Authors: Mira Monroe
Tags: #magic, #Paranormal, #Fiction, #fantasy, #young adult, #witches
The Unwanted Series, Book 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Magick: The Unwanted Series, Book I
An eBook Me Up book/Published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Mira Monroe
Cover design by: Cassie Newell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission
ISBN: 978-0-9976836-0-8, print version
ISBN: 978-0-9976836-1-5, e-book version
To my rogue guardian, Butch. My forever warrior and partner.
The girl calls to Fate.
Fate is silent and watching.
y mother died at my hands when I was six years old. My father and others labeled it as “the accident,” but my life and his were never quite the same after. Today I’m looking into the eyes of my newest psychiatrist, retelling the same old story of “the accident.” Although that’s not the reason I’m stuck talking to a shrink. New psychiatrist, new insight into my head.
It’s different talking to him instead of Dr. Bauche. She transferred me to him, something about specialty and trying something new before the court-appointed therapy ended. His dark blue eyes are kind and thoughtful; he prefers I use his first name, Evan. Trying to be relatable to a teenager, I suppose.
“You’ve become disconnected in retelling your accident. Is it all your memory or what others have told you, Willow?” he asks.
“Well, it happened a long time ago. Part is from what my father and others told me, and part of it’s what I pieced together.” I gauge his reaction, which reveals nothing. Then he writes something on his notepad. I hate the writing in the notebook part; it feels judgmental.
“Have you ever undergone regressive therapy, to learn more about the accident?”
“No! Why would I want to do that?” I move further back into the chaise lounge and hug my arms tight. I guess we’re going to be on “the accident” topic for the next sessions. Why do I always end up back there?
“That isn’t why I have to come here,” I stammer.
“I’m aware of the incident with the boy.”
“You mean the potential rapist,” I reply.
“Willow, I don’t fault you, but it’s a mystery about how he got hurt. Did that boy get what was coming to him? That’s not for me to decide. I’m here to address the anger issue the judge felt you couldn’t control during the trial.”
That boy attacked me. Granted, I blacked out, but the outcome of his crotch catching on fire, jail time — too damn bad. Serves him right! That boy’s lawyer berated me, the victim, for their gain. Both of them are pathetic losers. I can’t say I’ve cried, knowing either one got hurt.
“It’s been almost two years, and I haven’t had any issues. Anger is appropriate for a teenager,” I snap.
So glad Daddy Dearest gave a payout in closed court proceedings. It’s not my fault I hit that lawyer. He got up in my face and wouldn’t back down. Counseling for the trauma was part of the deal, per the judge.
Closing his notebook, Evan put it on the side table next to his chair. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands on his crossed leg.
“Addressing the accident where your mother died would help with your last year in high school, Willow. There are a lot of pressures. It’s important to understand the past in order for you to face your future.”
The burst of air leaves my lungs in a short sarcastic huff.
My response took him by surprise. He hasn’t met or talked to my father to know my future is mapped out. Did he read the previous notes from Dr. Bauche? A prestigious business school is awaiting me; most likely Harvard, my father being an alumnus and financial contributor. I can smell the old dusty hypocrisy waft in the air.
“Something funny?” Dr. Evan raises his eyebrow and smirks.
“I just… my future is an expectation.” I grin without joy. “The legacy of a Warrington, you know?” I wave my hands down my body, showcasing my Vanna White skills.
My tough legacy comes from a grandfather and father who took the world financial market of acquisitions and mergers by storm. I look around the office toward Dr. Evan’s bare modern steel-and-glass desk in the opposite corner, with the red light blinking on the desk phone. The bookcase behind the desk is too far to focus on the books displayed. No pictures or diplomas hang on the light gray walls. The only fixture to pay attention to is Dr. Evan.
“Your father has agreed to my treatment plan and is aware of this approach.”
Did I want to relive the accident? Ah, no thank you. Been there, done that. Before getting into that discussion, the timer rings that the session is over — saved by the bell.
“Goddess,” Evan mumbles.
That can’t be right. “Huh?”
“We’ll talk about this more next session. Let’s make our opportunities together count,” he says. He walks me to the door of his office.
I wave goodbye to the familiar receptionist on the phone, who hits the buzzer that allows me out of the office. Security for entering, security for leaving. It is a prison, ironically.
I get into the elevator, push the button for the ground floor, and exhale. Leaving the building, I spy Dr. Bauche with a puzzled look on her face as she boards the elevator.
Ha, did I look like I missed you? No way.
Only a few more sessions and I’m done! It’s the first time I can’t wait for my birthday. Come on, lucky 18.
I walk to my car in the bare parking garage, slip behind the driver’s seat and lock the doors. My familiar space, on my terms. I open my Coach purse and reach for my phone; I have text messages from Daniel, my boyfriend, and Lucy, my BFF.
Lucy confirms picking me up for school tomorrow, and Daniel is being typical lovable Daniel, with a simple text that says, I love you can’t wait to see you.
I smile to myself and drive into the early evening, toward the Warrington mausoleum of home sweet home.
“I’m up. Getting dressed,” I announce.
“Good. Your father wanted to make sure. Breakfast is ready when you are. Big day!” Mrs. Scott, the house manager, sounds too awake for normal, un-caffeinated people.
I stand up and stretch, wishing I could lie back down for a minute.
“Be there in a few,” I reply.
