Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  “What is that? On your neck?” Her voice rose as she stared.

  “Just my winter power creeping along my skin.” He coughed and regained his composure. “As part of our respect for Grammy, my Winter Court protects you from—”

  “Raclaw and his Autumn Court.” Her brows rose and she fingered her talisman. “Why does he want this? And why do you?”

  He swallowed hard, not wanting to reveal his intentions, but he couldn’t deny the vital importance of his nightmares. He had to safeguard those who might be harmed by the power she possessed. “Black amber absorbs negative energy aimed at you. In addition, with constant wear, the gem will absorb a witch’s own powers. Your strength, which is strong and complex, is easily visible to fae through the amber. And also in a form which can be used by fae.”

  She pursed her lips. “So this is a fight to gain my witch’s power?”

  “It seems that it is from Raclaw’s position.” That part of his answer came quickly and easily, not the rest. “I’m acting on the defensive, since by long and good standing with Grammy Flora, we’re bound to protect you. Securing your talisman will keep you safe from Autumn Court attacks. It will also keep that court from overpowering mine through use of the black amber.” He took a deep breath, relieved. The ability to voice the words proved even to himself that they were true. He hoped she didn’t ask him to rank the reasons for his involvement. Her protection, his honor to Grammy Flora, his court’s safety, supremacy over the Autumn Court—in his heart they seemed equal. But to his conscience, disciplined with the code of a ruler, his court must and would come first.

  She clutched her talisman. “Gram always said to be careful when dealing with The Cousins, who drive a hard bargain with their trickery. What’s in this for me besides Raclaw leaving me alone?”

  His mouth twisted into a smile. “She taught you well. If you give me the witch’s amber, I’ll make certain Councilman Burnhard is held responsible for murdering Eugenia Trustwell.”

  “How? The body’s gone.” She narrowed her eyes.

  “We can find it and make sure the high priest sees it before the sheriff.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “Faeries can’t lie.” From her narrowed eyes, Thayne knew that answer wouldn’t suffice. He rocked forward, rested elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers, carefully considering how to respond. Her question approached the one he dreaded. He didn’t know how to reveal his battle between heart and conscience to her. To protect her above his court made him a weak leader, which went against more than a century of training and hardened goals of leadership. But to deny his heart, his intuitive yet desperate need to care for and protect her, made him feel hollow and empty, a warlord imprisoned in politics from the sweetness of life. “And I already said our court was bound to protect you. You’re at risk if the sheriff reveals to Burnhard that you’re a witness. We will protect you, but we’d do more than keep him from harming you if you accept my deal.”

  “What if I accept and you’re wrong and Raclaw keeps attacking me? I don’t want to be obligated to your court for its constant protection. This gem protects me all right.” She encompassed the talisman in her fist, the amber hidden from his intense stare.

  “It can…if you use it properly, which means you know and understand what magic you possess. Your grandmother and mother were hedge witches.”

  She nodded.

  “You said your father was a wayward. Do you know what type?”

  “No. I don’t even know what a wayward is.”

  He wasn’t prepared for her guilelessness and didn’t know how to soften the impact. “It’s a witch who also has fae blood.”

  Chapter Twelve: Thanksgiving

  Esme cupped a trembling hand around her witch’s amber talisman. From the kitchen window she stared after Thayne and the Winter Court guards as they slipped into the woods. Stationed along the hedge on that side of the property, half a dozen faeries saluted Thayne and then bowed in her direction. He placed his winter fae patrol around Holly Cabin for increased security. They remained visible to reassure Esme of their presence.

  Either a nefarious outsider had permeated the icicles with dark magic, or she made a mistake with her own magical doings. No one knew which. From Garrett’s behavior at the market and the bribery happening with the sheriff, Oscar Burnhard likely knew of her identity as a witness to the crime. Were those people linked to the attempt on her life? She hugged her arms across her chest. Should she call Logan or Rowe?

  What Thayne had said about a wayward being part fae stirred confusion and shock into one massive pot of turbulent bewilderment. If she truly were a wayward like her father, wouldn’t she have the Sight and be able to see The Cousins without them allowing it?

  Since Esme didn’t know about wayward witches, she couldn’t make an argument against Thayne’s claim. But was she really like him, part fae like her father? “I don’t feel in any way like a faery. Wouldn’t I know?” she asked Dove and sighed. “Although I don’t feel much like a witch either. Maybe I’m not either one. From Gram, I have an idea what being a witch is like. How would I know if I were part fae? And if I am, what sort of faery?”

  Dove held her gaze, as if considering the possibilities.

  Grammy had loved the winter faeries’ shrewd tricksters and the carefree summer faeries. Always busy with school during springtime, Esme didn’t know much about fae active during that season. What if her father’s magic aligned with the Autumn Court? She shivered at the thought of having anything in common with Raclaw and his bats.

  Esme lifted the black crystal and examined its striations, like lines crossing a human palm. Perhaps a pattern inside the opaque stone might reveal something about what type of powers she possessed. She turned on a lamp for a closer look. The dense composition revealed nothing, yet magic had to be stored inside: negative energy from the Autumn Court, as well as her own, whatever type that might be. How could she find out what type of faery she was?

