Mortal Raised (Ever Witch Book 1) Read online

  MORTAL RAISED

  Being a foster kid would be worse than finding out you’re a witch, right? Being mortal-raised is worse than being human, right?

  Everest thought she had it rough when she had to drop out of high school to raise her brother Mason while her mother was AWOL. Except that Everest’s mother spells AWOL as alcohol.

  No problem for the resourceful Everest—get a job at a museum, raise Mason, and pretend to the world that her mother is still around.

  Until she almost gets killed. No problem, right? Until the cops get involved.

  Then things snowball. Threats of foster care, a mysterious uncle, and then finally, a school for witches.

  Wait, what?

  MORTAL RAISED

  EVER WITCH

  KIT BLADEGRAVE

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Dragon Feared Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Afterword

  Rivals Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  DEDICATION

  Thank you to the readers!

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  ONE

  EVEREST

  My alarm went off at six, and my arm flailed out from under the covers, searching for it, to shut the thing off before I chucked it against the wall.

  The incessant beeping was enough to make me grind my teeth in annoyance before I finally smacked the top of the old clock and it gave one final beep in protest before going silent.

  I wanted to stay tucked beneath the blankets and keep pretending the world didn’t exist, but that would be too easy.

  And my life lately was not easy.

  I sat up, stretching my arms over my head, and rubbed my face. I climbed out of my bed, well, out of my mother’s bed. Mom had been missing for about three months—not that it was unusual. Frankly, I preferred it when she wasn’t around. It meant I got my own bed. But three months was pretty excessive. Usually, she was only gone a few weeks at a time, gone on some binge or other.

  We had it out a while back. I didn’t care what she did to her life anymore as long as she didn’t bring it back home to me and my kid brother. The fight had gotten so bad the cops showed up, but we were both well trained at knowing when to play nice for the public. She didn’t want to wind up in jail, and I didn’t want a social worker coming to take me or my brother away. That story would only end badly.

  My feet hit the ground, and I felt the late hours I had worked the night before pressing down on my shoulders. It was necessary, though. I had picked up an extra shift last night at the museum, which was fine at the time, but my body groaned and protested with each move as I forced myself to a standing position, and I started to regret it.

  Nothing like working twelve hours, coming home to help your little brother with his homework, getting in bed close to one, and then waking up before the sun to get ready to do it all over again.

  I dragged my feet to the hall bathroom of our tiny two-bedroom apartment. The place looked tidier than it ever had now that Mom had been gone long enough for me to have an opportunity to straighten up. It had gone from an episode of Hoarders to somewhat livable conditions. I could see the floor in every room now, and the bathroom was sparkling clean, something it hadn’t been in forever.

  I was still finding evidence of her alcoholism in cabinets, behind the toilets, in the toilet tanks, inside a few of the wall vents, and most creatively yet, a stash of mini bottles taped to the underside of the kitchen drawers. Each time, I drained them and dumped them. There had to be hundreds of dollars’ worth of booze I’d dumped down the drain so far. I never let Mason see, my brother, but he wasn’t a stupid kid. He knew Mom was a drunk.

  Two days ago, I’d nearly lost it completely realizing the stash of money I had been saving up, tucked back away in my underwear drawer had lost about half of its worth.

  I could tolerate her drinking, but stealing the money I earned? How much worse could she get?

  One of these days, the place would be booze-free and cleaned from top to bottom, just maybe when I wasn’t so dog-tired from working too much. If she ever came back, she’d be pissed, but she’d just have to deal with it.

  Once I reached the bathroom, I let the door close behind me and flicked on a light.

  “Ew,” I said to my image in the mirror. “One of these days, we’ll wake up looking decent, right?”

  I smirked bitterly at my reflection, dreaming of that day and knowing it was far-fetched.

  I looked like a hot mess. There was no skipping the shower today. My long dark hair hung limp and dirty in my face and made me look like something straight out of a horror movie. That, coupled with my unusual, cat-like, yellowish-green eyes added to the illusion of something demonic being pulled out of bed.

  I poked at the bags beneath them while the water heated up as much as it could in this crummy apartment. I swore one of these days I’d wake up to find wrinkles and grey hairs sprouting from my head.

  A quick shower followed by a good blow dry, and my hair looked somewhat passable. I threw on some cheap, dollar-store makeup, only because one jerk at the museum, a supervisor, told me I needed to start looking more presentable at work. I had a feeling it was more for his benefit than the guests. He’d leered at me the entire time he said it before huffing and stalking off like he owned the place.

  How presentable does a glorified janitor really need to be?

  I cursed under my breath as I attempted the eyeliner; it sure would have been nice to have a mom around who could have taught me how to do crap like this.

