Blair: Salem's Daughter

Blair:

Salem’s Daughter

April Klasen

Independently Published

2014

Copyright © 2014 by April Klasen

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2014

ISBN 978-0-9924752-1-5

April Klasen

www.aprilklasenauthor.com

aprilklasenauthor@hotmail.com

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April 

April Klasen is an independently published author, a blogger, and an expert on finding new hiding places to read uninterrupted. For more stories by April visit www.aprilklasenauthor.com

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Blair: The Same Daughter

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to everyone who put up with my grumpy moods, dragged me away from the computer as a desperate measure and brought me cups of tea as I wrote the first manuscript and then edited, edited, edited and edited.

Specific thanks to: Brodie, Bek, Ann, my first editor, my friends (past and present), Nanowrimo, my writer’s group, and finally but mostly my parents.

Before

Roy-Somhairle had once tried to explain how we were related.

He said, I am your great-great-great-great grandfather on your mother’s side. The Salem side. Who did you think I was?

It was impossible for him to still be alive. Completely unbelievable. Crazy.

In this world it was impossible. But not in Alizaria, a land unattached to this world, where time moves differently; sometimes faster, sometimes slower but never the same. Alizaria is like this world, there’s open country, farms, roads and a city, just without electronic technology.

Visitors from our world are rare. There are not many gateways and none of them attract attention.

Roy had gotten lost in Alizaria when he accidentally went through a gate. It took him decades to come home, but by then his wife was dead and his children were old with families of their own.

Then he found me. His own flesh and blood. A spirit witch too. And so began my training.

He told me that my soul has magic in it; when I die, my soul retains that magic even when reincarnated. My children won’t have magic as it’s not hereditary. However, souls gravitate to familiar blood. So I will be born again in our line.

Some spirit witches are telekinetic, some read the future or past, some heal, some are telepathic, some can do several of these. Training would bring out my talents, but all I really wanted to do was explosions. Now that would be cool.

This was all new to me a long time ago. I believed in magic back then. I was eleven the last time.

I would still believe if Roy had left my memory.

"Salem’s Daughter,

spirit of Alizaria and blood of another land,

a daughter of two worlds:

She will be loved by an heir.

She will sleep till Alizaria needs her.

She will bring fire and flood.

She will be the greatest queen for a thousand years.

She will be alone."

Chapter One: Blair

I didn’t feel much like moving. That hot, humid heat, the sort that arrived before a summer storm, surrounded me, taking all thought away. I felt sleepy and stupid lying bored in our back garden, just watching the clouds darken and hover over my little hill, as I’d done all that summer.

My head lolled to the side.

A muggy sweat soaked me, singlet sticking to my skin. The novel I had been attempting to read was abandoned in the grass.

My hair fell over my face.

Just for a minute, I closed my heavy eye lids.

~

The boy seized me about the waist and threw me to the ground. Hard.

I glared up at him, struggling to breath. He only smiled and offered a hand up.

"Come on Blair! The old man yelled from his seat on the back veranda. Pay attention!" Well, he was encouraging. Not.

I struggled to my feet, grimacing not only at the pain in my back but the wet patches on my pink pyjamas from the dew-covered grass. This was a dream of course.

Though the boy who looked about twelve with a raw scar running along his jaw seemed familiar, I didn’t know him, nor the old red-headed man yelling at me. I’d never met them before. Plus, the last time I wore pink was when I was eleven.

The boy looked at me carefully, Blair, are you alright? I’m sorry if I hurt you.

"You didn’t hurt her, the old man yelled. At least not enough. Get on with it."

I straightened my shoulders as he came towards me again.

I took a breath. Focus, I thought. Something funny happened inside of me when I focussed, a sort of shift. The boy yelled out. But he never reached me.

~

I gasped for air.

Suddenly a loud crack of thunder woke me. The sky had grown several shades darker, but the heat still filled my lungs. I hadn’t had that dream for a long time. A shiver ran through me despite the heat hovering in the air.

A fat rain drop fell from one of the angry clouds and landed on my arm, then another. The whole sky was cloaked by clouds now.

How long had I been asleep for? I sat up and looked about. Outside wasn’t a good place to be in a storm. Particularly on a hill when lightning began to jump and leap across the sky.

My family lived on a hill just outside of our tiny town. Our nearest neighbour was a couple of kilometres away, meaning we could do what we liked, when we liked. Dad was raised in this house, an old weatherboard place with stained windows in the kitchen and bathroom. I’d never lived anywhere else, and why would I? My little house on the hill, hidden from everyone, was near on perfect.

Rain began to pour from above. I quickly climbed to my feet.

The rain battered against my head, my clothes clung to my body and my short hair to my face. I wanted to go inside.

Then I heard it. A piercing, yowling screech, just beyond the garden, the opposite way from the house. I frowned. Had another stray gotten caught in the thorns?

I hurried away from shelter and sanity. Rain fell into my eyes blurring my vision. There was no clear path through the overgrown garden.

