Scarlett (A Very British Witch Book 1)
Contents
Legal
Dedication
Glossary of British Terms
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Mewsage from Raven the Cat
Author Notes - Izzie
Author Notes - Ellie
Social Links
Series List
A Very British Witch (this series of books) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
This book Copyright © 2018 Isobella Crowley
Cover Design by Jeff Brown
Cover copyright © ProsperityQM LLC
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First US edition, 2018
Version 1.01.02
A Very British Witch (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2018 by Isobella Crowley
DEDICATION
For the souls who dream of making the world more magical.
— Izzie
To everyone who ever dreamed of making a dent in the universe.
— Ellie
SCARLETT
A Very British Witch 01
JIT Beta Readers
Brian Roberts
Jackey Hankard-Brodie
Robert Gould
Robert Brooks
Chelsea Wright
Crystal Wren
Diane L Smith
Mary Morris
Nicole Emens
Tonya Waldron
If I missed anyone, please let me know!
Editor
Amy Teegan
Glossary of British Terms
In writing this, I know most folks who come to this book are statistically going to be from outside the UK, and probably predominantly from the US.
As such, and under the suggestions of my beta readers, it seems prudent to explain certain things to reduce the friction of coming into what is effectively a foreign world.
The reasons for this are twofold:
so you can focus on the story and get lost in it, and
so you can appreciate the intricacies of the world, as if it were another universe through a portal.
First off, some pronunciation notes, because we all hate it when there are weird words used, and we have no idea how to say them in our heads!
The first word is Bicester.
This is the village I lived in, and the one where our story takes place. It’s pronounced “Bis-ter”.
The origin of it is quite interesting actually. When the UK was invaded by the Romans, a lot of our places were named using Latin and kinda stuck. Chester means camp. As in a military camp.
Bi, means two.
Bicester is therefore the place of two military encampments – which is also true to this day, because it has an air force base and an army base.
Ok, next word: ma'am.
In England this is pronounced “Marm”.
Not “maaaaaaam”, as it is in America. If you read it with an English accent in your head, it might help to get a feel for the place. (Off the top of my head I don’t think it occurs that often…)
Ok, here’s another one our US service people are going to cringe at.
It’s been a point of contention since the war, when we teamed up.
It’s the title: Flight Lieutenant
In the US, y’all pronounce it Flight Lew-ten-ant.
In the UK it’s Flight Left-ten-ant.
Yeah. I know. Looks nothing like how it’s spelled. But I didn’t decide the rank. And it confused the f*** out of me when I was in cadets at school. Anyhooo, that’s how it’s said, if you want to pronounce it the British way in your head as you read.
Ok, here are some words that just need a bit of explanation. You may know some of them already.
PG Tips – a particular good brand of tea. If it's not PG it's probably not worth drinking. Thank goodness I can find it here in Texas.
Allotment – a plot of land rented by an individual for growing vegetables or flowers. These are basically partitioned off gardens in one area, where each person has a little shed at the end where they keep their gardening tools and fertilizers. It's not uncommon for older village folk to have this place where they potter, giving them something to do out of the house.
Pottered – in English 2.0 this is putter. To occupy oneself in a desultory but pleasant manner, doing a number of small tasks or not concentrating on anything particular.
Uncrossed himself – he uncrossed his legs, (and sometimes maybe arms as well).
Plonk – Cheap wine, similar in quality to the 1 gallon jugs I’ve seen in the US that sell for less than $10.
High street – akin to a US Main Street.
Biscuit – Cookie.
Jammie Dodgers – are a popular British biscuit, made from shortbread with a raspberry or strawberry flavored jam filling. (Ellie edit: as seen on Doctor Who, in conjunction with him telling the Daleks it was a bomb control device in a bluff to save the world from them!)
Bobby – English slang for policeman.
Oxford Don – a university teacher, especially a senior member of a college at Oxford or Cambridge.
Pavement – sidewalk.
Gadfly – an annoying person, especially one who provokes others into action by criticism.
Jumper – sweater.
Trainers – sneakers/tennis shoes.
Torch – Flashlight.
Deep conditioning hair mask – this is basically goop that you put on your hair to make it thick and well conditioned. You normally apply it to damp hair, leave it for 30 minutes and then rinse it out. This seemed worth explaining since a number of gentlemen in the JIT (Just In Time) team quizzed it, and the non-English females, including my trusty (Canadian!) helper, couldn’t explain it either. It must be an English thing.
