Witchy Women Nexus, page 1
N.G. Avant
Witchy Women Nexus
Copyright © 2025 by N.G. Avant
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For mom
Acknowledgments
My three daughters. You are my greatest inspiration and my constant reminder of how magical it is to see the world through a child’s eyes. It’s an honour to tap into that boundless imagination, to dream wildly, and to believe in impossible things right alongside you. You remind me every day why stories matter.
My dear friend Melissa, who sat with me in my backyard one evening, the campfire crackling, as we brainstormed how these four witches could be connected.
My brothers. Paul, for your sharp insights around the themes and for encouraging me to build a strong, balanced argument for why this path, this fight for balance and justice, is crucial. And to Ali, my brother-in-law, for our deep dives into the fantasy side of things: the importance of rules in magic, the intricacies of time travel, and the necessity of knowing my dragons. There’s so much more I can’t share without giving away spoilers, but you reminded me that for magic to feel real, it must have its own truth.
Thank you all for walking beside me on this journey. Your ideas, encouragement, and faith in me have shaped this witchy series in ways words can’t fully capture. Thank you thank you thank you.
Prologue
Born from chaos, Nyx, goddess of the night, bore many children. Among them was Nemesis, goddess of divine retribution, who tried to escape the unwanted attention of Zeus, King of Olympus.
His violation secretly seeded her vengeance, buried deep within the bloodline. Through their resulting daughter, Helen of Troy, she planted a powerful prophecy. One whispered among a sacred sisterhood of goddesses.
When narcissism, patriarchy, and greed reach their peak and Mother Earth begins to break, four shall arrive, separate, yet born on the same day. Marked by scorpions. Bound to the elements.
A nexus forms when age meets day, in the year of absolute collapse. The age of matriarchy shall rise. Time will bend to their will. Only under blue moons may they pierce the veil; only together may they tip the scales.
No more hierarchy. A new order shall be forged through unity, restoring Mother Earth, protecting the vulnerable, and reclaiming the balance.
As a gluttonous empire strains to hold, justice waits. Retribution stirs. The bloodline remembers.
1
JANE
Saturday October 25, 2025
I’m late. Again. I’m probably going to get fired. Not a great look, Jane. Showing up ten minutes late to The Witch House for the third time this month, and during the busiest season of the year in Salem: Halloween. Then again, maybe they’ll wait until after the Haunted Happenings festival to can me. That’s my only saving grace.
I weave through the tourist traffic on my bike, panicking. My long raven waves dancing in the wind. Turning onto Essex Street, I look up across from the old black wooden building. There’s already a line outside, even though we don’t open for another twenty minutes. I slip my employee badge over my head and head toward the crosswalk. As I pass the lineup, I nod and smile politely, holding up my badge for everyone to see.
The familiar musty scent of the heritage building greets me as I step in through the back entrance into the gift shop. Dave, his salt-and-pepper hair mostly hidden beneath a Tilley hat, looks up from the register, then back down at the till where he’s counting the float.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I got caught up working on a paper that’s due and I, uh…” I stammer.
“You’re upstairs today,” he says without looking up.
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow we’ve got a small group coming in at eight before we open. I want you to give them a tour, so don’t be late.”
“Got it.”
He sighs. “This is your last chance, Jane. I need to know I can rely on you.”
His green eyes meet mine. “I know, Dave. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Just because you’re getting a fancy PhD from fancy Harvard doesn’t mean you get some kind of special treatment. We all have lives, Jane, and we manage to get here on time.” He smirks.
I smirk back. “Understood.”
I make my way through the entrance hall, passing the large fireplace, 1600’s furniture, and housewares. There’s a doll that was used as proof of ‘witchcraft’ during the trials, a book about the nature of witchcraft, and other historical artifacts tied to Salem’s darkest chapter. This is the only structure still standing in Salem with a direct connection to the trials. It was once the home of Judge Jonathan Corwin.
I pop my head into the 1600’s kitchen of the house to say a quick good morning to Kate, who’s dusting, then head up the narrow wooden staircase. The creaking echoes through the house. On the second floor, there are two bedrooms set up with original-era furnishings and artifacts.
I don’t know why, but this floor always gives me the creeps. People say the place is haunted, but I don’t believe it. I think it’s probably the apothecary display across from the stairs that freaks me out. The one that talks about corpse medicine. American colonists used crushed bones and blood to treat fevers and ‘melancholy’, and called it medicine. But sure, it was the midwives using herbs that were the real threat.
