Secret Legacy: A Supernatural Ghost Series (The Windhaven Witches Book 1) Read online

  I haven’t heard from him once in a year, which is surprising. He’s typically made a pretty big deal about my birthday at the very least. Maybe he’s just been giving me some space now that I’m an adult? However, he always had an open-door policy. Or so he said. I suppose I could always reach out to him to see what he thinks of this situation. He might have some insights that could enlighten all of this. Communication is a two-way street, and I’m just as much to blame for our lack of contact at this point.

  “Are you really considering this, Autumn?” I say, pulling my insanely curly hair into a ponytail as I walk down the sidewalk. “What about Mom?”

  My gaze expands out to the space in front of me and I walk on autopilot. Tears of confusion and agitation threaten to spill from the edges of my eyes but I can’t let them get to me. Part of me agrees with my mom. Who am I to think I could attend Windhaven Academy? I’m just an ordinary girl. On the other hand, there’s a part of me that would have killed to go there when I was younger. And if I’m truthful with myself, there’s still a part of me that wishes I had more potential than going to state university to become a forensic scientist; even if the work does sound incredibly interesting.

  My feet instinctively carry me to my favorite nighttime place in all of Mistwood Point—the cemetery. I don’t know what it is about this place that always draws me in. Maybe the silence, or the mystery in the old tombstones and ancient trees. The town is one of the oldest in the state. Younger, in fact, only to Windhaven. Some of the gravestones date all the way back to the early 1700s.

  Slipping through the narrow opening on the haphazardly locked gate, I meander inside. No one will notice—they never do. Besides, I don’t deface the stones and always clean up after myself, unlike some of the miscreants who enter at night. I traverse quickly through the center of the round, circular drive that allows those who don’t really want to visit, but think they should, the space to slow down in a drive-by silent prayer to their lost loved ones.

  As far as I know, I have no one here to visit. Most of my family comes from Windhaven. So I don’t feel pulled to visit anyone specific. I can just…be. No judgment. I’ve spent entire evenings, and more than a few early mornings, walking these graves. I love spending time hunting for the oldest one here as I dream up stories about their lives and how they died. Maybe it’s morbid, but I can’t seem to help it.

  Without any real destination in mind, I slip beyond the ugly flattened headstones meant to make it easier for the caretaker to mow, to the space housing the older sites. The ones still vertical, albeit only just, with names and dates all but worn off with age.

  The rising moonlight cascades through the trees, lighting my way deeper into the older part of the cemetery. The air is pungent with the scent of turning leaves and those decaying in the ground around me. I inhale it deeply but keep walking. When I feel I’ve gone far enough, I slow down and flit my gaze to the headstones, but not really taking them in.

  Admiring one of the monolithic monuments, I reach for the small bottle of whisky hidden in the inner breast pocket of my coat and take a seat facing it. I keep it there so I don’t have to explain to my mother that yes, this twenty-year-old actually drinks on occasion. I know I’m not supposed to, but I have to at least live a little, right? Otherwise, I may as well just be one of these fine folks.

  For whatever reason, I’ve always tried hard to avoid my mom’s judgment whenever possible. Yet, here I am, seriously thinking about directly defying her wishes. I must be outta my damn mind.

  “Charlotte, what do you think I should do?” I ask the woman whose grave I sit upon. “Should I take a risk and go to the Windhaven Academy? Or should I just do the sensible thing and go to the university later?”

  I take a swig, letting the liquid burn my insides on the way down. It has a kick. A burst of cinnamon, which is good because most booze is pretty disgusting. This one tastes more like liquid Hot Tamale candy.

  A part of me wishes she could answer me. Give me the insights I’m seeking the way spirit guides are supposed to. Instead, I know better. Dead is dead. And when you’re gone, your body goes back to being part of the elements that brought you here in the first place.

  Nearby, an owl hoots loudly, making me jump and spill some of the contents of my drink over my shirt.

  “Dammit,” I spit, wiping furiously at the mess.

