Haesel: The Prophecy Witch (Conspiracy of Fates Book 1)

  Copyright © H.J.Robertson

  Haesel

  The Prophecy Witch

  Conspiracy Of Fates Book 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This Urban Fantasy Novel is a work of fiction. An Urban Fantasy is by its nature a mix of modern day life and fantasy. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events or locales is coincidental or a product of imagination for the purpose of the story.

  Warning: the unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated and punishable by up to five years in prison.

  Warning: Contains graphic scenes which some readers may fine upsetting.

  Cover design by Emily’s World of Design

  Formatting by Tapioca Press

  For my children with love

  Imagination is a wonderful thing.

  Use it for comfort, to ease fears, to inspire and empower you, and to bring you the confidence and strength to ask all the ‘What if’s’ in life.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank you for reading!

  About the Author

  1

  Staring into the molten, red orb, I became transfixed. Unable to drag my eyes away as it pulsated with a heartbeat rhythm, drawing me in and keeping me captive. I could feel its pull on my soul as the black endless depths of its centre flicked in darting motions and tightened its grip.

  Images flashed before me, distant screams and smouldering remains littering the ground, the smell of burnt flesh, repulsive, as it was drawn down my throat with my need to breathe. The heat increased coming from behind, and sweat ran freely over my body, stinging my eyes. I tasted salt as the edges of my vision blurred into orange, and I screamed as the flames engulfed me.

  This was it. I would die now. Unable to fight as the searing heat took over…and then I would wake up.

  Only I didn’t.

  This time it continued, and a surge of energy built in strength from deep inside my chest. It spread like liquid lava through every cell in my body and radiated out in continuous waves. I shook with its force and turned, only to stare into enormous, gaping jaws. Heatwaves shimmered from the glowing throat as the lethal rows of teeth closed around me.

  My eyes sprang open, and I sat bolt upright, gasping in huge lungfuls of air.

  My mind raced. I had been having this same dream, on and off, for the last two years, but recently it had become more frequent, and this time, for the first time, it hadn’t ended when I screamed. There had been more to it.

  Admittedly, it could have ended better…but it had moved on.

  Inhaling deeply, I stretched my shoulders back, causing several satisfying cracks, then stripped off my soaked PJs and made my way to the shower to rinse off the thin layer of sweat that was lying cold on my skin.

  Downstairs, with the radio on and my hands wrapped around a cup of steaming herbal tea, I sat at the wooden table in the kitchen-dining area of my modernised white rendered cottage, still pondering the dream. It was a stress dream, I had already decided that. Like the dream where you are trapped, or you’re naked in front of a crowd of people, but what did it mean? I glanced up at the worktop. “Alexa, stop.” Alexa lit up blue and cut off the news reporter mid-sentence. I’d heard enough for today.

  The killer virus spread by flies had upped its pace and was killing cattle at breakneck speed. It had been all over the news for the last three days, and scientists were racing to come up with a solution.

  The information didn’t quite add up, and something about it didn’t feel right to me. I couldn’t explain it, and I couldn’t shake it off. The underlying tightness in my chest embedded itself deeper and made it harder to breathe. I felt like I was waiting, watching, and I was sure there was worse to come. I reasoned that it must be this anxiety that was causing my dreams.

  I looked to my left at my newly-extended, open plan kitchen and pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind. It was peaceful here, and my breathing calmed. To my right was the beautiful garden room with bi-fold doors on two sides so that when they were both open, my haven, the garden, was in full view.

  The garden was my whole life and the reason I bought the house. I had attained a Bachelor’s and Masters science degree in molecular plant science and botany, along with a degree level course in herbal medicine with the NIMH, The National Institute of Medical Herbalists, a good few years ago. With two walled acres of nature, plants and trees, and a rather sizeable herb and vegetable plot, it was bigger than most and contained two polytunnels, the produce of which supported my herbalist shop in the village. The whole garden backed on to an amazing ancient wood where there were hundreds of species of plants and trees for me to study and utilise. Perfect.

  I mentally shelved my thoughts of the virus and turned my attention back to my notes. Tapping my pencil absently on my notepad, I reviewed an article I had found in the Journal of Restorative Medicine. I was working on a new skin healing range to treat acne and psoriasis and jotted down the ingredients, making notes as I went. Increased levels of endotoxins in the gut had been associated with these conditions, and I added artemisia and sarsaparilla to the list. Both were proven to be anti-inflammatory, binding to these endotoxins in the gut and eliminating them.

