Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy)

by Teri Harman

  “I don’t know.” Willa snatched her purse, rose to her feet. She looked at Solace, trembling and flickering in and out of focus. “I’ll come back and tell you what I find out. I’m sorry I have to go.”

  “It’s okay. Go.” She waved toward the door. “Be safe, Willa!”

  “I will.” She opened the door. “Bye,” she added with a des-

  pondent expression.

  The diner closed after the fifth quake, and Simon hurried over to Plate’s Place.

  The windows of the Victorian home glowed. The exterior of the house had been stripped of the peeling, rotting clapboards and prepped for new ones, ordered in the same aspen green Ruby originally had. It’d look amazing when completed, but right now, in the dark, the house looked like the skeleton of some great beast.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as he stepped inside. The group gathered in the large kitchen, now almost finished. The recycled glass counters, sparkling white and green, and dark walnut cabinets made the house feel like it might actually be livable one day.

  Simon crossed the room, fighting off the wave of uncertainty coming from his friends, and took his seat next to Willa at the long table.

  Rowan, at the head of the table answered, “We don’t know. Something has unsettled the balance of the Powers. The frequent small earthquakes have made the animals and trees very nervous.”

  “What ‘something’?” Simon said. “Do you mean Dark magic, not just a freak natural occurrence? Colorado actually gets a lot of small quakes.”

  Rowan nodded. “Yes, we are quite certain this is Dark magic. The trees don’t whisper when it’s natural. Besides, Colorado doesn’t get this many quakes at once . . . nowhere does.”

  Trees whispering? Even after almost six months in the Covenant, things like that still sounded strange.

  “Is this Rachel?” Willa asked, her hand growing cold in Simon’s.

  Rowan shook his head. “I don’t know. Rain and Corbin tried another scrying spell a few minutes ago, and still nothing. I’m starting to wonder if someone or something is blocking us.”

  “What do you mean? For someone to block us, they would have to know about us.” Willa asked.

  “Exactly.” Rowan frowned.

  “Another reason to suspect Rachel,” Simon said.

  Rowan nodded, “Yes.”

  Rain moved to the window that looked out onto the driveway on the side of the house. She was dressed in ripped black skinny jeans, combat boots, and an obscure punk band t-shirt. She asked, “Are we sure Archard is dead?”

  Everyone turned, a weighted silence answering her.

  Elliot said quietly, “We all saw him burn.” Simon flinched at the memories of Archard’s smoking, burning body. He groaned slightly and Willa looked over. He shook his head, gave her an I’m okay look.

  Rain nodded, still looking out the window between the blind slats. “I know, but . . . it’s Archard. And since Rachel was his lackey, I just can’t help wondering. Are we absolutely sure?”

  Rowan cleared his throat. “I checked into it.” Eyes moved back to him. Simon held his breath. There could be nothing worse than finding out Archard lived. Just the thought made his skin grow cold and his head ache. Rowan continued, “A group of hikers discovered the body about a week after the battle. It was identified as Archard and is now buried in his family’s mausoleum in Denver.”

  Simon sighed and relaxed his shoulders. Willa squeezed his hand.

  Rain stepped away from the window and nodded. “Good to know.” She smiled and then frowned, folded her inked arms. “But I guess that means this is a new threat. Or Rachel seeking revenge.”

  Simon exhaled. “So what now? How do we stop it or fix it? Did the . . . trees give you any clue?”

  Rowan shook his head. “No, only that there is Darkness nearby.”

  Willa stiffened next to him.

  “So there’s nothing we can do?” Simon said.

  “No, there is something. There is a spell in Ruby’s grimoire that allows us to . . . check up, if you will, on the Powers. Wynter and I have prepared everything.”

  “Form a circle,” Wynter instructed as she stood. The kitchen filled with the sound of chairs pushing back from the table and feet shuffling. The covens gathered in a tight circle behind the table.

  Wynter held Ruby’s large, rust-colored grimoire in her arms. “Rowan . . .” At her word, Rowan pulled over a large clay basin filled with rich, black dirt and set it in the center of the circle. He reached into his pocket and produced a golf ball-sized green-yellow peridot. After pushing the stone halfway into the dirt, he sprinkled a handful of kosher salt over it.

