Read the second chapter, free.

Chapter Two: The Assignment

Chad flew into the classroom like a plane coming in for a crash landing. Marcus rolled his eyes. The thought of working with this clown had him already screaming Mayday. Clambering for a seat, the redhead tripped and toppled a chair, spiraling it a little too close for the athlete’s comfort.

“Watch it, fool!” Marcus bellowed, wrenching sideways to avoid being hit. “I need these legs for the upcoming 200 metre swim meet.”

“Sorry, bro. New kicks. Treads aren’t worn in yet.” Grinning like a chimp, Chad scooped up the chair and propped it next to Jillian. As he sat down, his elbow brushed her arm.

“Don’t touch me,” the cheerleader spat, batting away the offensive limb.

Marcus almost felt sorry for the guy. He was too dumb to realize that he was browsing at Lululemon when he should be shopping at Walmart. Sure, Jillian’s elfin face, and flyaway champagne hair could make just about any guy’s heart bleed—but not Marcus. He’d never felt the need to impress her with his trademark moves, either in or out of the pool—even if she did happen to conjure up memories of Zelda, the game he loved to play as a kid. No. That girl was more haughty than hottie—and an uber-condescending, pain in the ass.

“Now that I see you’re all here,” Ms. Pratt greeted them, striding into the room, “let's get this party started, shall we—as those who are with-it might say.”

Marcus cringed. If anything, Ms. Pratt was the polar opposite of with-it. Even the expression, itself, sounded outdated. In fact, everything about her screamed old fashioned. If the clock could be turned back a hundred years, that old relic would fit in perfectly, right down to her librarian-chic wardrobe of a white blouse, black skirt, and beige cardigan. And the icing on the cake—a retro pair of cat eye glasses, complete with hanging neck chain.

“In our study of The Crucible,” Ms. Pratt continued in a leisurely manner, “we have barely scratched the surface.”

“Not me,” Jillian said, inflating her chest. “I’ve done my homework. I even read how Miller wrote it as a commentary on McCarthyism in America.”

“Very good, Miss Marshall. Unfortunately, that is beyond the scope of this assignment. Instead, your focus will be on life in Salem during the witch trials. I want an in-depth report on how the entire community was affected, keeping in mind what constitutes religion as opposed to superstition. Do a proper job and it will seem like you were actually there. You have until Monday, at which time, you will present to the class.”

Marcus peered at the clock. The second hand’s agonizing sweep around the dial seemed to move in slow motion. Time to face facts. This weekend was officially a bust. And, all because he arrived five minutes late for English class. Big deal! It’s not like he couldn’t speak the language. Any other teacher would’ve let it slide, but not Ms. Pratt. She was old-school, whining like the World War II Lancaster bombers that Mosôm—his granddad—had serviced back in the day as a proud veteran of Canada’s Snowy Owl Squadron. Although, in hindsight, Marcus had to admit that his attempt to pass off a smoke break as a smudging ceremony, might also have contributed. Marcus puffed out his cheeks. Maybe, the time had come to quit. After all, smoking was dumb—especially for an athlete—but being uncool was worse. In high school, reputation meant everything.

“Now, pay attention,” Ms. Pratt said, a sudden note of urgency in her voice. “I cannot stress this enough. You must pull together or be prepared to face the consequences. There will be no margin for error.”

Shivers rippled down the athlete’s spine like tremors along a fault line. Something in the old witch’s owlish gaze spelled trouble. That—or the silver bun in the back of her head was woven just a tad too tight.

“No problemo, Ms. P,” Chad said, a trace of excitement in his eyes. “I’ve already got a pretty good handle on it. You should see the freaks in my Foods class. The way they stir those pots, you’d think they were cauldrons.”

Jillian palmed her face. “We’re dead.”

“Come on, why us?” Marcus asked.

Ms. Pratt turned her gaze to Peyton, who sat complacently while applying pink gloss to her lips.

