by Teri Harman
Table of Contents
Cover Image
Front Matter
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Teri Harman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2014 by Teri Harman
First Paperback Edition: September 2014
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior return permission of the publisher.
For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected].
For general information, write us at Jolly Fish Press, PO Box 1773, Provo,
UT 84603-1773 or [email protected].
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Harman, Teri, 1981–
Black moon / Teri Harman. — First paperback edition.
pages cm. — (The moonlight trilogy ; 2)
Summary: “Two novice witches—Willa and Simon—struggle to acclimate to their new life as members of the Covenant, while dark forces secretly prepare to wipe them out”— Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-939967-93-0 (paperback)
[1. Witches—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.H2268Bk 2014
[Fic]--dc23
2014020744
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Mom and Dad.
For all the big, obvious reasons; but mostly for all the small, significant ones that make all the difference.
Also by Teri Harman:
Blood Moon, Book I of The Moonlight Trilogy
The Moonlight Witches
The New Light Covenant
Rowan
Gift of Earth, Luminary (leader), married to Wynter
Wynter
Gift of Earth
Willa
Gift of Dreams with the Power of Spirits
Simon
Gift of Mind and a True Healer
Elliot
Gift of Dreams
Charlotte
Gift of Mind
Darby
Gift of Fire, married to Cal
Cal
Gift of Fire
Rain
Gift of Water
Corbin
Gift of Water
Hazel
Gift of Air
Toby
Gift of Air
The Light Witches of Early Twelve Acres
Ruby Plate
Gift of Mind, founder of Twelve Acres, Luminary of the first American Light Covenant. Married to Charles Plate.
Amelia Plate
Gift of Water, granddaughter of Ruby and Charles. Married to Peter Wilson, daughter named Lilly. Luminary of the Covenant after Ruby’s death.
Camille Krance
Gift of Air, also a founder of Twelve Acres and member of Ruby’s original Covenant. Married to Ronald Krance, mother of Solace.
Solace Krance
Gift of Mind, member of the Light Covenant under Amelia’s leadership. Daughter of Camille and Ronald. Ghost in Twelve Acres Museum.
The Dark Witches
Archard
Gift of Fire, leader of the Dark covens.
Rachel
Gift of Fire, the only surviving member of the Dark covens.
Holmes
Gift of Mind, the witch who held Wynter hostage. Wynter killed him after she escaped.
Bartholomew the Dark
An infamous Dark witch during medieval times, the only Dark witch to ever form a Covenant. Married to Brigid.
Black Moon
The Moonlight Trilogy
II
Teri Harman
Provo, Utah
On the rare occasion that two new moons occur in one calendar month, the second new moon is known to witches as a black moon. It is a time of Darkness, when the evil of magic thrives with the gift of extra power awarded by the obsidian sky.
On this night, Dark witches rise.
Chapter 1
Waning Gibbous
January 500 A.D.
The bookmaker bent over his worktable, forehead pinched in concentration, eyes straining in the candlelight. In his calloused, ink-stained hand, he held a knife, small and sharp. One by one he lifted the dried goat hides onto the table. With practiced precision, he cut each exactly sixteen inches tall and thirty-two inches long. When folded over, each piece would make two pages. It was delicate work, but the thin, soft hides made the smoothest parchment. And only the best could be used for this book.
He paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from his corrugated brow and rub the exhaustion from his eyes. Through three days of nearly nonstop work, he’d barely dared to sleep or eat, even when the smell of lime wafting off the hides stung his eyes or he grew dizzy from lack of food. If his customer arrived and the book was not finished (and perfect), there would be far worse things to suffer than hunger and watery eyes.
Finally, he cut and stacked the last page.
Carefully, the craftsman mixed his special red ink and sharpened his quill to a deadly point. He pulled the top piece of parchment from the stack and, with his ruler in place, began to line the page. Line after line after line. This task was usually done by an apprentice scribe, but the customer had insisted that no other hands touch it.
Line after line after line after line after . . .
When dawn breathed light into the sky, the craftsman slumped over the last page, half asleep. When the cock crowed, he jerked awake in a moment of panic. A quick look around the room set his heart at ease.
He gathered the lined pages and his binding materials. His stomach twisted with hunger, but with a sigh the craftsman set back to work. He folded the first few pages and nestled them into gatherings, or sections of pages. Once the gatherings were prepared, he skillfully sewed them onto the cords of leather that would support the pages.
