Prologue
Scrambling off my bed, I gather only what I can carry before crossing the hall to my apothecary, depositing my belongings in the nearest satchel.
All the murmurings and whispered chatter traveled faster than the self-righteous band of clergy claiming God spake to them about the witches—their God identified the evil doers.
But this moment, I knew before now.
This day was foretold, cemented in time before my journey from Barbados to the Americas, and even longer than before the splitting of nations, creating a vast new world ripe for exploration and exploitation.
So while my pulse quickened, fear did not motivate me—stepping into my fate did.
Packing the remnants of my altar, I gather my runes, protectively securing them before murmuring the spell that cloaks them. The rich hue of my skin glows, the frenetic beat of my heart slows to a cadence that speaks to the elements—
Fire.
Water.
Earth.
Air.
Space.
—And Time.
Frustration shackles me, my spine stiffening as rancor and ire boil within my veins. I can feel the hum of magic brewing under my skin, lighting up its rich orche hue.
“Nuh now,” I remind myself, reaching for the calm of the earth to temper what fire has engulfed in my soul.
I am the first of my kind.
Having lived in many civilizations throughout many millennia since the creation of space and time, one thing holds true. Each iteration of “civilized” society is equally as rotten as its predecessor, each trying to outdo despicable acts while exploiting the defenseless.
My lip curls, nostrils flaring, jaws clenching at the current state of Salem.
After hearing about how Margaret Blackstone was dragged out in only her chemise and stays, I didn’t have high hopes of what was to come. Too many women have been taken.
Twenty-two—Twenty-two.
That’s how many women have been accused of being a witch in the last three days.
Every one of them—innocent…
All the charges— fake…
All of the accusations—rooted in jealousy, lust, and power grabs. And I would know because I’m the only witch in here—have been for nearly two years now.
These women defied what was Puritan law—coloring outside of the rules of pious propriety. Women with no desire for husbands, ones who possess the ability to think for themselves, and have too much wealth.
None of them are spellcasters or weavers.
They are neither healers nor oracles.
They know nothing of spells to make them wielders of them.
But because they are coveted…because they are women, they’re at the mercy of corrupt systems—cloaked wolves posing as sheep.
Whispers traveled throughout Salem Village and Salem Town.
Annabelle Thatcher, the second-richest woman and fifth-richest person in the province, was accused by Pastor Jonathan Cotton, and all her properties, along with her fortune, were seized after she was found guilty.
Now her body hangs in Town House Square, mangled and naked—a warning and a promise of bloody days to come.
“Did you see the look on that whore Mary Ellen’s face before she was stripped?” A vile sack of human flesh exclaims.
Freezing, I reinforce the wards, cloaking my dwelling.
“I’m just mad I didn’t get to see her tits bounce free,” another grumbles.
Vermin.
Without provocation, the spell comes to life—a cup of Tripterygium Wilfordii, two doses of licorice, one pound of papaya seeds, and a sprinkling of mint.
“You cannot covet what you cannot see, you cannot harm what you cannot touch— I call back to the seeds of life, may you never possess the will nor the ability to take root lest a woman be made to bear your fruit.”
“Ahh, my eyes,” one screams.
“I can’t feel my arms—fuck! I can’t feel my cock,” another cries.
Giggling, I seal their fate of impotency.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” The feline purr tickles my neck before Enitan’s black panther form shifts human.
Pretending not to hear the reprimand, I scurry across the room to my books. He can be whiny once we’re out of here.
“Aya,” Enitan says, the warning evident in tone.
“Hmm,” I reply, twisting to bat my eyelashes in the hope that my coquettish smile will distract him even though I know it will do no such thing.
He’s across the room in three strides, the gait of his steps mimicking his graceful feline form. “Do not play this game with me, Aya. You essentially sent up a beam of light that said ‘witch here.’”
“But they…the things they’ve done,” I growl, trying to shake that memory of the licentious actions throughout their lives. “How could I not?”
Enitan wraps me in his muscular arms, and notes of his warm vanilla and musky sandalwood paired with spiced rum envelop me, and I inhale the man I call home.
“I need you to be safe first, Aya. No one comes before you. Not now—not ever.”
How can I not love a man who would blow up existence to ensure my safety?
Sighing, I nod, “I promise no more magic until it’s safe.”