  Then the Luminary stood, stepped into his place in the circle. “Join hands,” he said quietly.

  Simon took Willa and Rain’s hands. Whether it was Rachel or a new threat, Simon worried what it would mean for them, for him. Are we facing another fight? The memory of the three Dark witches sailing through the air filled his mind. His heart picked up speed. No. Not again. When he agreed to join the Covenant, he hadn’t considered that other Dark witches might rise against them, that there might be frequent fights. With Archard dead, the evil seemed at an end. I was wrong. I should have thought this through more carefully.

  Rowan cleared his throat. “Focus your energy on the stone and draw power from the earth. Repeat the spell after me.” He took a breath and closed his eyes.

  Simon tried to push his thoughts aside as he squeezed his eyes shut, and called to the magic, focusing his mind. His hands grew hot, energy swirling inside him and on the air. The strength of the Covenant magic still surprised him. Each time they circled, it was like being connected to every plant, tree, rock, creature, and drop of water nearby, the sensations almost overwhelming, tingling along his nerves, threatening to awaken that stranger power inside him.

  “Energy of the Earth, grant us this night, the magic to see, to know, give us the sight.” Rowan’s voiced boomed in the sudden quiet, and when the group joined him Simon felt their voices reverberate in his chest.

  A flash of heat pushed out from the center of the circle; Simon opened his eyes. From the surface of the stone, a plant burst upwards, growing rapidly. A trunk formed, branches burst out of it, and green leaves popped open. Within seconds, a tiny tree had grown, a miniature oak slightly larger than most Bonsai trees. Collectively, the witches leaned forward, watching carefully.

  The tree burst into vicious red flames.

  Willa gasped; Simon pulled her back from the fire. The circle broke apart. Rain acted quickly to summon a spurt of water to put out the growing red flames. An eerie silence followed as they all blinked at the smoking, charred skeleton of the miniature tree.

  Simon put his arm around Willa’s shoulders and pulled her close. Goose flesh rose on his arms. “So this is bad?” Simon asked, breaking the silence, his voice quiet and thin.

  Rowan frowned, exhaled. “Yes, this is bad.”

  Chapter 9

  New Moon

  March—Present Day

  Archard sat in his wheelchair, slumped over like a sack of flour. Shriveled and deformed, he hardly looked human, wrapped in two thick flannel blankets to keep in the warmth that his burned skin could no longer contain. The imperious black sky loomed overhead, stars like shards of glass pressed into the firmament. No moon rose in the sky—it was a new moon. The best time for healing spells.

  The cave smirked at him, the place of his shame, the place where his own fire had betrayed him. He stared back with narrowed eyes at the entrance scorched black, fingerprints of flames rimming it. Ashes piled into gray drifts on the ground against the rocks. If Rachel hadn’t come back for him and rushed him to the hospital, his remains would be among those ashes. Parts of him were.

  From these ashes I will be reborn.

  Rachel set Bartholomew’s book down on another blanket spread out on the frosted dirt next to Archard’s chair. It lay open to a very specific spell, one they had been seeking out for months. It’d taken several reveal
ing spells to uncover the words, but Rachel had been diligent.

  “Are you ready, Archard?” she asked in a hushed tone, leaning in close to the hole where his ear had been.

  “Yes,” he mumbled in the voice, no longer his own.

  “You remember everything?”

  He scoffed. “Don’t treat me like a fool!”

  She nodded, ignoring his temper. “I’ll bring him, then.” Rachel slipped away into the trees surrounding the clearing. There was a scuffle of feet, and then pathetic pleas for mercy. Archard rolled his eyes.

  Rachel pushed the whimpering man forward. His dark jeans and black parka were dusty, his shoes heavy with mud. His hands were bound behind his back and a burlap sack covered his head. Archard wondered if it was itchy on the man’s skin. He’d lost all sensation in his own skin, except for pain, and he often wondered about such things.

  Rachel gave the man a powerful shove, and he collapsed at Archard’s feet. She gripped the top of the sack and ripped it upward.

