The Past-Life Chronicles Box Set: Volume 1 & 2: Duet Omnibus Edition Read online

  The Past-Life Chronicles:

  Volume 1 & 2

  Box Set

  Duet Omnibus Edition

  C.K. Brooke

  Books by C.K. Brooke

  JORDINIA SERIES

  The Last Empress: A Jordinia Prequel Novella

  The Duchess Quest

  The Duchess Inheritance

  The Duchess’s Descendants

  The Emperor’s Daughters

  WORLD OF JORDINIA NOVELS

  The Red Pearl

  The Wrong Prince

  AMERICAN PIRATE ROMANCES

  Capturing the Captain

  Commanding His Heart

  PAST-LIFE CHRONICLES

  The Past-Life Chronicles: Volume 1

  The Past-Life Chronicles: Volume 2

  The Past-Life Chronicles: Volume 1 & 2 Box Set

  ELPHAME REALMS E-ZINES

  Issue #1

  Issue #2: Something Witchy This Way Comes

  MORE NOVELS & NOVELLAS

  Secrets of Artemis: A Teen Goddess Novel

  Heiress Heist

  Fool Moon

  The Golden Dove

  Deepwood: A Haunting

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  The Duchess Quest: The Album (Audio CD)

  The Last Empress: Audio Book

  Secrets of Artemis: Audio Book

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Past-Life Chronicles: Volume I & The Past-Life Chronicles: Volume II. Copyright © 2018 by C.K. Brooke, www.CKBrooke.com.

  Cover design by Victoria Cooper Art.

  All rights reserved including the right to manufacture in any format, sell, or distribute copies of this book or portions of this book.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Books by C.K. Brooke

  Volume 1

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Volume 2

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Volume 1

  1

  My name is Willow Raven Solomon, and I don’t drive.

  A nineteen-year-old with no prospect of a driver’s license is a little pathetic, I know.

  Okay, a lot pathetic. The thing is, I suffer from a phobia no one quite knows how to cure. And part of that may be because we don’t have any idea what caused it in the first place.

  It isn’t the result of any traumatic event that I’m aware of. Neither is it due to lack of exposure to automobiles. And it’s definitely not like I love being chauffeured around Middling, Ohio like some sort of small-town diva. I’ve never sat behind the wheel of a car, ever. It was simply never up for negotiation. Since the day I was old enough for a learner’s permit, I’ve flat-out refused. It’s bad enough in the passenger’s seat.

  Maybe it’s the recurring nightmares about driving a car that suddenly goes out of my control, which have haunted me for as long as I can remember. Or maybe it’s the debilitating loss of breath and sense of claustrophobic panic I feel every time I open a car door and climb into my own personal prison—leather or cloth. Maybe it’s the way my hands tremble in my lap until I arrive safely to my destination, however close or far, that’s made learning, or even wanting to learn, how to drive impossible.

  My mind is on cars this morning as I’m on my way into one. I’ve just finished up some work and shut the laptop. I close my bedroom door behind me and head up the hallway. My timing must be impeccable, for coming up from the bottom stairs of our split-level home at the same moment is a broad, blond figure.

  I back into the kitchen and turn around, busying myself in search of a clean thermos from the cabinet.

  “Hi.”

  “Oh, hey.” I feign surprise as if I hadn’t seen him coming. I grab a thermos and switch on the filtered water faucet. Inwardly, I curse the water pressure on the filter for being so inconsiderately low.

  Henry has a bookbag slung over one shoulder. His collared T-shirt looks in need of ironing, and so do his beige khakis. His dirty-blond hair could also use another comb-through. “So, I’ve got tickets to the football game tomorrow night.”

  He says this as a statement, but it hangs in the air like a question between us.

  My thermos is almost full. Hurry up, I silently urge the faucet. Finally, I switch it off and screw on a plastic lid. When I’m done, Henry’s still watching like he expects something. “And?” I ask, trying my best to sound polite.

  “I thought we could…maybe…go together?”

  “Yeah, we’ve talked about this.” I swipe my hair behind my ears as an excuse to duck away from his relentless gaze. “I have this rule? About not dating my relatives?”

  Besides, I hate sports. I’m anything but athletic. Really, he should know by now.

  He exhales. “Come on, Wil, it’s not like we’re actually related.”

  “As of last year,” I squeeze past him and the Formica kitchen counter, “your dad is my stepdad.” And it’s kind of weird you haven’t stopped trying to pick me up since our parents’ wedding. Just saying.

  Henry laughs, half-exasperated, half-amused. His sheepish smile would truly be charming…if the word ‘brother’ wasn’t part of the title that now describes our domestic relationship. Plus, preppy med school guys aren’t my type.

  Not that I have a type. That I know of.

  He follows me out of the kitchen. “Is that your mom?” He indicates the front window. In the driveway, the used silver Yukon idles, engine rumbling.

  “Yeah. She’s taking me to Health Haven. Want anything?”

  He lifts his keys from the hook on the wall. “You know none of those ‘herbal remedies’ and supplements they sell are FDA-approved, right?”

