Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy)

by Teri Harman

  The first name: Charles Plate.

  Archard moved down the line, burning a name into each forehead, wiping off bits of charred, red-black skin from his hand with a handkerchief.

  Ruby Plate

  Amelia Plate Moore

  Peter Moore

  Jennifer Plate Garrett

  Carson Garrett

  Camille Krance

  Ronald Krance

  Solace Krance

  Rupert Holmes

  Nine Light witches and one Dark, the Light witches in honor of his ancestors who tormented them and almost destroyed them completely. And the one Dark witch, Holmes, as punishment for the epic failure of letting Wynter escape, which directly resulted in Archard’s own failure at the cave. Five women and five men to complete the two True Covens, with himself and Rachel at their heads.

  The temperature dropped steadily, but the power of the spell kept Archard hot, feeding his fire. Sweat poured down the back of his neck and trickled along his spine. Sniffing lightly at the smell of burnt flesh, the witch moved back to the trapped souls. He slipped his own moonstone from his pocket.

  Archard glanced at Rachel, who shivered in the cold. She nodded in encouragement. He dropped to his knees in front of the trapped souls, still swirling in the magical dome, their moans now loud and haunting the air.

  A deep breath.

  A look at Bartholomew’s grimoire.

  He thrust the hand holding the moonstone into the dome. Instantly, the ghosts started gnashing and biting at his flesh. He pushed his teeth together, ignoring the pain, sending heat to the limb to try to protect it from the ghosts and the glacial cold inside the trap. Eyes closed, heart jumping in his chest, Archard began his chant, a slow slur of words so Dark that the earth shuddered beneath him.

  The air temperature plummeted fiercely, the clouds roiling overhead. The smell of snow filled the air. Archard continued his chant, over and over, his voice rising in volume with each repetition. Rachel joined in, throwing her power into the words.

  A visceral crack snapped in the air, and then a flood of moonlight broke through the clouds, pulled to the moonstones. The stones around the sacrifices’ necks glowed bright, sucking in the light and then throwing it back out in tremulous lines that all connected to Archard’s stone.

  He’d breached the Otherworld, thanks to the power of the trapped souls, whose cries and screams opened the door. The Otherworld would try to pull them in, take them back, but he’d keep them there as he pulled the witches’ souls from the embrace of the world beyond death. The trapped souls were the key, and he would use them to rob the Otherworld.

  Sudden screams rent the snow-scented air, sounds so terrible even Archard winced.

  The first ghost floated into view. The great Ruby Plate. Archard sneered as her flickering form rose from the grave. He guided her toward the dome and her white body slithered inside, trapped with the others. Archard took strength and satisfaction from the horror and shock on her face.

  The sacrificial victim with the Light witch’s name burned in her forehead collapsed, dead, eyes now clear with fear and realization.

  The next few ghosts came quickly, easily, snagged from their graves and shoved into the trap. More bodies thudded to the ground. The power of the souls grew with each addition. So much that Archard’s grin became a permanent addition to his devilish face.

  So much power!

  More!

  The snow started to fall in thick white curtains. Soon it covered Archard’s head and shoulders. His hand in the dome was now a tattered, bloody mess, and the flesh had grown unbearably cold. Frostbite would be unavoidable.

  He ground his teeth hard. Now he must pull the grave-less ghosts.

  Archard’s chant changed, the words specific to pulling ghosts without graves. He had no doubt that the power behind him would be more than sufficient.

  Give them to me!

  The Otherworld fought hard, but in the end, it had no choice but to bow to Archard’s terrible might. The screams continued to fill the air, but the thick snow now deadened the sounds. Rachel, teeth chattering and skin blue, put her hands to her ears and collapsed to the ground, moaning.

  Archard ignored it all, singularly focused. Not even the pain of his dying hand could stop him now.

  A few more.

  Soon the remaining souls slithered out of the slate-gray sky and into the dome. The trap was no longer sufficient to hold so much power and anger. Archard had only seconds before he lost them all. Quickly, he moved his hand downward, screaming in pain as he pushed the box closed, pulling the white fog of souls inside it.