Near midday he finally paused for a quick meal of stale bread and hard cheese. With the last bite still in his mouth, he returned to his workbench. When he finished the sewing, the craftsman prepared to form the book. From a high shelf he pulled two thin wooden planks. Carefully, he laced the ends of the leather supports though channels carved into the cover planks.
The bookmaker worked hard to keep his mind on his task, forbidding himself to wonder what this book might be meant for; but it w
as nearly impossible—considering the man who would own it. He’d heard the rumors, the hushed speculations about the mysterious man known as Bartholomew. Some said he had burned an entire town to the ground with the townspeople trapped inside, unable to escape. Others said he never aged. And some even whispered the word witch in fearful tones.
When the tall man with shadows in his face had walked into the shop, the craftsman’s bones had turned to ice; and he knew instantly who stood before him. Bartholomew was everything and nothing like what he’d expected. But his voice—like foul whispers from hell spun into silk—had haunted the craftsman every moment since that day.
Another rumor flew around in whispers: Bartholomew was gathering others like him, forming some sort of terrible coven. The bookmaker loved and cherished every book he made; he longed to protect his art, but feared this book would be put to unspeakable uses. He knew, deep inside, that this one book would forever taint his legacy.
Yet refusal was not an option. He’d known that, looking at Bartholomew’s intense, otherworldly eyes.
The old craftsman, his back aching, stretched a thick piece of high quality black leather over the cover planks and secured it with several small tacks. Next, he placed the metal corner pieces, meant to protect the soft leather but also to serve as ornamentation. Bartholomew himself had provided these pieces, and the bookmaker tried hard to ignore how each one felt warm to the touch.
He secured two large metal clasps to the back of the book, each with a thick leather strap attached which wrapped around the fore edge and slid into clasps on the cover to keep the book closed. The final detail, a round metal medallion for the center of the front cover, was also warm, almost hot. Several unsettling symbols were etched into the metal. On the outside of the circle, arrayed around the middle, were six odd triangles. In the center were two more symbols: a sun with curved rays spiraling outward, and three ovals stacked on top of each other, progressively larger in size, with a single line running down through the center of them all.
The craftsman let his hands drop.
Finished.
The impressive but sadistic book was complete. As the bookmaker stood up from his chair and stretched, his body felt brittle and hard, like dried wax. Looking down at his work—some of his finest—he felt like crying. A chill moved through him as he ran a stiff hand over the cover. Normally, he would brand his mark on the back to claim his work, but not on this book. He pulled a cloth from a drawer and covered the tome.
The sun had nearly set. The craftsman, exhausted but unable to sleep with the perverse book in his home, collapsed into the chair by the fire. He watched the flames, his eyes blurry and heart heavy.
The door of the shop burst open.
The old man jumped in his chair, but did not turn to see his visitor; he knew. Bartholomew had returned to collect his book.
“Is it finished?” asked a voice like burning velvet.
The craftsman couldn’t speak but merely gestured to where the tome sat beneath its cloth, like the dead. The stranger’s footfalls were barely audible on the wooden floor, but the craftsman heard every little noise—the whisper of the cloth falling to the floor, the brush of Bartholomew’s gloves as he lifted the book, and his deep hum of pleasure as he stroked the cover.
The craftsman cringed, his heart aching.
Then the tall, shadowy figure stood next to his chair. He dared a glance at Bartholomew’s face. The eyes were like small moons, nearly silver and luminous like marsh lights. The skin was pale, almost the same color as the parchment in the book, but flushed with a healthy vigor. Bartholomew’s long hair, dark blond, like wheat at harvest time, was pulled back from his face and his neatly-trimmed beard. If not for the air of evil that pulsed from him, Bartholomew might have been handsome.
The craftsman looked back at the flames.
“Fine work, bookmaker,” Bartholomew whispered in his velvet voice.
The craftsman didn’t respond. All he could think about was sleep; beautiful, restful sleep.
“You deserve to sleep, old man. Your work is finished.” Bartholomew removed one of his black gloves and placed his hand on the craftsman’s chest.
The old man felt his heart thump once, then stop.
His soul drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 2
Waxing Half Moon
February—Present Day
Normally, Willa woke from dreams in the middle of the night, but tonight it was Simon.
His eyes flashed open, a gargled cry caught in his throat. Instinctively, he reached out for Willa, but the bed was empty. He wished she were there. She was the only thing that helped calm the storm inside him; but, of course, she was across town at her parents’ house.