“What about you Ms. Sansavong? I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

“I just want my car back. My dad took away the keys when he signed your evil note.”

“Wonderful,” Marcus muttered. “We all know how this will end.”

“Precisely why I am putting you in charge, Mr. Ballantyne.”

“Wait, what?”

“That’s not fair!” Jillian cried, clicking her pen wildly. “I know more about Salem than he does. More than any of these pinheads. I should be leader.”

“I have my reasons, Miss Marshall. Although… might I offer one final piece of advice? Work as a team. You each have something to contribute. Now, I’ve left some reference materials on the counter, and the Chromebooks on the cart are at your disposal. Should you require any further assistance, I shall be in the gym selling my delicious sugar cookies.”

With that, the old witch spun on her heels and marched out the door.

“There goes my Saturday,” Marcus moaned.

“And our credits,” Jillian griped.

Chad smiled. “Welcome to the team, Jillian.”

“Huh?”

“You said our credits.”

Marcus cupped his hands around his mouth as he stood to address his crew. “Attention, minions. As the man in charge, I order you to get to work. Now, hop to it. The clock is ticking.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jillian asked.

Marcus shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

The captain of the cheer squad steepled her fingers. “Before we play follow the leader, shouldn’t you at least… lead?” “Already did,” the athlete replied, collapsing back into his chair. “When I ordered you to get to work.”

“Listen, chief—”

“Hey, watch it!” Marcus snarled, curling his lip. “I don’t appreciate being stereotyped that way.” That queen B’s barb had felt more like a harpoon. Being Anishinaabe was his pride, not his shame—something Mosôm had instilled in him from an early age.

Jillian sat wide-eyed, her mouth a giant Cheerio. “Look, I’m not a racist. I was only…”

“Forget it,” Marcus cut in. For him, seeing Miss Smarty-pants squirm was all the vindication he needed. “Let’s just do this and get it over with.”

“For once, we agree,” Jillian said, brusquely adopting an arrogant stance. “But before moving on, let us discuss your leadership—or lack thereof. Not to be judgy, but you don’t seem to have what it takes. So, why not do yourself a favour and step down.”

“And to who should I pass the torch? You?”

“I am the most qualified. Oh, and FYI… it’s to whom.”

If only he could duct-tape that chump-leader’s mouth. If this project didn’t kill him, she certainly would. “Nice try, cupcake, but your little coup isn’t going to work. You see, a good leader knows how to delegate. Which is why I’m assigning you—my faithful project manager—to oversee the grunt work. Now, get a move on. Let’s go.”

“Take a hike, Marcus,” Peyton snorted in disgust. “If you think you can just sit there while we do all the work, you’re out of your friggin’ mind.”

“Alright, alright already!” Five minutes in and the troops were mutinying. Could this day get any worse? “Um, Peyton… construct an outline. Chad… you’re on website duty. And you, Miss Wikipediot… grab a textbook and start making notes.” He shot Jillian a look. “There, satisfied?”

“Not so fast.”

What now?

“Tell me, Your Majesty,” Jillian said, rising slowly from her seat, “what exactly is your job in all this?”

Marcus sat back in his chair. “Simple. My job is to make sure you do yours.”

“Is that right?” she uttered, planting her palms on his desk.

“You bet your sweet ass it is.” He leaned in until their noses nearly touched. “You’re just jealous Ms. Pratt chose me.”

“Me, jealous? Ha!”

Marcus wiped his face. “Say it, don’t spray it.” Her peppermint breath might’ve smelled sweet, but her attitude had soured his mood. “Okay, listen up. I’m only going to say this once. I’m in charge. Got it?”

Peyton launched from her chair like a rocket, exhaust flames blazing from her butt— or so Marcus could’ve sworn. “You’re nothing but a conceited snob,” she seethed, overenunciating her words. “Why Ms. Pratt placed our credits in the hands of a fool like you defies all logic.”

