Maggie Shayne - Legacy of the Witch

“Once upon a time, there lived three witches....”

As a child, Amarrah loved her grandmother’s stories of three witches who were members of the king’s harem. But they were more than just stories. Amarrah knows she was there with them…and now their legacy, along with an ancient box that once belonged to them, lies in her hands.

Charged with keeping the box safe, Amarrah is heartbroken when it is stolen from her while she moves to America. Years later, she is shocked to see it on TV and is determined to get it back. Tracking the artifact leads her to Sergeant Harrison Brockson, a handsome soldier who stirs memories of a man she knew centuries ago in ancient Babylon. Is Harrison the key to finding the box—or could he be her destiny?

Prequel novella to Maggie Shayne’s exciting trilogy, The Portal.

Legacy of the Witch

The Portal

Maggie Shayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

I cannot tell you how excited I am to bring you this brand-new series, The Portal, about two subjects near and dear to my heart: witchcraft and the ancient Near East, in this case Babylon. It’s a series about magic, about reincarnation and about the greatest power of all: the power of love.

The series begins with this special prequel, Legacy of the Witch, the tale of Amarrah, slave girl to the harem. The series then continues with three full-length novels: Mark of the Witch, Indira’s story; Daughter of the Spellcaster, Magdalena’s tale; and Blood of the Sorceress, the saga of Lilia and the cursed Demetrius.

I’m launching a big gorgeous new website focused on this series and the art of magic, at www.theportalbooks.com. There you’ll find videos, music, excerpts and collectible trading cards, as well as lots of information about real magic.

I hope you enjoy these stories. I’ve had an absolutely magical time writing them.

Blessed be!

Maggie Shayne

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

Chapter One

1981, Baghdad, Iraq

“Once upon a time, a long time ago, not very far away from here, there lived three witches,” my gidaty said, as she had so many times before. The story she told was an old and familiar one.

The first time my grandmother told me the tale of the three harem slaves of Babylon, I’d replied, “I know this story already.”

Her old eyes—not as old as they were now, of course, for I’d been only five years old then, and I was thirteen now—had widened at my innocent words. “You know the story, Amarrah? How, my little one?”

“I was there.”

Gidaty had been stunned, I could tell. “You were, were you?”

I’d nodded. I remember how clearly I’d been able to see it all in my mind. The glittering city of Babylon and the luxurious harem quarters where I’d been a servant. Slave girl to the slave girls. “I was a palace slave before,” I’d told my increasingly astounded grandmother. “I worked in the kitchens. But the other servants were mean to me. I had to do all the nastiest jobs. But then one day Lilia, the king’s favorite harem slave, asked him to send me to serve her and the others in their quarters. And from then on, I was so much happier.”

Gidaty had cupped my face and stared into my eyes. “I’ve not told you this story before, have I, child?”

“No, Grandma. I knew them. Lilia and Magdalena and Indira. I told you, I was there.”

She blinked and nodded. “Perhaps you were at that.”

Later, as I grew older, I came to believe it had been my imagination, that I was just very good at storytelling even then. That belief had led me to want to be a writer when I grew up. Over time, I’d forgotten which parts of the story my gidaty had told me and which parts I had told her. They had all blended together into a single compelling tapestry. But to me, it was all fiction.

But beloved fiction.

I knew the tales of the three harem slave witches so well I could have told them to my grandmother, instead of the other way around. And on days when her illness was very bad, she asked me to. I never refused. But that night when I was thirteen, when her voice weakened and I held the water glass to her lips, she didn’t ask me to take over. She sipped and swallowed, then fell back against her pillows, closing her eyes so I wouldn’t see her pain.

But I didn’t have to see it. I felt it.

I took the glass away when she’d finished. “They were the most beautiful women in all of Babylon, and beloved by the king, but they were keeping dangerous secrets,” I said, picking up where she’d stopped, even though she hadn’t asked me to. “The practice of magic was the right of the high priest alone. For anyone else to cast and conjure was considered witchcraft, and it was forbidden. And so were their loves.

“Indira had fallen secretly in love with a young priest of Marduk, the sun god. Very bad mojo, that. Magdalena loved the prince—the son of the very king she was bound to serve. That might have worked out all right, if things had been different. The king would have given her to his son had the prince but asked. But time ran out for them because of Lilia, who loved a soldier—the king’s most trusted, his First.”

Gidaty held up a hand to stop me. “We have to skip to the end this time, Amarrah. I don’t have much time.”

Frowning, I looked at the clock beside the bed, as if it would tell me something. It sat ticking softly beside the heavy black telephone. But in a heartbeat I understood. I was thirteen, after all. It wasn’t the ticking of the clock that had my grandmother rushing but the slowing, stuttering beats of her own heart.

“Should I call for help?”

“There’s no one to call. It’s my time, child, and you mustn’t be sad. All will be well, you’ll see. And we’ll be together again. Just like those poor cursed harem witches in our story.” She closed her hand more tightly around mine and whispered, “There’s so much I must tell you. Above all else this. It’s not a story at all, my girl. It’s true. All of it. But I think you already know that.”

My eyes widened, and I wondered if the drugs she took for pain were making her talk crazy. “Don’t be silly, Grandmother. Of course it’s a story.”

“You know it’s not. You knew the story before I’d ever told it to you. You were there.”

“That was just my overactive imagina—”

“You knew their names. Before I ever spoke them to you, you knew their names. Indira, Magdalena, Lilia. You knew, child.”

I lowered my eyes.

“We’ve kept the legacy of the three witches alive, kept their story alive, down through generations of our family. And something else, too, though I don’t know yet how it all fits, I think it will reach its culmination with you, my precious Amarrah. So you must listen to me now and swear to do as I say, or you will fail all those generations of your ancestors and the long-suffering spirits of those three women you once loved.”