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© 2013 by Nicola Marsh
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 Banish
NICOLA MARSH

Untitled-2 1 16/05/13 4:35 PM

 PROLOGUE

Time to put the past to rest.

I edged towards the door leading to freedom and clasped
the knife, its weight reassuring in my hand. Ignoring the
pain in my palm where it had accidentally sliced as I’d
bolted to escape, I  focused on the kitchen doorway and
waited. Waited for him to come after me.
A shadow fell across the doorway and using both hands
I  raised the knife, holding it high and extended, like a
­Samurai. He stopped at the kitchen door, malevolence
­radiating off him. He raised a finger and drew it across his
throat in a slow, deliberate slit. “You’re dead.”
He stepped into the kitchen, the absence of emotion in
his icy glare almost as terrifying as the slow curling and
unfurling of his fingers. I had no doubt those fingers would
end up wrapped around my throat.
“Give me the knife, bitch.”
The insult didn’t freak me out as much as the uncanny
timbre of his voice; how much he sounded like my dead ex.
Wish I’d noticed the resemblance sooner. Would have saved
me the hassle of carving up his ass. For there was one thing
10 BANISH

I was sure of: I’d managed to endure this god-awful week so

far, no way would I go down without a fight.
My trembling fingers convulsed around the knife, grip-
ping the handle tighter as I lowered it to chest level. “Make
me.”
The eyes of the guy I’d once trusted glowed with hatred.
A second before he lunged at me.
I feinted to the right, slammed my hip against the sink
and cried out in pain.
He laughed, a chilling sound that had me scrabbling
faster as he came straight for me.
I swept the glass on the draining board to the floor and
dodged to the left.
He kept coming.
Panic clogged my throat as I rebounded against the
wall, hard enough to rattle the crockery in the dresser. I
should have baulked, should have screamed, should have
run. Instead, an inner strength I hadn’t known I possessed
snapped its leash. Clawed its way to the surface, howling for
freedom.
He must have seen something in my expression because
he hesitated.
I didn’t.
I screamed my fury, desperate to lash out.
Unable to rein in my rage, I slashed.
 CHAPTER ONE

One Week Earlier

All the times I’d sabotaged Mom’s spells as an adventurous

kid, hidden Aunt Angie’s althame or used runes to pelt the
snotty brat next door had come back to haunt me. Maybe
there was something to my family’s Wicca Threefold Law
after all: whatever you dished out would come back three times
worse.
My history assignment on pagans definitely fell into this
category.
I didn’t want to research paganism. I’d lived it growing up
and witchcraft wasn’t for me. Not after I’d seen the results on
my mom.
“Staring at that paper isn’t going to get it done.”
My head snapped up and I tried not to gawk at Ronan.
I’d done enough of that while trailing after him, filming
his after-hours tutoring with high school kids for another
assignment. He’d noticed. Assumed my interest was for his
incredible sax playing and not for his all-round hotness,
thank goodness. We’d been emailing ever since. General
stuff. Music chatter.Video clips. Casual.
12 BANISH

If he’d been the music teacher at school I would have

signed up for extra tuition in a flash. Instead, I made do with
admiring him from afar twice a week when he came in to
tutor kids after school. Then again, if he was a teacher here,
we probably wouldn’t be corresponding via cyberspace and
striking up what I’d like to think of as a friendship.
He’d been so patient answering my assignment questions
and, like me, was a bit of a geek for facts. Kinda inevitable
I’d developed a monster crush. Not that I remotely thought
for one moment it was reciprocated. Why would a guy like
him be interested in a beanpole strawberry blonde with
blah-blue eyes, no curves and a nasty habit of picking at her
cuticles?
I pushed the paper away with the tip of my pen. “The
subject’s pretty boring.”
Especially after I’d had firsthand experience with dancing
around a maypole on Beltane, constructing a broom with
aromatic herbs, bright foliage and finishing with a spritz of
glycerol to make it last, and sneaking a copy of Mom’s The
Spiral Dance by Starhawk, a witch’s must-read.
I braced at Ronan’s nearness as he tilted his head to one
side. “Pagans: Witches Or Whackos by Alyssa Wood,” he read
aloud. “Witches sound cool to me.”
“Not if you grew up with them,” I muttered, mortified
he’d heard. He laughed and slid onto the seat next to mine.
The school library, a cosy cavernous haven I loved for the
quiet, shrunk with him sitting so close.
He stared at me, assessing. “You’d be the least likely per-
son I’d pick to be a witch.”
“That’s because I’m not.” Heat flushed my cheeks as he
raised an eyebrow at my vehement denial.
“Good to know.” He winked. “In case you had an urge
to turn me into a toad.”
 NICOLA MARSH 13

