The Second Covenant
folder
1 through F › Covenant, The
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
69
Views:
2,277
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Covenant, The
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
69
Views:
2,277
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
Though I have borrowed the names of some of the characters, and some spells from Charmed, this is mostly my own creation, my own idea, and i make no profit from it.
The Beginning
The legend said that only the first born male would inherit the power of our ancestors. Either they were wrong, or I was a guy. Yeah. Right.
My name is Cherish Danvers and I am a witch. Not just any ordinary witch mind, but then what witch is? My mother is normal, a regular woman with no extraordinary abilities other than to make a mean, mean hamburger.
It’s my dad that’s a witch. We are descended from a long line, a coven of witches that fled from France and England 300 years ago. We live in Ipswich , I have three friends who are more like brothers because they too have the Power. Dad was astounded when I turned thirteen and started working spells. Strangely though, my powers didn’t affect me like the others. The rules said that the more you used it, the more addicting the power became. Until it basically burned right out of your body, aged you quicker than normal. My grandfather had been 43 when he died, and apparently he’d looked over a hundred.
With me, I could use until I turned blue and nothing would happen. We don’t know why, or how, because according to everything in the Book of The Damned, only the boys get this special power. And my ‘brothers’ were downright jealous of me. I tried not to work any kind of magic in front of them, playing the helpless girl card as much as I was able. When they wanted to do something naughty, of course I went along, but with plenty of, ‘I don’t know if I can guys.’ Trying to play myself down constantly was hard, when I know I am the strongest out of the four.
Plus on top of that, if my dad even so much as got a whisper of an inkling that I’d used more than my share, he whipped out, “The Talk” and I got minimum, four hours, of sitting and listening to him recite verbatim words from The Book that told me what would happen if I used to much. And what I would look like after. It’s because I’m a girl and I’m the youngest, my personal curse.
Uncle Tyler’s son Tristan was the second youngest.
Tristan was almost a carbon copy of his dad, thick dark brown hair, baby blues fringed with lashes a grown woman would envy. His features were smooth, almost elfin in their perfection, and he had this quiet way of looking at you, that you were sure he could read your mind. He was still in that phase where he was growing into his almost manly body, his shoulders a bit wide. his muscles from swimming getting bigger by the month. He’d grown from merely a handsome young man, to a drop dead gorgeous one in the space of a year.
Then there was Uncle Reid’s boy, Riley. He took after his mother, in coloring at least, honey gold skin and green eyes, but his hair was all dad. Icy blonde that he insisted on wearing shaggy enough to be called shabby, out of the four, I’d say he looked the most likely to be called a witch. He had his father’s pointed chin and high cheek bones, almost to sharp for his face. He was apparently just like his father too, a rebel who didn’t like to conform to the rules of our little pack so much.
Uncle Pogue’s son, Peyton was a work of art. His hair was every shade of brown possible. From deepest mahogany, to lightest mocha and copper, he’d inherited a permanent tan from his mother, a burnished honey gold. He had these soulful brown eyes, they reminded me of a seal I’d seen once, those glossy fathomless eyes that were a mix between velvet and honey. Stunning. He was lanky, but broad, muscled, but Tristan outweighed him by a good eighty pounds.
In age it went Peyton, then Riley and then Tristan.
And then there was me, the baby girl. I was going to be last to ascend, and the boys never let me forget.
All three of them were taller than I was. Peyton was the tallest, six foot three, Tristan and Riley were both six two and me, I was five eight. If we were to walk the halls in a pack, which we usually did, I always felt so damn short. But then again, I always felt very protected. When I’d hit five, and was old enough to go to real big kid school, our parents figured that the guys would make me feel like an outsider and ignore me because I was a girl. But they hadn’t.
They’d formed this unspoken pact between the three of them, that I was the youngest, I was a girl but I was still one of them. And the circle of our power shouldn’t be split up just because I had the wrong parts. Damn big minded of them. And it still held. I didn’t have one of them that I liked more than the other, each of them was special to me in his own way. Siblings more than cousins because our father’s had grown up together and were practically brothers. We were a coven because that’s what it was meant to be. But we were friends first and foremost because that’s how we wanted it.
They razed me when I put on a dress, or wore a skirt outside of school, something that I did with caution and always wore shorts under after Riley had thought it might be fun, on my sixteenth birthday, to send a rush of air up under my skirt at Nikki’s, baring my pretty purple thong to the world. That had been probably one of the most embarrassing days for both of us. One because half the town saw my ass, and two because I repaid the favor later, Riley liked to go commando. And the whole school now knew it.
I’d magically pansed him in school, right as the bell rang and everyone spilled out into the hallways. There had been pictures up on the school’s web page by lunch. Revenge was sweet and the boys knew I was not one to be messed with. By them or anyone else.
I was the only one of the guys to be born on a Sabbath Day, dad thought that’s why my magic was different from the others. But in all honesty, I don’t think any of them one knew. I was born on All Hallows Eve at precisely three am. They say that midnight is the witching hour, but apparently it’s not.
