The First Grimoire
Book 1 in the Trine Trilogy
The
First
GRIMOIRE
by
Hannah Claire
The First Grimoire
Copyright © Hannah Claire, 2022
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events are of the author’s imagination. The places mentioned in this text are used fictitiously.
ISBN(paperback): 978-0-6455940-1-0
ISBN (eBook): 978-0-6455940-0-3
Dani, Tori, and Irene.
. You girls mean everything to me.
Nan,
My love for reading came from you. I wish you were here to read this.
table of contents
prologue
part one:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
part two:
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
part three:
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
epilogue
about the author
prologue
gabriel levin
the streets in phaistos were dangerous for a vampire. Gabriel Levin knew that all too well.
Especially since sitting in a dark cell, alone, reflecting on the moments in his life leading precisely to this.
It started in the city opposite Malia, at his girlfriend’s funeral.
All because of a terrible hiking accident.
Why did his girlfriend vanish in the middle of the night to trek up the most dangerous mountain range in Krete?
The First Grimoire is why.
Gabriel Levin loved Dana. She was the first person who made him feel like a person and not the stone-cold vampire he was supposed to be. Someone worthy of love and greatness. It wasn’t until after her death he realised she was a naïve and selfish witch. That devastated him.
Dana Kore’s funeral was a sad affair.
Well, from where he stood, it looked like it was. The problem with being a vampire in Krete was that he was considered damned. A product of the Devil. Apparently, being a damned creature would mean Dana’s soul would never meet the golden gates of Hestgartia if he attended the funeral. He wished he would meet his inevitable end, but sadly, immortality would never allow it. But he wondered if she would be waiting there if he did. Perhaps if he prayed to the Trine, he would be granted his wish. Then maybe she would be the witch he fell in love with. Not the secret-keeping liar he’s since found her to be.
He’s letting her secrets die with her. He wouldn’t tell a soul what she was truly doing up in those mountains. After all, she had failed.
She didn’t tell anyone else where she was truly looking and that the First Grimoire could remain hidden for just a little longer.
Gabriel contemplated asking Dion or Rhiannon to film the funeral on their phones for closure. But it wouldn’t look right for a detective and journalist to record a corpse being lowered to the ground.
He could see Dana’s family huddled up; they all looked so skinny and gaunt; just a week prior, they’d recovered from a strange illness their grief had caused. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he visited Dana’s sister on her sickbed, and he could have sworn he was about to lose her too. Sweaty hair clung to her skin, her cheeks were drained of all colour and she vomited constantly. Elnora Rennigan was by her bedside, wiping a cold cloth over Bethan’s face.
Dana’s sister, who stood by the body wrapped in a white sheet, dropped something in Dana’s grave, then returned to her family.
The funeral ended, and Gabriel waited for everyone to leave before saying goodbye to Dana.
Henry Kore dispersed from the crowd and made his way toward him. Gabriel was surprised to even see Henry leave his wife’s side.
‘It is a beautiful day,’ he told Gabriel.
It wasn’t. Grey clouds masked the sunrays, and fog covered the horizon before them. The day, so far, had been nothing but harsh winds accompanied by the sound of tree branches hitting the ground.
Gabriel could only nod in response.
‘I want you to know that, just because she’s gone, doesn’t mean you’re not part of our family,’ he said.
Something tightened in Gabriel’s chest. His eyes widened.
‘Sir—’
‘You have a place with us.’
‘I’m moving,’ he blurted. ‘To Phaistos. I can’t be in this city anymore. I don’t even think I can be close to any of you. It’s too much.’
Henry nodded.
‘I was hoping you’d stay here and be there for Bethan. Since she is staying in Malia as well.’
‘She has her own friends. I doubt she’d want me hovering over her.’
He met Bethan a handful of times; she was a sweet girl, a bit quieter than Dana. Always in her boyfriend’s shadow, who he had heard she wasn’t with anymore. Bethan was struck with the illness the worst. It was no wonder her father was worried about her being alone in the city.
‘I prefer to have someone from our family watching her,’ Henry said. ‘But I suppose it was wrong of me to burden you.’
‘I would love to stay, but I heard rumours that the Adelian Resistance is getting more popular. I don’t want to stay in a city telling me to go. And—’
He wanted to tell Henry he hated that every street reminded him of Dana. The park near his house was where he’d taken Dana on their first date. The diner close to her work was where he’d kissed her for the first time. He couldn’t be there without turning a corner and seeing her.
He wasn’t going to live like that.
‘Just don’t be a stranger,’ Henry said finally, before returning to his family who stood by their car in the parking lot.
