CHAPTER 1HAVEN
When the child of the divine and the cursed blood awakens, an old ember of deceit shall ignite once again. Daughter of Salem. Sons of Betrayal. The five shall converge, and the Veil shall rend. The lost ones will come forth and reveal all. Even the Gods cannot hold their secrets forever, nor escape the reckoning they have sewn.
—EXCERPT FROM A RECORD OF PREMONITIONS: THE TRIORA COVEN, 1590
The front gates of Ipswich College look like the open mouth of a monster. I tip my head back and stare at the black wrought iron bars with spikes on the ends that jut up like sharpened fangs as my aunt drives under the matching black metal sign that reads Founded in 1702. Cobwebs rain down around the convertible, and for a change, I’m actually thankful she’s got the top up.
Neither of us says a word as she pulls up the long, tree-lined drive and into the gravel parking lot alongside the front entrance to the administrative hall. The spires of other buildings beyond loom just as dark and foreboding as the entrance.
Aunt Trisha dips her head and gazes up at the front of the college. “How … quaint.” Her comment is filled with a barely repressed disgust that makes it clear she means the exact opposite of the actual word. Based on the grime, no one has bothered to wash the front windows or spray the sides of the building in ages. It’s coated in decades of filth so thick that I’m struggling to see past it to what it might have looked like once, in its prime.
“You’d think a private college would at least attempt to appear inviting.” The muttered criticism is followed by my aunt snatching up her purse from the console and popping the driver’s-side door open.
She doesn’t look my way as she marches toward the double front doors like a woman on a mission, her heels grinding into the gravel. Then again, I suppose she is a woman on a mission. The mission: to get rid of me. I sigh. It wouldn’t matter if this place were a military college or a nunnery on the other side of the world.
The sooner she can get me out of her hair and her house, the better. If it weren’t for the fact that she ran her mouth to anyone who would listen about my parents’—and subsequently her sister’s—deaths twelve months ago and how sad she was for her poor, orphaned niece, she’d have had me out on my ass the day I turned eighteen. I suppose I should be grateful for that big, fat mouth of hers. It kept her from kicking me out sooner, because she had too many people watching, not friends per se but definitely people she tries to shmooze and impress by appearing more selfless and philanthropic than she actually is.
The inside of the building—the administration hall or so one of the plaques beside the double front doors reads—is no better than its exterior. It’s dark and gruesome-looking; more cobwebs linger in the upper corners of the excessively tall ceilings, shaping themselves to the intricate crown molding. A large, wide staircase takes up the majority of the space in front of the foyer.
“How is this place still functioning?” Aunt Trisha’s voice is so loud that I flinch, hoping and knowing that someone is likely nearby to hear the horror in her tone. She glances at me. “Your father’s financial adviser did say that he’d donated thousands to this place over the years, right?”
I nod. “That’s what the adviser said.”
Aunt Trisha harrumphs and clutches her designer handbag tighter to her chest as if a spider is going to jump out at random and steal it right from her grasp. “Well, they obviously don’t know how to manage their money,” she huffs.
Neither does Trisha, which, other than her increasing need to appear like a saint before her non-friends, is the only other reason she ended up becoming my guardian after my parents’ deaths—the sizable inheritance and stipend for anyone who took over my care after their passing—but I don’t say as much. In a few hours, neither of us will be a problem for the other. My insides churn a bit at that thought, but I chalk it up to the cheap convenience store snack I had on the drive down. It was probably too sugary for my stomach.
As she continues to look around and sneer at the antiquated architecture, I find myself staring up toward the second floor. Staircases in older buildings are normally narrow and tight. This one, however, is at least four to six feet wide with enough room for two or more people to walk up and down at the same time. It’s clear that it wasn’t originally built as an administrative building but most likely as a house for a wealthy Pilgrim.
“Miss Wardwell.” A creaky voice echoes off the ceilings and walls. Aunt Trisha gasps and swings wildly around in a melodramatic display that has me cringing internally.
I tilt my head up until I spot the couple standing at the top of the stairs. Unease slips through me. Though they appear as a man and woman, it’s clear that there’s something unusual about the pair. Their pale hair is more white than silver, and though there are fine lines of age around their eyes and mouths, it’s clear that neither of them should be old enough to have such stark-white locks.
The two descend, together and almost in sync with their movements and footsteps. I’d have guessed they were albino from the paleness of their skin and hair were it not for their deep, rich brown eyes. No, not albino, perhaps just a genetic quirk. One thing is clear, though—they’re not a couple, not partners. Their features are far too similar to be anything other than twins.
“Welcome to Ipswich College,” the woman says, nodding to both my aunt and me. “This is my brother, Dean Francis Warren, and I am the vice dean, Amelie Warren.”