  The ground quaked under him, outraged at the savage betrayal it had endured. Archard collapsed next to Rachel, cradling his hand to his chest, shaking violently. He blinked up at the snow, the feathery flakes landing on his face like whispers.

  His triumphant laugh echoed through the night.

  Chapter 33

  Blessing Moon

  July—Present Day

  Cold. Bone numbing, soul freezing cold. Willa had never felt cold like this. It snapped along her skin like a vengeful bird and dove deep inside her, burrowing into the inner most parts of her body within seconds.

  A light appeared, a gauzy ripple moving before her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like the thread of light radiated the cold. But how could it be? It was barely there.

  The light curled through the air, moving closer to her. Closer and closer. She watched with dreadful awe, wondering what it would do, what it could do. Then, in a blink, it vanished, and Simon stood in front of her, his face flat, almost sad, but more emotionless than she’d ever seen it. A faint glow emanated from him.

  He reached out to her; but when she reached back, he disappeared, leaving her alone in darkness. Only the cold remained. Willa stood painfully still, waiting for what would come next, what would break out of the heavy blackness.

  A voice floated on the air, far away, the words lost in the distance. Willa strained to hear.

  “Hello?” she called stupidly.

  “Help me . . .” came a response. Were those the words? The black air sucked them away before they fully formed in her ears. “Help . . . me . . . Willa.”

  “Where are you? Who are you?”

  “WILLA!” Her name came as a scream, awful and exploding with fear. Then another figure flashed before her, not the one she expected, and one that had not haunted her dreams in months. Archard. His cold eyes tore into her out of the surrounding blackness, their colorless hue adding to the cold inside her body. Then, ever so slowly, like a taunt, he smiled.

  Willa woke with a start and found herself in her and Simon’s bedroom in the breathy blue light of the full moon. Panic lingered inside her, an urgent need to act, to help. But who? The cry for help hadn’t had a distinguishable voice. She couldn’t even say if it’d been male or female. All she knew was the thick, icy fear behind the words.

  And the evil in Archard’s smile. No, no, no! It’s not possible.

  She pushed out of bed, instantly hissing at the cold. Assuming that feeling, too, was an echo of the dream, Willa thought little of it as she grabbed the fleece blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself. Aimlessly, she wandered over to the window, comforted by the sound of Simon’s even breathing. Bright blue-white light filtered in through the sheer curtains. Is that the moon? The light felt too bright, too white.

  Releasing a hand from the blanket, she parted the curtains. She blinked, stared hard, and then looked back at Simon. Am I still dreaming? She let the curtain fall, released the blanket, and turned to run. She bolted down the stairs two at a time, not caring how loud her footfalls were. She leaped down to the first floor and crashed into the front door. Scrambling with the lock, she threw it open.

  I’m awake. I know I’m awake.

  Standing on the porch, Willa gaped at the thick cover of snow, glowing in the light of the full moon, covering the green grass and burying the flowers. It sparkled innocently, beautifully, but
oh-so wrongly. She stepped stiffly down the porch steps, too shocked to even notice the cold bite of snow on her feet. She needed to touch it with her hands. She bent, scooped a mound of powdered-sugar snow into her hand and let it fall with a whisper of unnaturalness.

  It’s July. This is wrong. Something is so wrong!

  Quickly, Willa reached farther out over the untouched snow blanket and drew a five-pointed star. “Powers of the Earth, protect us,” she whispered. The star glowed bright for a moment and then Willa dashed into the house to wake the rest of the Covenant.

  Twelve pounding hearts. Twenty-four nervous eyes. A snowy winter-wonderland in summer.

  The Covenant stood in uneasy silence, gathered in front of the living room windows, staring. All they could do was stare at the whiteness. Someone had turned on the heater, and the air hummed with forced heat, smelling of hot dust. No one had thought to turn on a light.

  Simon had his arms around Willa; she shivered. Koda stood at his side, nose pressed to the glass of the window. Simon felt like he might drown in the flood of worry pouring out of his coven-mates. It thrashed at his mind-door, making his head ache.

  “Sun and moon,” Rowan finally whispered, breaking the silence.