  “You know the FDA is an understaffed and underregulated institution, right?”

  He hitches his bookbag over his shoulder. I can almost read the word touché in his grin.

  From the coatrack, I grab my black windbreaker and shrug it on. “You off to class?” I ask, trying to tone things down. I don’t mean to be unfriendly. We’re family, after all. And I want it to stay that way.

  Which is why I especially don’t want things to get weird between us.

  “Yep.”

  “Cool. See you later, then.” I zip up my windbreaker, offer him a fleeting smile as an olive branch, and head out the door.

  It’s not like I’m trying to be rude to my stepbrother. I just think, as two people on our own paths, we ought to keep our distance. Even if we happen to live together.

  I descend the porch steps, down to the driveway where my mom awaits in her car. I try to keep a calm face as I enter the vehicle and place my thermos in the cup holder, but she doesn’t miss my quivering fingers as I reach for the seatbelt.

  Mom rests a steadying hand over mine. It’s heavy with her jewelry: the stretchy graphite magnetic therapy band and green aventurine bracelet for health and wisdom, her plain dedication band, and a second ring that wraps up her finger in the shape of a fairy holding a rose quartz.

  My eyes find her face. My mother never wears makeup, and I can
distinguish every freckle on her cheeks in the morning light. Her muddy hazel eyes are sympathetic. “Breathe, Willow,” she coos. “In and out. No pauses. Remember, connected, circular breathing.”

  I really do try.

  “We’re only going up the road. But if you’d rather wait at home…”

  “No.” I click my seatbelt into the buckle. In the side mirror, I see Henry climbing into his old pickup parked out on the street. For whatever reason, I don’t want him to think I’m having a meltdown before we’ve even pulled out.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I add. “No one’s coming; you can back out now.” I glance over my shoulder to make sure.

  Mom backs carefully out of our driveway. Bracing myself, I squeeze my knees over the black yoga pants I’ve been wearing the last two days. That tends to happen when you put me anywhere near a computer. I forget about basic things…like hygiene and changing my clothes.

  When I was sixteen, Mom read a book about how introverts learn better alone, so she let me to graduate high school early, online. I skipped out on college to work from the comfort of my computer, managing SEO for an IT website. They’re still in the startup phase, so the pay is crap. But the perk is that I don’t have to leave the house for weeks if I don’t want to (and usually, I don’t want to), and technically I don’t have to shower or even change out of my pajamas for work. So, I’ll take the non-livable salary. It’s better than commuting anywhere and dealing with other humans face-to-face on a daily basis.

  As we turn the corner off our street and reach the first light, Mom slows to a stop. I watch through the windshield, already having forgotten about her circular breathing.

  “You know, Willow, I completely understand why you don’t want to be medicated for your anxiety.” Her lips twist down. ‘Medication’ is a dirty word to her all-natural, holistic sensibilities. (She actually owns a T-shirt that says “Meditate, Don’t Medicate”.)

  “Right. Remember ninth grade?” Back then, I was either manic or a zombie, depending on which pill the shrink prescribed me.

  “Don’t remind me,” mutters Mom.

  That was the last time I’d experimented with prescription drugs. Shortly after obtaining my GED, I decided my natural shortcomings were more tolerable than my medication-induced ones, although that still wasn’t saying much.

  The light turns green. Mom eases on the accelerator for my sake. I know she’s going five under, and I don’t have the heart to tell her it isn’t the speed that bothers me, but just the trapped feeling of sitting in a car, as if there might not be a way out if I needed one.

  “At the same time,” she goes on, “the aromatherapy doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Yeah, I mean,” I sniff the oil on my wrists, “I can only slather on so much lavender extract before bees start mistaking me for the actual flower.” I’ve already been stung twice this summer.

  A ray of sunlight peeks through the parting clouds, beaming through the windshield. It glints off the silver pentacle around my mother’s neck, flanked by two crescent moons, one waxing and the other waning. The necklace is unique, blending two symbols—the pentacle and the triple moon—of her faith.

  “Maybe you should try hypnotherapy,” she suggests.

  I sigh.

  “It’s a viable form of treatment,” she defends. “Doctors prescribe it all the time for insomnia, addiction…”

  “Does insurance cover it?”

  She opens her mouth, but falters.

  “I didn’t think so.” I lean back in my seat, though I fail to relax. “Sorry, but I can’t afford to pay some snake-oil salesman to tell me I’m becoming very sleepy.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” She switches on the blinker and turns. “As for the money part, I think you could work something out.” She removes her beringed hand from the steering wheel a moment to fumble in her purse on the center console.

  My heart rate bounds. “What are you doing?”

  She finds whatever she’s looking for in the front flap and passes me a business card. Her hand returns to the wheel, and a spurt of relief courses through me. I hate when drivers take their hands off the wheel.

  I look down at the card. “Who’s this?”

  “Persephone’s son.”

  I bite back a smile. Only when your mom is Wiccan does she have friends with names like Persephone, Ariadne, and Silver Eagle. Those aren’t their real names, of course, but personas they’ve adopted among the new age community, aliases they can use to give astrology readings at local fairs, or on their blogs, which won’t interfere with their otherwise mundane, tax-paying alter-egos.