I walk through both bedrooms and make sure the ropes are in place. They sometimes get ‘accidentally’ moved. Then I settle onto the bench by the landing, facing the creepy apothecary display. Soon, the house starts to fill. Tourist chatter and laughter drift through the creaking old rooms.
“Excuse me?” a blonde man asks. I glance up from my phone and smile.
“Yes?”
“I saw some small windows at the top of the building. Is there access to a third floor?”
“It’s just the attic. Storage, really. Not much to see.” I shrug.
“Oh.” He looks around, then steps a little closer and lowers his voice. “I heard this place is haunted. You ever experience anything… paranormal?”
I smile politely. “There have been reports of footsteps, cold spots, even apparitions. But I’ve never experienced anything. I don’t think it’s haunted, just really old and rickety.”
He frowns. “Oh.”
“Who’s that? She looks just like you.” He gestures toward my phone screen.
I clear my throat and tuck it into my back pocket. “That’s my mom. She died a year ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. She’s just… beautiful. She could be your sister.”
My mouth goes dry. My heart sinks. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
“That sucks.”
“Yup.” I tug at the collar of my black shirt. “So… any questions about the house or its history? I’m a Women’s Studies major, and while women weren’t the only ones accused of witchcraft, they were the majority. Many were widows or single women who owned land, ran businesses, or lived independently.”
I glance into his eyes, now slightly glazed.
“To go back to the ghost thing,” I continue, “this place is rumored to be haunted by Bridget Bishop. She was a midwife and property owner with an orchard. The first person executed during what was, let’s be honest, mass hysteria.”
“You have gorgeous eyes,” he says. “Like a cat’s. Yellow-gold. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Uh, thank you. So anyway…” I begin.
“Are you free later?” he interrupts.
“Free?”
“Sorry. My name’s Mike. What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m, uh…”
“Jane?” I turn to see Dave at the top of the stairs. I’ve never been happier to see him. “It’s time for your break. I’ll take over here.”
“Thank you.” I nod, then turn back to Mike. “Excuse me.”
* * *
I move through the crowd toward my favorite café by the main square. There’s a long line outside, as usual this time of year. This is my fourth October living in Salem, and it’s always a zoo,
I pull out my phone and text Maggie, waiting by the side entrance. A sign is posted on it that reads, “Please Use Front Door.” A few moments later, she appears with a paperback in hand, and pushes it open.
“One Turkey BLT, and I threw in a brownie, on me.”
“You’re the best. Thank you.” I hand her a twenty.
“I know.” She laughs, tucking it into her apron. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
I walk toward Town Hall, where the artisan market is set up for the festival, munching on the wrap. It’s fresh and delicious, the Dijon mustard adds just the right amount of tang. I haven’t had a chance to check out the market yet this year. Not that I’d buy anything. I’m not very witchy.
I don’t even know why I was so drawn to living here. I mean, I guess it’s because it’s only an hour and a half train ride into Boston. And I’d much prefer the small-town vibe over the big city. Thankfully, ever since the pandemic, a lot of classes are remote. I just head to campus when I’ve got my teaching assistant work. I love my mentor, Nancy Campania. She’s been incredible. So understanding when my mom got cancer… and when it took her.
I shake my head. I don’t want to feel it. It’s too much.
I take in the scene around me. Costumes everywhere. My favorite is always seeing the Sanderson Sisters from Hocus Pocus. It’s hard to deny: there’s something magical in the air.
I walk up to a table filled with metal sculptures. Gorgeous pieces. One catches my eye: a three-faced woman in a crescent moon, holding torches, with a black dog at her feet. I pick it up, still finishing my wrap.
“That’s Hekate. Queen of witches. Goddess of necromancy.”
I look up. A young woman with fire-engine-red dreads, piercings, and tattoos smiles at me. My breath catches. Her eyes are the same yellow-gold as mine. The only other person I’ve ever seen with eyes like that was my mom.
“You okay?” she asks.
I realize my mouth’s open and shut it quickly. “Did you make this?”
“Yes. I made all of these.” She gestures to the table.
“Cool.”
“This one’s probably my favorite.” She lifts a winged goddess.
“Who is that?”
“Nemesis. The goddess of retribution.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“She’s not one of the Olympians. I mean, Aphrodite’s got charisma..” She gestures to a nude figure emerging from a giant clamshell. “And Athena and Artemis, are amazing of course.” She points to others, one with a bow, another in armor.
“But Nemesis? She’s badass.”
“Really?”
“You know the term narcissist?”
“Of course.”
“It comes from the myth of Narcissus. He was so obsessed with himself that Nemesis cursed him to fall in love with his own reflection. He stayed there, staring into a pond, until he wasted away.”
“Seems cruel.”
