In this new series, we follow Viviane Cormoran, a curious and resourceful oceanid. Originally from Quebec, she has spent the last few years wandering. Until a troubling incident forces her to face the facts: her powers are running amok, and she must reclaim them before it’s too late. Since her initial attempts were unsuccessful, she decides to return to her native region and create the right conditions to find her kind. That’s how she ends up visiting a property for sale near the St. Lawrence River.
Witches, Waters, and Wicked Lies is a short story of about sixty pages that serves as a prelude to the main series. You’ll discover how she met her allies and friends, and what prompted her to accept La Corriveau’s proposal.
Here’s a short excerpt to give you a taste. Enjoy the read!
Too absorbed in my observations, I hadn’t noticed that La Corriveau and I were alone. She was studying me, arms crossed. I glanced to each side to make sure I wasn’t blocking her view of something important.
No. I resisted the urge to shrink from her inquisitive gaze: certain predators delighted in the flight of their prey. I might not be a match for her, but I wasn’t going to make her job any easier. I met her eyes with a questioning lift of an eyebrow.
“Viviane Cormoran,” she said, her eyes half-closed. “Is that your true name, or a nod to your hair? Black as a cormorant’s plumage.”
I pursed my lips in annoyance despite myself. My appearance had long been a curse. From the first meeting, people always noticed the contrast between my pale skin and the dark shade of my hair. Add to that my moss-green eyes, and I was hard to forget. Fortunately, beauty standards had changed significantly between my youth and today, a hundred and fifty years later. Contemporary fashion allowed much more leeway to go unnoticed.
On the other hand, my interlocutor was just as striking, with her tall stature and refined features. I put my hands on my hips, refusing to yield ground.
“It’s a much less impressive name than yours,” I countered.
A predatory glint passed through her gaze. The hair stood up all over my body, and a jolt of adrenaline shot through me. I clenched my jaw to resist the urge to bolt. Taking a deep breath, I spread my palms in a gesture of peace.
“If you’re interested in the property, I won’t outbid you.”
She pressed her lips, but rather than commenting on my answer, she asked another question:
“What kind of creature are you?”
She reached her fingers toward me but suspended the gesture before touching me.
“I sense water… A nymph?”
My heart rate spiked, and I struggled to remain still. As an enchantress, it stood to reason she’d perceive my innate magic. Nothing unusual there. I was, however, so used to flying under the radar that my instincts were blaring like a merchant ship’s lookout at the sight of a pirate vessel. I gave her a tight smile.
“An Oceanid,” I clarified.
“Ah… hence your interest in a property so close to the St. Laurent River, I suppose.”
I shrugged. Proximity to a shore held an undeniable draw, since my powers were most effective there, whether for protection, defense, or prosperity. This far up, the river was freshwater, but it became saltwater about fifteen kilometers to the east, which had propelled the manor to the top of my search list. The real estate agent returned to us at that moment, sparing me from answering La Corriveau.
“I found the key to the basement! Actually, it’s more of a cellar, since the layout is basic; more than a crawl space, but not big enough for anything other than the utilities. The heating system is a bit dated…”
Nathalie was already back to her presentation, and I followed her meekly from one room to another. The creaking floorboards accompanied the footsteps of the other two women. La Corriveau paced the premises, positioning herself at various windows, never reacting to the agent’s incessant chatter. I felt almost sorry for Nathalie.
Arriving at the archway leading to the kitchen, Nathalie tripped. Her arms flailed, and she was clearly about to go sprawling. La Corriveau caught her just in time and set her back on her feet. Nathalie puffed for a few moments, fanning her face with one hand. She thanked her savior with wide, round eyes.
“Needless to say, the floor is uneven,” she said in a falsely playful tone. “Bridging was added in the basement to stiffen the structure, but time has already done its work.”
She crossed the kitchen and continued her explanations. La Corriveau glanced at me, her brow furrowed. She slid her fingers along the wood of the archway before shaking her head. Had she felt the spark of energy too? That electric wave again. As if the house were snapping at the agent. It was my turn to shake my head. That couldn’t be right.