Not a bad idea, if I got to kiss him to turn him back. Like
that thought helped my blush.
“I’m not into magick.” I made a mockery of the state-
ment by knowing the correct spelling added a K on the
end, as I twirled a pen between my fingers. It slipped and
landed in the centre of my blank page. Of an assignment
comprising the bulk of my grade this semester. Due tomor-
row. That I’d deliberately ignored the past two weeks in the
hope it would vanish. Pity I didn’t believe in wands.
“Why don’t you write it from a sceptic’s viewpoint? That
would be interesting.”
“Because paganism exists.” Worse luck. “It’s a part of his-
tory and Jackass Jackman wants facts, not a debate.” Trust
me to land the only history teacher on the planet who was
into Wicca stuff as much as my family.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, just an idea.”
I winced. “Sorry. I’ll be pulling an all-nighter to get this
done and I’m a little tense.”
“What can I do to help?”
I struggled not to gape at this cool, twenty-one year old,
part-time music tutor offering to pitch in on a high school
paper.
“Thanks, but you’ve probably got band stuff on—”
“I’ll research, you write.” He flipped open the nearest
text in my pile of books and I slumped into my chair, con-
tent to watch him, wondering what he’d do if I hugged him
in gratitude.
When I continued staring, he glanced up, a smile crin-
kling the corners of his warm hazel eyes. “You’re not writ-
ing.”
“I’m thinking.”
The crinkles fanned outwards. “By the lack of words on
that page, you’ve been doing a lot of that.”
14 BANISH

If he only knew.
Thinking about Wicca raised other issues I’d rather not
face; issues I’d run from when I’d left Broadwater for New
York City six months ago.
This assignment didn’t scare me. The repercussions of
acknowledging my past did.
I managed a tight smile. “Start reading.”
“Bossy as well as witchy. I better watch out.”
I opened my mouth to protest but he laughed and I
ducked my head so my hair draped across my face. Besides,
what could I say? My mom used to be devout Wicca, my
aunt is a renowned high priestess urban witch and I was
certified mundane?
I didn’t believe in magick. Not any more.
“Okay, here’s your beginning.” His finger trailed under
the text and I stared at his hand, fascinated by his long,
strong fingers and clean, square nails. “Wicca is a modern
religion based on ancient pagan practices. Paganism refers
to all nature-based religions.”
His low voice soothed, leaving me mesmerised rather
than studious.
“Says here all Wiccans are witches and all witches are
pagans, but not all witches are Wicca.” He glanced up, his
frown comical.
“My mom’s Wicca. It’s a spiritual thing based in nature,
where she follows changing seasons of the year.”
He pointed at the text. “Wheel of the Year?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s all wrapped up in the cycle of life,
death and holidays.”
“The holiday part doesn’t sound so bad.”
Easy for him to say. He hadn’t seen his mom dance naked
in the moonlight on Samhain.
“You’ve got a little crease right here.” He touched the
skin between my eyebrows, a fleeting graze of his ­fingertip
 NICOLA MARSH 15

that had me leaning towards him. “What’s up? Apart from

cramming two weeks’ worth of homework into a few
hours?”
What could I say? That I’d fled the only home I’d ever
known because my boyfriend Noah killed himself the day
after I dumped him? That my mom had morphed from
eccentric witch to air-talking alcoholic when I hit puberty?
Flattered by his interest and enjoying the attention, I set-
tled for a sedate version.
“I’m just dealing with some stuff.” I picked at the cuticle
on my thumb, a habit I’d tried to ditch and failed. “I haven’t
seen my mom in six months, and the aunt I live with isn’t
her greatest fan.They’ve had their differences over the years.”
Most of them centring on me. I had to give Mom credit
in not bowing to Angie’s pressure. My mom respected my
wish to be mundane; Angie kept pushing to educate me in
witch ways. Thankfully, as Mom deteriorated over the past
few years, Angie had backed off. I loved them both dearly
but being caught between two witches? Not a good place
to be.
“Must be tough.”
I shrugged, not willing to divulge more than that.
Thankfully, he didn’t pry or offer advice. “Shall I keep
reading?”
I nodded and picked up my pen, content to listen to his
voice as he read, rather than dwell on a home situation I
couldn’t change. After ten minutes, the information snip-
pets I’d jotted covered five pages.
“There are some pretty cool pictures accompanying this
stuff.” He pointed to a chalked pentagram on rocky ground,
a gold chalice and an altar covered in rabbits, chicks and
eggs—fertility symbols to celebrate Ostara. “You want to
knock old Jackman’s socks off, why don’t you make a trailer
of this stuff?”
16 BANISH