  “He’s a licensed hypnotherapist.” Mom redirects my attention to the business card. “Seph told me to give that to you.”

  I love that my mother is a white witch. I love that I was raised by the most compassionate and open-minded person I’ll probably ever know. I’ve always embraced, never minded, the little pouches of potpourri under my pillow to ward off bad dreams, the little goddess fetishes placed around the house for protection, the midnight visits to the backyard to cleanse our auras in the moonlight. But hypnotherapy sounds farfetched, even to me. Mom and her friends can try to heal and clear my energy fields all they want. But tamper with my brain? Even I’m not a hundred percent sure what goes on up there. And the thought of someone trying to manipulate me freaks me out.

  “Baby, I just want you to have a shot at your full potential. I’d hate to see anything holding you back.” Mom flashes me a sympathetic glance. “Something like this might help uncork whatever’s been bottled up inside you, waiting to come to the light for so long.”

  Aloud, I read the name on the card. Beneath it is a phone number and street address. “Persephone has a son? How come I’ve never met him?”

  She elbows me. “Because you never come to circle with me, silly.”

  We pull up to the storefront. The parking lot needs paving and the strip mall is empty, save for the independent grocer we frequent. Small Ohio towns are proof that if you build it, they won’t, in fact, come.

  With haste, I unbuckle and jump down from the car. The moment my flats hit the uneven pavement, I feel thankfully grounded.

  Mom’s right. A few blocks’ drive to a grocery store shouldn’t take so much out of me. It’s time to try something new, something I haven’t tried before. The corners of the business card poke into my palm, and I open the fist I didn’t realize I was making. Looking down, I read the name again:

  Mason Rychards

  Licensed Hypnotherapist.

  #

  “Where am I taking you again?”

  “Front Street. Downtown, above the deli. I’m serious, you don’t need the GPS.”

  Henry lowers his phone into the cup holder, although the digital map still flashes on the screen. “Above the deli?” He rubs his chin, which he’s apparently taken the time to shave this morning. A rarity. “I thought that was a law office.”

  “Apparently not anymore.”

  He turns the key in the ignition, and his old pickup roars to life. “Easy,” he murmurs, glancing at my hand on the center console. “Jesus. Your knuckles are turning white.”

  Reluctantly, I let go as he shifts the gear into drive. “Hence the reason I made this appointment,” I say. “I really appreciate you driving me. I know I’m not the best passenger.”

  “Don’t mention it. So, what exactly is this therapist going to do?” My stepbrother’s eyes narrow skeptically as they watch the road.

  “I’m not really sure. But my mom’s known his mom forever, so I guess I trust him.”

  “You guess you trust him?” He switches on the blinker and hangs a left at the maple tree. With a laugh, he adds, “I hope my future patients can express more confidence in me than that.”

  I don’t want to roll my eyes. It’s nice of him to give me a lift. All the same, every time Henry and I have a conversation in which he isn’t trying to subtly ask me out, it’s about how he’s becoming a doctor. I guess that’s s
upposed to make me start ovulating?

  When we reach the downtown strip, it isn’t crowded. It’s late morning, before the lunch hour, and it appears the only people in the shops are the employees. There’s a wide-open parking space in front of the deli, and Henry pulls in. There aren’t any meters. No one’s clamoring for a space on the small, two-way street that comprises downtown Middling, Ohio—a.k.a. Nowhereville, U.S.A.

  I hop down from the truck. To my surprise, Henry is approaching the passenger’s side. He looks disappointed to see me closing the door behind me.

  “I was gonna get that for you,” he says. He opens the stairwell door for me instead.

  This world hasn’t prepared me for chivalry. “Thanks,” I manage to say, and head up the steps indoors. Henry follows.

  The stairwell is clean enough. In fact, it looks renovated. We reach the second floor and pass through an office door. There’s a small waiting area with a sign to be seated. Henry comes up behind me, looking from wall to wall. A dreamcatcher hangs over the vacant receptionist’s desk. Between two leather loveseats is an end table with a miniature Zen garden, and an urn with an electrically-powered babbling waterfall plugged into the wall. It creates a sound buffer between the waiting area and the therapist’s office, but to be safe, there’s also a noise conditioner running, occasionally emitting the soft chirrups of birds.

  I lower onto one of the loveseats, but Henry doesn’t. “Do you want me to go into your appointment with you?” he asks.

  Um, what? “Oh…no, thanks. It’s kind of personal.”

  “You aren’t going to be like, lying down alone with that guy in there, are you?”

  “Even if I am, he’s a professional.”

  A shadow crosses over his face. “Yeah, well, if he tries anything—”

  The office door opens.

  A man enters the waiting area. He appears around the same age as Henry, mid-twenties, with shoulder-length, nut-brown hair and a goatee beginning to sprout. His plaid button-down is untucked over his blue jeans. I’m assuming he’s a client leaving his session, until I catch the familiar scent of Persephone’s favorite sandalwood incense on his clothes.