The Excommunicated Witch Savant Book 1: Breaking Covens, Building Dreams
Traditions die hard, or you die breaking traditions.
Torchlight flickered along the stone walls and gilded tapestries, casting shifting shadows across a circle of robed figures.
The arched doors closed with a tremendous thud, and the young woman approaching the circle eyed the figures. Most of them were three decades older than her, but their magic hid signs of age. She felt the age of their power.
She felt out of place in this room with magic thrumming through the air. Until now, they had never let her down here. For twenty-two years, she had wondered what lay in the lowest level of the estate’s large manor house. Now she knew.
The chamber reminded her of a church with the dais and altar at one end, the arched ceilings, and the hanging tapestries. There were no pews to sit on or an organ playing a haunting tune. Still, the young woman was unnerved.
It was deep into the night, and the witches belonging to the coven had gathered here. The leaders, those who had practiced varying forms of magic for most of their lives, formed the circle. Like the young woman stepping in among them, the other savants were not welcome here. Not until they were deemed “worthy.”
Whatever the hell that means. The young woman halted before the circle. Two of the figures moved so she might come and stand in the center over a glowing pentagram cast onto the stone floor.
The witches surrounding her wore hoods and had their heads bowed. The young woman knew all of them, but now, she could only tell them apart by their heights. Only one stood out. The young woman lifted her head toward a dais past the circle where the coven’s head stood tall despite her age.
Rowantine Riverstead Locket was the crone’s name, but the coven witches called her simply “the head” or “Mother Rowantine.”
The young woman called the coven’s leader Grandmother.
Grandmother Rowantine was the eldest of the coven witches, and she did not hide her age with magic. Her skin was as wrinkled as an oak tree’s trunk, and her dark eyes were set deep into her face, glimmering and glinting like a raven’s. When she stepped into the light, her eyes resembled emeralds.
Her silver hair was in a tight knot, and she wore dark green robes. Emeralds in gold-banded rings decorated her hands. All were signs of her magic—she had a close connection to earth elements and could bend them to her will.
Grandmother Rowantine gestured for her granddaughter to come forward. No kindness shone in her eyes, nothing special for her kin.
The circle of witches parted again to allow the savant to approach a stone altar draped in black silk before the dais. A silver chalice filled with swirling crimson liquid sat upon the altar. Beside it was an iron dagger. It was clean, for now. The young woman’s nose wrinkled at the smell of blood.
I hope I don’t have to drink that. We’re witches, not vampires.
She had heard whispers about the blood oath, but no one had ever confirmed the details. She realized now what they expected her to do. Slide the blade across her palm and allow the drops of blood to mix with theirs, the binding that made her part of the coven forever. Until this moment, she had merely been a savant—someone trained by the higher-ranking witches to one day join their sacred circle.
Her heart thrummed. Something about the hush in the air set her teeth on edge. The coven had never allowed outsiders into this chamber. Even she was told they would only invite her once she was worthy.
What makes me worthy now?
She’d had no sign that this was coming until this morning. The acolyte who had overseen her training for the last fifteen years had arrived at her room and informed her that she would take part in the blood oath tonight. The young woman searched her grandmother’s face for answers or a slight hint that the venerable witch was proud of her for making it this far. Was her grandmother happy to see her?
Grandmother Rowantine’s face remained unreadable. She would not show favoritism. The coven was fragile as it was. There was no need for anyone to believe the youngest among them might receive special treatment.
The young woman glanced at the chalice and dagger again. Certainly not special. She drew in a deep breath and pushed it out. She wasn’t afraid of cutting her hand but rather what the binding would mean. She would be one of them officially, and leaving would mean a purging of her magic.
What if I don’t bind myself? She pushed the thought away and stepped up to the altar while tucking a strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear. She lifted her gaze to meet her grandmother’s. They had the same eyes, green as emeralds. The young woman’s mother once had the same shade and shape.
Behind her, a voice like silk arose. The young woman kept her back to the coven, facing the altar and her grandmother as High Priestess Eleanora spoke. Grandmother Rowantine might have been the coven’s head, but shrewd and beautiful Eleanora was her right hand. She oversaw its functions and directed orders to its witches.
“Josephine Locket, this is the final step to join our ranks. You shall cut your palm and mingle your blood with ours. Speak the vow of absolute obedience, and the ritual shall be complete. Do this now before your sisters, those who will forever be the witnesses to your oath.”
Grandmother Rowantine inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, then motioned for Josephine to come around the other side of the altar so she might face the women she would consider sisters.
In truth, many of them were distant aunts and cousins. Some were no relations. After taking the oath, she would be considered a sister. The coven used the word to make everyone believe they were on even footing. Josephine had been around the coven long enough to know this was bullshit.
She stepped around the altar anyway, and the other witches lowered their hoods, revealing faces with stoic expressions. She recognized all of them, although a few she only knew the name of and seldom spoke to.
Josephine noticed a witch with silver hair cascading to her waist and silver runes etched into her face and neck. The light caught the markings, making her face glimmer. Josephine had heard rumors of this witch. A dark-arts-wielding warlock cut her tongue out when she was young, leaving her mute. She was one of the most powerful witches in the coven despite this. She could not speak incantations, but she held magic in her skin and was the best rune caster among them.