He swung the book my way.“You choose the pics online,

I’ll do the backing music.”
I stared at him like he’d hung the moon and stars. Heck,
the whole damn solar system. “That’s genius.”
His bashful smile made something shift in my chest—
something bordering on painful and wonderful and hope-
ful.
“We can do it at my place, if you like?”
A perfectly innocent invitation considering he gave pri-
vate music lessons to kids there all the time, but the small
part of me that had a major crush did a happy dance.
“Sure, that sounds great.” I shoved the books into my
satchel, wondering when I could text Angie to let her
know where I’d be without looking like a kid who had to
check in.
“Here, let me carry that.” Before I could protest, he’d
slung the satchel over his shoulder, the faded, worn butter-
cup leather accentuating his mussed funkiness rather than
detracting from it.
The thing weighed a ton so I didn’t mind. What I didn’t
like so much was the way I felt around him: comfortable,
safe, more than a little yearning.
He hadn’t made a big deal about me tagging along
filming him for my music assignment. He hadn’t treated
me like a kid, and he hadn’t hesitated to answer the many
questions I’d fired at him. Best of all, he hadn’t mentioned
my less-than-subtle crush.
The guy played nightly gigs in a band, so he was probably
used to girls gazing at him with blatant adoration. Not that
I’d done anything so obvious. Not much anyway.
“Don’t you have to check in with your aunt?”
I shrugged, hoping to hide my gaucheness beneath non-
chalance. Like I got invited to older guys’ apartments every
 NICOLA MARSH 17

day of the week, albeit to study. “She’s at a coven meeting

tonight. I’ll text her later.”
He whistled long and low. “Covens really exist in New
York City?”
“Yeah, tonnes. And that’s not counting the ones she men-
tors online.”
His mouth curved into a smile that slam-dunked any
residual guilt at hanging out with a cute guy I could seri-
ously like given half a chance. “Wonder if I can buy an
online spell for a new bass player.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea what some people
ask for in those online forums.”
“Try me.”
Surprised by his genuine interest in a topic I usually
avoided, I had no option but to elaborate. The guy was
helping me out; the least I could do was educate him.
“There are covens all around the country and overseas.
Angie’s highly respected, so she runs forums for spell cast-
ing, divination, invocations, rituals, ordinations. You name
it, she does it.”
“Witchcraft 101, in ten easy steps. I like it.” He snapped
his fingers. “Maybe I’ll get me a new bass player after all.”
“Don’t count on it. Spells only work if you believe,
they’re not for mundanes like us.”
His grin widened. “Are mundanes like Muggles?”
Did everyone in the known universe associate magick
with Harry Potter?
“Yeah. We’re ordinary, practical, of this world apparently.
While pagans are more involved in otherworldly stuff.”
He made a spooky noise and wiggled his fingers at me. I
swatted them away as we left the library, enjoying his banter.
It was refreshing to have someone take a light-hearted view
on the alternate belief system I’d been brought up with.
18 BANISH

Most guys would have made snide remarks or squirmed

uncomfortably or changed the subject. Ronan had done
none of those things. Then again, as I’d come to appreciate
over the past few weeks, Ronan wasn’t most guys.
With his shaggy brown hair tied back in a low pony-
tail, long-lashed hazel eyes and laid-back smile that made
me want to grin right back at him, he was cute rather
than gorgeous.Throw in the low-slung skinny jeans, white
T-shirt and black leather jacket he perpetually wore, and
he channelled a lot of average guys.
But that’s where comparisons to a typical guy ended. For
Ronan possessed that certain something that set him apart:
sincerity. He’d genuinely wanted to help me any way he
could with my music assignment. He’d invested time and
effort. And he’d been incredibly nice doing it.
Swoon.
“Hey, after we finish your assignment, want to grab a
bite to eat?” He didn’t break step and I had a hard time not
sprawling at his feet in shock. Was he asking me out? “I’ve
got a gig at nine but that should give us plenty of time.”
“Yeah, sure.” My acceptance came out as a croak and I
cleared my throat.
“Great.” He patted the satchel bumping against his hip
in time with every step. “Added incentive to get this done
quickly.”
“Why, are you hungry?”
“Not really.” He paused and darted a loaded glance my
way I had no hope of interpreting.
Questions pinged around my brain. Was this more of his
characteristic niceness? Was he being polite and asking me
for a meal because it seemed natural after doing homework
together? Was he a tiny bit into me?
 NICOLA MARSH 19

His fingertips grazed my arm, a fleeting touch that made

my nerves jump and added to my confusion. “Thought it
might be cool to hang out for a while away from the assign-
ment stuff, you know?”
I didn’t know, but I nodded and grinned like an idiot,
hoping my tumultuous nerves and bewilderment would
give way to assuredness and poise when I sat near him for
the next few hours.
Goddess, help me.
I instantly wiped the silent plea, an unconscious invoca-
tion from years of hearing Mom say it. It meant nothing.
Unlike Mom’s illness and the ongoing effect it had on
my life.
Spending a few hours with Ronan—perplexity at his
motivations notwithstanding—would be a welcome break
from my constant mulling over Mom’s problems.
She wouldn’t talk about them and I’d given up trying to
make her.
Easier to put Noah and Mom and Broadwater behind
me, and move on.
Starting now.
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