I step into my walk-in closet, take my school uniform off the hanger. I’m happy this is the last year I’ll have to wear that boring blue skirt. The white button-down oxford with its symbol of the prestigious Trinity Cross Private School proudly displayed on the left side of my chest will be retired soon. Chepstow, Massachusetts in my rearview mirror. I slip my feet into my purple Chucks, my only way of breaking the blue-and-white uniform combo. My personal rebellion. I open my door, and Duke, my black lab, runs in front of me, pushing me aside, his stomach leading the way for both of us. He paws down the back stairs of the house, turning left through the small hallway that opens right into the gourmet kitchen. The smells of breakfast food and coffee are prevalent.
Father’s eyebrows are tight as he taps on the screen of his smartphone. I walk around the kitchen’s island to the large copper cappuccino machine and make myself a chai latté.
“Morning,” he says, still looking at his phone.
“Morning.” I sit at the table holding my wake-up juice, blowing across the top while warming my hands.
Overly happy, plump Mrs. Scott comes into the kitchen and goes over to the gas stove to retrieve a plate, which she places in front of me.
“You need a proper breakfast. Eat,” she says in her laughably stern voice.
The plate contains scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. More than my thin frame could eat, but my stomach betrays me at the sight of it.
“Thanks,” I smile up at her, picking up the piece of toast.
“I can’t believe you’re almost done with school! Senior year, wow. Can you, Mr. Warrington? Growing up too fast.” She touches my shoulder and turns away from the table.
“Um… yes growing up,” is all Father says, too involved with some message on his phone, as he snatches a piece of bacon from my plate.
Perfect, he’s distracted.
“So, you don’t mind about the senior camp trip this Saturday? I’ll be there with Lucy and Emily. A group is going. We have our tent. I’ll be home the next morning.”
Still looking at his phone, tapping the screen, he nods.
Excellent. Time to get out of dodge. I’m almost out of the kitchen when he speaks up.
“Is Daniel in the group?” He raises an eyebrow, taunting.
Shit. Here we go.
“He’s a senior, yes.”
His lips purse, and his eyes drop to half-mast. The father/daughter stare down begins.
“Pretty much all seniors go.” I try to sound matter-of-fact, pulling the emotion from my instinct to whine.
Smirking at me, he says, “Let’s see how this week goes. I may have a trip to New York, and I don’t want you there if I’m out of town.”
“That’s silly; you travel all the time. What makes this different?” I ask holding in my inner pissed-off voice. “Mrs. Scott is here and—”
“I’m sure Juliette, under normal circumstances, would be fine, but I’m the parent here, Willow. I’m working on the details, hoping I don’t need to go. Give it a couple of days.”
I nod and put my cup in the sink. I see Lucy pull into our driveway, at the side of the house.
“Gotta run,” I announce. I’m out the door, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and getting into Lucy’s silver Audi Q3.
I smile a bit too broadly.
“He said yes!” Lucy squeals.
Laughing and taking my hairband from my wrist to pull my long dirty-blonde hair into a ponytail, I say, “No, but he didn’t say no. It was better timing.”
She takes off down the drive from my house. “I have a great feeling about this year.”
I turn the radio up and smile at her. “You said that last year.”
“But just think about it: we’re outta here soon, and going across the country to sunny Cali.”
We drive out of the posh estate neighborhood, with its perfectly spaced oak trees on either side of the street. It must have rained earlier this morning. The road is wet, and the green lawns showcase wealthy manicured perfection.
We turn onto Pike Road, Lucy singing to the Twenty One Pilot’s tune, “Stressed Out,” and winking at me. Yep, she’s right; last year was pretty good, and hopefully this year will be fast. That’s all I’m hoping for: quick and onward to college — out from under my father’s control. I can’t wait; I already have early acceptance to Harvard, Columbia, and Stanford. My father is completely unaware of my applications outside of Harvard. Lucy is unaware of my acceptance to Columbia.
Lucy and I wait in the school parking lot until Emily pulls in and gets out of her sensible Camry, which is at odds with her personality. Her hair is messy like she just woke up, and her uniform is wrinkled, further complimenting her disheveled look and life.
Smiling wide and walking towards us, she calls out, “What up, my bitches?”
I laugh while Lucy cowers with a grin, afraid to see who might have heard Emily. Probably everyone walking through the white stone archway of Trinity Cross, which leads from the parking lot to the school grounds.
“Em, not funny. Let’s not get kicked out our first day, okay?” Lucy turns to walk toward the entrance.
“Okay, Mom,” Emily pouts.
Emily pushes her hand through her short-cropped auburn hair. It makes the left side stand up more than before. I point, and Emily does the maneuver again. This time, her hair seems to obey. “So, where is that heavenly Marco at? With your handsome boy toy, Daniel?”
I shrug. “I guess inside school already.”
Marco is Daniel’s best friend. He’s captain of the football team and very smart. He’s at Trinity Cross on scholarship and everyone likes him, he has a smile that can win over almost anyone.
I hear Daniel laughing down the hallway with a group of friends. His blue eyes seek me out, like he knows I’m near. Daniel’s tall, lean frame pushes off the wall of lockers with an athletic grace, and he comes toward me, Lucy and Emily.
I couldn’t help but grin at him, he returns with his dimpled smile back at me.
“So, I hear we all have Mr. Brandt for homeroom.” His arm casually hangs over my shoulder. He smells like a meadow on a spring day.
“Aren’t you the lucky one,” Lucy says. Emily laughs, surprised at Lucy’s uncommonly sassy comeback.
“I see you’re rubbing off on her,” Daniel says to Emily wide-eyed.