Moon In The Mirror: A Tess Noncoire Adventure
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Raves for Moon in the Mirror:
“Frost juggles several plot lines but the ever-changing mix of mundane and supernatural elements keeps the story interesting. Fans of Anne McCaffrey and Marion Zimmer Bradley are most likely to enjoy this slightly screwball fantasy adventure leavened with touches of soap opera.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The absurd situations and mounting chaos keep things moving and plenty of fun.” —Locus
“Frost has created a resourceful and appealing heroine whose strengths and weaknesses together make a fully formed character. This sequel to Hounding the Moon continues a strong series.” —Library Journal
And for P.R. Frost’s previous novel,
Hounding the Moon:
“Readers who crave the fantasy equivalent of a summer movie will welcome Frost’s debut.” —Publishers Weekly
“Frost’s fantasy debut series introduces a charming protagonist, both strong and vulnerable, and her cheeky companion. An intriguing plot and a well-developed warrior sisterhood make this a good choice for fans of the urban fantasy of Tanya Huff, Jim Butcher, and Charles deLint.”
—Library Journal
“Featuring a courageous, witty, and downright endearing female protagonist reminiscent of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake and Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse, this is a fast-paced supernatural-powered thriller that blends Native American mythology, paranormal romance, and dark fantasy with the oftentimes wildly eccentric culture of science fiction/ fantasy fandom.” —The Barnes & Noble Review
“This is a fun, fannish romp full of sarcastic quips and supernatural action.” —Locus
P.R. FROST’S
Novels of Tess Noncoiré
now available from DAW Books:
HOUNDING THE MOON
MOON IN THE MIRROR
Copyright © 2007 by P.R. Frost.
All rights reserved.
DAW Books Collectors No. 1414.
DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
First Paperback Printing, September 2008
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
.S.A.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Heather Alexander: friend, musician, collaborator, and bard; the only person I know who can filk herself and come up with a song that is as good or better than the original two. How many of you can catch a fly?
Acknowledgments
Lyrics for “Playmate” by Philip Wingate, 1894 as found ingeb.org/songs/idontwan.html
“March of Cambreadth” music and lyrics by Heather Alexander and “Courage Knows No Bounds” music by Heather Alexander, lyrics by Philip R. Obermarck used with permission from Sea Fire Productions. Copyright Sea Fire Productions, Inc. © 1997.
Both of Heather’s songs can be heard on the CD “Midsummer” by Heather Alexander which is available at www.heatherlands.com. I have loved Heather’s music for many years and am very happy to find a place for it in my work. I own the entire set of her albums and frequently buy extras as gifts, or to replace my own when children and nephews come to visit and abscond with them.
Sitting at a con and shouting the lyrics to “March of Cambreadth” with two hundred other audience members sends chills up my spine every time.
My amazing husband, Tim Karr, spent an evening educating me on the wonders of single malt scotch. This is one commodity where the price of a bottle is directly proportionate to the quality of the “water of life.” I have thanked him privately.
Many thanks also to Deborah Dixon, Lea Day, Maya Bohnhoff, Carol McCleary, Sue Brown, and Bob Brown for their untiring help and thoughtful critique of this manuscript. You keep me going with encouragement and prudent kicks where I need it most.
Much appreciation has to go to Sheila Gilbert, editor extraordinaire at DAW, for guiding the vision of this series.
And I can’t forget Carol McCleary of the Wilshire Literary Agency for believing in me when no one else did.
Chapter 1
In African folklore, trickster Hare was sent by Moon to first people with the message: “Just as the moon dies and rises so shall you.” But hare confused the words and said: “Just as the moon dies and perishes so shall you.” Thus trickster Hare cost humankind its immortality.
THE WIND CIRCLED and howled. It wailed with the pathos of an errant spirit trapped between heaven and earth with no hope. No end to its torment. It rattled the window latches and whistled down the chimney, seeking haven inside my old house.
My benign resident ghosts retreated, leaving me utterly alone.
That was all I needed. Another storm to knock the power out and trap me indoors with several feet of snow blocking the doors. I saved the latest draft of my novel to a flash drive and switched to my laptop.
Finished or not, I had to e-mail it to my publisher first thing in the morning. If I had power and phone lines. Maybe I should do it now before the storm robbed me of access to the world outside. I had a reputation for punctuality to maintain. I also had a reputation for meticulous editing before I allowed the name Tess Noncoiré to appear on the cover.
I sent the e-mail, with the promise to polish the last four chapters and resend them as soon as I was sure of power.
The wind increased its tortured moans.
I shivered in the preternatural cold. “Old houses are drafty,” I reassured myself. If this kept up, I’d start believing my own prose.
Unconsciously, I edged my chair closer to the huge hearth opposite my antique rolltop desk. My eyes strayed to the bo
ok on the plank floor, propped open with two other books. A research text on the folklore, monsters, and demons of the New World.
Research.
“Windago,” I read and shivered. I’d encountered a mated pair of real Windago last autumn. Once human, they became one with the frigid northern wind, reclusive until they needed to hunt. Then they turned cannibal. They craved the blood of other humans, ever seeking to replace the souls they’d lost.
The book went on to theorize that the myth developed as an explanation for people of the north woods having to resort to cannibalism to survive especially harsh winters. If a monster bit them and they lost their souls, then humans hadn’t done the unthinkable. Replace internal demons with external monsters.
Yeah. Right. The author hadn’t ever encountered a Windago. I had. And I didn’t want to do it again.
Ever. I’d come this close to becoming freeze-dried coffee grounds. All from a single touch of a shadow.