Before I can speak another word, a vision barrels into my chest.
“She is you, and you are she. Bind her to you, and you shall be free.”
Places that look nothing like anywhere I’ve ever been before appear before me—moving things on foreign wheels not led by horses, tall buildings higher than great pyramids, people in strange clothing as even stranger music blares through some square-looking, box made of a even weirder material in their hands.
“She is you, and you are she. Bind her to you, and you shall be free.”
A woman whose face I cannot see, wearing strange pants and what I believe are boots of some kind, with an even more peculiar coat, unlike the waistcoat or cloak of my time.
Coiled inky hair that hangs past her shoulders with intricate braids of the Fulani people of West Africa lays against her smooth, warm sepia skin.
“She is you, and you are she. Bind her to you, and you shall be free.”
I’m snatched away, yanked back to reality so violently I stumble in Enitan’s hold. “What did you see?” he asks without prompting, already knowing it was a vision.
Gasping, I suck in lungfuls of air to replenish what was lost. “She…strange…land…future.” It’s all I can manage to make out until I catch my breath, once again reaching into the earth to calm my erratically beating heart.
“I—.”
“She is you, and you are she. Bind her to you, and you shall be free.”
A note appears before me.
Venom Estate is the key.
Crisp, bone-chilling air seizes me, freezing the tips of my fingers until they are so purple they look almost pitch black as a moonless night.
I stand amongst snow-capped pine trees and a dwelling reminiscent of royalty, but its construction is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Chattering, I work to regulate my body temperature, calling on the warmth of the sun or the roaring of a fire, but it’s blocked—my vision, holding me captive.
January is the time of the place you must be.
“She is you, and you are she. Bind her to you, and you shall be free.”
My eyes roll back, the scenery blinking out.
“Aya…Aya…Asaya.” I can hear Enitan, but I can’t move nor speak. “You have to wake now.” The urgency in his tone sends shivers up my spine. “They’re coming, Aya. They’re coming now. You. Must. Wake. Up!”
At his decree, I catapult back into my body, eyes snapping open, and sweat knitting my brows.
Concerned cognac-brown eyes peer into my chestnut-brown ones. “What did you see?”
The question catches me off guard since he sees what I see, but I remember that any use of magic lights a brighter beacon. Another reason I know the women they’ve accused are innocent.
“You must go,” I rush out, stumbling over my words. “You must go, Enitan—you must find her.”
“Her?”
Escaping his hold, I continue, ignoring his question. “You cannot be here when they arrive, Enitan.” I push him towards the back door. “You can’t be on this part of the journey with me.”
Tears well in my eyes. I’ve never been separated from him, not since we were bound as one, thousands of years ago. But I know trouble is afoot, and if we want to free ourselves, he must go before they come for me. “I need you to find her.” I don’t get to say more when I sense their approach.
Pushing him through the back door with only my words to go on.
Enitan gazes back at me once he reaches the edge of the forest behind our home.
His lips never move, choosing to mind link to gather as much as he can before he speaks.
“Aya, I will burn this world to the ground, ripping its very creation from existence to find you.” His love wraps around me with a ferocious protectiveness that I can only nod at, for fear of not defying the fates and allowing him to stay.
“You will return to me, and I will stand by your side when you destroy them.” Then he’s gone, morphing into the majestic panther with a coat of rich onyx before leaping, disappearing into thin air.
I barely have time to ready myself when footsteps sound off in the distance, evident only to my keen ears.
“She’s supposed to be in here.”
Instinctively, my canines lengthen and my finger beds itch, ready to elongate into the lethal weapons they are.
“Reverend Willard said we need to use the amulet if she gives us a hard time,” another man murmurs. “He said she’s a true demon who worships the Devil.”
Snickering, I sit in a chair next to my kitchen table, humored at the irony of them hating someone their God created with such rankled, angry fervor when my brain smacks me in the face for missing the most critical part of the statement.
The amulet.
“Trouble don’ set up like rain,” I mumble, reciting what mi wela would say as I stumble over my feet as I regain my footing. “Oya, be merciful. Caan be di Ojú-inú.” The copper and gold-infused amulet that contains the true eye. It’s the only instrument capable of holding me.
Without moving from my spot, I call to my grimoire. My eyes flash white, calling to the elements, while I ignore the gasps from outside. They can see the truth—I am power, real power.