Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy)

by Teri Harman

  Instantly, she knew something was wrong. “Solace!” she squeaked. Then louder, clearer. “Solace, are you here?” Willa took off running, racing through the museum, frantic. After one unsuccessful lap, Willa stopped in the main exhibit hall, panting. Simon hovered behind her, unsure how to help. She closed her eyes and tried to feel the ghost’s presence, a feeling she knew as well as the sound of her own breath.

  Come on, Solace! Be here!

  “Willa?” Simon asked tentatively, breaking her concentration.

  A defeating crack of understanding broke her heart in two and turned her bones cold. Her hands started to shake. “She’s not here,” she breathed, the words fumbling on her lips.

  Simon blinked and shook his head. “But I thought she couldn’t ever leave.”

  “She can’t!” Willa heart palpated furiously. She spun around to face him, her eyes big and wild, like uncut gems. “Holy moon, Simon! Solace is NOT here!”

  Chapter 34

  Waning Crescent

  July—Present Day

  “Willa, you can’t keep sitting here, just waiting.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “But it’s been almost a week!” Simon rubbed at the back of his neck and took a breath to calm his voice. “I miss you. You’ve barely been home. You haven’t been training. Have you even slept a full night?”

  Willa only moaned in response; her head pillowed on her arms on the cluttered desk in the back office of the museum. Beneath her face lay Solace’s favorite book, an 1813 edition of Sense & Sensibility. Simon sighed quietly, more from worry than frustration. He’d been trying to convince her for the last half hour that sleeping alone in the storeroom and wandering the exhibits all day would not bring her friend back. But she mulishly clung to the idea that Solace would somehow reappear, that she was only hiding or playing a trick, instead of . . . whatever had happened.

  Simon stepped closer and put a hand on her back. “Come on, my Willa. You’re going to drive yourself crazy. Plus, Bertie keeps calling me wondering if you’re having some kind of psychotic break.”

  Willa scoffed but didn’t say anything.

  “Come home. Sleep in your own bed, with me, work with your magic, and help us figure out what happened.” He rubbed her back. “That is all you can do.”

  She flinched away from him, sat up. The dark circles under her eyes gave her a haggard, beaten look that he hated. “No! I’m the only one who can see her. I have to be here if she gets back. If she needs help. . . I can’t accept that”—her bottom lip trembled—“that he took her from me.” Her eyes glassed over and the tears slipped down her cheeks. “I can’t! I won’t!”

  Lifting her chin, she set her jaw, trying to fight the hiccup of sobs in her chest. Simon reached out a tentative hand, touched her shoulder. To his surprise, she collapsed into him, burrowing her face into his stomach, her hands clenching his belt. Simon cradled her head in his hands, his heart breaking, aching to make it better.

  After a moment, he knelt down in front of her. “Listen: Elliot had a dream last night about Archard’s house in Denver. Rowan and Cal went to check it out. This could be our break in finding him and figuring out what happened. Don’t you want to be at home when they get back?” He said the words as gently as he could find.

  She sniffled, nodded. “I do, I just . . . It’s Solace, Simon.”

  “I know.” He wiped her hot tears away and pushed back her hair. “But you can’t do anything for her sitting here torturing yourself. You know she’d want you out there, solving the mystery. Right?”

  “Yeah.” She exhaled her frustration. “I should be able to do something. What good is this Power of Spirits if I can’t help her and the others?” Her eyes dropped away. “I hear their voices all night long. And last night I dreamed that Solace stood between Archard and that other witch, the creepy one with the crazy eyes.” A shiver shook down her torso.

  Simon gripped her upper arms. “I know exactly how you feel.” When she looked at him, he gave her a small smile.

  Her own lips twitched into an attempt at a smile. It broke his heart to see her trying to be happy when he knew she was so devastated. The smile faded away, and her eyes turned desperate. She said meekly, “Maybe she crossed over. Do you think she crossed over and those voices I heard have nothing to do with Solace?”

  Simon frowned. It would be too amazing of a coincidence, and Willa knew it; but he hated to pick apart her fragile hope. “It’s possible.”