Closer to the house, Dad kept the yard tamed and clear of any stray weeds that defied his ruling spade. To the back end of the garden, it was allowed to be wild and as nature wanted. It was also the one place my parents had always told me to stay away from as a child. I was told the nightmare fairies would come through the gate that sat closed amongst the bushes.

There was no fence back there. Just the gate.

As I pushed through the garden I found myself standing in front of the small gate. The burgundy paint was flaking away from the metal frame. One swirl in the pattern of three was broken off.

It was unlatched and open a sliver.

Trees stood either side. Their branches created an umbrella above, keeping the worst of the water off me. I soon discovered the yowling nightmare fairy caught in the thorns of a shrub just in front of the gate.

Oh my god. I gasped. This was not the creature of terror that used to torment me in my childhood nightmares. You tiny thing. Oh poor little kitten. Come here. Crouching, I carefully pushed back a section of the thorns, then leaned forward and gently, so gently extended my hand in.

Claws dug into my skin. I pulled back and swore. Shit.

The kitten growled and hissed.

You asshole! I’m trying to rescue you! I reached in again and grabbed the kitten. Again, it stuck its claws in. Owch! Stop that!

The demand only seemed to make it stab in deeper.

Still crouching stoically, I saw an old fashioned glass bottle tucked a little further in under the thorns. It was obviously my day to be a pin cushion so I braved the thorns again. I grabbed the bottle up in my other hand, wondering why I was bothering myself to get it. Blair! someone called from the house. I swore at the kitten, but didn’t let it go. Instead I drew it in closer, sheltering it with my body and picked my way back out of the bushes.

Lightning struck and a few seconds later a loud crack of thunder followed. The kitten tried to wriggle from my arms, yowling in fear. Stop that. Or I’ll leave you out here and tomorrow morning I’ll find a crispy kitten fried by lightning. I ran across the lawn. My novel, the one which I’d tried to read before the words began to blur in the heat, was still there, ruined.

I dashed up the steps and onto the veranda where I toed off my ratty joggers and pushed through the back door into the kitchen. Dad looked up from the newspaper resting on the table.

I look nothing like my dad, except for our height. Relations and the general population tower over both of us. But when I stood in front of him - soaked, with my red hair plastered to my cheeks, cradling an ungrateful and noisy bundle of fur, and gripping a bottle - I knew he was thinking how so like my mum I was.

Had a nice afternoon I see, he drawled.

Hey Dad. Meet my new pet. It’s a gremlin. Let’s hope I can keep it alive longer than I did the pet rock. I unceremoniously dumped the kitten onto the floor and inspected the damage along my arm. Oww, if this is my reward for a random act of kindness, I want to be a mean person from now on.

The creature, all soaked fur, quickly backed under the table, sniffing curiously. Then it shivered and glared around the kitchen.

I sighed and went into the laundry connected onto the kitchen and returned with an old towel. Come here. I whispered as I crouched beside the table leg. Here kitty. I stretched out a hand and rubbed my fingers together. It’s alright; I’m not going to hurt you.

After a few hesitant movements the ball of fluff inched forward to approach my hand, then sniffed it. The kitten began to nuzzle against my fingers.

I smiled and scratched its head.

Oh, you sook. Behind its ears and under its chin I scratched and laughed when it began to purr loudly. You are an easily pleased beast. And you’re so loud for a little thing. Screeches like a banshee and purrs like a lawn mower.

Slowly I wrapped my hand under its belly and lifted it out from under the table. It didn’t seem disturbed by the movement or the change of location or the towel that I used to wrap it and rub it. We can’t be accused of man slaughter or rather kitten slaughter now, can we Dad?

What? he looked up startled from his paper.

Well, I’ve saved it from a storm and I’m drying it so it won’t catch its death. Soon this little annoyance will be catching mice; if it survives me first.

Maybe you should take the same advice and dry off.

I shook my head. I’m fine Dad. Steam’s practically coming off of me, it’s that warm.

Blair Anne Fitzpatrick! Are you deliberately trying to get sick so you don’t have to go to your first day of year ten tomorrow or for the whole week?

I actually hadn’t thought about it. But now that you mention it... I covered my mouth and coughed loudly and then gagged. Oh yuck!

What now? Dad smiled.

My hands smell disgusting.

Go have a shower. You probably smell like wet cat.

But what about the kitten?

I’ll watch it.

Half an hour later, I slowly walked into the kitchen, clean and dressed in my favourite pyjamas. All that remained was to be fed and to see my parents off.

Dad was still sitting at the table, only this time he was dressed in good jeans and a button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. On the ground, the tiny beast was batting about the end of his shoe lace.

What’s in the bottle? Dad nodded his head towards the old fashioned glass bottle, standing on the edge of the table.

I shrugged. I’m not sure; I found it outside when I found that thing. The kitten had rolled over onto its back and looked up at me, wide-eyed. It’s probably empty.

I picked it up and shook it. There was a muffled rustle like paper was inside. It feels light. The glass was a clouded, deep emerald green and covered in dirt. I swiped some off. "I think I can see a... piece of