Another witch brandished an elaborate staff that was black as obsidian and glimmered with whorls of pale blue light. Josephine had a feeling the woman would whack her on the back of the legs with it if she didn’t comply.
A third woman with deep auburn hair and soft, doe-brown eyes caught Josephine’s gaze with a slight smile. She was the only acolyte Josephine considered a friend. A fourth witch held her head high, her gaze taking everything in. She was the coven’s lore keeper, the knower of all things from enchantments and spells to history and lore. This was the first time Josephine had seen the witch without her nose in a book.
This ritual must be pretty damn important to bring Esmerelda out of the library.
Josephine searched the faces of the other witches for any indication of how the ritual might go. She had heard rumors that once the binding was complete, the new witch experienced unpleasant side effects. One witch had come out with warts all over her face.
I don’t want warts, Josephine groused inwardly.
Eleanora stepped to the circle’s center. The pentagram glowed beneath her feet. She had been the one to cast it, no doubt. Eleanora was nearly as old as Grandmother Rowantine, but her face was smooth ivory, and her hair was black as a raven’s wing without a single thread of gray. She closed her dark eyes, lifted her hands, and recited an incantation. The chalice before Josephine glowed faintly. She could make out the thin whorls on its surface as the glow increased. The flickering torchlight dimmed, and Josephine’s breathing quickened.
Magic coiled from the altar, wrapping around her wrists and ankles like spectral vines. They whispered a warning. It’s not optional. No going back.
It was this or… What else? Josephine didn’t know. She ignored the woman with the staff.
Grandmother Rowantine stepped down from the dais and moved around the altar. Eleanora continued with the incantation as the coven’s head lifted the dagger and extended it toward her granddaughter. She spoke over Eleanora’s droning voice.
Rowantine’s tone was commanding, almost compulsive. “Do this, and your bond to this coven is sealed. Our secrets become your secrets. Knowledge and power become available to you, but betray us, and you will pay with your blood.”
Josephine stiffened and glanced past her grandmother toward the circle of witches. She met the eye of the auburn-haired witch and noticed a change in the woman’s expression.
Fear had come into her eyes, and puzzlement flickered across her features. Why? Josephine’s friend had once done this too. She knew how the ritual went.
How much knowledge and power? The coven would still control what she was able to learn.
Understanding jolted through Josephine as she returned her gaze to meet her grandmother’s. This was not a simple binding ritual but a full surrender of everything—her free will, body, and life. Yes, she would have access to their power and knowledge in theory, but they could keep whatever they wanted from her. They could deny her access to whatever she might want to learn and prevent her from using the magic she desired. One toe out of line and she might “pay with her blood.”
Grandmother Rowantine’s face flickered with impatience and her eyes seemed to say, Any day now, Josephine. You’re wasting everyone’s time.
Behind her, the acolytes shifted in anticipation. Eleanora continued reciting the incantation so the chalice would keep glowing, but she was growing irritated too.
Josephine snorted, and her initial nerves twisted into anger. “You want me to bleed for you? To vow complete obedience? You’re out of your damn minds.”
Eleanora’s eyes snapped open as gasps passed among the other witches. Her voice sharpened. “This is the ancient price for knowledge and power, child. We have all paid it.”
The auburn-haired witch’s lips parted.
All?
Grandmother Rowantine shoved the dagger toward her. “Take it.”
With the incantation no longer spoken, the glowing coils of magic had vanished from Josephine’s wrists and ankles. She smacked the dagger aside, sending it clattering onto the floor. “Shove it up your ass. I won’t be your pawn.”
Gasps erupted around the circle, and magic crackled in the air. Josephine heard the thump of a witch’s staff on the floor. The runes on the mute witch’s face and neck flared with light. Josephine ignored both. Several witches raised their hands to cast restraining spells, but no one did as their coven head cast them a sharp glance. Forcing Josephine to comply would only make things worse.
Eleanora’s face twisted in fury. “How dare you—”
Josephine marched around the altar and threw up her hands. “Excommunicate me, see if I care. I’ll break your feeble, geriatric dust holes.”
Excommunication was better than whatever would come after they bound her. She could try to escape, to run. They would purge her magic from her. Without the binding, they could not take her magic. It was inherently hers, untied to their control.
She felt a strong tremor of power behind her and turned. Josephine hadn’t wanted to turn. Grandmother’s power had forced it. She had seen her grandmother display magic before, but nothing like this. Her veins pulsed with raw magic, blue glowing through her pale skin. She lifted a staff Josephine had not seen before. It was white as an ash tree and pulsed with magic. It was so strong that Josephine’s head pounded.
“So be it,” Rowantine intoned. “By the authority of this coven, you are cast out. From this day forward, you are no witch of ours.”
Just like that.
A surge of magical energy blasted the circle. Josephine staggered as the invisible chains around her vanished. Any lingering magical protection the coven had once offered evaporated.
Josephine laughed with a slight manic edge. “Thank you. I’m better off without your archaic bullshit.” She turned on her heel and stormed from the hall. The grand doors slammed behind her seemingly of their own will, leaving the coven elders hissing in frustration.
Maybe everything Josephine had been wrong. Maybe she made the wrong choice. Find out the consequences of her actions on May 2, 2025 when The Excommunicated Witch Savant Book 1: Breaking Coven, Building Dreams is released. Until then head over to Amazon and pre-order it today.
