Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (14 page)

By the time of this writing, the author suspects there are only a fewhundred witches alive in NewEngland. All of the priestesses in temples across the country have been dead since the summer of 1780. Women suspected of witchery were burned and beheaded in mass numbers into the early nineteenth century.

The Great Temple of Persephone was burned to the ground at sunrise on 10 January 1780. The doors to the temple were locked and barred from the outside to prevent escape. Several priestesses jumped from the roof rather than be consumed by fire.
The Book of Prophecy was burned to ashes—and with it, records of hundreds of years’worth of the oracles’work. But it was rumored that one final prophecy was made—a prophecy that gave hope to the doomed priestesses. It foresaw that before the turn of the twentieth century, three sisters—all witches—will come of age. One of them, gifted with mind-magic, will be the most powerful witch in centuries, capable of bringing about a newgolden age of magic—or a second Terror. This family will be both blessed and cursed, for one sister will

The words end abruptly. The bottom right corner of the page is smudged, completely illegible.
“One sister will what?” I demand, my eyes flying up to Marianne’s.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Zara hid the manuscript on the porch roof of the Coste boardinghouse before she was arrested. Fortunately, the Brothers

did not find it. Unfortunately, parts of it were destroyed before I was able to retrieve it.”
“But I need to know. Mother was worried—was afraid that
we
were the sisters of the prophecy,” I whisper.
“I know,” Marianne says. Her face furrows. “I think Anna knew the rest of the prophecy, but she didn’t share it with me. Neither did Zara. I was their

friend, yes, but I was not privy to all their secrets.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “It can’t be right.”
“The oracles were never false. You can read more about the other prophecies in—”
“I don’t care about the other prophecies!” I stand so quickly, the chair tumbles over. “This—it can’t be about us. There must be other sisters who

can—who are—” Even now, I can’t bring myself to confess, to say the words out loud.
“Can one of you do mind-magic?” Marianne asks.
I stare at the woven red rug beneath the desk. She takes my silence for the admission of guilt that it is. “Good Lord,” she breathes. “But does that mean that we’re the sisters? Absolutely? Perhaps there are others who can—”
Marianne puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think so. Even without taking that into account, having three witches in one generation—I’ve never

heard of it before. Even in the old days.” Before the Terror, she means. “And now—you read it yourself. All the priestesses were murdered, and there were witch hunts well through the beginning of this century. Some witches chose not to marry and have children. For those who did—it is very rare that more than one daughter manifests powers. Three witches in one generation is a precious thing.”