  Archard met the man’s watery, red eyes, and the man recoiled, horrified by the spectacle before him. Archard grinned a lipless smile.

  “Please,” the man whined between sobs, “please let me go.”

  Archard said nothing. He needed to gather his strength.

  “Please. I’ll do anything, give you anything. I’m sure I could get some money. I have a nice car. What if . . .”

  “Shut up,” Rachel said coolly, her arms folded over her short, fitted leather coat. She rolled her icy blue eyes, and the man cowered under the venom of her words, dropping his head close to the ground. A fresh fit of sobs shook his thin body.

  Archard lifted his hand, a mangled mass of red and white flesh. “The athame.”

  Rachel set his favorite ritual dagger, wickedly sharp and impressively long, in his hand. The man tried to crawl away, but Rachel grabbed him and pushed him closer. Archard met his victim’s watery red eyes again, enjoying the fear and revulsion in them. “Your life for mine,” he whispered with irreverent pleasure. Then, gathering all the strength his damaged body could manage, he plunged the knife into the man’s gut. It didn’t go as far as it should, so Rachel reached around, put her hand on Archard’s, and thrust in the blade to the hilt. The man’s eyes flashed open wide, a silent scream caught in his throat.

  Blood trickled from his mouth, an odd gurgle escaping his throat. The wound was not immediately fatal, a detail vital to Bartholomew’s spell.

  Rachel pulled the victim’s slack body away, and Archard dropped his hand to his lap, huffing painful breaths. Rachel dumped the man into a hole, stepping in after him. She pulled the athame from his body—the man screaming in pain—and set it on the ground, the blade shiny with blood. Then, hopping out of the hole, she stood at its edge and waved her hand. A mound of dirt rose into the air in one big clump. Seeing the dirt, the wounded man’s screams pitched louder in protest. His hands clawed at the side of the hole. Rachel dropped the dirt heavily onto the man; it fell in staccato thuds, accompanied by his muffled screams.

  Archard’s heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest, but he ignored it. Rachel pushed his chair to the edge of the fresh grave. Gently she laid him down on the hard, cold dirt, tucking the blankets around him. Beneath him, Archard heard the weakening struggles of the interred victim.

  Rachel placed four blue pillar candles at each corner of the grave and lit them with a quick snap of her fingers. In the dirt above his head she drew a symbol: a strange stick tree with two crooked branches.

  Next she took a small glass bowl and filled it with some ashes from the cave. She set the bowl on the dirt above Archard’s head. Into the bowl she tossed a handful of eucalyptus and sage. Then, holding her hand over the bowl, she set the contents afire.

  “Ready?” she asked, her eyes burning with eagerness, reflecting the small flames in the bowl.

  Archard’s entire body felt cold as stone and just as stiff. Pain pulsed down his limbs. But he had to stay with it, see it to the end, no matter how much it hurt. “Yes,” he hissed.

  Rachel darted away and scooped Bartholomew’s book into her arms. With the massive black tome balanced on her forearms, she stood over Archard’s shivering body. Then she read from the Dark book, her voice like a snake, slithering and cold. “A life for a life, we offer mighty Earth. One now dead to give the other rebirth. Heal the wounds, make all complete. A body now whole, all weakness retreats.”

  Both witches gasped as the force of Bartholomew’s spell took over. The burning ash and herbs lifted out of the bowl to cyclone over Archard’s face. After a moment, the flames snuffed out; and what remained showered down into his eyes and mouth. He fought the urge to cough. Below him, more yells and moans came through the layers of dirt.

  The air in the clearing grew cold, crackling with a bizarre energy.

  The earth shook, bucking against the reigns of the Darkness, resistant, angry. The trees bent away, some snapping loudly in the quiet night. A rush of icy energy moved up through the dirt, pulling the dying man’s life force up and into Archard’s body. Droplets of blood bubbled out of the dirt, the victim’s blood. It rose above Archard, hovering over him for a protracted moment before falling hard onto his body. His face and chest and arms were covered in the man’s steaming blood, more rising and falling as the spell continued to work.