Gabriel turned his back on them, not realising it could be the last time he would ever see the Kore family.
***
He walked a path alone on an empty street in Phaistos; when he left Malia, he wanted to stay as far from that city as possible. He settled for Phaistos because it was the northern tip of Krete and the furthest away from Malia.
It was a coastal town, and the sea cliffs reminded him of the mountains, where his witch was from. The only thing he hated was the dreadful weather; the sun never shone.
He turned a corner on the cobblestone path and stood before an old building made of tufa. Inside, through the glassless windows, he saw that it was a tavern, one he had not yet been to. He went to push on the glass door that would grant him entry.
No vampires or humans beyond this entry point was painted red in large letters.
He sighed and turned his back on the door.
Dana would have knocked the door down and enchant whoever was in charge in a fit of her rage. But—
He shrugged and decided to take a different route, to explore the town he would call his home. He had yet to meet another vampire that dwelt there; he doubted he ever would. They were proud creatures before the plague. They rarely left their homes, even at night. Too many vampires had gone missing and been found severely burnt; some bodies had never come back at all. The Council and ministers don’t care, besides Circe and the High Councillor. But why would they?
They’re witches.
The Blood Plague is what left witches sour.
Perhaps this new route was a bad idea.
He heard someone scuffing their shoes on gravel.
He turned and found no one behind him.
He shrugged and continued walking. It was not uncommon for him to hear things coming from a street over. His hearing would sometimes tune out when he was deep in thought. But it sounded like someone was walking directly behind him.
Gabriel shoved his hands in his pockets and picked up his pace. The lane he was walking in had narrowed, light footsteps following, and he whirled around to find nothing there again.
He inhaled and kept walking. His strides grew longer, and before he knew it, he was at the end of the lane. He settled, releasing the breath he had been holding. He swore under his breath at of the sight before him.
Underneath the only streetlight stood a tall silhouette of a man.
He stepped back, but the footsteps behind him had returned. He turned his head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the person that walked behind him.
No one was there.
He looked back at the silhouette charging towards him. He still could not make out the figure for what it was.
He turned and dashed from the shape, only to find it had vanished, along with its footsteps.
He kept running back to where he came from. He could listen to the tavern’s loud chatter, and he smiled.
Perhaps they could offer him help?
He was about to turn towards the sandstone tavern when he saw a flash of white teeth behind a sinister smile.
He was met with a blanket of darkness and a blow to the head.
Gabriel Levin awoke in a cell. Trapped and confined with nothing to do except reminisce about his relationship with Dana Kore over and over again.
He might even get to know if she had been waiting for him in Hestgartia.
part one:
autumn
chapter one
bethan kore
at the first sight of orange leaves, the witches gathered.
Bethan knelt before the Trine, feeling like an absolute fraud, being the only witch in the temple without magic coursing through her veins, a mockery of the three goddesses before her.
Early explorers discovered only the head of the Three-Faced Goddess. Except Bethan Kore knew the head didn’t present three faces. Had the archaeologist dug a few metres farther, they would have revealed three bodies that matched the decapitated head. Two hundred years later, her sister dug further.
The Three-Faced Goddess stood tall with their chins tilted up. The sculptor must have been human, as they were the only ones who bore the time to carve statues this magnificent.
Dressed in white gowns, representing the Trine’s pure magic, every female witch in Malia worshipped the alabaster statue for autumn’s first full moon.
A choir of witches sang above them. Bethan tilted her head back to gaze at them, fresh-faced with not a care in the world. She recognised the teenagers’ blue uniforms, realising they were from Hadwicke’s, the all-girls college where Bethan and Dana were sent in their last year of high school at seventeen, as all witches were. Testing comprised the ability to conjure abnormal powers like Green or Blood Magic. Bethan had always thought testing for Blood Magic was useless, considering a line of Blood Witches hadn’t existed since the plague. The thought of testing positive for Blood Magic enticed her, since she’d been set apart from the other witches, rendering her unique.
She shrugged.
Incense burnt, wafting its aroma, likely scented by everyone in Malia. Bethan hated the scent; it reminded her of visiting her ex-boyfriend’s family estate. His mother was always so insistent on cleansing for ‘spirits.’ Memories of her standing in a high doorway and his mother waving sage all over her body gripped her soul. The stench would stay on her clothes, even after washing them. Bethan would have to use an enchantment to remove the strong smell. She rubbed her palm across her forehead; the stench induced an unbearable migraine pulsating in her temples.
