by Teri Harman
Sun and moon, help me!
For good measure she quickly plucked one of her long, red-brown hairs and tied it around the top of the pouch.
At her feet a circle of candles burned, all red except for one blue. Between the candles were placed small, round stones taken from the nearby stream. The stones and candles were charged with magic and a bowl of water sat in the center of the circle, awaiting her offering.
The amazing Ruby Plate was dead, her body at rest in the town cemetery. Somewhere in Amelia’s heart, she hadn’t believed it could actually happen, especially so soon; Ruby was only sixty years old. No one took it harder than Amelia. As a twenty-year-old woman, she thought she should have better control of her emotions, but she felt as helpless as when her father died. Maybe worse.
The cancer came on quickly, a devastating blow. During Ruby’s last few weeks Amelia had stayed at her side night and day, working as many healing spells and rituals as she could. She was an excellent healer, extraordinary even, but nothing could be done. The earth had decided to claim one of its own.
Finally, Ruby had taken Amelia’s hand in her own bony, withered one and said, with a smile, “My love, it’s time to let go. Grandpa Charles is waiting for me, and I’m ready. No more magic now. Just lay with me.”
Reluctantly, Amelia crawled into Ruby’s bed and laid her head near the witch’s shoulder, listening as her grandmother took her final breaths. Tears flowing freely, blurring her vision and burning her cheeks, Amelia felt the old woman’s spirit leave the room and some of Ruby’s magic enter her own body. A last gift from Grandma.
Amelia knelt over the circle of candles, dangling the pouch over the water. She closed her eyes, summoned the magic. “Help me, all powerful sun and moon. Bring me courage, swift and soon.” She repeated the spell several times, the words merging together as she chanted faster and faster. The pouch began to sway back and forth, the magic accepting her offerings. Once more, Amelia chanted the spell, then dropped the pouch into the water. The water bubbled furiously and then calmed, the ritual now completed.
With a small silver snuffer, Amelia extinguished the candles one by one. She stood, hoping to feel fortified and ready to face what lay ahead. Instead, she only felt empty. And alone. She had lost so many people in her life: her father and Grandpa Charles to the war; her mother two years ago in a car accident; and now Ruby. Ruby had always been there after each death to catch her, to hold her, to help her. Amelia’s new husband, Peter, did his best to console her, but even with their strong bond his help was not at all like Ruby’s had been.
Her whole world was being pulled out from under her.
Not only was she forced to function without Ruby’s help, the Covenant was now looking to her for leadership. Leadership! It was the last notation in her grandma’s grimoire—Amelia must take my place as Luminary. Amelia had nearly fainted at the sight of the words in the spell book. Every other member of the Covenant, except young Solace, had more experience than her. Why on earth would Ruby want her to step into the role of leader? It was insane!
It just didn’t make any sense. She attempted to convince the Covenant that Ruby must have been delusional with sickness when she wrote her final words, but everyone knew better—especially Amelia. And everyone also knew that the final words in a witch’s grimoire were more binding than a legal will. Amelia had no choice but to find the courage to step into her grandmother’s place.
The barn owl that made his home in the willow hooted down at Amelia a fond good evening. She glanced up at him, his yellow eyes and white face throwing the starlight back at her.
“What do I do?” she whispered. The owl remained silent.
She knew what she must do; she just didn’t want to do it for fear of failure. The timing was terrible. Darkness was coming. She’d felt it since that night seven years ago when she saw the horrible image of herself in the water.
She was unprepared to face it, to fight it.
And worst of all, she was more than certain it would defeat her.
Chapter 11
New Moon
Present Day, October
Simon lounged in his chair, trying and failing to listen to the droning of his statistics professor. Half the class was already asleep and Simon was halfway joining them when Willa’s voice cut into his head.
Simon! I need you. Now!
He sat forward, knocking his pen to the floor. Had he really heard that or was it the start of a dream?
Simon!
There it was again, clear and loud and intense with panic. Willa needed him. He didn’t take time to figure out how he was hearing her; he snatched his bag off the floor and ran.
Willa fought the intense urge to turn back, each pounding stride a struggle. Wynter’s haunting image floated in front of Willa as she ran, her thoughts fiercely battling each other. But she kept running, all the way home, adrenaline and fear pushing her legs. She didn’t even dare stop to text Simon. Instead, she gambled on their ever deepening connection; she called out to Simon in her mind. Simon! I need you. Now! She didn’t know if it would work; they’d been able to communicate with each other through their minds in silent conversations in the past couple of weeks. But those times were different—they’d been sitting on the couch, face to face. This time, Simon was miles away at the University.
Simon!
When her house came into view, she nearly cried with relief. Skidding to a stop at the backdoor, she dug out her keys and lunged into the kitchen. Oppressive silence met her, too quiet after the pounding of the rain and her feet. She dropped her purse and soaking wet jacket to the floor.
What do I do?
Staring into the gray of the room, she forced her mind to quiet and think. Conventional wisdom screamed at her to call the police—immediately. Willa bent and pulled her phone from her soggy purse. Her thumb hovered over the keypad and she hesitated, not sure why.
Antsy with indecision and panic, she began pacing the small kitchen.