“I know, right? It’s giving, don’t mess with me vibes.”
I set down Hekate, but something about this person makes me want to keep talking.
“Do I know you? Are you from around here?” I ask.
“No. I’m from Montréal.”
“You’re Canadian?”
“Yes, well, I’m Québécois.”
“I’m Canadian too. Grew up in Nova Scotia.”
“Oh, you’re an East Coaster. That slaps.”
“Yeah, I live here now. I’m on a student visa, working on my PhD in Women’s Studies.”
“That’s amazing. Ever study the goddesses the patriarchy tried to erase?” She grins, revealing deep dimples.
“Vaguely, yeah.” I nod. “I’m more focused on the waves of feminism, intersectionality, that kind of thing.”
“You ever heard of Lilith?”
“From Judaic mythology?”
“She’s an OG feminist. Refused to submit to Adam.”
“Yes.”
“So the patriarchy turned her into a demon who steals children.”
“I’m familiar.”
“Or Medusa?”
“I see where you’re going.” I cut in. “The snakes weren’t punishment. They were protection. So she’d never be violated again.”
“Poseidon? More like predator.”
“And the patriarchal lens only tells the story of Perseus beheading her. Reducing her to a weapon. An object.”
“It’s bullshit.” She folds her arms.
“It is bullshit.” I mirror her.
“I’m Gina. Well, Georgina, but everyone calls me Gina.” She offers a hand.
“I’m Jane.” I shrug. “Just Jane. No nickname.”
“Nice to meet you, Just-Jane.” She smiles. “So, local expert, got any recs? I’ve always wanted to see the Witch House, but didn’t get tickets on time. They’re totally sold out.”
“Actually… I work there.”
Gina’s grin stretches ear to ear. Her gaze narrows. “You do?”
“Yeah, and I’m giving a private tour before we open tomorrow. What time do you set up?”
“I get here for nine.”
“The tour’s at eight. Come by. I’ll show you around.”
“That would be awesome.”
Just then, the alarm goes off on my phone.
“Speaking of, I gotta get back. Lunch is almost over.”
“Okay.”
“See you at eight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I turn to leave.
“JJ?”
I turn back.
She smirks. “Just-Jane. JJ. You said you didn’t have a nickname.”
I laugh. I haven’t laughed in a long time. “JJ. I like it.”
“So, I’m just gonna come out and say it. We have the same eyes and it’s hella creepy, right?”
“Totally.”
“Just checking.” She offers a fist bump.
I bump her back. “See you tomorrow, Gina.”
“See you tomorrow, JJ.”
* * *
I bike into the driveway of my apartment on Briggs Street. Only a ten-minute ride to work and a five-minute walk to Collins Cove Beach. After growing up in the coastal town of Pictou, Nova Scotia, population three thousand, I knew I needed to live near the ocean. There’s something magical about the sea breeze. The way it tickles my face and plays with my hair. There’s nothing else quite like it.
My place is on the first floor of an 1800’s building that was converted into apartments, like a lot of homes in the Salem Common Historic District. My favorite part is the old fireplace. It doesn’t actually work, but I’ve filled it with ocean spray scented candles. It creates the perfect glow for curling up with a book on a cold winter night. It smells fresh. Like laundry hanging in light air.
I should’ve asked Gina for her number. Maybe I could’ve texted her, offered to show her around town. She seemed pretty artsy. She’d probably love the galleries in the arts district. I wonder if she’s actually going to show up for that tour tomorrow. I hope so. I’m sure Dave won’t mind.
Apparently, this private tour was arranged for a group attending some big medical conference in Boston this weekend. We don’t usually do guided tours, especially not private ones, but with the right donation to the museum, anything is possible.
I pull a pre-made salad out of the fridge and dump it into a bowl. Why does Gina seem so familiar? I can’t place it. I did go to McGill in Montréal. Maybe we had an undergrad class together? Women’s Studies 101 or something?
Osborne squawks from her cage.
“Sorry, Ozzy. I’ll let you out in a sec,” I call over my shoulder.
She ruffles her blue and white feathers and squawks again. I walk into the living room.
“I know, I know.” I open her cage. She climbs out, using her beak to grip the bars, and perches on top. “Did you have a good day, Ms. Osborne?”
She squawks again, then flutters across the room to land on my shoulder. I eat my salad standing at the counter. My mom got her for me during her last visit. Said I needed company. The rental agreement said no dogs or cats but didn’t say anything about budgies.
I’ve always been fascinated by birds. The way they fly through the sky, so free and untethered. My mom knew me so well. A pang hits my chest. I push it down, hardening my heart.