Limestone columns mounted the temple. Delicate yet intricate frescos of the ancient goddesses lined every wall of the decadent temple, aptly named The Cult of The Trine. One oil-painted fresco depicted the Maiden standing naked in a field of pink blossoms. Deep in the background, a dark forest loomed behind her, and something lurked within the deadly-looking shadows. A man stood behind a tree trunk, spying on her. The romantic in Bethan used to think the figure was a suitor, lovingly observing the goddess from afar. But the much older, jaded Bethan feared the figure was there for sinister purposes. Ones she didn’t know and didn’t dare to find out.
Bethan’s eyes darted from the eerie fresco when Elnora Rennigan shifted beside her. Her friend sat, slouching in the pew, playing with the ends of her raven-coloured hair. She stared at Circe, who had been secretly messaging her colleagues. Bethan was relieved when she realised she was not the only one not paying attention to the ceremony. In Circe’s defence, she was probably working. She was a minister, after all; she hardly ever had time off those days.
Bethan leant forward and spied Agatha Elmwood’s soft blonde curls, whose teal eyes gazed at the unfolding ritual. At least Agatha would inform them of what the hell was happening.
Her three roommates dragged her to the ancient ritual, the first autumn rite without her magic, and she despised every minute of it. The history books told her the day of autumn’s first full moon was the day the Trine defeated the Devil. Bethan doubted the battle ever took place; no archaeological evidence had proven the Trine or the Devil had ever walked this realm. It was likely an ancient religion that had carried over from the ill-fated Old Kingdom.
Her dark eyes narrowed towards the Maiden statue; she wondered how the sculptor had carved the hair’s long waves out of clay and how they’d crafted the crown-shaped, wanning crescent moon pressed on the goddess’s forehead. The Crone, who, at the centre of the trio, donned a full moon on her crown, Mother Goddess a waxing crescent. She marvelled at the craftsmanship—as any historian would—when Circe nudged her.
A bell chimed through the hollowed temple.
The witches stood in unison, squeezing between pews to encircle the Crone, Mother and Maiden.
Their hands clasped together. Bethan clutched Elnora’s on her left and Circe’s on her right. Agatha stood, holding Circe’s other hand, her other with a stranger.
She hadn’t realised the witches started chanting in the old linear. Chorus-like voices echoed through the temple; she shut her eyes and whispered the worship’s intricate enchantment to the three goddesses, hoping they’d return her magic. But she knew, deep down, these goddesses did not exist, and neither did the Devil.
‘Banseth Le Adom. Savire Lev Trine,’ they repeated.
The Trine was not watching her like the scriptures said. They did not usher anyone to a life of fulfilment or into Hestgartia, the heavens. If they were, her sister would be here, standing next to her—
Elnora squeezed her hand. Bethan opened one eye and peeked at the grey mist of power floating around everyone’s hands and fingertips but her own.
Her heart sank.
Lower than it already had.
She pulled her hand away from her friends. Letting the long sleeves of the pitiful white gown fall past her fingertips.
She knew she looked ridiculous wearing a gown two sizes too big. She hadn’t planned on coming, and she threw away her last gown when her powers vanished. When she arrived at the ancient temple, she and Elnora ran straight to the lost property to fish out an old shift from the three-metre-high bin. Her current gown was the only one they’d found, much to Bethan’s dismay.
Although, it was hilarious watching Elnora dive into the bin headfirst with her high heels dangling out of it. Bethan wished she wasn’t there because she wouldn’t be silently praying for her magic to come back. She would be in bed, reading a book of the romance persuasion, ignoring her problems.
She wouldn’t be watching the Grey Witches perform the Small magic she no longer had.
It is the most common form of witchcraft—and the simplest, the other lines of the craft rare or extinct. Small magic took the form of a grey mist; when Bethan had that magic, she would describe it as looking like the night sky since it would look like tiny glimmers of gold she thought were little stars.
She glared at her hand, as if waiting for that grey magic to return.
With another nudge, she noticed six pairs of eyes on her. The enchantment had stopped, and the witches had filed out. But others like her and her friends lingered on.
‘It’s okay—’ Elnora said.
‘There are a lot of older witches here, participating in the rite, and they don’t have any magic,’ Agatha said in an airy voice.
Circe palmed her forehead, letting out a disappointed laugh.
‘Yes, comparing her to matron witches is the exact thing she’d want to hear.’ Sarcasm laced Circe’s voice. That made Agatha wince at her words.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ Agatha pouted at Circe. ‘And you know it.’
All four girls giggled.
‘Just admit it, Agatha. You think Bethan is an old hag,’ Elnora said.
Bethan knew it was light-hearted fun that her friends masterfully designed to make her feel better. She had rolled her eyes at Elnora’s words.