In the kitchen, Nathalie had turned the faucet on full blast and was touting the water heater’s quick recovery. I felt it even before the faucet sputtered: a massive air bubble was traveling up the pipe, about to spray the agent. I lunged and put a hand on the valve to channel my magic into it. The water responded to my call, and the air bubble dissipated with a tiny splash. Nathalie blinked in perplexity at my intervention, and I offered her a candid smile.
“Nice fixtures.”
She fiddled with her briefcase with a hesitant nod. Her opinion of me had surely plummeted, but that was the price to pay for an anonymous good deed. Over Nathalie’s shoulder, La Corriveau stared at me, her eyes narrowed. My smile faltered slightly, and I cleared my throat.
“We were talking about the basement?”
The agent brightened and invited us to continue the tour on the lower level. The stairs creaked with every step Nathalie took, while La Corriveau and I moved in silence. The house was getting more intriguing by the minute.
Downstairs, the finish was minimalist, and the place served mainly as storage, evidenced by the furniture piled under a yellowed blanket. A door led to the mechanical room with the furnace, a washer-dryer set, and the water heater. As Nathalie tried to give us information on each appliance, they clattered and hummed so loudly that she gave up and returned to the adjacent room to finish her presentation.
My gaze met La Corriveau’s, and I saw the same questions in her eyes that I had. The house was undeniably alive: not haunted, but rather as if it possessed a will of its own and had taken a dislike to the real estate agent.
I followed the two women upstairs, my thoughts far from the agent’s explanations. That house reminded me of an old story, but it dated back to the period following my departure from the region where I grew up, between L’Islet and Saint-Jean-Port-Joli, along the St. Lawrence River. Difficult circumstances had driven me away, and I had drifted for several days before finally being taken in by the Wolastoqiyik, “the people of the beautiful river,” a First Nation whose territory bordered the south shore of the river near what is now Trois-Pistoles.
Since I had been in poor shape upon my arrival, their healer had spent long hours at my bedside. She had told me the story of a wigwam[1] that had come to life following the intervention of Glooscap. At first, I thought he was a member of the tribe, but as my understanding of their language grew more refined, I realized he was actually a mythical hero but, above all, a trickster with supernatural powers.
The longhouse in question had a reputation for acting up when family members didn’t meet its demands: the cooking fires would smoke out the entire dwelling, or the roof would leak right over the offender’s bed.
I didn’t know if Glooscap existed, let alone if he could truly grant consciousness to inanimate objects, but I also knew that some Indigenous people attributed a soul to everyday objects, especially those that played an important role in their lives, like a smoking pipe or snowshoes. It wasn’t impossible, then, that the manor had developed a will of its own.
If that were the case, why was it so determined to drive away the real estate agent?
Once the tour of the upper floor was complete, Nathalie headed back down to the ground floor, the echo of her voice muffled by the distance. La Corriveau cut me off before the stairs. Despite her pleasant smile, I froze, on high alert, my magic seeking the nearest water source.
“Oceanids are rare in Quebec. And yet, with the St. Lawrence River and Gulf, there’s no shortage of salt water. Then there’s your name. Viviane: like the Lady of the Lake. Except your accent is pure Quebec; I doubt you’re of European descent. And a lake would be fresh water, but let’s not get bogged down with details.”
“Ladies?” the agent’s voice reached us. “I’ll give you some space; come find me outside when you’re ready.”
The front door groaned on its hinges, and the wood slammed to signal the human’s departure. My gaze returned to La Corriveau. A predatory smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Petite, lovely, agile. Black hair and green eyes.”
My backward step was instinctive as I prepared to endure a venomous remark. Women, whether pretty or plain, rarely tolerated another’s natural beauty. In my experience, they were quicker to defame than to admire. So, I was surprised when the enchantress’s expression brightened.
“La Coureuse des grèves. The Shore Runner.”
I stood stunned. That name hadn’t been spoken in my presence for half a century.
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