  Reaching for my tea, I finished the still warm liquid, enjoying the relaxing warmth that flowed down my throat. Pondering on the ingredient combinations now on my list, my eyes drifted to a meandering line on the wall. The newly painted extension had dried out, and the inevitable cracks had appeared in the paintwork. Oh well, I might repaint it anyway, I mused. I wasn’t too keen on the pebble grey that I had chosen. Maybe a pale mossy green would look more in keeping with the colours of the garden, bringing the outside in.

  My eyes followed the crack in the wall up to a tiny hole in the corner under the coving. I was staring straight at it when the brightest of blue lights flashed out, for a split second only, then was gone.

  My eyes widened, and a tight curiosity balled in my stomach as I stared at it. This seemed to have been happening a lot lately. Mostly when my mind drifted off, and my eyes were staring blankly at something. However, I was a logical person and explained it away as the water in my eye settling, then catching the light as it moved just a fraction, and yet, I still felt something, a strange feeling, unsettling me. I shook my head to stop my imagination that still wanted to explore all the ifs and buts of what it might be.

  My mobile rang and vibrated loudly o
n the table next to me, making me jump and bringing me back to the present with a jolt. Rowan, my daughter’s name, was displayed on the screen and brought an automatic smile to my lips as I picked up.

  “Hi, sweetheart, how’s things?” I asked.

  “Hi, Mum. Yeah, everything's good. Just wanted to say sorry, but I won’t be home this weekend. I’m going to stay with my friends as we have a project that needs to get finished, and I really need to spend the time on it.” Her voice sounded anxious, and I made an effort to make mine sound brighter than I felt.

  “Oh, that’s okay, don’t worry. Get the work done and make it brilliant,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Ah, thanks, Mum. I’m really sorry, are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Honestly, don’t worry, I’m on my way to the shop soon. I’ve got to prepare more supplies, so I can catch up on that this weekend instead. I’ll see you the weekend after?” I asked hopefully.

  “Yes, pinky promise. Thanks, Mum. I’ve gotta go, love you, bye.”

  “Okay, love you, sweetheart, see you soon.”

  I hung up, slumped back in my chair and blew out all the air in my lungs through puffed out, lazy lips, mentally and physically deflating. I had been looking forward to seeing Rowan and had planned for us to go out for a meal together, but I understood. I was so proud and pleased that my daughter had started on the path to doing what she loved, studying animal behaviour and zoology at Cambridge. Animals were her passion, and she had a natural affinity for it, being calm and kind in heart and spirit.

  I glanced at the clock. I had to open the shop at 10 a.m. It was now 9:15 a.m., and Fridays could be busy. The walk to my shop in the village would take me twenty-five minutes. I’d better get going. I pushed the chair back and walked across the perfectly laid oak floor to close the large bi-fold door.

  The air was cool with a warm promise and held the fresh smell of spring, even though it was early June. As I reached to pull at the handle of the door, something caught my eye. A leaf, bright green with serrated edges, was turning in circles, slowly round and round on the slate grey paving. I stared at it. A small wind caught it and spun it off the ground like a miniature cyclone. It lifted as the wind carried it upwards, swirling it in a circle towards me. I stood perfectly still, caught up in the wonder of it. The wind came closer, swishing past my face and with it came a scent that I missed every day and hadn’t smelt in eight years. Tears choked my throat and eyes. The leaf hovered in front of me as the wind subsided, and instinctively I held out my hand to catch it.

  A hazel leaf from the hazel tree, a tree I was named after. All the hairs on my body rippled in a tidal wave from head to toe as each one goose-bumped. The smell that filled my senses was real: her essence, clothing, hair, and perfume—my mum.

  I stood, rooted to the spot.

  “Mum?”

  My eyes darted around searching for her, looking for any sign, expecting her to appear. There was nothing. I took some deep breaths and sat down, forcing myself to think rationally. It must have been a combination of scents coming from the garden. I instantly countered myself. I knew all those scents. Confused, my mind spinning, I checked the clock and brought myself back to reality, fanning my eyes with my hands and taking a few deep breaths. I had to go. Now.

  If I cut through the woods, it would be quicker. I grabbed my bag, stuffing in my phone and herb bundles from the table. The leaf was still in my hand, and I pushed that in too. I swiped my jacket from the chair back, slammed the door shut on my way out, and stumbled down the path with my trainers half on, hopping to pull each one over my heels as I went. I ran past the flower and herb borders, polytunnels and allotment, down the worn garden path and through the robust wooden gate in the brick wall. Calm descended on me as I leant for a moment on the back of the gate, feeling the grain of the wood flat on my palms. Nature wrapped her comforting cloak around my shoulders, and I breathed in the cool fresh scent of the trees and the earthy mulch of the forest floor. I began to walk down the narrow path that led to the village, and my thoughts turned to my mum.