What do I do? What do I do?
A forceful knock rocked the backdoor and Willa screamed, dropping her phone to the floor. “Willa!”
She sighed and opened the door to Simon. He immediately scooped her into his arms. “You’re soaking wet.” He kissed her hair. “I heard you in my head. What’s wrong?”
Willa exhaled in relief, Simon’s appearance a steadying force. “Wynter. The woman in the basement—I found her.”
His eyes widened. “Seriously? How?”
“I was walking home from work and stopped at Ruby’s house. Her hand—it was there, reaching out the basement window. But Holmes got home at the same time.” She shook her head. “He scares me. I ran. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Simon nodded. “No, that’s good. If you’d stayed he might have hurt you, too.” He shuddered. “Did you call the police?’
Willa pulled back and ran her hands back through her wet hair. “I was just about to, but something is telling me not to. I don’t know why. We should call the police, right?”
Simon narrowed his eyes at her, thinking and listening to her emotions. He reached out and took her hand. “What else would we do?”
Willa started to shake her head, but then doubled over in pain. A sharp flash erupted in her head and she fell to her knees. Simon was also on the ground, gripping the sides of his head. When the flash receded a picture came into focus.
The willow tree in Ruby’s yard swayed in the breeze, its lithe branches rustling. The vision zoomed in closer and a woman appeared to stand near the trunk, her image flickering. She wore a long, red dress fashioned in a design worn during the turn of the century—long sleeves, tight bodice, and full skirt.
Willa gasped when she saw the woman’s face. Ruby. The woman turned and fixed her vibrant green eyes on Willa. “You must come now. I can help you save Wynter. Hurry!”
Then, as quickly and as painfully as it had started, the vision ended.
Willa gasped for breath and realized she was now lying on the cold t
ile with Simon next to her. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
“That was Ruby. Her ghost at her own house.” Willa scrambled to her feet. “We have to go. Now!”
“Whoa!” Simon jumped to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Simon, we have to go. You saw it, right? And heard what she said? She’s going to help us get Wynter out. Help us save her.”
Simon shook his head. “How do we know what we just saw was real?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Willa couldn’t understand why Simon would hesitate. This was the answer.
Simon frowned and massaged her upper arms. “Willa, I don’t know what any of this means and I’m not sure you do either.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t trust it. Put logic aside. When it comes to these weird things we can do, we have to go with instinct. And my instincts are screaming right now.”
“But . . .” Simon paused, pressing his lips together.
Willa couldn’t give him the time to rationalize it. If there was one thing she never ignored, it was a warning in a dream. Wynter needed her help and now Willa had a possible way to give it.
“I’m going.” She pulled away from Simon and bolted for the door.
Holmes couldn’t forget about the girl as Archard had suggested. Something about her unsettled him, scratched at his mind. The magic he’d sensed from her had been powerful, much more than the weak tremors of an undiscovered witch. And he couldn’t shake the thought that she was a threat to him.
The basement was protected with a spell so no one looking in the window would see Wynter, but he felt that somehow the girl knew what was locked in the darkness. His gift had sensed a great fear and unease in her, but he’d been unable to look any further into her mind. She’d blocked him—another sign of power. What if she’d seen Wynter and gotten past the spells. The last thing he needed was the police or a mob of angry small-townies pounding on his door.
From his luggage, Holmes retrieved a softball-sized, black crystal ball and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. He ran out to his truck through the rain. Once in the truck, he uncovered the ball and held it in his hands. Closing his eyes, he called to the magic and soon felt the heat of its response. The crystal ball burst to life with a black flash of light. In his mind, he focused on the girl’s image, asking the magic to lead him to her.
In the surface of the scrying tool he saw her young face, framed by a tumble of dark wavy hair, her eyes alive with untapped power. Then something he didn’t expect appeared—the face of a young man. The boy’s impressively sized body pulsed with great power and magic. Holmes frowned; the girl wasn’t alone.
When the picture changed to the streets of Twelve Acres, a map to her location, he turned on the engine and followed.
Anger and anticipation roiled in his gut. He couldn’t allow anyone to interfere with his progress with Wynter, not even accidentally. He was so close! And if anyone delayed the process any further . . . Holmes shuddered. He didn’t want to think of Archard’s fiery anger.
Soon, the ball showed him the correct house with its sharply pitched Tudor-style roof and thick ivy. He stopped his truck half a block away. He covered the ball with the towel, now flickering out, and got out of the car. Holmes ran down the sidewalk and wedged himself behind a large oak tree in the front yard of the house across the street.
The rain continued to beat down, the drip drip drip of water on leaves over his head loud, making its way through to fall on him. He ignored the rain’s cold touch and peered at the windows of the house—all dark. Was she sleeping?
Holmes waved his hand over his body, effectively hiding himself with magic. He frowned and set to work, forming a plan in his mind.
Willa was out the door before Simon could stop her, so he hurried out after her. He found her standing rigidly by the fence, face pressed to a space between the slats. It was still raining and she wasn’t wearing a jacket, only her diner uniform—a thin polo shirt and short skirt. He pulled off his hoodie. “Here, put this on before you freeze to death.” He held it out to her.