  Archard felt the man’s fight, his terrified struggle to cling to life, but his efforts were wasted. The man’s energy flowed into Archard, like water into a streambed, pleasant at first, but then morphing into searing pain. The witch screamed out, the action tearing at his throat and vocal chords. Clawing at the ground, he arched his back as the magic in the victim’s blood reformed him, repaired him. Below him, the dirt was silent.

  The magic continued to torment Archard’s body, the energy ripping through his skin, clawing at his wounds. Several minutes passed, an endless barrage. Near the end, he wished to die, the awful pain so overwhelming. Finally, the candles around him flared high, their flames reaching for the moonless sky, and then snuffed out. With them went the twisted pain.

  The night fell eerily still.

  Rachel held her breath. Archard looked dead, unmoving on the dirt, and covered in blood.

  “Archard?” she whispered.

  With a deep, rattling breath, he sat bolt upright. Rachel jumped back a step. He lifted his arms and looked down at skin pulled a little tighter, scars a little less harsh. He touched his face. There were lips, although thin and uneven. The skin along his jawline had smoothed a bit; there was half an ear. He gasped. “Rachel!”

  “Yes,” she breathed, stepping closer, “yes, it worked. You look . . .”

  “A little better.”

  She grinned slowly. “Yes.”

  Archard tested his feet, stumbling slightly, and stood for the first time in months. His muscles were weak, atrophied. He held his arms out, stretched his fingers. He rolled his neck and took a deep, full breath, pleased when it resulted in only a tiny jab of pain instead of a full punch in the face.

  “It worked,” he said, his eyes alive and bright. “Get me another sacrifice!”

  Willa held on to Simon’s arm, worry worming under her skin. The small tree continued to smoke.

  The house shook, another quake. No one moved.

  Finally, Cal broke the silence. “I think this is more than someone blocking our spells.”

  All eyes turned to the bear of a man.

  “What do you mean, Cal?” Darby asked.

  Cal rubbed at his large chin. “Just think about it. Not one of our spells has worked successfully since the Binding. We are supposed to have all this power, the most power, and yet we can’t even get simple scrying spells to work right. And now this spell,” he gestured to the tree. “How the heck do you explain that mess? A spell made for the Covenant blowing up like that?” He shook his head, folded his arms. “Either someone is blocking us with some mad-powerful magic we’ve never heard of, or something is wrong with us.”

  Willa’s
heart stuttered. Wrong with us? What could be wrong with us?

  Rowan stroked his beard pensively. “The Binding was successful. I don’t see how something could be wrong with the Covenant magic. But you have a point, Cal. Ruby’s notes say a message is suppose to appear in the leaves of the tree, words or images. But that . . .”

  A branch of the tree fell off, crumbling into the pot of dirt. Willa shivered. She looked up at Simon. He looked back with the same nervous confusion.

  Wynter stepped forward. “I think it’s time to talk to other witches, see if there are any rumors of a new Dark witch or coven.”

  Darby clicked her tongue. “That’s risky, Wynter. If word gets out, no one will leave us alone.”

  Willa had read in Ruby’s grimoire about the importance of secrecy to protect the powerful Covenant magic. One breath of the Binding would bring dozens, if not hundreds of other witches down on them—Dark witches intent on breaking the bond, and Light witches wanting to be part of the powerful magic.

  “I understand that,” Wynter said with a nod, “but we don’t need to say anything about the Covenant to make a few phone calls and ask a few questions.”

  Rowan nodded, “I agree. If we can’t figure out what’s going on the magical way, then we’ll do it the old fashioned way. Everyone start calling any contacts you know we can trust. Start with the ones near us, and go from there. Let’s see if we can find something—give us a starting point.”

  Everyone immediately pulled out their cell phones and started dialing. Willa looked at Simon, who shrugged; they didn’t have anyone to call. Simon took her hand, led her up the stairs and into their room—or the room that would be theirs when Willa finally managed to break away from her parents.

  The room was currently a disaster. The ugly wallpaper with a sad paisley design bubbled and peeled in several places. It might have been green once. The wood floor had warped and cracked, and the small brick fireplace was slowly crumbling. Willa lifted her chin, ran her eyes along a jagged crack in the ceiling. The radiant heater clicked loudly, putting off an inadequate amount of warmth.