  Althea, known as Thea to everyone who knew her, had died eight years ago. She was a well-revered doctor in neuroscience and microbiology and had published numerous papers on her work concerning autism and higher emotion. Most of her drive to study was for my son, Jay, due to his autism. Apparently, over one hundred areas of the cortex are still undiscovered, and we have no idea what they do. She had been on the brink of making a breakthrough discovery just before she died.

  My heart twisted at the memory, forever holding on to the pain. A sudden freak accident had caused an explosion in the lab she was working in. It was late at night, and the chemicals exacerbated the fire in the lab, the heat incinerated everything, and I never got to say goodbye. I immersed myself in nature and study and vowed to stay as healthy as possible to be there for my children.

  A waft of pine and rich, organic earth brought me out of my thoughts, and I allowed the wood to infuse its healing essence deep into my soul.

  The woodland path was narrow, and you had to look closely to follow it. The creatures of the wood had walked this way many times before me, away from the wide man-made gravel paths that were for humans. I knew where they were, though. Years spent in this wood had brought me more in sync with nature.

  A vibrating flurry suddenly shot out of the dense shrubs and whizzed past my eyes with a flash of blue. I reeled back, searching to follow it, but it had disappeared entirely. A feeling I was not alone crept over my skin and compelled me to look to my right, where I gazed directly into large, watchful brown eyes. They stared directly back at me from the undergrowth, no more than five metres away. I froze on the spot and took in the majestic strength and beauty of the creature staring back at me: a fully grown red stag, whose deep russet coat blended perfectly with the bracken and earthy brown hues of his surroundings. His antlers were fully grown, fanned outwards and upwards wider than his body, each one ending in a sharp lethal point. He breathed out a billowing cloud of mist from soft, flared nostrils and took a step forwards, each foot thumping firmly on the ground one after the other. I tried to keep my heart from racing as he paused, reaching his nose forward to sniff the air, then walked straight to me. He brushed aside the branches and shrubs with little effort from his powerful antlers. As humans are creatures with binocular vision, I was aware I was viewed as a hunter and, therefore, a threat, so I lowered my gaze and turned my head slightly to the side to show I meant no harm.

  His body quivered as he came to stand beside me. Then lowering his head to my neck, he breathed in my scent in a way that told him everything about me. I could smell his musty scent and feel the damp heat from his body. Moving my head slowly, I looked straight into an eye that was wise, dignified, and calm. He rubbed the side of his face up and down, once against my shoulder in acknowledgement, then turned slowly and walked back into the wood, quickly blending and becoming more camouflaged with every step.

  Feeling lightheaded and realising that I must have been holding my breath, I exhaled loudly and took several large breaths in and out. Well, that had never happened before. I couldn’t stop the grin from escaping as I brimmed with the excitement and sheer privilege of being that close to such a powerful animal. I marvelled at the encounter. He wasn’t scared of me at all, and I felt I had passed a test of some kind and been accepted.

  Hurrying through the wood, I emerged from the trees, still grinning, and walked the plank across the ditch - the one I had placed there after realising I couldn’t jump it - that ran alongside the western edge of the wood. On the other side was protected meadow land that I, along with other local council members, had been proactive in securing for the sanctuary of many insect species, including bees, that were in rapidly declining numbers.

  Many villagers had come together to plant native plant species and sow wildflowers, and now, in the summer months, the colourful display was a sight to behold as you turned the corner and drove into the village. I made my way up to the road, st
icking close to the fence that denoted the meadow’s boundary.

  Skipping up the bank onto the pavement, I turned left, passing the estate agents, hairdressers, card shop and post office. I was late. I scanned ahead and could see a familiar figure peering into my shop window.

  Rosa Fielding was impressive. She had been the first customer through my door when I opened the shop ten years ago. At 96 years old, she was fit and active with good eyesight. Her hunched over upper back, seemed out of place with her energy and enthusiasm for life, but her mind was as sharp as a needle, she didn’t miss a trick.

  My shop was nestled between the florist and the newsagent. ‘Herbalist Store,’ it said, in white scripted writing against the bottle green-painted wood background of the shop frontage. Underneath, smaller writing read ‘natural teas, tinctures & salves.’ All the village shops were labelled the same way with the shop type as the main heading, with owner and description underneath if required. It meant you could easily spot the kind of shop you were looking for, and I liked the format. I broke into a run so as not to keep her waiting any longer.

  2

  Arriving in a flourish of disturbed air and heavy breath, I fumbled for my keys. “Morning Rosa, sorry I’m late. How are you?”

  “Yes, good dear, same same,” she replied with a slight impatient nod.

  I opened the shop door, which triggered the small tinkling brass bell that hung over it, and Rosa followed me in, the smell of all the herbs, teas, and spices instantly comforting.