Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy)

by Teri Harman

  What just happened? Two hours ago, the worst thing to worry about was Simon almost accidentally killing us all, and now . . .

  She and Simon got into the car with Rowan and Wynter. The rest crowded into the other vehicles, not even hiding their avoidance. Simon didn’t seem to notice, but Willa felt a sharp stab of hurt. Any hope of finding a way to stay with the covens evaporated.

  They drove in silence. Simon kept the grimoire on his lap, a hand securely on top of it. Willa couldn’t help looking over at it every few minutes, its presence so unsettling. The scenes from her dreams, especially the poor bookmaker who had crafted the ancient tome, replayed in her mind, potent and draining. She tried to distract herself with the scenery outside the window but failed.

  Soon Rowan turned off the main road onto a long wooded driveway. At the head of the drive sat a long, low-profile house, all glass and wood beams, windows glowing yellow in the black night. The house was tucked inside the trees, bending around them, cradled by them, cozy and inviting; Willa sighed at the sight of it.

  Rowan parked and turned off the car. He paused, turned slightly as if to say something, but then got out of the car. Not even Rowan knows what to say. Simon had saved them all, saved the magic and the Powers of the Earth from imprisonment in Archard’s twisted grip. They should be celebrating, but there was nothing joyous in this triumph.

  Willa suddenly felt unbelievably tired and wished for her own warm bed back in Twelve Acres, Koda’s calming presence standing watch at the window, with a long night of dreamless sleep. She wished they’d brought the wolf with them instead of leaving him behind. Her attachment to the animal had grown, surprising her. Koda may have been Simon’s Familiar, but Willa needed him, too.

  She followed Simon out of the car and up the steps of the house. A woman stood in the open door, backlit by more warm light, her features hidden in shadow. Wynter approached her first. “I’m sorry to show up like this, Mom, but we’ve . . .”

  Chloe held up her hand to stop Wynter’s apology and then dove forward to wrap her daughter in a tight embrace. Wynter blinked in surprise but returned the hug, her eyes pressed tightly shut. Chloe released her daughter and turned to the ragged group of witches waiting on her steps. “Please come in. You are all welcome. I have hot soup, bread, tea, and warm beds.”

  She greeted them each personally as they passed through her door. When Willa stepped close enough to see her face, her heart burst into an excited pace. The auburn hair streaked with gray, green eyes, regal face. The older woman looked just like her daughter, but there was something more, something the space behind Willa’s heart begged her to see.

  “What’s your name?” Chloe asked.

  “Willa.”

  “Well, welcome, Willa. Come in and get comfortable.”

  Willa could only nod and walk past as Chloe turned to Simon. After more pleasantries, Willa and Simon stood inside the foyer as Chloe shut the door. Willa turned to ask her a question but realized she didn’t have one to ask. She knew she’d never seen the woman before, rarely heard Wynter speak of her and yet . . . A feeling of strong recognition coursed through her, as if she should know her.

  “This way,” Chloe said. She wore a set of blue flannel pajamas and slippers, her short hair slightly mussed, like she’d been sleeping or lying down, but there was pink in her cheeks and the same vibrancy in her eyes that Wynter had. She had to be in her eighties, but showed few signs of age, only a few wrinkles and gray hairs to give her away.

  Willa and Simon followed her into the kitchen, a welcoming room of white cabinets and marble counters. Simon looked down at Willa and then leaned close to her ear. “Is something wrong?”

  Willa looked up at his dark brown eyes. “I’m not really sure. This whole night is . . .”

  He nodded, understanding the words she couldn’t put into place.

  The kitchen smelled of onions, fresh parsley, and baking bread. Wynter was already dishing out bowls of soup. She handed one to Willa, but nearly dropped the bowl she held out to Simon when she saw the book under his arm. “Simon! What is that?”

  “Bartholomew’s grimoire,” Simon said evenly. “It was sitting there in the sand, and I didn’t think it was a good idea to leave it.”

  Rowan joined Wynter at the stove, frowning at the book.

  “Should I have left it?” Simon asked.

  “No, no,” Rowan said shaking his head. “Of cours, not. I think we all just forgot about it. The question is what to do with it? It should be destroyed.”

  Simon frowned and said, unconvincingly, “Yes, it probably should.”

