Russian Roulette (Helena Hawthorn Series #1)

Chapter 1a

Five days ago...

After sealing the final box, Helena stretched, relieving some of the dull pain in her lower back. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and surveyed her old bedroom. It was nothing more than an ocean of pale brown boxes and suitcases.

Double checking her things one last time, she closed her eyes. The sound of her beating heart enveloped her as happy memories merged with the familiar smell of rose scented candles on her windowsill. From downstairs, muffled voices of her mother and Richard floated up. This is where she grew up—a home she would miss.

Her fingers itched with anticipation and a smile tugged at her lips. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she reached under the pillow, retrieving a journal. She rested the two-inch-thick bulk on her lap. It had been on her mind ever since she rummaged through the dusty attic last night. Once she had laid eyes on the leather cover with carved fern leaves, she wanted to know the secrets held inside. Yet, priorities such as packing were paramount. If not done in time, she would be forced to listen to Laura's complaints until her ears bled.

She peeled back the jacket, revealing the first aged, yellow page. A list of names presented itself to her. They appeared handwritten by different people, possibly multiple owners of the journal. One name caught her attention. She skimmed through the strange diagrams and drawings of plants, recognising a few from her grandmother's garden when she was little. Faded, an archaic language filled the worn pages. She didn't even try pretending to comprehend it.

Beautiful curving letters sparked recognition and her hand froze. Her grandmother had been the last owner of this journal. Helena smiled at the bittersweet memory of them spending time together. The old woman read stories to her of witches battling against the dark forces in the world—tales she would never forget.

Her grip tightened. The calm, happy memories decayed as the tragic episodes unfolded in her mind once more. Her mother's version was simply a story of a loving grandmother turning into a crazed woman as she ended her life by setting fire to their home. Yet, those fragments of her childhood remained a knot she couldn't unravel no matter how hard she tried.

Michael's words sprang into her mind, making her jump. "Sasha is finishing the preparations. You should change."

"I'm busy," she replied.

"This is your last night here. That thing cannot be more important than spending time with your parents."

She slammed the journal shut. "Fine!"

Standing, she cast a fleeting glance to its hiding place under the pillow and walked to her wardrobe. A set of clothes she had prepared for tonight's dinner awaited her on the top shelf. She changed out of her sweat-tinged tracksuit and into a baggy t-shirt with a pair of jeans.

As she opened the door, a delicious aroma greeted her. Her grumbling stomach led her downstairs where she found an excessive amount of food spread out on the round oak table. Her mother went overboard with preparations as per usual. Nonetheless, Helena refrained from pointing it out and took in an appreciative whiff of the roasted chicken.

Her step-father's salt-and-pepper hair bobbed as he battled with a bottle of wine. His two large brows scrunched, creating an impression of a dark unibrow.

"Don't just stand there." Her mother's underlying Russian accent never failed to show when she was anxious. With a huff, she piled plates and cutlery in Helena's hands and rushed back into the kitchen.

Helena set the table mumbling, "Well, hello to you too, Mom."

As Richard settled the bottle on the lacquered surface, his shoulders slumped. The small cork got stuck halfway in the bottle's neck, unwilling to move in either direction.