A Witch's Legacy

A Witch's Legacy
by Catherine Anne Collins

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Genre: Paranormal
ISBN: 9780982820049
Length: Novel
Publication Date: May, 2011
Cover art by Jeannie Ruesch

Fighting a deadly battle on a cliff high above the raging sea, Seabhac hovers on the point of death. With a final thrust of magic, he escapes to Avalon and passes the essence of his knowledge to his apprentice, Ainevar. Driven to protect the endangered druid magic, Ainevar flees Seabhac's attacker and begins a course of events that wind through history and take root in modern day Salem.

It took a hefty bribe to convince New Yorker Cassandra Raines to decorate her brother's new house. Especially since the house is located in Salem, and Cassandra has an aversion to magic. Her arrival in town embroils Cassandra in ritual murders, latent powers gone awry, and Salem's attractive police chief, Samson Wilder, who harbours his own history of magic, curses, and deadly secrets.

Past and present collide when the legacy of evil that has stalked Salem for centuries returns with a vengeance.

Excerpt

Thank God, he'd put his gun away. Cassandra's quota for excitement had reached the top and staring down the barrel of a gun did nothing to improve her mood or emotions. A mild tremor quivered deep in her belly and spread to her limbs. She needed to sit. So she did. Right on the stairs.

"Hey, are you okay?" Samson took the steps two at a time and crouched in front of her.

His closeness brought brushes of warmth emanating from his, oh so hot, body. The dark shadow of stubble on his face gave him a sinister appeal softened by his eyes. Cassandra stood on the verge of losing herself in the depths of the colors swirling around like an artist's palette.

He actually looked concerned. Go figure.

"Well, are you?" His deep voice rasped—gravelly yet smooth, strong yet mellow. It hypnotized and comforted.

"Sure, I'm fine." She replied before appearing like a total idiot.

"Do you need a hand? I'm sure the couch is more comfortable than the stairs."

"No!" She didn't want him to see the sketches lying strewn on the living room floor like cards of death from a tarot deck. "I'm fine. Really." She stood and wished she hadn't because she felt light-headed and had to clutch the railing.

"You are not fine." With one fluid movement, Samson picked her up and carried her downstairs. "Kitchen or living room."

"What?" Light-headed had graduated to melting hot butter. Her buried nose tickled against his neck and she detected rich, earthy hints of cinnamon and another unidentifiable scent. Cassandra snuggled closer and inhaled, attempting to identify the mysterious scent.

Licorice. The man smelled like cinnamon and licorice.

"Fine, the living room, it is."

"What. No." She struggled for release, but he held on tight.

"So," he set her carefully on the couch and indicated the suitcases in the hallway, "you're leaving us already?"

Cassandra sat mute. How to explain her death scene sketches, or convey the absolute terror of two hours lost in morbid creation of such scenes? She pointed a shaking finger at the sketchbook. Tears filled her eyes.

Samson's gaze fixed on the sketches and he froze. Literally. The temperature in the room dropped, the breeze outside picked up and scattered the leaves across the grass in a mad flurry.

Cassandra had hoped Samson would be different. Clearly, the sketches repulsed him. She probably did as well, considering she'd drawn them. Even in Salem she was recognized as an oddity, an outcast. The best thing for her to do would be to leave.

Samson strode over and snatched the sketches from the floor where Cassandra had thrown them earlier. He studied each sketch. His brow furrowed and eyes blazed while Cassandra watched. His facial expression gave nothing away, and when he slowly lifted the force of his gaze to Cassandra, she was sure he was about to condemn her as a freak.

"These are amazing. I mean other than the content, which is morbidly stomach-turning, you have a great talent for putting life to paper...or, in this case, death."

"You like them?"

"I hate what they portray, but the detail, the beauty of your pencil strokes—you've made these death scenes so real. Not only that, but you have possibly taken us closer to solving the puzzle."

"I'm sorry, I'm confused. What puzzle? Why aren't you clapping me in handcuffs and lugging me off to prison as a murderer?"

Samson placed the sketches on a nearby table and came to stand in front of Cassandra. Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders and stared down at her. "I never thought you were a murderer. I showed you the crime scene to tap into your psychic abilities. I went about it in, what I'm told, a typically Neanderthal manner and I came here to apologize to you." He indicated the suitcases in the hallway. "Were you going somewhere?"

"I...I was leaving." Her lower lip trembled. Whether from stress or relief, she wasn't sure.

Samson reached out and ran a fingertip softly across her lip. "Cassandra. I can't let you go anywhere. You're an intricate part of what's to come—what's already started."

On more sure footing, now she knew he didn't suspect her of murder, Cassandra straightened her shoulders and glared up at Samson. "You can't let me. How do you think you can stop me? Last time I checked it was still a free country."

"Once I tell you a long, strange story, I have no doubt you'll stay. If it makes you feel better, I'll leave the decision up to you. When I've told the tale, if you want to go, I won't stop you. Okay?"

"Sure. I suppose." Her attention strayed to the sketch portraying Lust and Cassandra knew she had to lie.

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