Anna tell you anything else?”
“Anything that would tell me what to do, you mean? How to keep Tess and Maura safe? Anything
useful
?” I slump against a row of bookshelves.
“No. My intention ceremony is so soon, and I don’t know what to do. I’ll have to marry, I suppose.”
Marianne takes a deep breath. “You should know all of your options. Sit down, Cate. I have something to tell you.”
I sit, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the desk.
“I notice you didn’t mention the Sisterhood.”
I shake my head. “Wouldn’t we only be in more danger there?”
“Less than you might think. The Sisters—Cate, they’re witches.”
My jaw drops. “All of them?”
Marianne nods. “Since the Sisterhood first began. They’re the Daughters of Persephone re-formed. It’s a very important secret, very closely
guarded.”
“But then—there must be more witches than Zara thought, aren’t there?” I ask, hopeful. If there are more, perhaps we’re not the three sisters after
all.
“No. There are a few dozen Sisters, and perhaps fifty pupils at any given time. Some of the girls receive their training in magic and then go back
out into the world. Some stay and become full members of the order.”
“Wait.” I gasp as another realization nearly bowls me over. “So our governess—Elena Robichaud—she’s a witch?”
“She must be.” Marianne leans over the desk, as though she’s worried I might faint from the shock of it. “I imagine she’s been sent to see if the
three of you could be the sisters from the prophecy.”
I think of Elena, giggling with Maura in the sitting room. Walking arm in arm through the garden. “She’s a spy, then.”
Marianne puts her hand on my shoulder again, her long fingers kneading as if to reassure me. “Yes. But the Sisterhood will do everything they
can to teach and guide you. They’ll want to keep you safe from the Brothers at any cost.”
I bite my lip. “But how did they know we might be witches in the first place? We’ve been so careful.”
“When Anna was in the convent school, they made her use her mind-magic against their enemies. I imagine any daughter of hers would have
been of interest to them. And the fact that there are three of you . . .” Marianne takes off her spectacles, her brown eyes peering down into mine.
“I’ve wanted to reach out to you girls for some time—it was a matter of finding the right opportunity. The Brothers think me eccentric, and I was
afraid taking an interest might not reflect well on you. But I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to help. You mustn’t ever hesitate to ask.” Tears spring to my eyes. She knew about Mother’s mind-magic—and now she knows about mine—and she would be our friend anyway. “Thank
you. That—it means a great deal,” I say softly.
A door opens above us and footsteps come limping down the stairs. It’s Finn, disheveled in boots and shirtsleeves, his hair sticking up
impossibly. “Cate? I thought I heard you.”
“Finn.” His mother gives him a quelling look. “We’re just in the middle of—”
Finn sobers. “What’s the matter?”
I struggle to compose myself. “Nothing’s the matter. Everything’s grand.”
“Could you give us just a moment, please?” Marianne asks, and Finn obediently heads off to the front of the shop. She picks up Zara’s book and
holds it out to me. “I know this must be overwhelming, Cate. If you girls are the subject of the prophecy, it’s a very great responsibility. And a great
hazard. Perhaps putting it into the context of the oracles’ other prophecies would help. Anna truly believed—”
The bell above the door stops her.
“Mama!” Clara rushes in. “Brother Ishida and Brother Winfield are coming!”
I bolt to my feet. Marianne’s already rewrapping the histories and dumping them into my arms.
“What do I do with these?” I ask, panicked.
“Into the closet,” Finn orders from behind me.
“What?”
“Cate, I haven’t time to argue with you. Get in the damned closet!”
I didn’t know Finn had a voice like that. He gives me a not-entirely-gentle push toward the front of the shop, and I stumble forward. He throws open
the door beside the one that leads up to their flat—the closet he retrieved the register from yesterday. There’s a towering bookshelf inside with a
few leather-bound ledgers. Are we meant to hide in here? It doesn’t seem very hidden.
But Finn shoves the big bookshelf aside like it weighs nothing. Behind it, there’s a narrow door set a foot up the wall. He bends and steps through
and beckons to me. I peer doubtfully into the tiny room beyond. It looks like a root cellar. There’s barely space for Finn to stand upright. Stacks of
books line the earthen walls, and frankly, it looks like an ideal home for spiders.
“Hurry,” Finn says. He holds out a hand to help me over the sill, but I climb in on my own. Mrs. Belastra hands him a candle and Clara throws my
cloak at me and shuts the door. I hear the scratching of wood against the wall as they shove the bookshelf back into place. I put the books down,
carefully, on top of one towering pile.
Just as the closet door slams, I hear the jangle of bells above the Church Street entrance. The heavy tread of men’s boots. Brother Ishida’s
unmistakable voice, greeting Mrs. Belastra.
I’ve hardly gotten my bearings when Finn blows out the candle, plunging us into darkness. In my haste to get away from the damp wall, my foot
nudges something on the floor. Another stack of books. I teeter, windmilling my arms. If I knock them over, we’ll all be caught. Finn catches me and pulls me back. Right up against him.
Brother Ishida is asking Mrs. Belastra for a list of her recent customers. I freeze, my mind sifting through all of our purchases. Only linguistic
textbooks and scholarly tomes. They’ll assume I’ve been here on Father’s behalf.
“No customers at present, Mrs. Belastra?”
