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“Once upon a time, there lived three witches....”
As a child, Amarrah loved her grandmother’s stories of three witches who were members of the king’s harem. But they were more than just stories. Amarrah knows she was there with them…and now their legacy, along with an ancient box that once belonged to them, lies in her hands.
Charged with keeping the box safe, Amarrah is heartbroken when it is stolen from her while she moves to America. Years later, she is shocked to see it on TV and is determined to get it back. Tracking the artifact leads her to Sergeant Harrison Brockson, a handsome soldier who stirs memories of a man she knew centuries ago in ancient Babylon. Is Harrison the key to finding the box—or could he be her destiny?
Prequel novella to Maggie Shayne’s exciting trilogy, The Portal.
Legacy of the Witch
The Portal
Maggie Shayne
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
I cannot tell you how excited I am to bring you this brand-new series, The Portal, about two subjects near and dear to my heart: witchcraft and the ancient Near East, in this case Babylon. It’s a series about magic, about reincarnation and about the greatest power of all: the power of love.
The series begins with this special prequel, Legacy of the Witch, the tale of Amarrah, slave girl to the harem. The series then continues with three full-length novels: Mark of the Witch, Indira’s story; Daughter of the Spellcaster, Magdalena’s tale; and Blood of the Sorceress, the saga of Lilia and the cursed Demetrius.
I’m launching a big gorgeous new website focused on this series and the art of magic, at www.theportalbooks.com. There you’ll find videos, music, excerpts and collectible trading cards, as well as lots of information about real magic.
I hope you enjoy these stories. I’ve had an absolutely magical time writing them.
Blessed be!
Maggie Shayne
Contents
Chapter One
1981, Baghdad, Iraq
“Once upon a time, a long time ago, not very far away from here, there lived three witches,” my gidaty said, as she had so many times before. The story she told was an old and familiar one.
The first time my grandmother told me the tale of the three harem slaves of Babylon, I’d replied, “I know this story already.”
Her old eyes—not as old as they were now, of course, for I’d been only five years old then, and I was thirteen now—had widened at my innocent words. “You know the story, Amarrah? How, my little one?”
“I was there.”
Gidaty had been stunned, I could tell. “You were, were you?”
I’d nodded. I remember how clearly I’d been able to see it all in my mind. The glittering city of Babylon and the luxurious harem quarters where I’d been a servant. Slave girl to the slave girls. “I was a palace slave before,” I’d told my increasingly astounded grandmother. “I worked in the kitchens. But the other servants were mean to me. I had to do all the nastiest jobs. But then one day Lilia, the king’s favorite harem slave, asked him to send me to serve her and the others in their quarters. And from then on, I was so much happier.”
Gidaty had cupped my face and stared into my eyes. “I’ve not told you this story before, have I, child?”
“No, Grandma. I knew them. Lilia and Magdalena and Indira. I told you, I was there.”
She blinked and nodded. “Perhaps you were at that.”
Later, as I grew older, I came to believe it had been my imagination, that I was just very good at storytelling even then. That belief had led me to want to be a writer when I grew up. Over time, I’d forgotten which parts of the story my gidaty had told me and which parts I had told her. They had all blended together into a single compelling tapestry. But to me, it was all fiction.
But beloved fiction.
I knew the tales of the three harem slave witches so well I could have told them to my grandmother, instead of the other way around. And on days when her illness was very bad, she asked me to. I never refused. But that night when I was thirteen, when her voice weakened and I held the water glass to her lips, she didn’t ask me to take over. She sipped and swallowed, then fell back against her pillows, closing her eyes so I wouldn’t see her pain.
But I didn’t have to see it. I felt it.
I took the glass away when she’d finished. “They were the most beautiful women in all of Babylon, and beloved by the king, but they were keeping dangerous secrets,” I said, picking up where she’d stopped, even though she hadn’t asked me to. “The practice of magic was the right of the high priest alone. For anyone else to cast and conjure was considered witchcraft, and it was forbidden. And so