  I was seventeen, and I had never really learned how to correctly put on eyeliner. I poked my eye and cursed, clutching at it as it teared up. I should’ve taken the job at the mechanic down the road, but they wouldn’t hire someone who wasn’t eighteen. Denim, t-shirts, and covered in oil would suit me a lot better than working in a museum where everything was sparkling marble floors and polished glass cases.

  I passed on the lipstick and just swabbed on a bit of lip gloss, then spied my uniform hanging on the door of the bathroom—freshly ironed. I smiled because I sure didn’t do that. Throwing it on, I looked at myself in the mirror. Tight black pants and a short sleeve, black button-up. A set of keys hung around my waist, and my ID badge sat on my left shirt pocket. The makeup actually looked half-decent, and I had a good laugh for a few minutes.

  I never put much stock into looks and for good reason. Mom was a beauty and thought she’d be taken care of her whole life because of it. And look where she wound up.

  Finished in the bathroom, I left and hurried into the sad excuse for a kitchen to make something healthy for Mason. One of us had to eat well, and it wasn’t going to be me. He needed it more than I did. Most days, I survived on a granola bar and the free coffee in the breakroom at work. Horrible diet for someone my age, but I saved the money for groceries for Mason.

  I skimmed through the fridge. Eggs and
some fruit were about all we had until I got paid again and could get to the store. I had to pay Mason back for what he did for me. He apparently got up at some point during the night to wash and iron my uniform for me, so I figured I could at least provide the kid with a good breakfast before school.

  Tears came to my eyes at how quickly he had to grow up. I wiped them away as fast as they came, not willing to let him see me cry.

  I opened the freezer just to check, and saw we still had a few mini pancakes left. They were his favorite, so I laid them out on a plate and popped them in the microwave. I started a pot of coffee, I was done growing anyway so who cared if I stunted my growth anymore. Caffeine was the only way I was going to get through this day.

  As the machine gurgled and the microwave beeped a few minutes later, I heard the bathroom door close and knew Mason was awake. He was a good kid, way too good for Mom. When the door opened again, I forced a smile to my sleepy, worried face. Mason picked up on everything too quickly, but that didn’t mean I was going to make it easy for him to know how stressed out I was at Mom being gone for so long without even a phone call.

  She had never disappeared for this long before; I could tell it was really starting to get to him, too. She might be a horrible mother, but she was still our mom. Blood and all that. On the outside, I hated her, but deep down, I didn’t want someone showing up at our door saying they’d found her dead in an alley. I could play house all I wanted, but I was still never going to be Mom.

  Mason entered the kitchen, stifling a yawn, and showing off his Superman pajamas. His black hair matched mine, messy from sleep.

  I grinned at the sight of him. “You’re getting a little old for those. Maybe I should get you some new PJs?”

  “Nah.” He plopped down at the little bar across from the stove that doubled as our kitchen table. “Wow, you like, actually made food this morning.”

  “Smart ass.” I shoved a plate in front of him. “Eat.”

  “Any chance we have syrup?” he asked hopefully.

  “Sorry, kiddo, no syrup, but we do have butter.” I dug around in the fridge, double-checking the expiration date before I set it out for him with a butter knife.

  Mason was only twelve, and I think that’s what pissed me off the most. Mom could have left me high and dry all she wanted, and I probably wouldn’t have cared—good riddance kind of thing—but Mason was just a kid. A real kid—not kid in the way that older adults like to refer to me. Like a kid who should be outside playing on the weekends instead of hiding out in a bad part of town, in the apartment, because it was too dangerous on the streets for a twelve-year-old to ride a bike. Not that he had a bike. I doubted we’d ever be able to afford that luxury.

  We ate breakfast together. Well, he ate, and I drank the bitter, black coffee since there was no money for sugar or creamer, and I helped him go over his homework to make sure everything was good to go. He was smart. I wanted to make sure he graduated even if it was from just a crummy school. He was going to get his high school diploma; I’d accept no less.

  As for me, I had not entirely given up on my education just yet. Whenever I wasn’t working or taking care of Mason, I was studying for my GED. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a start. I refused to be a statistic. I was going to get that GED and then, hopefully, I could get a better job, or go to community college. Not that I had any idea what I wanted to do with my life, but working in a museum as a janitor was not what I thought I’d be doing at seventeen.

  I dreamt of getting out of this apartment—hell, out of this state. I wanted to start over, take Mason with me, and get our lives back on track. He was too smart to be stuck in a town with no chance of furthering his education.

  Me, I wanted freedom from a life I felt trapped in since the day I was born. I wanted to be part of something bigger than myself… or at least bigger than scraping to get by each week.

