The cauldron effect, p.1
The Cauldron Effect, page 1
Shereen Vedam
The Cauldron Effect:
The Complete Series
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE CAULDRON EFFECT: THE COMPLETE SERIES
First edition. August 11, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Shereen Vedam.
ISBN: 978-1989036280
Written by Shereen Vedam.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Book 1: Coven at Callington | Book 2: Warlock from Wales | Book 3: Love Spell in London
Coven at Callington, The Cauldron Effect, | Book 1
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Warlock from Wales, The Cauldron Effect, | Book 2
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
Epilogue
Love Spell in London, The Cauldron Effect, | Book 3
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
Epilogue
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Further Reading: To Capture Love
Also By Shereen Vedam
About the Author
Book 1: Coven at Callington
Book 2: Warlock from Wales
Book 3: Love Spell in London
Coven at Callington, The Cauldron Effect,
Book 1
Shereen Vedam
Prologue
Switzerland, Summer Equinox, June 1454
“This be truly odd, Andreas.” Johannes, a polecat, stood up to sniff the closest tall stone his friend had brought him to inspect. There was a gaggle of them, all lined up, straight as a man-made fence, across the recently empty landscape.
His nose suggested these stones may have been roasted at some point, like in a forest fire. One sniff and his throat felt dry and itchy. The sharp scent was unfamiliar. Keeping well back, he used his whiskers to sense its makeup. This stone was vibrating! As if it were alive and purring. Were all of them doing that?
“They weren’t here last night.” Andreas, a fellow polecat, scratched at the white fur that made up his neck bib. “Yet, this dawn, they’re blocking my path to the lake.”
Johannes clacked in scorn. While immensely tall, each stone was only ten steps wide, leaving a wide gap before the next stone. There was plenty of room to scoot through, though he didn’t want to be the first to try.
“Where do you suppose they came from?” Andreas asked.
“Who knows?” Johannes inched closer to inspect the line of stones that seemed to stretch forever in either direction. “They smell ashy. Have you touched one yet?”
“No! You do it. Bet you won’t.”
Johannes sighed. That’s why Andreas had asked him to come. He knew Johannes couldn’t resist a challenge. The moment anyone said, bet you can’t do this or that, Johannes felt compelled to try. The urge to lick the darn stone trembled on his tongue. He leaned forward.
The air before him erupted like a hot spring, scorching his extended tongue and flinging him backward.
He landed painfully on his left side and Andreas landed with a thump beside him. His friend’s bushy tail filled Johannes’s sore mouth. He spat out the tail and scrambled to get his feet under him.
“Ayee!” Andreas squealed and raced for the cover of trees.
Panic battering in his chest, Johannes glanced back at the stones. His breath caught at the sight of tall humans dressed in bright coverings standing perfectly still in front of each stone. They looked as surprised to be there as Johannes was to see them.
Johannes turned and raced after his friend. He had to break this habit of blindly responding to challenges.
"DYTEL!” HIS MOTHER’S voice sounded an alarm.
Eight-year-old Dytel snapped his eyes open expecting to find they were trapped in a dark void or still in their world, waiting for a new chance at life. Instead, before him was a different place. He glanced up at his mother in wonder. “My spell worked!”
They were encompassed by greenery. Ancient trees, vibrant bushes, and grasses sprinkled with wild flowers carpeted the ground. Trembling with excitement, he reached out to a nearby tree and traced the bark of its giant trunk. It was real and stretched high up as if to touch the blue sky. Even the air seemed different, not thick and murky. He breathed deeply, expanding his lungs, relishing the fresh clean scent. There were animals, too! He’d only ever seen such creatures in statues and drawings. Here, they were alive!
What’s your name? he asked the one that was long and furry, with a pointed face that quivered. The little animal screamed in his mind and raced away. Dytel laughed. It could hear him and speak back, in a fashion.
“Dytel, stay with me!” His mother’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, tight. She was afraid of this place. Why?
“Mother, we’re here. Really here.”
All of his life, he’d heard stories of a place like this. A world that looked the way their Wyhcan world once had, in the days before their sun began to die.
Dytel, ever dreaming of visiting such a legendary land, had come up with an extraordinary idea. One that made coming here plausible. He had convinced his father the spell could succeed. Then his father had talked the Grand Coven Council into believing his boy’s idea was workable.
With their world on the brink of destruction, desperate measures were needed. Having tried and failed to save themselves, listening to a far-fetched idea from a warlock child became not only feasible but also paramount.
His father organized the casting using the strongest warlocks and witches left alive in their world. Despite all his pleading, Dytel was not one of those picked to cast the daring spell.