‘I’m only a year older than you.’ Bethan laughed through her words and flipped her hair. Colour rose in Agatha’s pale cheeks, her face contorting to an expression of uneasiness.
Elnora cackled so loud she smacked her hand over her mouth with shock at the sound she made.
‘Shhh.’ A shrill, sudden voice came from behind them. With a turn, they found an elderly woman Bethan thought had an uncanny resemblance to the Crone’s face. The woman’s wrinkled face scowled at the girls.
Elnora poked her tongue out at the woman. Bethan was still recovering from the shock that she barely noticed Elnora was whispering a hex.
‘Don’t be a child, Ellie,’ Circe growled.
It wasn’t uncommon for Circe to reprimand Elnora, it happened often. They had the dominant personalities of their group, and they would constantly battle in verbal spars. Agatha and Bethan were the quieter ones, subtly distracting the two girls from whatever topic they would fight about.
‘The old you would let me do it.’
‘The old me was too busy studying law to give a shit.’
Bethan’s eyes darted between the other girls before landing on Agatha, who was wordlessly speaking to her on how they should deescalate the situation.
‘Can we go to the greenhouse after?’ Agatha piped up. Circe’s amber eyes flicked toward Agatha, then softened. ‘I have been meaning to get some new ones for those pots my mum gave me.’
Elnora groaned. ‘We don’t have any more space.’
‘Our apartment is practically a jungle at this point,’ Bethan murmured.
Circe served her a cold glare. ‘I think Bethan’s books take up more space.’
‘Hey.’ Bethan laughed. ‘I’m pretty sure at least two of those shelves have your boring politics books on them.’
Circe gritted her teeth. ‘At least I bother to read. I’m not even certain Elnora knows how to.’
‘I keep my belongings in my room, so I shouldn’t be included in this argument.’ Elnora inspected her crimson nails. ‘Besides, I have better things to do.’
‘Like what?’ Bethan dared to ask.
‘Spending my daddy’s money.’
That sentence made the most sense, considering Elnora was the sole heir to the Rennigan empire.
All girls laughed until a Stratos guard kicked them out. Bethan was relieved to leave the incense-reeking temple and head out into the city of Malia.
chapter two
kellan finch
tight fists banged on his oak door. A sharp pain shot through Kellan’s temple; a headache is the last thing he needed in the early morning. An empty bottle clattered to the ground, leaving red droplets on the stained stone floor. He kicked the fallen bottle under his bed, the sliding glass stirred his dog awake. He murmured to his pet and watched as Lupo stretched and walked behind him. Three guards stood outside, displeased with him and his evening activities. Silently, they walked single filed down the grand hall towards the throne room.
The Queen of Fire and Air was never without her crown. Kellan doubted his mother would even take it off for bed. That crown forever glints, scorching its image on his brothers’ and sisters’ minds. Planted on his mother’s head, the crown would not come off until the fae queen would fall, forever taunting his siblings. She dangled it before them, as if they were dogs begging for a bone.
He never wanted it. Never had. Never would. It was far too much responsibility; Kellan would rather drown himself in drink or fight in battles than sit in a throne room all day.
A voice, smooth like silk, echoed in his ears.
‘Interesting times are ahead of us, my son.’
The prince marched forward and bowed. Lupo padded in and stayed by the door. The dog curled himself in a ball, peacefully falling back asleep.
With a quick glance around the meeting room, he found it void with her usual guards that surrounded her, the ones who led him into the throne room mysteriously vanished.
It was enough for Kellan to know that this was one of her secret conversations, one she didn’t want his brothers and sisters to know about.
How interesting, he thought to himself.
‘You wanted to see me?’ he said, skipping any sort of formality.
His mother’s emerald eyes narrowed on him.
Her disappointment crawled up his spine. A thick, clear wall of tension built up, and Kellan wondered if he could cut his dagger through it.
‘You’re turning twenty-five in the summer,’ she said. ‘I hope you know what it means.’
He fought back, rolling his eyes. Of course he knew what it meant—every fae in Zakros knew what it meant.
‘Do you honestly think I’m stupid?’
The queen smiled—or smirked. Kellan wasn’t sure.
‘I think you are many things. And, no, stupid is not one of them.’ His queen shifted in her seat, dragging her hand up the armrest, her gaze fixed on him. ‘Your prophecy will be read on your birthday; your place in the line of succession will be cemented.’
He raised a brow and tilted his head back. He was too hungover for this.
‘Is that all?’ he said, hoping his voice conveyed his boredom. ‘What’s the point? It’s obvious I’m not going to be king.’
‘That’s not all.’
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