  But those were just dreams, and I had to stop dreaming at some point.

  Once Mason was ready for school, I walked him to the bus stop and reminded him to behave and pay attention in class. Not that I really had to say anything, but I hated saying nothing when I left him. I also slipped him a five-dollar bill so that he could get some of the good stuff at lunch today instead of the nasty charity food the school gave out to kids on the poor-as-hell list.

  “If you’re not too picky with that bill at lunch, seventy-five cents will get you a candy bar,” I reminded him. “Think you’ve worked hard enough to get one.”

  Once he was gone, and on his way to school, I sat on the bench and impatiently tapped my feet until it was time for me to leave, too.

  A five-minute wait later, I was on the bus that would take me to the museum. I hated that ride, crammed on a smelly old bus with too many people that either stared too much, or talked too loudly, or smelled like rotten food and cigarettes. One day I aspired to own a vehicle of my own. Didn’t even have to be a nice car. If the damn thing ran when I turned the key, I’d be happy.

  Despite my urge to go work in a place that wasn’t as nice as the museum, that had more to do with my co-workers than actually disliking the place. Most of them looked down on me, but their attitudes weren’t going to rob me of the one thing I enjoyed about my pathetic excuse for a job.

  I had chosen to apply at the museum for a reason. I loved history. I wanted to get a degree in history, and I was going to find a way to do it even if it killed me. And already having a job at a museum had to give me some leeway for the future once I finally snagged that degree. The Museum of World History I worked at was set up in a way that allowed for promotions. When I first started, I was just a regular janitor. My assignment was toilets. Wonderful, disgusting toilets.

  I’ve been there for about a year now—long before Mom dipped out this last time—and at first, had just worked nights after school. After Mom disappeared, I dropped out of school to help keep Mason and me afloat. But, that tragedy came with a blessing. I had actually been promoted… sort of.

  I’m still a janitor, but I’m the second in command, or at least that’s how I liked to look at it. Made my job sound a bit better. I had a small team I managed, and I helped my supervisor with schedules.

  My stop finally arrived, and I wrestled my way off the bus, sucking in a breath of fresh air and turned to see a friendly face amongst the crowd on the sidewalk.

  Jensen, my supervisor, met me at the bus stop down the street from the museum. He had two cups of coffee in his hands, fancy coffee that would actually taste good and amp me up even more than I already was.

  “Have I ever told you I love you?” I snagged one of the cups as he burst out laughing, and not a quiet laugh. A deep, belly laugh that drew the attention of everyone in proximity.

  “Keep that up, and you’re going to make me blush, kid.”

  “Just keeping up the flattery. Part of my job, right?”

  He sighed and gulped his coffee. “You best watch yourself, kid. One of these days that sharp mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble.”

  “Eh, I can handle myself.”

  His look turned sympathetic. “Don’t I know it. Just wish you didn’t have to.”

  Jensen had become my best friend since starting at the museum. The first time I met him, I’d been shaking in my boots, literally, but the second he started talking, I knew he was nothing to be scared of. He was a big, fat guy with a bald head and an embarrassing excuse for a mustache, failed handlebars really.

  The man’s chubby cheeks, bright eyes, and warm gaze could make anyone fall in love with him. He was approaching his sixties, but you could hardly tell with that enthusiastic and almost youthful pep he had in every step as we walked the rest of the way to the museum together.

  He’d become protective of me, too, which was a nice change. Usually, I was the one in full-blown protective mode over Mason. Knowing Jensen had my back helped keep my spirits high throughout some of my harder days.

  He was also one of the few I trusted to tell what was going on at home, incl
uding Mom taking off for this long.

  As we entered through the front gates of the museum, he sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes, and his pot belly gave a jiggle that nearly had me spewing my mouthful of coffee everywhere.

  “Breathe in that museum quality air and all that wonderful history. You ready for another fun-filled day? Crazy, is what I should say. I saw that you took first and third shift today.”

  I caught the scowl he gave me as I shrugged.

  Jensen told me all the time I worked too much, but what was I supposed to do?

  “Don’t remind me,” I said. “Jack wants me to take his second shift today, too.”

  “You know I won’t let you do that. Especially not after working second and third yesterday. You have to sleep at some point.”

  “I did, a whole three hours. It was fantastic,” I said brightly, and he grunted in annoyance at my chipper tone. “I’m fine, really. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, isn’t that the saying?”

  “Everest, please,” he said, quieter as he rested a hand on my shoulder. “I do not want to watch you dropping dead of exhaustion before you’re eighteen. Alright? You have a life waiting for you out there.”