  Willa’s tired eyes wandered away again; she knew he was placating, knew that’s what she wanted him to do. “I never got to tell her how she died. Never got to tell her that you carry her magic.” She pressed a finger to his chest. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  He couldn’t take the haunted look on her face any longer. He stood, pulling her with him. “Come on. You need some real sleep.”

  “But what if . . . ?” she began half-heartedly and then gave up the argument, allowing Simon to pick up her bag and guide her out of the museum.

  Solace’s copy of Sense & Sensibility sat heavily on Willa’s lap. She shouldn’t have removed it from the museum—it was a precious artifact and worth a lot of money—but Willa couldn’t leave it behind. She caressed the soft leather cover, fingering Jane Austen’s embossed name.

  Her mind moved to one of the last conversations she’d had with her ghost-friend. They’d sat in the hot, poorly lit office in the back of the museum, Willa polishing some of the silver artifacts, Solace lounging on top of a bookcase. “I wonder if I had a beau?” the ghost mused, a favorite question.

  Willa had smiled. “Oh, of course you did.” Always her answer.

  “Do you think he was like Willoughby or Colonel Brandon?”

  With a roll of her eyes, Willa said, “Hopefully neither one. Jane Austen’s men are too perfect for my taste. Too . . . dashing, not enough . . . manliness.”

  Solace sat up, hand on her heart, feigning offense. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true.” Willa smiled as she dotted more polish onto a large platter.

  “Willa Fairfield, you take that back! I’ll not hear you insult Jane Austen in my presence.” Solace liked to play the dramatic.

  “Oh, come on, Solace. Wouldn’t you rather have a man with depth, with complications, with . . . realness?”

  “I don’t think that’s a word.”

  Willa rolled her eyes again. “How about a man like Mr. Rochester, in Jane Eyre? Much more interesting.”

  “That cranky old man? Sun and moon! I suppose next you’ll suggest that horrid Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights.” Solace shook her head.

  “Well, at least Heathcliff loved with fiery, eternal passion instead of—what’s that phrase from your book?—‘polite affection.’”

  Solace rolled her eyes. “You’re crazy. Isn’t Simon perfect, like a Jane Austen man?”

  Willa scoffed. “Most definitely not, and that is why I love him.”

  Solace sighed and fluttered back into her lounging position. “Oh, to be in love.”

  As the memory faded away, Willa smiled sadly and turned to look at Simon’s profile. He’d let his hair grow out a little in the last weeks, and the yellow curls had softened around his face, covering the tops of his ears and draping his forehead. She liked the wild effect. Her eyes traveled down his stone-cut jaw to the bulk of the muscles in his arms as he held the steering wheel. There was certainly a little of both Rochester and Heathcliff in him: a complicated mix of passion, intelligence, and tortured past.

  His nightmares had stopped. She hadn’t realized it before, but his bad dreams had stopped at the same time hers began. Did that mean he had finally come to terms with the cave, or was he too distracted by the recent events to worry about three dead witches?

  Sensing her stare, Simon turned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just . . . tired.” A smile twitched at her lips and then fell away. “What about you?”

  He looked at her briefly, turned back to the road. “I
’m fine.”

  “That doesn’t sound too convincing.”

  He sighed. “I know.” He brushed at the curls on his forehead. “It’s hard to be convincing when I don’t know how to feel from one minute to the next.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “Do you think our lives will always be like this? This crazy up-and-down chaos?”

  Simon turned to her with concern. “It’s all my fault.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  He bit his lower lip, looked out the windshield. “I’m a mess, and I’ve dragged you into the middle of all of it. And I really am sorry for that.”

  “Simon . . .”

  “I think the training is helping though. Rowan is a task-

  master.” He smiled. “I have felt more in control.” Simon kept one hand on the wheel and with the other fiddled with the top of the gearshift.

  Willa forced a smile. “That’s good.” She looked down at her hands. “What about . . . I mean, if Archard comes . . .” She felt Simon’s eyes rest on her, and she exhaled. “What about in a fight?” He didn’t answer right away, and Willa could sense his struggle.