  There was an odd moment of stand-off: Rowan wanted to take the book, but Simon’s posture suggested that he wouldn’t give it up. “Simon,” Willa said. “Maybe Rowan should take it.”

  Simon looked down at her and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” Simon held the large black book out to Rowan. “But I don’t think we should destroy it until we study it.”

  “What?” Rowan said with surprise.

  “Well, everyone thought that Bartholomew was a myth, and now we have the only evidence that he actually existed. And Willa has been dreaming about him. Wouldn’t it be wise to see what’s in the book, who he really was?” Simon turned to Willa. “Don’t you agree? I mean, from a purely historical point of view, that book is priceless.”

  Willa nodded reluctantly. “That is true. But I don’t really know how it would help us. We won’t ever use any of his magic.” The idea of studying the grimoire repulsed her; she’d learned enough about Bartholomew in her dreams. Not even the historian in her wanted to know more.

  Rowan shook his head. “It may not be safe. This is no ordinary grimoire. But you do have a point.”

  Wynter said, “Let’s not decide right now. We can discuss it at a better time. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Willa said, an undercurrent of foreboding moving inside her at the idea of keeping that book around.

  Simon nodded. “Okay. Good.”

  “Until then,” Rowan said. “I’ll keep it safe.” Rowan tucked the book under his own arm and left the room. Simon watched him for a moment and then calmly accepted a bowl of soup from Wynter.

  Willa and Simon took their bowls to a couch in the family room and ate greedily. Willa thought it felt both amazing and wrong to sit and eat soup after what had happened, almost ashamed by her hunger when Rain and Hazel’s corpses lay out in the trunk of the SUV.

  No one spoke. Chloe attempted some small talk but soon realized the group was past amiable discourse.

  Bellies full, Chloe walked Simon and Willa to one of her many bedrooms. This one was small, painted melon orange and had a double bed dressed in white linens. “Get some rest. There is a bathroom with a shower just through there.” She pointed to a small door to the right. She moved to leave the room, stopped, and then turned to Willa. With a serious expression, she said, “I’m so sorry about what happened tonight. I know what it’s like to lose a friend.”

  “Thank you, Chloe,” Willa whispered.

  Chloe smiled somberly. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Willa stood by the bed, too exhausted to move, her arms heavy weights at her sides. She desperately wanted a shower to wash away the salt, sand, and memories, but the effort seemed monumental. Simon, already in the bathroom, the water running, poked his head back out and, seeing Willa just standing there, crossed to her. “I’ll help you,” he whispered

  She looked up at him and suddenly wanted to cry. A flash of what she’d seen in the mirror during the spell invaded her mind. She’d almost forgotten about it in all the chaos that followed, and she still had no idea what it meant. “Simon, I . . .”

  “Shh,” he soothed. “Save it for tomorrow.” He stepped in front of her, kissed her forehead and helped her undress. Simon lifted her like a child and carried her into the bathroom. He set her inside the small glass-enclosed shower, the water steaming hot and instantly relaxing. She closed her eyes, dipped her face into the pulsing s
tream, and exhaled. Steam rose in clouds all around her.

  With the salt and sand washed away, Simon shut off the water, wrapped Willa in a fluffy white towel, and carried her to the bed. Tucking her into the covers, he kissed her once on the lips.

  Physically drained, mentally wounded, but warm, her eyes soon fell closed.

  The last thing Willa saw was Simon standing at the window, gazing out at the trees in the night with a curious expression.

  Epilogue

  Black Moon

  July—Present Day

  Bartholomew stood by the window, gazing out at the layered shadows of the trees. Memories of his long-ago home, once also tucked into the privacy of big oaks, floated through his mind. Not a sad kind of reminiscing, instead he felt only wonder and elation at how perfectly things had worked out.

  There was so much to experience and savor after the long years of having his soul trapped in a suffocating lead box with no feeling, no senses—nothing but fuzzy grayness. This modern world offered many pleasures, new things.

  He’d planned it all, known he would return to a new time, but the reality of it was wonderfully intoxicating. Of course, things hadn’t gone exactly as planned. No, they’d gone much better.

  The plan had been to inhabit the Dark witch that found the box. Bartholomew had almost done just that, been easily pushing inside Archard’s mind and body several weeks ago when a strange twist of fate had taken his soul elsewhere. A tremor in the air had stopped him, a call of instinct. He turned to it, traveling through the air to the mountains. And there—holy moon!—he’d found the young man, Simon. The young man’s soul had called out to Bartholomew because they were one and the same: True Healers and gift misfits.