“Shhh!” she said, frantically flapping a hand at him, motioning for him to get down.
He dropped into a crouch beside her. “What is it?” he whispered.
Willa turned to him with wide, panicked eyes. “It’s Holmes!”
“What?” Simon turned to the fence and squinted through the narrow opening. Holmes’s gray truck was parked a short distance down the street. The driver seat was empty. Simon’s gut tightened. “Did you see him?”
“No.” Willa stiffened. “Simon . . . he knows.”
“Knows what?”
“He knows I know about Wynter!” Willa wrung her hands, eyes skittering around the yard.
Simon took her hands and steadied them in his. “Hey, look at me. How would he know that? Did he see you looking in the window or something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Why else would his truck be here?”
Simon couldn’t argue with that. Why was it there? And more importantly where was he?
Willa stood and pulled on his hand. “We have to hurry.”
He resisted, surprised. “You still plan on going there?”
“Yes, more now than before. If he’s here then we have time to get Wynter out. Come on.”
Simon opened his mouth to protest, but the look on her face and the feelings rushing out of her stopped him. Against all his logic, he followed her through the backyard into the neighbors’, away from Holmes’s truck.
Chapter 12
New Moon
Present Day, October
Willa and Simon slipped through backyards and dark streets, approaching Ruby’s property from the back. Willa glanced over her shoulder every few minutes, a sickening sense of alarm and the jittery need for urgency pushing her on.
They trudged through the mud and deep weeds behind Ruby’s house until they reached the willow. It loomed over them like a great, hairy beast, expanding outward, voluminously overtaking the yard. The grass and vegetation all around were dead or dying, brown and dusty, but the willow stood vibrant and alive, immune to the neglect given it. No wind moved through the yard, yet the drippy branches swayed slightly.
Willa looked over at Simon, who looked back apprehensively, but took her hand. They walked around to the front of the massive tree where Willa saw Ruby’s ghost. “She’s right there by the tree, just like we saw,” she whispered.
Simon nodded and they moved closer.
Ruby watched them approach and Willa’s mind raced with thoughts. This was Ruby Plate. How many times had Willa imagined having a moment to talk with her, to ask her about Twelve Acres and her life? About the paper hidden in the candlestick. But there wasn’t time now. Wynter’s life was more important than answers to mysteries.
Ruby smiled. “I’m so pleased to see you. I wasn’t sure if the vision would reach you, if the magic was strong enough. What are your names?”
Willa briefly wondered why she could talk to Ruby and Solace, but no other ghosts. What makes them different? Setting the question aside, she answered, “I’m Willa and this is Simon. He can’t see you.” Simon squinted at the tree, looking uncomfortable.
Ruby nodded. “I know, Willa. You are the one with the Power.”
Power? “How did you find us? How did we see you in our heads?”
Ruby frowned. “I wish I had time to explain, but Wynter is very sick. He cut her again tonight. I think she may be dying. We must help her, and it will take all of us together to do it. Holmes is gone, but there is no way to know when he’ll return. Are you willing to help?”
Willa looked at Simon, who looked back, questioning. Blood pounded in her head and ears; her stomach had never felt so twisted. Scenes from her dream raced across her mind. Ruby waited, her expression urgent. “What do we have to do?”
Two folds of red festering skin puffed open, thick with edema and oozing yellow-pink pus. Wynter stared in horror at the rippled, yellow fat layer and red stri
ated muscle now exposed in the canal of the cut. Holmes’s anger had pushed the knife much deeper than ever before. The wound needed stitches, a balm of sandalwood and calendula, and she could use a bee pollen tea. But of course, she didn’t have those things.
Perhaps he had killed her after all, unintentionally. Perhaps this would be her end—chills, hallucinations, searing, spreading pain, her body cooked from the inside out by infectious fever, her organs shutting down one by one.
Mournful tears pushed their way out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks, and over her trembling lips.
I give up.
Wynter gave into her sorrowful defeat, collapsing into a pitiful pile of dingy white cloth. There was no more strength left in her to keep fighting.
This is the end.
At least Holmes wouldn’t be able to use her. At least she would never be forced to say yes and join their Dark covens. That would be one small triumph in her defeat.
With a shuddering sigh Wynter willed herself to sleep, opening her mind to places she had long kept locked tight. One face, the face of the person she loved most in the world, floated in front of her eyes before she succumbed to her exhaustion.
A few moments later she was startled awake by a strange sound. She opened one eye, finding the small movement a great effort. Gray light trickled in through the window. It was still raining, but she saw nothing else, heard nothing. She closed her eye, ready to go back to sleep, when the noise came again.
“Wynter!” Her name spoken by a female voice, the first voice she had heard besides Holmes’s and her own in months.
An angelic chorus couldn’t have sounded more beautiful.
Wynter pushed her weary, ailing body up into a standing position, a last-ditch jolt of hopeful adrenalin helping her to her feet. She leaned heavily on the wall, her chains creaked and groaned as she moved closer to the window. She blinked once, twice, three times to be sure her vision was clear and true.
A face in the window.
Clear, crisp, blue eyes, skin like amber honey, and wet, dark hair.