“That’s it! I’m out. Find somebody else to be your scapegoat.”

As Marcus slid back his chair, Peyton clamped down on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. You heard what Ms. Pratt said. Work together, or we all fail.”

Marcus shook himself loose and stood up. “I thought you didn’t care about school, Peyton. Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you go do some of that hoodo-voodo, medication garbage you’re so fond of—and take a hike!”

“It’s meditation!” Jillian cried, pounding the desk. “You can’t even get that right.”

Angry tears welled in Peyton’s eyes. “I hate you, Marcus. My Lola taught me how to meditate.”

The athlete furrowed his brow. “Lola?”

“My grandmother. You, more than anyone should know what it’s like to feel different.”

Marcus bit his lip. That girl had struck a nerve. For as long as he could remember, people appeared determined to judge him. Whenever he entered a store, the sales staff were on him like butter on bannock, afraid that he might shoplift. And now, he’d gone and done the very same thing to Peyton by judging her and mocking a tradition she and her Lola shared.

“Sorry, Peyton. What I said was wrong. Sometimes, things just fly out of my mouth before my brain kicks in.”

“Whatever,” she replied. “I’m no stranger to haters. After Covid hit, I lost count of how often I was told to go back to China.”

“But, you’re from the Philippines.”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “Duh. Look, I’ll do what you ask, but not because you said so. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I’m done with you.”

“C’mon,” Jillian said, guiding her gently away. “Don’t worry about those two creeps.”

“What’d I do?” Chad asked. Up until now, the redhead had somehow managed to steer clear of the commotion.

Marcus began to stammer something, but the words got tangled in his throat. Hearing about Peyton’s Lola had reopened a fresh wound—the recent passing of his granddad. Never again would he sit by the elder’s side, learning about the ways of their people. Perhaps, he and this girl had more in common than Marcus cared to admit.

“Forget it, man,” Chad soothed. “Time to move on. For what it’s worth, you really stood up to those snobsters.”

“Snobsters?”

“You know? A snob with claws? Rhymes with lobster?”

Marcus jammed his hands into his pockets. “Give it a rest, Chad.” “Sure thing, bro. Now, what was it that Ms. P. said about buried treasure? Bet if I hack her computer and dig through her files, we’ll strike it rich.”

“That’s a terrible idea!” Easing himself into the teacher’s chair, Chad stroked the laptop, spellbound by the illuminated logo on the lid. It was as if those light rays had beamed directly into his skull and taken control of his brain.

“I don’t like it,” Marcus said. “If Ms. Pratt finds out we’re screwed.”

“Relax, bro. I got it covered.”

“Dude! We’re already in enough trouble as it is.”

Chad gave an impish grin. “Trust me, bro. It’ll be worth it. I heard her dad used to work at Area 51. “

“Area 51?”

“Yeah, you know. The place in Nevada where that U.F.O. crashed. The government has a top-secret base there, where they carry out their extraterrestrial experiments. Haven’t you ever watched Ancient Aliens? Look—even her laptop is Alienware.”

Marcus shook his head. Not only was Chad a conspiracy nut, but he was caressing the computer like a family pet.

“Think about it. We’re on the cusp of discovering who the real Ms. Pratt is. Who knows? She may even be an android sent here to study us, which would explain why she talks like Siri.”

Marcus shuddered at the thought. “Alright, Chad. Fun time is over.”

“In a minute, bro. Incidentally, you might want to fasten your seatbelt. I’m about to take you on the ride of your life.”

“Yeah, nonstop to Planet Crazy.”

“C’mon man! Have a little faith.”

“Whatever. But you’re wasting your time. Faith isn’t going to unlock that computer. So, unless you know the password…”

Chad chuckled, softly. “Already done. It’s the name of her cat.”

“What! How?”

“They don’t call me Zoomzansky for nothin’.”