What the research book didn’t say, but I’d learned on my own, was that Windago always hunted in pairs. To propagate, they had to bite a victim and leave the person living. The victim in turn had to bite a lover from his or her former life to maintain a pair.
Last autumn I’d killed one Windago. His mate still hunted me.
Was she the ravening wind that sought entrance to my home?
Did she seek a new mate or stalk me until one or both of us died? I didn’t know.
“Damn it, go away,” I shouted into the big empty house.
Not even my resident ghosts replied. I think they decamped to warmer climes along with my mother. After the third month when the temperature on Cape Cod didn’t break freezing, Mom suddenly found a third cousin twice removed she hadn’t seen since childhood who just happened to live in Florida.
Stay inside, Tessie babe. Demons can’t violate the sanctity of a home, Scrap, my otherworldly companion and weapon, whispered to me across the dimensions. From very far away. Too far away to come help me fight off a Windago.
Goddess only knew what Scrap was up to. Or where.
I’m stuck in the chat room. Big nasties trying to separate us permanently.
“Take care, buddy.”
A pang of loneliness stabbed my heart.
Coffee. I needed more coffee. Well, maybe I should switch to decaf. My nerves were jittery enough with that wind preying on my sanity.
I wondered if the tension in my neck was the precursor to a migraine. Normally I didn’t suffer from them like Mom did. The wind often triggered them in her. Something about changing air pressures.
This wind was more than changing air pressure.
I coaxed my shoulders into a more relaxed position. No way would I fall victim to my mother’s ailments. I was just worried about finishing the book. And staying free of the Windago.
I applied myself to the keyboard once more. Just a couple more hours of work.
If the damn wind would shut up.
The window rattled again, sounding very much as if a human hand tried to open the latch.
“Stay inside. Keep the doors and windows latched. Wait for dawn. Windago can’t survive daylight,” I repeated to myself over and over.
I dashed to the window anyway and checked the aging latch. Still closed.
Who could I call for help? My Aunt MoonFeather, the Cape’s resident witch, didn’t answer her phones. Gollum—Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe, Ph.D.— knew a lot about magic and demons and he’d helped me defeat the Sasquatch last autumn. Last I’d heard, he was still in Seattle teaching anthropology in some community college. Too far away to do anything but talk. He was good at talking and not much else.
Then there was Donovan Estevez. Handsome, sexy, a fantastic fencer, and knowledgeable about demons. Too knowledgeable, probably from firsthand experience. No. No way would I make myself vulnerable to him by asking for help.
Something crashed in the kitchen. I jumped. My heart lodged in my throat.
“Scrap?” Please, oh, please, let it be the mischievous brat returning from wherever.
No answer. I crept from my office through the long dining room and adjacent butler’s pantry, keeping well away from the walls and any shadows that might lurk there. At the entrance to the modern kitchen and breakfast nook, I paused and peered out.
No pots and pans littered the floor. The curtains lay flat against the windows.
Bang!
I screamed and leaped back at least six feet. Freezing air whirled around me.
Bang.
“Scrap, where the hell are you? I need help.”
Distant mumbling and grumbling in the back of my mind.
Creak, creak.
Was that someone twisting rubber soles on wet linoleum?
I grabbed a butcher knife from the utility drawer and inched forward again.
Creak, creak.
A quick glance through the narrow archway. The back doors, which opened into the mudroom, swung in and out, in and out in the freezing wind.
I wrapped my arms around my shivering body and cowered there in indecision for several moments.
Opening! I heard the wind wail.
Not daring to wait any longer, I ran with every bit of strength I could muster through the mudroom and slammed the outside door closed. I twisted the lock and the dead bolt for good measure, something I rarely bothered to do. Then I shoved the heavy boot box across it.
A wicked laugh. Not enough to keep me out. An almost face appeared through swirling snow and shadows in the glass top half of the door. Frigid air made the aging wood pull away from the fragile pane. Shadows cast from the streetlight across the yard played tricks on my senses.
I couldn’t tell if the Windago pressed close or not. Didn’t dare wait to figure it out.
I darted back into the kitchen and closed the inside door. A chair from the nook braced beneath the latch held it.
The laugh came again. This time singing a ditty from my childhood. A song my best friend Allie and I had cherished since kindergarten.
“Playmate, come out and play with me,
And bring your dollies three
Climb up my apple tree,
Holler down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we’ll be jolly friends forever more.”
Cellar door! Oh, my God, were the slanted doors attached to the outside foundation latched? They’d been covered with snow for so long I hadn’t checked the padlock on the outside, or the crossbar on the inside for months.
No way was I going down the dark, narrow cellar steps with only a single bare bulb down there to light my way. No way in hell.
I jammed another chair under that door handle. “No lock!” I screeched. Why wasn’t there a lock on this door?
Because that would make it too easy to get locked in the cellar while doing laundry. Damn.
Three phone books on the seat of the chair anchored it better.
I sang the alternate version of the childhood ditty to bolster my courage.
“Enemy, come out and fight with me.
And bring your bulldogs three,
Climb up my sticker tree.
Slide down my lightning
Into my dungeon door
And we’ll be bitter enemies forever more!”
It didn’t work. I still trembled in fear.
Not enough! A really cold gust whooshed down the chimney. The flames died. Coals faded from glowing orange and red to black.
I whimpered and threw some kindling into the grate. A cascade of sparks shot up the chimney. I added a log of heavy maple. Bright flames leaped and licked at the new fuel.
An otherworldly screech of pain responded to the fire.