The danger behind my seemingly unlimited power, was that I could use so much that I wouldn’t stop. Doing nothing without the help of magic, something I know my parents fear so I barely use it at all. I let the guys pull their testosterone crap because it’s just how they are. But if I don’t have to, I wont use at all. A little fun here and there is all well and good, but I wield my power. It does not wield me, and that’s how I planned to keep it.
My name is Cherish Danvers and I am a witch. Not just any ordinary witch mind, but then what witch is? My mother is normal, a regular woman with no extraordinary abilities other than to make a mean, mean hamburger.
It’s my dad that’s a witch. We are descended from a long line, a coven of witches that fled from France and England 300 years ago. We live in Ipswich , I have three friends who are more like brothers because they too have the Power. Dad was astounded when I turned thirteen and started working spells. Strangely though, my powers didn’t affect me like the others. The rules said that the more you used it, the more addicting the power became. Until it basically burned right out of your body, aged you quicker than normal. My grandfather had been 43 when he died, and apparently he’d looked over a hundred.
With me, I could use until I turned blue and nothing would happen. We don’t know why, or how, because according to everything in the Book of The Damned, only the boys get this special power. And my ‘brothers’ were downright jealous of me. I tried not to work any kind of magic in front of them, playing the helpless girl card as much as I was able. When they wanted to do something naughty, of course I went along, but with plenty of, ‘I don’t know if I can guys.’ Trying to play myself down constantly was hard, when I know I am the strongest out of the four.
Plus on top of that, if my dad even so much as got a whisper of an inkling that I’d used more than my share, he whipped out, “The Talk” and I got minimum, four hours, of sitting and listening to him recite verbatim words from The Book that told me what would happen if I used to much. And what I would look like after. It’s because I’m a girl and I’m the youngest, my personal curse.
Uncle Tyler’s son Tristan was the second youngest.
Tristan was almost a carbon copy of his dad, thick dark brown hair, baby blues fringed with lashes a grown woman would envy. His features were smooth, almost elfin in their perfection, and he had this quiet way of looking at you, that you were sure he could read your mind. He was still in that phase where he was growing into his almost manly body, his shoulders a bit wide. his muscles from swimming getting bigger by the month. He’d grown from merely a handsome young man, to a drop dead gorgeous one in the space of a year.
Then there was Uncle Reid’s boy, Riley. He took after his mother, in coloring at least, honey gold skin and green eyes, but his hair was all dad. Icy blonde that he insisted on wearing shaggy enough to be called shabby, out of the four, I’d say he looked the most likely to be called a witch. He had his father’s pointed chin and high cheek bones, almost to sharp for his face. He was apparently just like his father too, a rebel who didn’t like to conform to the rules of our little pack so much.
Uncle Pogue’s son, Peyton was a work of art. His hair was every shade of brown possible. From deepest mahogany, to lightest mocha and copper, he’d inherited a permanent tan from his mother, a burnished honey gold. He had these soulful brown eyes, they reminded me of a seal I’d seen once, those glossy fathomless eyes that were a mix between velvet and honey. Stunning. He was lanky, but broad, muscled, but Tristan outweighed him by a good eighty pounds.
In age it went Peyton, then Riley and then Tristan.
And then there was me, the baby girl. I was going to be last to ascend, and the boys never let me forget.
All three of them were taller than I was. Peyton was the tallest, six foot three, Tristan and Riley were both six two and me, I was five eight. If we were to walk the halls in a pack, which we usually did, I always felt so damn short. But then again, I always felt very protected. When I’d hit five, and was old enough to go to real big kid school, our parents figured that the guys would make me feel like an outsider and ignore me because I was a girl. But they hadn’t.
They’d formed this unspoken pact between the three of them, that I was the youngest, I was a girl but I was still one of them. And the circle of our power shouldn’t be split up just because I had the wrong parts. Damn big minded of them. And it still held. I didn’t have one of them that I liked more than the other, each of them was special to me in his own way. Siblings more than cousins because our father’s had grown up together and were practically brothers. We were a coven because that’s what it was meant to be. But we were friends first and foremost because that’s how we wanted it.
They razed me when I put on a dress, or wore a skirt outside of school, something that I did with caution and always wore shorts under after Riley had thought it might be fun, on my sixteenth birthday, to send a rush of air up under my skirt at Nikki’s, baring my pretty purple thong to the world. That had been probably one of the most embarrassing days for both of us. One because half the town saw my ass, and two because I repaid the favor later, Riley liked to go commando. And the whole school now knew it.
I’d magically pansed him in school, right as the bell rang and everyone spilled out into the hallways. There had been pictures up on the school’s web page by lunch. Revenge was sweet and the boys knew I was not one to be messed with. By them or anyone else.
I was the only one of the guys to be born on a Sabbath Day, dad thought that’s why my magic was different from the others. But in all honesty, I don’t think any of them one knew. I was born on All Hallows Eve at precisely three am. They say that midnight is the witching hour, but apparently it’s not.
The danger behind my seemingly unlimited power, was that I could use so much that I wouldn’t stop. Doing nothing without the help of magic, something I know my parents fear so I barely use it at all. I let the guys pull their testosterone crap because it’s just how they are. But if I don’t have to, I wont use at all. A little fun here and there is all well and good, but I wield my power. It does not wield me, and that’s how I planned to keep it.