Marcus was utterly blown away—until he spied a familiar object on the desk. Housed in a pewter frame engraved with the name ‘Luna’ stood a picture of a black cat sporting a rhinestone collar. T

he athlete watched while the redhead’s fingers flew across the keypad like a ragtime piano player. Text and images kaleidoscoped across the screen at an amazing pace.

“Wait. What’s that?” Marcus asked, rotating his head. A low-frequency hum had begun to vibrate in the background. But before he could pinpoint its source, it escalated into a high-pitched whine.

Marcus swung his gaze towards the girls, already on their knees and squirming in agony, hands over their ears, faces contorted like tragic figures in a Edvard Munch painting. Vertigo played havoc with his senses and, he too, dropped to his knees. He cranked his head to Chad. What had that lunatic done? Slumped in his seat, head lolled to the side, the redhead lay unconscious. Or worse—dead.

Just then, everything started to spin like a Frisbee, and Marcus found himself floating in a swirling void. Peace finally came when his world went dark.

Read the first chapter for free

Chapter One: The Wrath of Pratt

Ms. Imogene Pratt smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat. Her job extended beyond the boundaries of teaching English. To her, shaping her student’s futures was paramount. Although with this bunch, it would not be easy. She took a moment to reflect on the four pupils seated before her. Their sour expressions said it all. Detention with her was a punishment worse than death.

“Well, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Ms. Pratt began, peering over her cat eye glasses. “Can anyone tell me why you are here?”

“Ooh, I know,” Chad Zuzansky said, flashing a grin at the blonde girl beside him.

“I was on my phone instead of paying attention.”

“Wrong, Mr. Zuzansky.” The boy was paying attention—just not to her, but to a photo of Miss Marshall on his phone.

“Nice one, bro,” Marcus Ballantyne chuckled, giving his red-haired classmate a satiric, thumbs-up.

Ms. Pratt honed in on the Indigenous student, whose acerbic wit often drew the ire of his peers.

“Your turn, Mr. Ballantyne. Any inkling as to why you are here?”

“I was late for class?”

“Wrong again,” Ms. Pratt replied, oozing with complacency. Her gaze pivoted to the entitled exchange student from the Philippines. “Miss Sansavong? Would you care to speculate?”

“I’ll pass.”

“Perhaps, dear—but first, answer the question.”

Peyton Sansavong paused to inspect her fingernails. “Let me guess. You’re poor and you hate rich people?”

“The only thing poor in this room, dear, is your attitude.” “Whatever.”

Ms. Pratt was keenly aware of what her pupils thought of her—that she was overly strict and over the hill. Punctuality, diligence, and respect seemed in short supply these days. And while building confidence had its place in the classroom, competence was what marked the cornerstone of a solid foundation—and the reason why, under her watch— high standards and civility ruled. And would continue to do so for as long as the inscription on the door bore her name.

“What about you, dear?” Ms. Pratt asked, targeting Jillian Marshall, next. “Have you anything to add?”

The captain of the cheer squad tapered her eyes. “You tell me.”

“Very well,” Ms. Pratt agreed. “You are all here because you’re missing something vital to your lives.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Marcus asked, sounding unimpressed.

“Each other. Which is why I’m assigning you to work on your enquiry project— together.”

“Like in a group!” Jillian cried, neck veins bulging like a garden hose. “Please, Ms. Pratt. I prefer to work alone. Scholarships are hard to get and med school isn’t cheap. I can’t risk these amateurs ruining my chances.”

“Hey, what’s with her?” Chad cut in, whipping his head sideways.

Everyone turned to look. Perched in a lotus position atop her chair, Peyton sat with her eyes closed, murmuring in a foreign language. “Ommm Mani Padme Hummm. Ommm Mani Padme Hummm.”

“Quick,” Chad cried. “Somebody call a priest. Peyton is possessed!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Marcus spat. “She’s having a seizure.”

Jillian pinched the bridge of her nose as if to stem a headache.

