startling. Besides, they might not have done everything right, but they'd tried to do their best for me. It was hard to fight against that kind of love.

  "Two weeks from tomorrow," Mom said.

  "Two weeks? That's not much warning."

  Dad looked over at me. "We would have given you more warning, but this is sudden for us too."

  "But you just mentioned marriage the other day…" My voice trailed off, lacking heat.

  "We told you as soon as we made the decision," Mom said firmly.

  I moved my jaw, but nothing came out. Clearing my throat solved the issues and gave me a moment to gather my thoughts. "Eh, um… I think I need some time to get used to the idea."

  *******

  I woke up feeling foggy and tired. Halfway through my shower, I began to feel human and my brain started working. Yesterday's pain rushed back, and it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Crying wouldn't help my eyes or my mental state. It took some deep breathing, but I calmed my thoughts and put some distance between myself and the heartache. It wasn't a solution, but it would buy me some time.

  In my head, Landa was tartly informing me that I needed to face my emotions so I could grow and heal. Hiding was a temporary solution. She was right, and Elron was a prime example of avoidance not leading to a resolution. No matter how much I wanted to pretend the past few days hadn't happened, I needed to find my peace with recent events.

  On my way out of my room, a piece of paper crinkled underfoot. Kneeling down, I picked it up and unfolded the page. It was a note from Mom, reminding me that the two of them would be at work. I was to make myself comfortable and stay as long as I liked.

  After breakfast, I curled up on the sofa with a novel, but I couldn't keep my mind on the story. Between the Elron, Sylvia, her diary, and the demon, there was plenty to think about, and the more I thought about it, the less sense it made.

  It just so happened that Sylvia could hide her actions from Gremory. She'd also hidden the journal from him for years and presumably carried it to Adder's house without the demon noticing. Her husband was, conveniently, the elf staying in the apartment next to mine. On top of that, I could share dreams with Elron, and Sylvia
had managed to invade my own dreams. Could coincidence really stretch so far?

  Perhaps I had the right of it and more than chance was at play. Elron had a Call, which was reason enough for him to be tangled in this mess. I didn't know enough about the Calling to judge how much of his involvement was due to that. If logic applied, then perhaps I was on a similar path. After all, I did have the mark of an Ieldra.

  Abandoning any pretense of reading, I went into the kitchen and made myself a brew. With any luck, it would reduce the pounding in my temples. I must've done a good job, because I relaxed enough to fall asleep shortly after lying down.

  When Mom came home, I was crying again. She gently pulled me onto her lap and stroked my hair. I must have drifted off again—at some point I should start to feel rested, but right now I couldn't get past the groggy, fuzzy feelings. I blamed the emotional turmoil. It wasn't good for the body.

  I opened my eyes to find my father kneeling down in front of me, a steaming mug of tea in his hand.

  "Will you please talk to us? We want to help."

  Nodding, I tucked myself against the arm of the couch with a blanket tossed over my lap and feet, my hands curled around the tea. Mom patted my foot before getting up stiffly. Dad took her place, a cup of tea in his hands. He didn't say anything as he watched me take a few sips. Mom returned and sat in a chair across from the couch.

  "I'm not sure it's my story to tell." I found the courage to speak, but I couldn't breathe the important words into the world; it would give them weight and power.

  My mother spoke before the silence could grow heavy. "You're an adult now, and I can respect that, but as a mother, I want to know what made my baby cry."

  "And as a father, I want to know who to pummel." Dad said the words lightly, but the look on his face told a different story.

  I needed to tell someone who could help me make sense of things, and my parents usually had good insight. "It's a difficult series of events to explain, so please be patient with me."