The First Grimoire Chapter One Teaser

At the first sight of orange leaves, the witches gathered.

Bethan knelt before the Trine, feeling like an absolute fraud, being the only witch in the temple without magic coursing through her veins, a mockery of the three goddesses before her.

Early explorers discovered only the head of the Three-Faced Goddess. Except Bethan Kore knew the head didn’t present three faces. Had the archaeologist dug a few metres farther, they would have revealed three bodies that matched the decapitated head. Two hundred years later, her sister dug further.

The Three-Faced Goddess stood tall with their chins tilted up. The sculptor must have been human, as they were the only ones who bore the time to carve statues this magnificent.

Dressed in a white gown representing the Trine’s pure magic, every female witch in Malia worshipped the alabaster statue for Autumn’s first full moon.

A choir of witches sang above them. Bethan tilted her head back to gaze at them. Fresh-faced with not a care in the world. She recognised the teenagers’ blue uniforms, realising they were from Hadwicke’s, the all-girls college where Bethan and Dana were sent in their last year of high school at seventeen, as all witches were. Testing comprised the ability to conjure abnormal powers like Green or Blood Magic. Bethan had always thought testing for Blood Magic was useless, considering a line of Blood Witches hadn’t existed since the plague. The thought of testing positive for Blood Magic enticed her because she’d be set apart from the other witches, rendering her unique.

She shrugged.

Incense burned, wafting its aroma, likely scented by everyone in Malia. Bethan hated the scent; it reminded her of visiting her ex-boyfriend’s family estate. His mother was always so insistent on cleansing for ‘spirits.’ Distant memories of her standing in a high doorway and his mother waving sage all over her body gripped her soul. The stench would stay on her clothes, even after washing them. Bethan would have to use an enchantment to remove the strong smell. She rubbed her palm across her forehead; the stench induced an unbearable migraine pulsating in her temples.

Limestone columns mounted the temple. Delicate yet intricate frescos of the ancient goddesses lined every wall of the decadent temple aptly named The Cult of The Trine. One oil painted fresco depicted the Maiden standing naked in a field of pink blossoms. Deep in the background, a dark forest loomed behind her, and something lurked within the deadly-looking shadows. A man stood behind a tree trunk, spying on her. The romantic in Bethan used to think that the figure was a suitor, lovingly observing the goddess from afar. But the much older, jaded Bethan feared that the figure was there for sinister purposes. Ones she didn’t know and didn’t dare to find out.

Bethan’s eyes darted away from the eerie fresco when Elnora Rennigan shifted beside her. Her friend sat, slouching in the pew, playing with the ends of her raven-coloured hair. She stared at Circe, who was secretly sending messages on her phone. Bethan was relieved when she realised she was not the only one not paying attention to the ceremony. In Circe’s defence, she was probably working. She was a minister, after all; she hardly ever had time off those days.

Bethan leaned forward and spied Agatha Elmwood’s soft blonde curls, her teal-coloured eyes gazing intently at the unfolding ritual. At least Agatha would inform them of what the Hells was happening.

Her three roommates dragged her to the ancient ritual, the first Autumn Rite without her magic, and she despised every minute of it. The history books she had devoured told her the day of Autumn’s first full moon was the day the Trine defeated The Devil. Bethan doubted the battle ever took place; no archaeological evidence proved the Trine or The Devil ever walked this realm. It was likely an ancient religion had carried over from the ill-fated Old Kingdom.

Her dark eyes narrowed toward the Maiden statue; she wondered how the sculptor had created the hair’s long waves out of clay and how they crafted the crown-shaped wanning crescent moon pressed on the goddess’s forehead. The Crone, who, at the centre of the trio, donned a full moon on her crown, and the Mother goddess had a waxing crescent. She marvelled at the craftsmanship – as any historian would – when Circe nudged her.

A bell chimed through the hollowed temple.

The witches stood in unison, squeezing through the aisles between pews to form a circle around the Crone, Mother and Maiden.

Their hands clasped together, including Bethan’s. She clutched Elnora’s on her left and Circe’s on her right. Agatha stood, holding Circe’s other hand, her other with a stranger.

She hadn’t realised that the witches started chanting in the old linear. Chorus-like voices echoed through the temple; she shut her eyes and whispered the worship’s intricate enchantment to the three goddesses, hoping they’d grant her the return of her magic. But she knew deep down that these goddesses did not exist, and neither did The Devil.

‘Banseth Le Adom. Savire Lev Trine,’ they repeated.