  Finally, he said, “I guess we’ll find out.” He huffed out a breath and added, “I can still feel it growing. The training helps, but my powers are still increasing. I don’t know what’s fueling it, or if I can slow it down. The thing that really scares me though . . .” He gripped the gearshift knob until his hand was white.

  “Tell me,” Willa whispered.

  He didn’t look at her as he pulled the car to a stop outside Plate’s Place. “That deep down . . .” He paused again and licked his lips slowly. “I like the power.” The words barely left his mouth; Willa wasn’t even sure if she’d heard him correctly.

  A chill brushed her neck, causing the hairs there to stand on end. Unsure how to respond or even what to think, she rested her head against the window and gazed out, her eyelids like heavy drapes. Maybe Simon enjoying his powers was a good thing. Maybe it meant his acceptance of them, his willingness to work with them. But ripples of worry moved off her heart. Yet, could she complain that he was talking to her, telling her something like that? She wanted that, had asked for it.

  A streak of movement came around the side of the house. Willa sat up. “Was that Koda?”

  Simon turned. “What?”

  Spinning in her seat, Willa looked out the back of the open Jeep. “There!” She pointed. Simon swiveled his neck. The wolf ran down the street, away from the house.

  “Where is he going?” Simon said, eyes narrowed at the retreating form of his Familiar. The wolf suddenly stopped, looked back at them, and then gave a short howl. “He wants us to follow him.”

  Willa frowned; she was still trying to figure out the witch-

  Familiar relationship. She was used to animals coming to be healed, but not to having one around all the time—especially a wolf that acted more human than canine. “Okay. Go,” she said.

  Simon flipped the Jeep around. The wolf loped through the streets, his spindly legs propelling him effortlessly. Willa noticed the confused looks of bystanders as the wolf raced by.

  A few minutes later, Koda turned down a road Willa knew well. She held her breath, her heart jumping, senses alert. Koda stopped at the iron gate of the Twelve Acres Cemetery. The town cemetery was small, clean, and peaceful. The gate, designed in the shape of intertwining ivy vines, stood squarely in a squat stone wall.

  Simon parked the Jeep. He and Willa exchanged a look and then followed the wolf through the gate. Koda padded ahead, looking confident of his destination. Willa visited the cemetery often. Part of her town historian training included knowing the graves of all the important people who had lived in Twelve Acres. Plus, it offered a serene place to walk and think.

  Koda cut sharply off the path and onto the grass. He weaved through the newer headstones to a group of much older ones. Willa felt dizzy, her head a bobbing balloon. Simon gripped her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s Ruby’s grave,” she stuttered.

  Simon’s head snapped back. Koda whined, pawing at the foot of the tall stone. The late afternoon sun pooled in the etched names of Ruby and Charles Plate. Simon left Willa, dropped next to his wolf. “What is it, Koda?” he said.

  Willa closed her eyes, trying to push down the wave of fear rising in her throat.

  “Willa! Look at this,” Simon called, looking up at her from the grass.

  Willa swallowed and dropped to her knees. Near the bottom of the stone was a mark, black, eerie, and wrong: a small skull and cross bones. The sight of it brought stars to Willa’s vision. She teetered and Simon caught her.

  “No, no. That can’t be here,” she mumbled. Koda pushed his nose forward to meet Willa’s eyes. He lifted a paw and put it on her knee. In the sun-yellow circles of the wolf’s eyes, she saw her fear confirmed. She shook her head quickly.

  “What is it, Willa?” Simon tightened his grip on her.

  “Check the other headstones!” Koda moved closer so Willa could lean into his body. Simon crawled over to check the stones for Amelia, Peter, and Amelia’s parents.

  Willa watched him closely, her hand buried deep in Koda’s bristle-brush fur. When Simon’s face fell, she knew.

  “They all have that mark,” he said quietly.

  She closed her eyes and tried to pull in a steady breath. Is it possible? Did Archard really . . . ? Why? To Simon, she said, “Call the Covenant, and tell them to come as soon as possible.”