Row – a noisy scuffle or disagreement (pronounced like how, not owe).
Flat – apartment.
Flatmate – roommate.
Grilled – when we cook something under a grill (or the oven without the convection heat on) it’s called grilled. Sometimes this can also be a flame from above. It seems that when you use this word over here in the US it’s assumed to mean that you barbequed it, outside, which isn’t what is intended here. In the US you would say that you broiled it under your broiler.
Similarly, if you notice any other words that make you wonder, feel free to hit me up on my facebook page: www.facebook.com/IsobellaCrowley, and I’ll add it to the list!
Izzie
P.S. Ellie is the Ell Leigh Clarke person you might have seen on the Amazon page… my collaborator on this. More from both of us in the author notes… ;)
CHAPTER ONE
A sound in the darkness startled her. She heard a low rumbling, grinding sound, growing louder.
Scarlett peered into the darkness, trying desperately to see where the sound was. What it was. But all she saw was the deep, shadowy blackness that enveloped her.
She felt herself floating, drifting toward what now seemed a slavering, gnashing sound.
Her mind felt sluggish. She wasn’t thinking straight. The dark well around her felt too real and unreal at the same time.
Scarlett, you’re drunk. You’re hallucinating, she told herself.
Something white emerged from the murky distance, like a dense midnight fog sloping down through some dark valley, but–
No.
It was a thing, a solid object. Tall and pale. Long white stones, she thought. A row of them, like slender white picket fences. The pale pickets moved up and down in unison to the gnashing sound growing louder and louder.
Her mind raced.
No, not pickets–
Teeth.
Human teeth.
Yet not quite human.
Two rows of menacing teeth, coming at her, as if to devour her.
She wanted to run but she couldn’t. She could not feel her body or the ground, but then she did. She sensed for the first time the ground beneath her feet. As the teeth came straight at her, closing on her like the jaws of some ravenous beast–some shark or bear or wolf–she tried frantically to turn and run.
But she couldn’t move.
Mud. She was stuck in mud.
It gripped her shoes, paralyzing her. She felt rooted to the earth beneath her, as helpless as a sapling in a tempest.
As the teeth grew near her, gnashing with that terrible, relentless sound, a face emerged from the stygian depths.
A man’s face.
His skin was pale, his eyes dark as midnight wells untouched by moonlight. The strange features of his face seemed to shift as he grew closer, like a figure seen through rippling water, the form hideously distorted.
As the man approached her–not running or walking but somehow seeming to glide–she saw something else behind him.
A figure lying on the ground. It was a human body slumped and lifeless on the muddy ground.
Dead?
Fear seized her.
She felt an icy chill crawl through her soul, and heard the panicky percussion of a heartbeat.
Her own heart.
It sounded far off, but the rapid beating rhythm seemed to call out to her. She felt an overwhelming need to return to that terrified yet familiar sound, back to her own heart, away from the loud gnashing teeth and the pale sinister face.
And as the teeth drew closer, as the man or beast or monstrous thing closed in on her, Scarlett saw something else. Something new. Not the pure black of the void or the pristine white of the teeth, but a bright new color, dripping from cold white fangs–
Red.
+++
Slater Residence, Bicester, England
She woke with a start, gasping for breath.
Her heart raced and her skin felt sticky and damp with sweat under a tangle of covers. She was in bed, her own bed.
Scarlett’s eyes were dry and gritty and it made it hard to see but the room felt right, and familiar. The blinds were closed and curtains drawn over them, but somehow a thin blade of sunlight got through, stabbing the darkness. Eddies of dust danced in the light of the slanted beam.
She rubbed the grit from her eyes and glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
10:19am.
Fuck! Fuckity-fuckballs on a wanker! she cursed to herself.
She had set her alarm for 9.45 so she could open the shop at 10.30.
Or had she? She couldn’t remember setting the alarm, or crawling into bed, or much at all about last night at all.
Her head felt heavy. Her throat was parched, her tongue thick and heavy and dry.
Great. A hangover. Nice going, Scarlett.
She thought back to last night. She’d gone to the pub with her roommate Amanda and some of her friends from out of town, but she hadn’t had that much do drink. Had she? No. She was on a strict diet.
Was. Past tense.
She tried to rouse herself from beneath the duvet. If she got to the wine shop late, Karl would be there waiting to reprimand her. It was her day to open, and Karl was never late.
God, I’ll never hear the end of this.
