Free Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Series Book 1) by Erin Butler Page B

okay."
    My heartbeat slowed and I blinked a few times. Drake’s face hovered above me as he brushed a few strands of hair off my forehead. Eyes sick with worry, he peered down, crouching on all fours like a kneeling angel.
    My eyes burned as tears rushed there. “I saw…I saw…”
    “It’s okay, Sarah. I’ll take you to Rose’s, okay? Everything's fine.”
    People crowded around. When the ones with the hoods popped into view, I dug my heels into the ground again and pushed back. “No…no.”
    Drake forced my shoulders onto the grass.
    One of the hooded figures towered over me and threw back the black cloth of the hood. “She broke the circle!”
    Her mouth white-lipped, the girl reached out, tore an object from the high priestess’ hands, and came at me. I tried to lunge backward, but Drake still held me down.
    I bucked, but nothing happened. I had no strength to fight.
    I saw the girl clearly now along with the object glinting in her hands.
    It was Jennie and she came at me with a knife.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
    Isabella
    1639
     
    The signs will be there for all to read
    when man shall do most heinous deed.
    Man will ruin kinder lives
    by taking them as to their wives.
     
    And murder foul and brutal deed
    when man will only think of greed.
    Women they shall falsely accuse
    so their suffering will bemuse.
     
     
     
    After the steps of her mother left the bedroom and before the full morning rays of sun shone through the window, Isabella sat at her desk, waiting.
    The picture in Isabella’s head repeated over and over. Mrs. Shipton with her fire eyes blazed before her, darkening as her singsong voice repeated these lines, casting her prophecy like the weaver pieces together his threads, each string working together to complete the vision.
    During the night, she convinced herself of it being a dream. A dream it must be. What evil force could make her lose her senses, not sure, if she woke or slept?
    Isabella calmed herself by thinking of Thomas. He would surely see no reason to be scared. One word from him would silence her fears.
    The ink from her quill stained a circle around the point, which still rested on paper. The dark liquid spread outward, tainting the perfectly lined prose.
    Eyes transfixed on the door, Isabella stood from her perch. Her legs pricked, beginning at her thighs and creeping down to her toes. Splotches of stings bloomed just beneath her clammy skin. With each step, the pain flared.
    “Mother,” she called out, “I wrote this for you.” She looked down, not knowing why she spoke. It was a letter for Thomas in her hands, not for her mother.
    A scream pierced the air. Her scream.
    The prophecy Mrs. Shipton sang last night was written on the paper she clasped in her hands. It was written on her parchment, on her desk, and in her own hand.
     
    Women they shall falsely accuse
    so their suffering will bemuse.
     
    The door clattered open. Mrs. Lynne rushed through once again.
    Isabella dropped the paper and staggered back, her feet hit the stool and it banged backward onto the wood floor.
    “Isabella? What is the matter?”
    She gaped at her mother. Words did not come. How could she explain about Mrs. Shipton? “I did not write that.”
    “Write what, Dear?”
    “I did not write the nonsense on that piece of parchment.”
    Mrs. Lynne hugged her daughter tight, rubbing circles on her back. “You have had a rough night. You are not needed for chores this morning.” She kissed her head. “Go back to sleep.”
    Mr. Lynne’s uneasy step came in. “What is the matter here?”
    “Isabella has had nightmares and I think she may not be feeling well today. She says that she did not write.”
    “Write what?”
    “Father.” Isabella approached him, hands shaking. “There is writing on that parchment. How it got there, I know not. But it was not of my doing."
    She pointed to the paper on the floor and Mr. Lynne bent over to retrieve it. He read the poem and looked up