  While they waited for the Covenant, Simon left Willa sitting in the grass with Koda and checked several more headstones, but found nothing. He knew he wouldn’t, but he still had to look.

  As unsettling as this discovery was and how strangely Willa reacted, he was relieved to have something to think about other than his tongue-in-cheek revelation to Willa about enjoying his power. She must think I’m some kind of psycho. He stopped to stare out over the field of headstones. Maybe I am. Yes, training helped a little. Yes, Rowan’s guidance was surprisingly astute; but while part of Simon felt relieved by the effects of training, the other only worried more. If he learned to control his powers, he could use them more efficiently. And if he learned to enjoy instead of fear, it would be easy. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hold back in a fight, to resist the urge to use everything in his arsenal. What if the next time he used it on purpose?

  “Simon!”

  He looked up to see the other witches at the gate. He waved them over. Charlotte trotted past him to sit with Willa and put a comforting arm around her. Rowan stopped next to Simon, his face pale and drawn.

  “Any luck at Archard’s house?” Simon asked in a hushed tone.

  Rowan heaved a sigh. “Nothing. The house was empty and looked like it hadn’t been lived in for months.”

  Simon shook his head. “Well, I’m afraid we found something here, and it has Willa really freaked out.”

  “Show me.”

  Simon led the group over to the headstones of the deceased witches, knelt, and pushed aside the grass. The symbol, the size of a quarter, glared back from the gray surface of the stone of Ruby and Charles’ grave. At the sight of it, Wynter gasped.

  “What does it mean?” Simon asked.

  Stroking his beard, Rowan said, “Well, the obvious: it means death. Necromancers—Dark witches known for trying to raise the dead—used that symbol.” He squinted at the mark. “But that was centuries ago. Necromancers no longer exist because the spells were all wiped out by Light witches. Too many terrible accidents.”

  “That mark looks fresh,” Wynter said.

  “It is.” Willa spoke up from her spot on the grass. Koda sat panting beside her, refusing to leave her side. “I’ve been here a hundred times and that”—she pointed to the mark—“is definitely new.” She patted Koda’s head, her eyes trained on the headstones. “Archard took them, like he took Solace,” she said quietly.

  Next to her, Charlotte started and leaned forward to look at Willa’s face. “
What are you talking about?”

  Willa’s jaw tensed for a moment as if the words would be painful to say. “I think Archard took Solace and the ghosts of these witches. He did it on the full moon—it’s what caused the snow.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “The voices we heard—it was them. Asking for my help.” Her face screwed up with emotion.

  Rowan squatted in front of Willa and nodded to Koda; the wolf nodded back. “Willa, why would you think that?”

  Willa looked past Rowan, up to Simon. He had figured her sensitivity to the marks was just her instincts, but the look on her face said there was more to it than that. “I only told you a small part of that dream I had about Solace with Archard and the other witch.”

  Simon narrowed his eyes, sensing the awful tremor of fear in her. “What else happened?” he asked.

  She wetted her lips and exhaled. “I’ll show you.” She turned to Rowan. “All of you.” Then to Simon again, “Can you get my dream cradle out of my bag? It’s in the Jeep.”

  Willa cupped the velvety blue pouch in her hands, staring down at the black side-ways looking eye symbol on the outside. The scents of lavender and sage drifted up to her nose. The weight of the moonstone inside pressed into her palm.

  Only once before had she shown her coven-mates one of her dreams. Last time, they were desperate to find Simon and Wynter, and her dream about Simon standing in a cave had done nothing to help. What she would show them probably couldn’t help either, but they needed to see it.

  Koda nudged her with his snout, and she stood up. Simon put himself next to her and briefly brushed his hand along her hip. “Do you need help?”

  “No,” she shook her head. Loosening the purse strings, she pulled out the moonstone, milky white and as big as her palm.

  Wynter moved to her other side. “I put up a blocking spell, so no one walking by will see us. You can start now.”

  Willa inhaled, long and slow, closing her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to relive this dream, to see the ancient witch cross over from the mist of sleep to the sunshine of this place.