  “What could throw the Powers off so greatly as to bring . . . this?” Charlotte asked, also in a whisper. It was not a night for regular voices. “Earthquakes are one thing, but this . . .”

  Wynter touched the window glass. “I don’t dare imagine.”

  “It has never snowed here in July before,” Elliot said, looking down at his phone.

  “It’s only around Twelve Acres,” Hazel added. “It didn’t snow in Denver. It didn’t start snowing until we got close.”

  Rowan shook his head but kept his eyes at the windows. “This isn’t freak weather. This is magic.”

  More silence. Simon’s head was pounding now, getting worse instead of better. Willa stirred in his arms, and then in a small voice she said, “I saw Archard in a dream, just before I woke up to find the snow.”

  Every eye immediately moved away from the windows, turning their shock and confusion on Willa and her words. Wynter stepped closer. “What did you say?”

  “Archard,” Willa breathed. “I saw him. It was so cold and then so dark. Someone called for help. Then he stood there, smiling.” Her shivering increased, and Simon tightened his arms around her.

  Wynter and Rowan exchanged a look. Wynter hugged herself and said, “Please, no. Holy moon, please no!”

  Rain stepped closer, “So all that’s been happening—the quakes, the bodies in the clearing, those poor monks in England, and now this—it was all Archard?”

  Rowan ran a hand back through his long hair, loose and messy from sleep. “I just don’t see how. I checked. There is a body buried in his grave. I . . .”

  “It’s him,” Willa said stiffly. “I wouldn’t dream of him if it wasn’t.”

  Darby scoffed. “How could anyone survive what we saw?”

  Simon narrowed his eyes in thought. It all seemed impossible, but . . . “Holy moon!” he said in realization. Everyone looked to him. “Rachel. She must have waited until we left and then saved him. But he still would have been badly burned.” Another idea hit him. “Do you think the sacrifices at the cave were used to heal him? Is that possible?”

  Rowan’s face paled. “Yes. I think it is.” He looked out the window. “That’s why the quakes came on the new moons—new moons are best for healing spells.”

  A smothering silence filled the room.

  “Archard is back,” Rowan said, the words dropping into the room like the blade of a guillotine.

  Simon winced as a new punch of emotion hit him: worry morphed into fear and terror. “What do we do?” he asked quietly.

  “A spell,” Darby answered. “A powerful one to show us what caused this. We’ve got a full moon; let’s use its power to find him. And this time, we make sure he stays good and dead.”

  Rowan sighed. “Everyone find a coat and some shoes and then meet out back.”

  In a mismatch of coats, sweaters, and any other winter clothes that could be scrounged up, the Covenant gathered on the back porch, gazing suspiciously at the snow, now six inches deep.

  Rowan pushed through the pack and moved down the stairs. “Let’s circle, covens together.” Once in a circle, men as one half, women as the other, shoes buried in snow and cold reddening their cheeks, Rowan said, “Join your pendants.”

  Simon reached into the neck of his hoodie and pulled out his pendant. He lifted it over his head and held the pendant out. The other five men held theirs out to meet his. Heat sparked in the cold night. The magic flared, forming the silver pendants into a circle of six parts, triangles pieced together, chains dangling underneath.

  The women did the same. Soon the two spinning circles hovered in the middle of the witches, heat and energy spilling off of them. The circle stood ready to perform full moon Covenant magic.

  “Join hands,” Rowan instructed. More heat flared, and the willow behind them shook off the snow, eager to witness the magic. Rowan lifted his head to the full moon. All faces turned upward, skin bathed in milky light.

  Simon’s pulse quickened, pushed up by the magic flowing around and through him. He caught Willa’s eyes across the circle; nervousness darkened her face.

  Rowan closed his eyes and chanted the spell in a commanding voice. “Powers of the Earth, show the plight that now plagues your shining Light. Show your Covenant the Dark that has brought this unnatural mark.”

  The Covenant then joined with him to repeat the spell two more times. The air shifted; the willow stilled. Furtive, nervous glances moved around the circle, flicking around the yard. Simon felt the voices before they started.

  Eerily quiet and then swelling loud, the whispers filled the yard.