The Trine was not watching her like the scriptures said, they did not usher anyone to a life of fulfilment or into the heavens, Hestgartia. If they were, her sister would be here, standing next to her – 

Elnora squeezed her hand,  Bethan peeked one eye open to see the grey mist of power circle and float around everyone’s hands and fingertips but her own. 

Her heart sank. 

Lower than it already was. 

She pulled her hand away from her friends. Letting the long sleeves of the pitiful white gown fall past her fingertips. 

She knew she looked ridiculous, wearing a gown two sizes too big. She hadn’t planned on coming, and she threw away her last gown when her powers vanished. When she arrived at the ancient temple, she and Elnora ran straight to the lost property to fish out an old shift from the three-metre-high bin. The gown she now wore was the only one they found. Much to Bethan’s dismay. 

Although it was hilarious watching Elnora dive into the bin headfirst with her high heels dangling out of it. Bethan wished she wasn’t here. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be silently praying for her magic to come back. She would be in bed reading a book of the romance persuasion and be happily pretending her problems don’t exist. 

She wouldn’t be watching the Grey Witches perform Small Magic she no longer had. 

It is the most common form of witchcraft, and the simplest, the other lines of the craft are rare or extinct. Small magic took the form of a grey coloured mist; when Bethan had that magic— she would describe it as looking like the night sky because sometimes she would see tiny glimmers of gold that she thought were little stars.

She glared at her hand as if waiting for that grey magic to return. 

She felt another nudge and noticed six pairs of eyes on her. The enchantment had stopped, and the witches filed out. But others like her and her friends lingered on. 

‘It’s okay,’ Elnora started to say when— Agatha’s airy voice butted in. 

‘There are a lot of older witches here, participating in the rite, and they don’t have any magic.’ 

Circe palmed her hand on her forehead, letting out a disappointed laugh. 

‘Yes, comparing her to matron witches is the exact thing she’d want to hear,’ Circe’s voice was laced with obvious sarcasm. That made Agatha cringe at her words. 

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Agatha pouted at Circe, ‘And you know it.’ 

All four girls giggled. 

‘Just admit it, Agatha, you think Bethan is an old hag,’ Elnora said. 

Bethan knew that it was light-hearted fun that her friends masterfully designed to make her feel better. She had rolled her eyes at Elnora’s words. 

‘I’m only a year older than you.’ Bethan laughed through her words and flicked her hair. Colour rose in Agatha’s pale cheeks, and her face contorted to an expression of clear uneasiness.

Elnora cackled so loud that she smacked her hand over her mouth with shock at the sound she made. 

‘Shhh.’ A shrill and sudden voice came from behind them. With a turn, they found an elderly woman that Bethan thought had an uncanny resemblance to the Crone’s face. The woman’s wrinkled face scowled at the girls. 

Elnora poked her tongue out at the woman. Bethan was still recovering from the shock that she barely noticed that Elnora was quietly whispering a hex. 

‘Don’t be a child, Ellie,’ Circe growled. 

It’s not uncommon for Circe to reprimand Elnora; in fact, it happened often. Both had the dominant personalities of their little group, and they constantly got into verbal spars. Agatha and Bethan were definitely the quieter ones and repeatedly tried to subtly distract the two girls from whatever battle of dominance they were fighting about. 

‘The old you would let me do it.’ 

‘The old me was too busy studying law to give a shit.’ 

 Bethan’s eyes darted between the other girls before landing on Agatha, who was wordlessly speaking to her on how they should deescalate the situation. 

‘Can we go to the greenhouse after?’ Agatha piped up. Circe’s amber eyes flicked toward Agatha; they softened upon looking at her. ‘I have been meaning to get some new ones for those pots my mum gave me.’ 

Elnora groaned, ‘We don’t have any more space.’ 

‘Our apartment is practically a jungle at this point.’ Bethan murmured. Circe served her a look of coldness.  

‘I think Bethan’s books take up more space,’ Circe mumbled.  

‘Hey,’ Bethan laughed. ‘I’m pretty sure at least two of those shelves have your boring politics books on them.’ 

Circe gritted her teeth, ‘At least I bother to read. I’m not even certain Elnora knows how to.’

‘I keep my belongings in my room, so I shouldn’t be included in this argument.’ Elnora inspected her crimson painted nails. ‘Besides, I have better things to do.’

‘Like what?’ Bethan dared to ask. 

‘Spending my daddy’s money.’ That sentence made the most absolute sense considering Elnora was the sole heir to the Rennigan empire. 

All girls laughed in unison until a Stratos guard kicked them out. Bethan was relieved to leave the incense smelling temple and out into the city of Malia.