Still, it was his idea that had made this event possible. The spell had called for magic-ingrained megaliths to be whipped toward the new world, a world of legend and old witch’s tales. Once the stones landed and took root, the Wyhcans would use the magic embedded in the stones to transport themselves between worlds.
“Where’s father?” Dytel leaned around his mother to gaze eagerly down the line of warlocks and witches stepping away from their transport stones. Strange. Some of the stones had no people before them.
“Where’s father?” he asked again, a sliver of doubt gliding down his back. “Why isn’t he here? Mother, where are all the spell casters?”
Chapter 1
London, England, September 1815
Ernest, a lamp-post on St. James’s Street, flickered his flame to signal George, on Ryder Street. “Have you heard the latest, George? There’s talk of a mad plan to light all of London with air.”
“Gas, Ernest, not air. It’s said to produce white jets of flames. Pall Mall’s lit so and the theatre districts are in the works. Shouldn’t be long before they reach us.”
Ernest fluttered his golden light in disgust. “Will never happen, George.”
“Progress, Ernest. Can’t stop it."
“I tell you, it’ll never hap...now, what’s this? There’s movement below.”
“Night watch?” George asked as a cool autumn wind swirled around him, fluttering fallen leaves.
“Not unless he’s taken to skulking in the dark. Where did they all come from?”
“They?”
“Hounds. Big, black ones. Five, to my count. Tails down, hackles raised, ears back.” His light quivered. “George, I sense trouble.”
“Then this is your moment, Ernest. We were created to warn people of dangers that lurk in the dark. So, flare, my friend. Flare as if you are about to be extinguished!”
THOMAS DRAKE SAINT-Clair, Earl of Braden, normally viewed all strangers with suspicion. Tonight, he’d succumbed to the temptation to trounce an unknown opponent, even if only with cards. Little wonder. At one and twenty, he had finished his formal training and been christened a Guard of the Green Cross. The guards were part of a secret limb of the Anglican Church ruled by the Archbishop of Canterbury, their sole purpose to vanquish dark creatures of the underworld set to lure, kill or defile humans.
After only a year of active duty, however, Braden’s assignments had recently dried up. For weeks now, no alarm bells clanged within the body of the Church. No urgent messages came from the archbishop that in some forgotten corner of the British Isles trouble blazed. The war with France was over, but had a truce been called by Hell?
Ahead of his carriage, an unusually bright street lamp highlighted an orderly row of narrow brick houses. Movement caught his eye and his instinct for trouble flared. He rapped on the carriage roof to signal a stop. Before the vehicle halted, he flung open the door and jumped out.
“Something wrong, milord?” his footman, Garth, called out from beside the driver.
“Shine the carriage lantern over there.” Then he saw it. A crouching dog. Braden’s pulse slowed. A dull life, indeed, if all he chased were shadows of pets. He waved to Garth. “Never mind. It’s merely a dog.”
The dog’s eyes shifted, glowing an eerie yellow, and Braden’s blood surged. Hellhound!
“My sword!” he called to Garth.
With a metallic hiss, Garth withdrew the weapon and tossed it to him.
Agamore was Braden’s broadsword. It settled with a familiar weight in his grip. The unearthly hound sprang for him and Braden smartly sidestepped, deflecting the hound with a powerful sweep of the back of his sword. The blow flung the hound against a nearby brick wall.
“More of ’em.” The carriage driver’s voice was pitched in panic. The horses shied in response.
Deep-throated growls from the alley affirmed his driver’s keen sight. Three, no, four more hellhounds slunk out of the dark mouth of an alley.
Fortunately, no pedestrians or vehicle traffic yet. The quiet was unlikely to last with White’s attracting customers around the corner. The noise of the frightened horses alone could awaken those sleeping in nearby rooming houses.
“Get the carriage away,” he called to Garth as he advanced with swift jabs and slashes, herding the snarling creatures back toward the narrow alley. He’d dispatched three before they realized just how skillful he was with his weapon.
A backward check showed Garth shoving a fallen beast into the alley entrance. Then a hot flare at Braden’s back warned him that Garth had erected one of his magical barriers so innocents would pass by oblivious.
Good man.
Just the reason he allowed his intractable footman to remain in his employ, despite Garth’s unhealthy fondness for using magic at the least provocation. Magic was deemed a product of the Devil by the archbishop, just as the miraculous feats guards performed were considered gifts from God.
Since his acquaintance with Garth, however, Braden had been struggling with his Church’s definition of magic. For in no sense could he ever see Garth as evil. The man had too good a heart.
With the carriage moved off down the road, the alley turned dark but then a nearby sputtering street lamp flared. The light fell clearly across the two remaining hounds within the brick-lined battlefield. The larger shaggy beast appeared similar to a hellhound, but he had claws in place of nails and crimson eyes.