  Help. Help us. Stop it. Must stop it. Please, help.

  Willa gasped loudly and then started to cry. Simon wanted to move to her, but couldn’t break the circle. With the voices came a chilling feeling worse than fear, more like anguish, like heart-ripping loss. He dared to open his mind-door a crack, reaching out to the sound of the voices.

  HelpusHelpusStopitStopItStopItNOOOOOOOO

  Everyone in the circle winced at the words pressing hard into their heads, the emotions too thick to bear. Simon couldn’t find anything to hold on to, no single person or mind to grip; there was just that feeling, like falling down a dark pit. He slammed his mind-door shut, unable to take it anymore.

  His head pounded.

  Willa screamed as she collapsed to the ground, breaking the circle. The voices immediately stopped. Simon rushed to her side. Her hands cradled her head, pushing hard against her hair. “Willa!”

  “We have to help them. He’s hurting them.”

  “Who? Who is it? Is it Archard? Who’s he hurting?”

  She moaned. “I . . . I’m not sure. I saw them in my head. They looked like ghosts, but it was hard to see through the pain.” She looked up, her eyes watery. “Did anyone else feel that? Or see that?”

  Wynter bent down. “No, just you.”

  Rowan said, “You think Archard is hurting ghosts?”

  Willa reached out her hand. Simon helped her to her feet. “I think so.” She looked at the snow.

  “How on earth could Archard hurt ghosts? And—more importantly—why would he? What’s the advantage to him?” Wynter asked.

  Willa shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Simon looked over at Rowan. “What do we do now?”

  Rowan set his jaw; his eyes flashed with anger. “We find Archard. Whatever it takes.”

  By dawn the Light witches had found nothing. After the spell, the Covenant split up and searched Twelve Acres. Walking the snow-quiet streets, Willa and Simon had kept their eyes open and flinched at every sound. No one was out; not a single car passed by. Willa started to feel as if the whole town had been deserted.

  Worried and slightly paranoid, she’d stopped at her parents’ hous
e. When she saw they were safe and asleep in their bed, Willa left a note telling them to stay inside and text her if they saw or heard of anything unusual—besides the snow, of course.

  Now, back at Plate’s Place, the Covenant huddled around the kitchen table, nursing steaming mugs of coffee or tea. Willa leaned on Simon’s shoulder, too tired to keep her own head balanced on her neck. No one had spoken for nearly five minutes, an undercurrent of tension pulling at their feet.

  Willa lifted her bleary eyes to the window. The snow had stopped hours ago and was already beginning to melt. When the sun came up in an hour, all evidence of the Dark magic would evaporate. Willa knew they were all thinking the same things: where was Archard, and why hadn’t he come for them? Because, whatever he had planned, it would most definitely involve them.

  Willa had other questions. Why ghosts? The echo of the pleas for help brought chills to her arms. Her mind searched for reasons, possibilities. What would he do with ghosts? Ghosts didn’t affect anything, didn’t do anything—as far as she knew. They were just there, echoes of a life lived. What advantage would ghosts be to a Dark witch bent on revenge and power?

  She thought of Solace, sitting primly in her rocking chair, reading a book, and nearly smiled at the idea that she could be any use to a Dark witch. But then a ripple of fear washed over Willa’s heart and she sat up with a jerk. Her cup of tea tipped over, spilling across the smooth surface of the table.

  Simon turned to her. “What’s wrong?”

  She popped out of her chair, already headed for the door. “Solace! I have to see if Solace is all right.” Chairs scrapped on the floor as others stood, alert to her panic.

  Simon snatched his keys off the table and followed her. “I’ll drive.”

  Willa plunged out the side door and ran to the Jeep, Simon only a step behind, their feet slapping in the puddles of melted snow. Wynter called from the door, but Willa ignored her. She had to get to the museum; suddenly the whole world seemed to depend on it.

  With her nerves tied in fiery knots, the one-minute drive up the road felt like an eternity. Finally, Simon parked out front. Willa ran to the door, fumbling with her keys. She unlocked it, and the big wooden door flew open with a squeal of protest. She stepped inside the dusty foyer.