“Not at present. Business has been a bit slow for some reason or other,” she says, and I can hear her cheeky grin.
“Didn’t Miss Cahill come in earlier? We didn’t notice her leaving.”
“She went out the back. Wanted to get a look at my roses.”
Finn grabs my hand.
Normally I’d yank away from him. I’m not easily frightened; he should know that by now.
Except I am quite frightened, actually. So I twine my fingers with his and squeeze back. His hand is warmer than mine. There are calluses at the
base of his fingertips. Are they from the hammer and trowels he’s been wielding in our gardens?
My heart stops as the outer closet door opens and those heavy footsteps move in our direction. I hold my breath, lungs strangling in my chest.
Finn goes still as a stone beside me. The only sound is the rapid, uneven beating of my own heart.
But the footsteps move away, and the door bangs behind them.
It’s only when I taste salt that I realize tears are running in a silent river down my face, dripping off my chin and onto the cold stone floor. Finn is still clasping my hand. Now he reaches out and wipes a tear away with the soft pad of his thumb.
How did he know I was crying? He can’t see in the dark, and I never cry.
His thumb slips down over my cheek and rests softly, sweetly, on the curve of my bottom lip.
“It’s all right,” he says. He’s so close that his warm breath tickles my neck.
I turn and nestle my hot face into the soft cotton of his shirt. He smells of rainy spring days and old books. His hands move to my back and hover
there, tentative, as if he expects me to push him away.
I have never been this close to a man before. Something stirs deep, pulsing through my body, and it’s quite like the tug of magic, but it’s not the
magic; this is something entirely different, just between Finn and me and this moment.
His hands are firmer now. One settles at the small of my back, its weight burning through my dress and corset and even my chemise. My skin
shivers under his touch. I should back away.
I should but I won’t.
I want his hands on me.
If I could see his face, would I have such bold thoughts?
My hands slide up his chest. My mouth reaches for his.
Our noses bump in the dark, but Finn tilts his head sideways until his lips touch mine. They brush back and forth, testing. Tasting. He waits, but I
only press closer, and he reads that for the invitation it is. His kisses grow bolder. My toes curl in my slippers; my fingers clench the fabric of his
shirt; fireworks explode in my belly.
His mouth explores the sharp line of my jaw, then moves to the hollow of my throat.
“Finn,” I sigh. Never in my life has my voice sounded like that.
I knot my fingers in his hair and pull his mouth back to mine.
His hands move over me, light as feathers, stroking my back, my hip. Tangling in the sash around my waist, anchoring me tighter against him. My
body burns wherever he touches.
I’ve never devoted much thought to kissing. Never had cause to. But this—oh, this is lovely. Mad and hungry and lovely. I could stay like this for
hours.
And then the outer closet door bangs open, and Clara’s voice calls out, “They’ve gone!” and we spring apart, both of us breathing as though
we’ve run a footrace.
Something soft crunches beneath my slippers and I look down.
There are feathers. Feathers everywhere—scattered over all the books, tangled in Finn’s hair, caught in my skirts, blanketing the floor in white. Oh no.
There were no feathers here before.
Finn is bending down, picking up a white plume the size of his palm. That means he can see them, too.
I didn’t mean to, but I thought of feathers and here they are.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Why now? I’ve never made anything appear out of thin air before except that sheep.
Evanesco.
Please, Lord,
evanesco.
They do not disappear.
Of course they don’t. I have clearly used up my store of good luck for today.
“What the devil?” Finn mutters, and even though I can’t see his face in the darkness, I know that the space between his eyebrows is tucked into
an upside-down V. “Cate, do you see—?”
“Evanesco,”
I blurt, and now they’re gone.
Finn stares at his empty hand.
What have I done?
I think I can trust Finn, I do, but with this? This is everything. If it were only my secret—
But it isn’t. It’s my sisters’, too.
You will be hunted by those who would use you for their own ends. You must be very, very careful. You cannot trust anyone.
I stare at him, glad now that he can’t see my face.
“Dedisco!”
I say, careful to enunciate each syllable, my focus sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. I
only want him to forget the magic and the feathers. No more and no less.
But my magic isn’t necessarily so precise.
“Finn? Cate?” Marianne Belastra throws open the secret door. “Is something the matter?”
Finn stands blinking in the sudden light. “No,” he says.
“Nothing,” I say.
“You’d best get home, Cate,” Mrs. Belastra says. “Let me give you a book on gardening in case the Brothers think to look for it. You can see that
manuscript another time.”
“Yes,” I agree numbly. I can’t stop looking at Finn, searching his face for any hint of what he remembers. He’s not looking at me. That’s good; he’s
not horrified I’m a witch. But what
does
he remember?
Did I erase our kiss along with the feathers?
“Thank you, Mrs. Belastra.” It’s hard to talk around the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused any trouble for you.”
I’m heading toward the front door when she stops me, her hand catching my elbow, and points toward the back. “That way, Cate. They’ll be
watching the front.”
I nod and stumble through the maze of books. Of course. What am I thinking?
Finn. I’m only thinking of Finn.
I can’t even look at him, much less say good-bye.