“You’re both idiots. See the way her hands form a triangle? It’s called a mudra, which is all part of the ritual. Peyton is meditating.”

“You sure about that?” Marcus asked.

“Positive. What you’re hearing is Samadhi—her chant. It’s based on Sanskrit and is commonly used by Hindus, Buddhists and Sikhs.”

Marcus blinked several times. “Sand skirt? Never heard of it.”

“It’s Sanskrit, you moron. An ancient Indian language. I learned about it in yoga.”

“Watch it! It’s not cool to call us Indians, anymore.”

“That is quite enough,” Ms. Pratt said, staring both combatants into submission. “We’ve more important matters to discuss.” She had hoped they would come together as a group with as little intervention as was possible. This project was of the utmost importance, as was their ability to work as a team. And time was of the essence.

Chad nodded. “I’m with you, Ms. P.” Then, turning to Jillian, he smiled. “Let the love shine through. Right, Jill?”

Wrinkling her nose, the cheerleader flipped him her middle finger.

“You learn that in yoga?” Marcus quipped.

“Get lost, Marcus.”

A single handclap cracked the air. “Well, then,” Chad said, “on that cheery note, how about we break for lunch? My stomach won’t stop growling.”

As if in response, Peyton popped open her lids.

“Is there a problem, dear?” Ms. Pratt asked, perceiving the panic in her pupil’s eyes.

For a moment, the rich girl stared into space. Then, seizing her handbag, she emptied its contents onto her desk. Breath spray, lip gloss, sunglasses and more, all spilled out in disarray. “My phone… I can’t find my phone!” Several items clattered to the floor while she scrabbled through the pile in a frenzy. “Bad vibes have blocked my energy. If I don’t book an appointment to realign my chakras, my life will be over.”

“Hey, I gotcha, girl.” Chad unzipped his waist pack. “Here, try this, instead.” He produced a square object wrapped in a napkin.

Peyton arched her eyebrows. “A brownie?”

“Go on, take it,” the redhead prodded. “It’ll help calm your nerves.”

“I’ll bet,” Marcus said. “What’s in it?” Chad winked. “Chocolate, what else? Girls love chocolate. Right Jill?”

“It’s Jillian.”

“Do they also love weed?” Marcus teased, turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Hey! My mom made these.”

Ms. Pratt glanced at her watch. Time was running out.

“I hate to say it,” Jillian said, stroking her jaw in a scholarly manner, “but perv, here, is right. Chocolate contains tryptophan which produces neurochemicals that reduce stress.”

Chad’s grin was pure cheddar. “Gee thanks, Jillian. I also think you’re swell. Though just to clarify, I’m not a perv. That photo I took of you was for the yearbook.”

“Some pic! I was upside down in the middle of a cartwheel.”

Ms. Pratt shook her head and sighed. When caught ogling the girl’s likeness in class, the startled lad had dropped his phone, only to have it land at Jillian Marshall’s feet.

“It’s called an action shot,” Chad said, his ears glowing watermelon-red. “You know… like the ones in Sports Illustrated?”

“I know what an action shot is,” Jillian fired back.

Like tiny flickers of fire, the redhead’s curls danced in the light as he raked his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I didn’t mean to… That is… Hey, have I ever told you how smart you are? Say, can I have your number for my… smart phone?”

“Ew! Ms. Praaatt! Are you sure about this?”

“To answer your question dear… Should the four of you choose to combine your strengths, you will achieve miracles together.”

“And if we refuse?” Marcus said, narrowing his eyes.

“Then, your course credits will be withheld.”

“That’s not fair!” Jillian complained. “I’m acing every other subject.”

Peyton scowled. “I’ll sue. My father has a dozen lawyers on retainer.”

“I’m afraid you’re missing the point,” Ms. Pratt said, rising to her full height. “More is at stake here than good grades. Miss Marshall—you wish to practice medicine, do you not?”

“From the first time I played with a toy stethoscope.”