“Yes!” Despite my aunt’s earlier commentary and poorly hidden disdain, she shifts into a bright smile that could trick any social debutante into thinking she’s their best friend. “We didn’t expect to be welcomed by the dean and vice dean. What an honor.”
Her words are joined by an outstretched hand. My eyes lock onto her fingers and the delicate but slight tremble in them—as if she’s not quite sure if she wants them to take her up on her offer of a handshake or not. Pretentious bitch, I think absently. The clothes the dean and vice dean are wearing aren’t anything special. They’re not designer or of expensive fabric, and my aunt is nothing if not a prudish social climber. It makes shame bubble up in my stomach, and my teeth clench.
In the end, it’s Dean Francis Warren who reaches out first, taking my aunt’s hand and shaking it with a speedy motion, releasing her just as quickly. “Thank you for coming.” Both Francis and Amelie speak at once, causing Aunt Trisha to jump in surprise and rip her hand back.
I suppose in a situation out of her comfort zone—that comfort zone being Manhattan—she’s a little on edge. Terrified. Maybe any ordinary person would be, and my aunt is nothing if not ordinary.
“No, thank you for responding to my email so quickly,” Aunt Trisha replies tightly as they move to the side and down a long, narrow hall. My aunt’s hand presses against my back, pushing me forward so abruptly that I stumble a bit. “Haven’s been so excited to visit ever since she received her acceptance letter!”
A letter I’m not exactly sure how I received since not only had I never heard of Ipswich College, but, before the letter’s delivery, I didn’t even know my father had been quietly funding a scholarship to the place before his death.
I’m not excited so much as I am curious and, well, out of alternative solutions to my current predicament. I bite my lip, though, and don’t refute my aunt’s easy lie. After all, I dislike living with her about as much as she does with me. The dean and vice dean look at me and smile. It’s eerie how similar they look and how they can perform such an action at the exact same time without ever looking at each other. I wonder if things would have been easier for me if I’d had a twin at the time of my parents’ deaths. At least I would’ve had one person in this world I could trust with all my secrets, all my worries, all my darkness. It must be nice to have a sibling.
Amelie is the first to approach me. She lifts her hand in welcome, and the thick, white-blond rope of her hair slides off her shoulder with the action. “Welcome, Miss Wardwell,” she says. “My brother and I have been looking forward to meeting you for a long time. Your father expressed how proud he was of you many times.”
Her hand is cold as it closes over mine. It’s like gripping ice, but I keep my face unmoved as I look into her wide eyes. “You knew him personally?” I ask. Unlike my aunt, I sense no contempt from this woman.
“Through letters,” she clarifies. “We are most excited to have you at the college.”
As much as I wish I could say the same, the fact is—this is it. I’m eighteen, and Aunt Trisha no longer receives help from the inheritance fund to house me. In a few months, I’ll be nineteen, and she’s made it clear that it’s this or nothing. The Wardwell inheritance will only open my trust fund when I turn twenty-one. Ipswich College is my final choice.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
Amelie holds my hand a moment longer than is normal, but as I speak, she slowly releases me, and her brother moves forward. “Shall we go to the office?” he asks. “To discuss your orientation?”
“Yes!” My aunt doesn’t do anything to hide her enthusiasm to get rid of me as she practically jumps ahead, following after Francis, leaving Amelie and me to trail the two of them.
“It was quite a beautiful drive,” my aunt says right before she launches into a long-winded conversation about the Massachusetts countryside in autumn and how she can’t believe there was a school so far from most cities.
Tense, but silent, I stare at the back of her head. More like she can’t believe her luck in pawning me off so easily or so quickly after my parents’ deaths. I walk behind her, but instead of keeping my head down, I peer around as we stride through the building. Many of the windows are single-paned, and some are decorated in stained glass. As the wind blows, the old building creaks, stopping my aunt’s tirade ahead for a brief moment as she casts a nervous look up to the ceiling before looking back to Francis.
“Old buildings,” he says to her unspoken question. “You know how they are.”
She chuckles nervously. “Of course. I heard there was an incoming storm tonight—must be the beginnings of that.”
In lieu of a response, Francis merely nods and hums. “This way, please.” He gestures through an open doorway.
I have to refrain from smiling to myself. Aunt Trisha isn’t quite used to men not falling all over themselves to care for her needs—emotional, mental, and physical. As my mom’s younger sister, she’s been afforded nearly everything she’s ever wanted in life simply due to her looks. Tall, model thin, with a heart-shaped face and the perfect maintenance of hair, nails, and lip injections—she’s what any man would consider perfect trophy-wife material. It’s only due to her shallow personality and narcissism that she’s never been married—at least, that’s my easiest guess.
Copyright © 2026 by Lucy Smoke