  At the same time, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket; a sure sign my mom is wondering when I’ll be back. Ignoring it, I take another sip of the potent liquid, cursing myself for not asking my coworker to purchase a larger bottle.

  “You look like you could use a friend,” a voice calls out of the darkness.

  Again, I jump. This time downing the contents and sputtering them back out.

  “Christ. What the f—” I say, dropping the bottle and clutching at my chest.

  Stepping out into the moonlight, bright silvery-gray eyes watch me intensely. There’s a sparkle of mischief hidden in their depths, despite the calm demeanor of their owner. The guy can’t be much older than I am, but I’ve never seen him before. And in this town, everyone knows everyone.

  “Hey, didn’t mean to freak you out. Just wasn’t expecting to find anyone else out here,” the guy says softly, holding his hands up. His jet-black hair and black leather jacket would almost blend into the darkness if the moonlight wasn’t refracting off them both.

  “Yeah, that makes two of us,” I mutter, trying to catch my breath.

  He grins, raising an eyebrow in a cocky, self-assured kinda way.

  “Fair enough,” he chuckles. In two giant strides he bounds over to me, plopping down in the grass to my left. “So, wanna talk about it?” he asks.

  “Talk about what?” I say, narrowing my eyes.

  “Whatever has you drinking teeny-tiny bottles of…what is this?” He picks up the bottle. “Fireball whiskey. Nice choice.”

  He lifts the bottle to his lips, downs the last drop, and hands it back to me.

  I lower my eyebrows. “No offense, dude, but I’m not overly in the sharing mood right now,” I lament, hoping the double meaning presses itself upon him.

  “Well, then, don’t share. I’ll share,” he grins, reaching inside his leather coat and pulling out a silver flask. Spinning the top open, he takes another sip and passes it to me.

  I turn up my nose at first and eye it suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “My own concoction. Not nearly as fancy as your drink of choice, but it will do in a pinch,” he says, a hint of confidence smoldering in his tone.

  I contemplate for a moment whether or not it’s entirely within my best interests to drink with this strange, obnoxious, albeit kinda hot guy. Especially out here in the cemetery. Alone. Where no one technically knows I am.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say, suddenly more alert.

  “Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging and taking another long draw from his flask.

  Throwing him a sideways glance, we settle into a semi-awkward silence.

  “So, what’s your name, anyway?” he asks, tipping his chin toward me.

  I chew on my lip a moment, deciding what to say. I finally decide on, “Drusilla.”

  It’s the first name to pop into my head from my mom’s favorite TV show. So lame, but in a sorta good, sorta dorky oh-my-god-I’m-not-gonna-ever-tell-my-Mom sorta way. It’s literally the only connection I’ve ever seen my mom have with anything supernatural, so I guess I have to take what I get.

  The guy actually snorts.

  “Yeah, okay. And my name’s Angel,” he laughs.

  My eyebrows flick upward, surprised.

  I mean, c’mon. My name could actually be Drusilla. The show is ancient enough. Besides, I think Mom even said she thought about it but decided she didn’t want to give me a complex about being named after a deranged vampire.

  After a second, I tip my head. “Yep, I can totally see it. As long as it’s not Angelus, I think we’re five by five.”

  “Ha—even quotin
g Faith. See, now I know it’s bunk,” he says, winking at me. “I knew I’d like you.”

  I’ve never seen a wink actually pulled off before where it didn’t look like some sort of spasm—but damn, he does it. And it suits him.

  “Figures you’d be a fan,” I chuckle despite myself and narrow my eyes. “How about this? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  “I have a better idea. How about we leave things as-is,” he says, a big, cheesy grin spreading across his lips.

  “Hmmm… Trying to hide, are we?” I say, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Not at all. Just trying to honor the mystery. I mean, this is a small town. We’re bound to find out each other’s real names eventually. Right?”

  I cross my legs and turn to face him.