Vague memory of an ancient folk tale sparked recognition of the beast’s fluid shape. A barguest? Those shape-shifting goblins were reputed to be cunning and deadly.
The creature jumped across from wall to wall. Braden swung the broadsword in a high arc, aiming for the beast’s underside. The barguest leapt to safety and then swiftly attacked, pinning Braden.
Deadly claws skimmed past his arm, scraping the brick. Braden shifted and lunged before the barguest could recover. The wily fae sailed out of reach.
Braden released a pent-up stream of invective about the creature’s lineage.
On their fourth skirmish, he almost had it. The barguest twisted midair, so only the flat of Braden’s sword connected with its leg. Though howling with satisfying agony, the barguest dodged out of reach. The beast was crafty. Its strategy of attacking, retreating to avoid Agamore’s bite and attacking again, physically drained Braden.
His muscles ached from swinging the sword, so he broke away. He panted and the air that poured into his lungs reeked of spilt blood and entrails. Salty sweat dripping down his face stung his lips.
Barguest and hound switched places, perhaps to conserve strength. Braden lunged with a fierce thrust, and made contact with the hound. Blade sliced flesh and the fae hound bellowed in pain. It jerked back, slammed into the opposite wall and then scrambled to escape.
“Kill it, guv’nor,” Garth shouted in encouragement.
Braden grunted. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” He dove at the fleeing hound, but it bounded away and his sword scraped brick, sending sparks flying.
He back tracked, kicking aside hound corpses. Their blood made the ground slippery, adding another obstacle to the mix.
Hackles raised, the barguest followed Braden, while its limping companion hung back.
Sweat beaded on Braden’s face and freely soaked his back. Despite his growing exhaustion, the fact that only two opponents remained and one was in no shape for another scuffle bolstered his spirits. He had enough vigor left to win this fight.
Time to finish this.
Braden stepped away from the wall.
Instead of fleeing, the barguest raised its head and howled – a long, agonized call.
A cry for help?
The air in the alleyway shuddered and an astringent stink of cinder and sulfur stung Braden’s nose. Then four more hounds materialized through the walls, landing on the cobbled stones with a light fresh bounce in their steps.
Cursing, Braden drew back as the deadly reinforcements faced him, growling, teeth bared, frothy drool dripping from their snouts. The triumphant barguest was at their lead. Braden’s back touched the alley wall. A desperate side-glance toward the entry showed his footman walking away.
“Garth!” His desperate plea bounced off the barrier. Garth must have reinforced it to keep sounds from attracting passersby. Without his assistance, Braden couldn’t pass through that magical blockade to safety. What had once been a shield to protect innocents was now a fortification that trapped him with the enemy.
The fight was indeed about to end, but not as he’d envisioned. Giving a frustrated huff, Braden sent up a silent prayer of apology for his sad failure in his duty to protect this world. He begged for whatever miracle the Good Lord could spare and raised Agamore to defend himself.
The sword vibrated in Braden’s grip, surprising him. Then it lit up as if the sun itself had risen over the dark horizon while Braden stared at it in utter shock. Agamore touched a hound in mid-leap and the beast screamed. The ear-shattering cry echoed in the narrow passage, then the hound sizzled, turning into smoke and dust in the air, before fluttering to the ground.
The remaining creatures backed away from Agamore’s blazing fury. No doubt as stunned as Braden by the sword’s unexpected power surge, the hounds abandoned all compulsion to fight to the death and scrambled to flee. Claws scraped stones as hound after hound vaulted over each other in a rush to speed down the alley. The wounded hound ran last, skittering as it followed its fleeing companions.
Braden, recovering from his shock at his sword’s surprising flare, gave chase. Shouting in triumph, he pounded down the dark alley after them.
One glanced backward, red eyes glowering with hatred, and then the barguest streaked down the length of the lane. Like mist touched by sunlight, all the hounds vanished.
Braden slowed, stopped and bent over, hands resting on knees as he caught his breath. In his grip, Agamore’s light dimmed and died, leaving the night as dark as before. The magical sword became no more than ordinary steel.
“Milord, they got away,” Garth shouted at him from behind his barricade.
He spared his footman a resentful, backward glare, ready to return a quip about where had he been when his master needed help. Yet, it was probably due to Garth’s spell on his sword that he had been able to fight off those hounds at the end. He should have known Garth wouldn’t leave him defenseless.
Despite the use of forbidden magic, Braden was inordinately grateful to his exasperating footman for saving his life. Breathing hard and wiping at his moist forehead, he returned to the scene of the initial fight. “Bring a light.”
Garth pulled out a candle from his pack, lit it with a soft-spoken incantation and then hurried over. Braden couldn’t bring himself to object to the blatant use of magic, not when the same power had saved his life.