Scarlett threw off the bedcover, tested the floor with her feet, and shambled into the bathroom. She was wearing a white tee shirt and panties, and to get to the bathroom she had to step over the high heels and pants on the floor, the vestiges of last night’s outing.
She flicked on the bathroom light. The harsh glare stung her eyes, sparking a flash of fire in her head. She fumbled for the light switch again to turn it off, and caught a glimpse of her hand.
She stopped. Something was odd about her hand. Different, out of place. Her fingertips felt rough. She examined them finding some kind of dark material under the fingernails.
Mud?
No, that couldn’t be right.
Why would she have mud under her nails?
She quickly scrubbed at her hands in the sink, again thinking back to last night. Had she fallen down? Drunk, perhaps? She wracked her disorientated mind trying to remember.
Of course, it might not be mud at all. More likely it was food, from something she ate. Dessert maybe, like a brownie or cookie? Had she really fallen that far off the diet?
Sliding one fingernail under another, she scooped out a small sample of the dark matter and brought it to her tongue for a taste. It was gritty and earthy.
Mud, she confirmed, spitting it out into the sink, and trying not to gag.
She quickly scrubbed at her hands and brushed her teeth and checked herself for bruises. In the mirror she saw that her hair was a matted mess, her face puffy.
Nice going, Kate Moss!
She struck a pose with her toothbrush still in hand, making fun of her wayward, non-catwalk appropriate look.
As least she was otherwise passably clean.
Skip the shower, she thought. No time. She needed to open the shop.
If she hurried, she might still get there before Karl arrived.
She forced a reluctant brush through the Gordian knot of her tangled hair, then stepped out of the bathroom and crossed to the closet to find some clean clothes she wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in.
She noticed her clothes on the floor. High heels, pants, top. The high heels looked dirty. She picked them up and noticed mud around the edges. Her pants from last night were dappled with muddy splotches too.
She wouldn't have walked through the damp woods or a muddy field in her high-heeled shoes. It didn't make sense. But then again, last night was fuzzy.
Worry about that later, she told herself.
She gathered up her muddy clothes and threw them in the laundry basket, then opened the closet to find something to wear, but as she raised her hand to rifle through the hangers she saw a fresh streak of mud on her arm, which must have rubbed off from her pant legs. Then she found some more on the back of her left leg.
Dammit! Sorry Karl, she thought, and hurried into the shower.
+++
After the fastest shower in history, she thundered down the stairs, still pulling her top on over her second arm, and headed straight into the kitchen.
She’d idly noticed that Amanda’s bedroom door was half open, which meant her roommate already left for work without waking Scarlett.
Thanks, Roomie, she thought sarcastically.
In truth, Amanda always woke up much earlier. She worked at Greggs bakery and her morning hours were insane. Scarlett often heard the sound of her leaving in the pre-dawn hours, but this morning she’d slept through those noises too.
&nb
sp; Hurriedly, Scarlett popped some slices of bread into the toaster, letting them crisp as she hopped around the kitchen, pulling on her shoes and gathering her things at the same time. Pulling on her last shoe, she over-balanced and intent on getting the shoe over her foot, she stumbled into the kitchen worksurface.
“OOOOOooooowwwwww!” she howled out loud, whimpering and rubbing her bruising arm, despite there being a lack of audience to witness her tribulation.
Arm stinging, and still whimpering to herself dramatically, she buttered her toast, wrapped it in a paper towel, tossed the knife into the sink, and grabbed her purse from the where she’d dumped it on the floor seconds earlier.
She headed out of the back door, flouncing, toast in hand, banging her other hand on the doorframe on the way.
“Jesus, FUCK!” she muttered to herself as she pulled the door closed behind her and then stumbled past her car in the driveway and headed out onto the street.
It was a short walk to the wine store. After the morning’s drama, she was only ten minutes late opening the store, and no customers were waiting outside. That wasn’t unusual, but she still found herself sighing with relief.
She shoved the now-cold toast into her mouth, tucking the paper towel into her pocket while she unlocked the door.
She glanced up and down the street. There were people around. Going about their day, presumably having a much better day than she was.
But something else bothered her. Karl was nowhere to be seen.
He was normally pathologically punctual, but he hadn’t opened the store even though she was late. Strange, but also a relief. He was a condescending prick at the best of times. Best not to give him any more fodder.
She stepped inside, turned on the lights, and flipped over the welcome sign that hung inside the glass door. She keyed her passcode into the security system then crossed through the shop where their vintages and varietals were on display. Passing rows of wine bottles and decorative barrels, she headed straight into the back room.