  “Deal. Nice to meet you, Angel,” I say, jutting out my hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Drusilla,” he says, taking my hand in his as he kisses the top in an old-fashioned kind of gesture.

  I snort under my breath as I pull it back. Despite being a dorky move, something about it breaks the ice between us.

  “So, what are you doing here? Planning which graves to tip over?” I ask, lowering my eyebrows playfully.

  Shock, with a hint of horror, flash across his features. “Absolutely not. That…you’re not planning on doing that. Are you?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He exhales slowly, clutching at his chest. “Thank goodness for that.”

  “So, if not to tip graves, why are you here?” I ask. Not even my friends understand my fixation on this place, so I can’t help but want to know his reasoning.

  His eyes lock with mine and for the briefest of moments, a wave of sadness consumes him.

  I glance down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay. I guess you could say I feel sorta drawn to the spirits here.”

  When I look up, a faint smile graces his lips.

  “Do you have family buried here?” I ask, looking around the space, as if somehow I’d know which ones are tied to him.

  “You could say so, I guess,” he says, fiddling with the flask lid.

  Pressing my lips tight, I divert my gaze to one of the older stones. The words are all but worn off, but there’s a certain elegance to the scrollwork and sculpture of the stone itself.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks, his silver eyes watching me closely.

  I shrug. “No, not really.”

  Confusion flashes across his features. “Really? That’s surprising, actually.”

  “Why?” I snicker.

  “Well, you clearly like supernatural stuff. Ergo the Buffy references.” He looks over his shoulder, eyeing the headstones around us. “You’re here, in a graveyard, talking to…who was it? Charlotte?”

  Heat creeps up the back of my neck as I glance back at the headstone. He was listening to my conversation with the headstone. Lovely.

  “So, if you’re not here for the ghosts…why are you here?” he asks.

  Swallowing hard, I weigh my words. “I guess because it’s the only place where silence reigns. I can think here.”

  He chuckles softly. “Silence, huh?”

  “Yeah, silence,” I say, smirking. “What else would you call it? It’s not exactly loud out here.”

  “Depends on who you talk to.” He smirks, taking another swig from his flask.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh boy. Let me guess, you’re a ghost hunter?”

  “Not exactly,” he says with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “But I was meant to meet you tonight, Drusilla. I can feel it.”

  Narrowing my gaze, I hold my hand out, and flick my fingertips. “All right, I changed my mind. Better give me a sip of that.”

  Without a word, he holds out the flask.

  Spinning the lid off, I press the cold metal to my lips and let the cool liquid splash over my tongue. Surprised, I pull back and sputter.

  “What in the— Is this…is this flavored water?” I laugh, thrusting the flask back at him.

  He grins like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Maybe? Being a rebel doesn’t always have to mean rebelling with the bad stuff, right?” he says, shrugging sheepishly.

  I shake my head, and a deep, boisterous laugh escapes. It feels good—really good. Things have been really heavy lately, and I didn’t realize just how much I needed a little bit of humor in my life.

  “You’re so absurd,” I say.

  “Look who’s talking. Absurd? Who says absurd anymore? What are you? A hundred years old? Did you just watch Titanic? That’s it isn’t it?” He laughs, pointing in my direction.

  “No, I just like the word, smartass. Besides, not everything great comes from the TV,” I fire back at him.

  “Oh, really? Where else then?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

  “Ever crack open a book?”

  “Ever crack open a smile?” he retorts, then scrunches up his face. “Okay, that didn’t work as well as it sounded in my head.”

  We both laugh and I reach for the flask again, giving him a side eye.

  “So, when did you move here?” I finally ask.

  He sighs heavily. “Last week.”

  “Happy move, then?”

  Shrugging, he takes the flask back and has a sip. “Depends. I’d say it’s looking up.”

  He catches my eye, holding my gaze for a few extra beats. My face flushes and I glance down at the unexpected eruption of butterflies in my stomach.

  “What about you? I assume this is home turf. So, will I catch ya around town?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I work over at the—” I stop myself, realizing this could be an added layer of complexity I’m not sure I need right at this moment.

