Coveted [New/Revised Version]

ORIGIN OF THE WITCH

     Iris didn't care about pacing herself. She ran as fast as she could until the track started blurring beneath her. The leftover humidity from the rain responsible for the cancellation of practice made her sweat faster. It only recently stopped, around the time she reached the track field. But she didn't care about the weather.

Iris already had her mind made when she started the drive over. She planned on running until her legs gave out because she needed to blow off steam. So many thoughts bombarded her. Most of them came from her visit to her grandmother's.

When she'd gotten to there, she discovered things she didn't want to know. Now that she did, they tortured her unpityingly. How could her life go from normal—well, her definition of it—to crazy, supernaturally charged in less than two weeks? It didn't seem fair. There were so few things left in her life that weren't tainted by magic or vampires.

Track was one of them.

"Grandmamma! Aunt Lena!" Iris banged on her grandmother's door, her heart pounding ferociously in her chest. Her hands shook badly from the adrenaline coursing through her body and she couldn't be sure but she thought she voiced the occasional dry sob.

She was so confused and desperate for answers. Westmyth was supposed to be their haven. That was the main reason Gregory's hunting grounds were elsewhere. The most freakishly horrible thing that happened in town was poltergeists or possessions. Even then, Jake mostly took care of those.

Vampires didn't attack people in Westmyth. They didn't move in either. Westmyth was supposed to be safe. They were supposed to be safe!

No one came to the door.

Iris called Chantelle both verbally and on her cell. Still, there was no answer. Frustrated, Iris bent next to the enormous flowerpot beside the door for the spare key. Iris rose and unbolted the door.

It swung open to reveal the empty hall beyond. Iris replaced the key and dusted the dirt off her fingers. She hurried inside the house, locking the door behind her. It was eerily quiet except for the electric hum of household appliances.

After assuring the ground floor was empty, Iris decided to head upstairs. As a little girl, she loved visiting this house. Penelope had all these antiques, family trees, and grimoires. The woman herself was a walking archive. If anyone in their family knew their history, it was she. Iris started down the hallway toward the wooden door that led to the attic.

Chantelle's bedroom door was slightly ajar. She feared maybe she awoke her cousin but when Iris peered inside, Chantelle was fast asleep.

Iris rolled her eyes then stared at the photos and portraits decorating the hall. Some dated all the way back to the Middle Ages but the closer they got to the room, the more modern they were. There was a picture of Penelope as a child with her sisters Lena and Loral. Then another one with the entire family including Kira—Iris's aunt and Chantelle's mother. The last was a serene picture of Patricia with Iris and Sue from last year.

Her eyes stung for a second and she looked away. After entering the room, she spotted her grandmother sitting cross-legged midair a protective circle of lit candles. The older woman's eyes fluttered despite being closed. For a woman well over seventy years of age, she looked remarkable. Younger.

Her face was barely lined and her hair retained the dark glossy richness all of Iris's maternal family members inherited. Whereas everyone else had green eyes, Penelope's were a vibrant amethyst. They added an incontestable divine mannerism to her that marked her as the most powerful witch of the family.