  However, entering the young man wasn’t as easy as it would have been with Archard, who was already open to Dark magic. Simon’s Lightness repelled Bartholomew’s soul, but the witch knew his way around such things. A simple sacrifice of the owl that had sat conveniently nearby created enough disturbance in the magic to open a crack to slip through. The girl, Willa, had felt his presence, sensed the magic of it because of her unique gift, but once Bartholomew settled himself in a corner of Simon’s mind all was well.

  The possession incomplete, the Light still forming a barrier between Bartholomew and Simon, Bartholomew waited patiently. Those weeks in Simon’s mind had not been a waste. That time had been essential. It’d given him the knowledge and skills to act proficiently as Simon, to slip into his life with ease.

  Bartholomew knew everything.

  So, slowly he worked at breaking down the barrier, cutting back the vines of Simon’s defense. All it took was one moment of giving in to his incredible powers, one crack in the door to Darkness. Bartholomew pushed Simon’s powers, awakening them much quicker than natural. The boy had amazing skill—so like himself. And Bartholomew had almost had him in the pit during the challenge, had helped push Simon’s powers so far, but it wasn’t until that moment on the beach that Bartholomew had been invited in.

  Now the reincarnated witch held out the thick, muscular arms of his new body, turned them over, flexed the fingers. This was what he’d been missing at the end of his other life: vigor and newness. A million ideas raced through his mind, with potential as an elixir in his blood. He had a specific plan, one he’d sharpened the details of before his death, but felt no hurry. He had plenty of time to enjoy himself while he made preparations.

  What should he do? Where should he go? And most importantly, how did he get his book back without causing a big scene with these Light witches?

  How incredible it had been to hold it once again!

  After a while, Bartholomew grew dizzy with the thrill of it all. He crossed to the bed and climbed in next to beautiful Willa. Softly, he moved her nearly dry hair aside and gazed at the round scar on her neck. A strange thing—with his powers, there should never be a scar. Perhaps he had underestimated Archard’s control over the Darkness.

  He kissed the spot, and she sighed divinely in her sleep. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her warm body against his own, inhaling the floral scent of her hair.

  One decision was easily made. He would not leave this pleasant creature’s side. He wondered if she would still dream of his life as she had while he’d been trapped in Simon’s mind. That had surprised him, her Power of Spirits gift extraordinarily powerful, more than she realized. But that strength pleased him as well. Brigid had been unique, unusual in her abilities. So much about Willa reminded him of Brigid.

  Bartholomew closed his eyes and settled into the bed. This girl alone was worth coming back for. Perhaps—finally—he had found a woman worthy to take his wife’s place.

  In the warm dark, he whispered, “Good night, my Willa.”

  Acknowledgements

  The following people deserve endless thanks and a lifetime supply of homemade cinnamon rolls dripping with maple icing.

  My husband, Matt, earns the most praise. There will never be enough thank you’s for a man like my man. You are the best! To my three sweet and crazy kids—you are each amazing. To all of my family members, Harman and Bills, thank you for being patient with my weirdness and encouraging at each step.

  To my fabulous agents, Fran Black and Jenn Mishler, thank you for always being there to give encouragement and to fight the battles.

  Beta readers saved this book. Thank you so much, Carol Higginson, Matt Harman, Michelle Parker, and Brook Mann.

  To the good people at Jolly Fish, thank you for believing in my work and for all that you do. Special and copious thanks to my editor, Reece Hanzon, who gets as excited about bad guys as I do and worked many hours to help make this book better.

  Thanks to all who read my KSL column, watch my Studio 5 segments, follow on social networks and read my blog. I appreciate your support!

  And to you, dear reader, thank you for giving your time to my book! You matter more than you know.

  Teri Harman has believed in all things wondrous and haunting since her childhood days of sitting in the highest tree branches reading Roald Dahl and running through the rain, imagining stories of danger and romance. Currently, her bookshelf is overflowing, her laundry unfolded, and her three small children running mad while she pens bewitching novels. She also writes a book column for ksl.com, Utah’s number one news site, and contributes regular book segments to Studio 5, Utah’s number one lifestyle show.

  Join in the magic and chaos at teriharman.com.