With a long sigh, he rolled onto his back. His heart beat furiously, blood pulsing at his temples. Only a dream. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling, forcing his mind and body to believe it. Only a dream. He turned his head and looked at his phone on the nightstand. He could call her; hearing her voice would help. But what would he say? He’d established a strict rule of not talking about this with anyone—even her. He’d built a thick wall to hide his emotions.
Simon shifted his eyes to the window and the glow of the street lamps outside. Sparsely decorated, the bedroom in his small apartment had only a practical double bed, one nightstand, and a squat lamp. A large closet doubled as storage for both his clothes and hiking and camping gear. One picture hung on the wall: a framed 8 x 10 of him and Willa in the mountains, taken on one of their summer hikes. Simon loved the picture because Willa’s eyes were the same color as the sky above them.
She should be here.
Every night, it got harder to send her home to her parents. It felt wrong to watch her walk into another house and sleep in a bed without him. But Willa’s parents had reverted to over-protective mode ever since the binding of the Covenant. They hovered over her like she might shatter into a million pieces, or as though she might be brainwashed by the “witches in that cult,” as her dad was fond of saying. Willa let it slide and dismissed it as a knee-jerk reaction to nearly losing her in the fight with Archard. But, now, four months later, they hadn’t eased up; and it weighed on them all.
However hard it was to let her go each night, however much he longed to be with her all the time, Simon would be patient while Willa and her family worked things out. He wished his own parents cared enough to overprotect him.
Cynthia and Gabe Howard’s faces moved through his mind: Cynthia, with her sharply angled face made sharper by her blunt haircut and fake blond hair, and Gabe, with his pinched, judgmental eyes and villainously muscular body. There were few people more poorly suited to be parents, especially of a boy who heals injuries and illnesses alike with a mere touch.
Simon wondered briefly if he should visit and tell them about his magic and what had happened in the fall. He almost laughed out loud, knowing that it wouldn’t make one bit of difference. By the way, Mom and Dad, I’m a witch. It would only alienate them more—if that were possible. Simon closed his eyes and tried to banish his parents from his mind.
Rolling his head to the side, Simon looked at the empty space beside him, picturing Willa asleep there. His heart thudded once. You’re my family now, Willa. The thought made him smile in the dark. The hole inside him was finally filling in, the hole his parents had dug with every dismissal, every disapproving look, and every hateful thought that Simon had sensed. Willa helped him believe there was life beyond that of a pariah.
As his mind wandered, the scene from his dream broke through his thoughts, erasing his smile.
With a sigh Simon eased out of the bed and pulled on jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. He shoved on his black biker boots and left. Out in the cold winter night, he forced himself to go back through the dream and to examine every part of it. If he was going to rid himself of the nightmare that had troubled him for the last four months, he had to face it, understand it, and move past it.
But how? This isn’t just a dream; t
his is . . . something I did.
Simon shuffled down the sidewalk. The biting cold felt good on his face, cleared his mind and pushed away the fear.
Three people. I killed three people.
The words rang with a hollow twang across his brain, discordant and foreign. They didn’t fit into the puzzle of things that made him him. He still wasn’t sure how he’d done it. The moments at the cave were a blur in his head, coming back clearly only in his dreams. As soon as he woke, the details clouded over again as quickly as a coastline in the rainy season.
Several times, after awaking from the dreams, he had walked like this and then stopped to try and summon that power again, to make his body alive with the energy of so much magic; but it never happened. Not even close. It made the whole thing seem even more unreal.
I killed three people.
The justifications always followed: the ‘but they were evil Dark witches,’ and the ‘I was protecting Wynter, Willa, and my coven-mates,’ and the ‘I had to.’ But they too were hollow, like twisted echoes of truth.
His stomach knotted uncomfortably as he remembered the Dark witches sailing through the air. He’d never seen them hit the ground—his attention had turned fully to Willa, her startling blue eyes bright in the rainy clearing, like little lighthouses, pulling him away from the rocks. Only later did he realize what he’d done
Willa wanted to talk about it. He felt it from her more often than she intended, but he couldn’t bring himself to put his thoughts into words. Spoken words were real, were truth. Thoughts lived somewhere on the edge of truth, and that’s where he needed to keep this.
Rowan, leader of the Covenant, had also come to him, wanting to talk, to help. When Simon had answered Rowan’s questions with silence and pleading eyes, Rowan had simply laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “When you’re ready.”
Simon didn’t know if he would ever be ready. If he just worked it out in his mind, made sense of it, he’d be fine. It would take time, but eventually . . . maybe . . .
But these dreams . . .