  “At the…?”

  Standing up quickly, I brush off my jeans and slowly back away.

  “Yeah, you know, I better get going. My mom and I didn’t leave on the best of terms and I think I should go have a word with her. Besides, if I don’t make it back soon, she’ll have the cops out looking for me,” I say, pointing toward the way I came in.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he starts, standing up and gaping at me.

  Shaking my head, I say, “No, it’s not you. Just gotta run. It was nice to meet you, Angel.”

  Without another word, I half walk, half run my way out of the older part of the cemetery.

  In the distance I hear, “Catch ya around, Dru.”

  Anxiety blossoms through me and I sprint through the rest of the cemetery. I slip past the opening, and when I’ve reached the safety of the street, I lean against the gate and run my hands over my face.

  Nothing exciting has happened to me for weeks—months, even. Making the decision whether or not to go to the Windhaven Academy isn’t easy as it is. Why would the universe curse me with meeting a guy now? And not just any guy, either. One who gets my dorky television references and feels drawn to hang out in the cemetery, too.

  Forget fate. The universe is just cruel.

  Chapter 3

  The Winds of Change Are Coming

  After the worst night of sleep I’ve had in a long time, I reach over and cease the annoying buzz of my phone’s alarm clock.

  Instantly, memories of last night rush at me like a raging bull and I bolt upright in bed.

  I’m nowhere closer to making a decision about Windhaven Academy, and the run-in at the cemetery certainly isn’t helping. It’s been nearly two years since my best friend moved to England for college. While we both promised to talk often, the time difference has pretty much dampened our communication. A deep part of me longs for someone who just…gets me.

  Even if they believe in something as ridiculous as ghosts.

  I brush my hands over my face, then throw the covers back.

  By the time I got back home, my mom was fast asleep, so there was no resolution there. She’s never been the type of parent who would wait up in a dark room, ready to pounce. She values her sleep too much and knows waiting
wouldn’t make a difference anyway. If anything, it would mean a big blow-out with no joy at the end. Instead, it would just keep everyone awake and pissed off. I suppose morning makes as good a time as any to pounce.

  Dressing as quickly as I can, I throw on a pair of ripped-up skinny jeans, a form-fitting t-shirt that says Be the Change, and my dark-gray Vans. Pulling my thick auburn locks into a haphazard ponytail, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror and rush out the door.

  I don’t need to be gobbed in makeup or have my eyebrows drawn on like I’m paying homage to Groucho Marx. Other girls in town have that covered, anyway. I’d rather stand out by being the opposite of all of that insanity.

  Tiptoeing down the stairs, I make my way to the kitchen as quietly as possible. As I reach the heart of our home, I’m surprised to find it devoid of the usual activity. Not only is Mom not waiting to dive into a conversation, she isn’t even rushing around trying to make a healthy breakfast before she bolts out the door to her office.

  “Mmmkay, this isn’t good,” I say aloud. I walk over to the kitchen window, leaning over far enough to see if her Subaru is still in the driveway.

  Its shiny black paint glistens in the early-morning sun and its windows are still fogged over with a hint of frost.

  A lightbulb goes off in my head and I spin around, racing to the kitchen cupboards. If Mom’s overslept, she’s going to be freaking about not having a decent breakfast to start the day off right.

  Yanking the fridge door open, I grab the eggs, bacon, spinach, garlic, and those weird tiny tomatoes she loves. I chuck them all at the counter and spin around for an avocado and her gluten-free toast.

  My eyes flit to the clock on the stove: 7:11 a.m. Plenty of time for me to get this thing rockin’ before I have to bolt out the door, too.

  “May as well make some for both of us. Nothing like totally surprising her by eating healthy along with her,” I chuckle, grabbing the whisk and going to town. “She’ll be totally convinced.”

  I dice up the garlic and onions the way I’ve seen her do almost every single morning of my teenage years, and throw them into a frying pan of olive oil.