“Indeed. And while such a goal is worthy of your intellect—professionalism, compassion, commitment, and keeping one’s ego in check are also critical components of being an effective physician.”

“Mr. Ballantyne—” “Yes, Ms. Pratt?”

“As a member of the swim team, you of all people know the value of teamwork.”

“Well, yeah. But—”

“And you, Miss Sansavong. You pretend your education is of little consequence, but there’s no escaping the truth. Beneath that phlegmatic façade, lies a gifted seeker of knowledge.”

“Whatever.”

“And, as for you, Mr. Zuzansky… social inelegance is not always indicative of a simple mind.”

“Huh?”

Ms. Pratt maintained a steadfast gaze while gauging each of them in turn.

“Think of this as buried treasure. Dig deep and you will prosper.”

“Fine,” Jillian said, lips pressed into a Muppet-mouth. “So, what’s the assignment?”

“We shall discuss it tomorrow. Report to class at nine a.m. sharp.”

“But tomorrow is Saturday,” Marcus argued.

“How good of you to notice, dear. You’ve become quite adept at telling time.”

“And just how are we supposed to get in?” Peyton asked, a tinge of hostility in her tone.

“Why, through the main entrance, of course,” replied Ms. Pratt. “Parent council is holding a bake sale, so the building will be unlocked—speaking of which, these letters are for your parents or guardians to sign.”

Chad sprang up in his seat. “I’ll bring the brownies. My mom made a huge batch for the bake sale.”

“Very thoughtful of you, dear,” Ms. Pratt said, cordially.

“I can hardly wait,” Jillian moaned.

Ms. Pratt assessed the brooding teens one last time. The wheels were set in motion and there was no turning back. If they failed to gel as a team, all would be for naught. “Now, listen carefully. I expect each and everyone of you to be here, tomorrow. No excuses. Especially you, Miss Sansavong—no matter how many attorneys your father may have.”

A slow burn smoldered in the rich girl’s eyes.

With a magician-like flourish of her hand, a weary Ms. Pratt dismissed the group. While the others traipsed off, Marcus stayed behind to gather his belongings. Then suddenly, like a thread drawn tight, a strange inclination tugged at the English teacher’s soul.

“One moment, Mr. Ballantyne.”

“Yes, Ms. Pratt?” “I have something for you.”

The boy slung his backpack over his shoulder with a wary look.

“A sugar cookie—my mother’s own special recipe.”

“Uh, thank you, Ms. Pratt.” She forced a smile.

“You’re welcome, dear.” Tomorrow, he’d require much more than that. They all would.

Revisit the site in upcoming weeks to read more free chapters.

Book Signing

Seasons greetings booklovers everywhere. I recently had the opportunity to engage in a small book signing at the former school where I taught for many years. It was a warm experience that took the chill off a very cold prairie, winter’s day. I was touched by the well-wishes of staff and students alike as I signed their books. I genuinely felt honoured to be in their presence.

Thanks, AMVC, for all that you are and for what you have given me.

Thank you, Readers

Hi All,

Links: The Witch’s prophesy is currently #4 in Historical Mysteries & Thrillers for Young Adults, #7 in Fantasy & Supernatural Mysteries & Thrillers for Young Adults and #23 in Fantasy Fiction About Wizards & Witches for Young Adults. My sincere thanks to everyone who bought a copy. It’s the perfect time to cozy up under a comfy blanket next to the fireplace with a cup of cocoa and our book. Enjoy the read.

My First Blog

Greetings, readers everywhere. This is my first blog post—EVER. On November 25th, Links: The Witch’s Prophesy was launched by BWL Publishing, which is co-authored by my incredible significant other, Roberta Garton. It is our first stand-alone book in the Links series. As newbies to the publishing world, the experience was a crazy combination of fear, stress, and exhilaration. There was a lot to learn and deadlines to meet, but overall, I wouldn’t trade a thing. Thanks for visiting and stay tuned for future posts.