  One other thing seemed certain—she’d dreamed of her father since wearing the crystal. Was it linked to him? That seemed unlikely since she’d purchased the amber from a gem trade show last year with Grammy.

  Had she made the right choice turning down Thayne’s offer? If the crystal ended up in the wrong hands, magic she knew nothing about could be unleashed. But were his hands the correct ones? At least from decades of his court’s positive relationship with Gram, the good will extended to Esme. Thayne had the opportunity to take the talisman and leave her to die. Yet he’d sacrificed the chance to take the amber’s magic for the good of his court and saved her life. That was huge. Doubts still swirled. Perhaps he had another plan up his sleeve. Likely for a winter faery.

  An enormous feeling of uncertainty gnawed inside her. She couldn’t just wait for answers to sort themselves out. There had to be something she could do.

  The answers to many of Esme’s questions lay in what sort of fae magic her father possessed, and therefore what she might as well. Thayne promised to check with his court’s seers and have them meet with her to look for clues. Prompted by a jittery stomach, Esme scanned the bookcases for anything that might contain information about wayward witches. Grammy must have had some information on that topic or about Esme’s father. She yanked out volume after volume, flipped through pages and cast the books aside without luck.

  Prickling numbness jabbed through her calves from the lingering icicle magic. The aching muscles didn’t respond to massage, so she ladled out another bowl of Thayne’s soup. Much as she didn’t want to forget even one shred of memory about her father, she couldn’t let the poisonous chill injure her body. A few bites of soup sent warmth to her tingling legs. She finished the entire bowl and sat on the floor amid piles of books, legs outstretched and free of pain.

  Over the next few hours, she perused every volume that hinted at types of witch powers.

  With so many pulled from the bookcase, floor space grew scarce. Dove narrowly missed a hardb
ack as it careened from the top of a pile. He let out a sharp meow and huddled close to Esme’s knee.

  “Come over here away from those.” She lifted the cat to her other side and accidentally toppled a stack as she twisted. The splay of books revealed one with the title “Faces of Witchcraft.” She picked it up and found a chapter on hafling witches. “This might have something.”

  The phone rang and she jumped up to answer it.

  “Is this Becky?” a mature woman’s voice asked.

  Rattled to be addressed by her first name, Esme paused. “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Sibeal Soot. I’m the elder seer in the coven and felt it my duty to inform you that your application for ceremonial status is currently under consideration by the Coven Council. I have—”

  Sibeal Soot. Alice had mentioned that name of a candidate of coven traditionalism in the upcoming council elections, backed by Oscar Burnhard. Esme mustered courage and interrupted. “I’m aware of that fact. How do you know me by that nickname?”

  “I went to school with your mother. We used to be good friends…” The woman’s voice broke into a muffled cackle. “Before she got mixed up with your father.” Esme felt like she’d played the wrong card, and Sibeal held the better hand having knowledge of her dad.

  “Um. Okay.” Esme backpedaled, in case there was some way to learn more about her father. “What can I do for you?”

  “What you can do for me is to keep my vision from becomin’ a reality. I liked your mother and want you to stay safe from mortal harm that I know is headed your way. You need to withdraw your statement to High Priest Dennehy ’bout Councilman Burnhard. Tell the high priest you were mistaken and that you only dreamed what you thought you actually saw. Due to some herbal concoction you were making that went awry. You’ll tell Logan that, won’t you?”

  Esme’s stomach churned as the woman tried to manipulate her. “What did you know about my father’s magic?” Answering with a question took the verbal sparring up a notch. Who would be forced to answer first?

  “Plucky little thing, aren’t you? Darin’ to goad me into givin’ you more than your precious life. Too naïve to know when you need to keep your mouth shut and save your neck.” Sibeal laughed long and hard, underlining her warning with the pause in conversation.

  A flash of sweat beaded across Esme’s face.

  “Riskin’ so much for that wayward hafling. Just like your mother.” The seer raised Esme’s tension with another peal of coarse laughter. “She couldn’t get enough of his fae kisses. Kiss drunk on him all the time, she was, when his seasonal powers sparked. Not worth a lick as a witch, ’specially then when he had to earn a living doin’ construction.”

  Esme bit down on her tongue to suppress any reply. Silence might keep the old witch telling about her father.

  “So I can’t give you the answer you’re wantin’ when Erebus didn’t have witchcraft even worthy of a hedge witch.”

  Esme’s pulse beat so loud in her ears, she thought she misheard the name she’d read on her birth certificate. The woman’s demeaning attitude was more than she could bear. “You disrespect both my father and my mother and expect me to do as you ask?” Her accusation surged against the powerful seer. Esme held her breath. She’d squelched any chance at learning what type of fae blood her father possessed.

  “You catch on fast even though you have hafling blood. Yes. I do expect it. And for your sake, you’d be wise to heed my warning. If not, be prepared to leave like your mother did with a whole pile of regret and pain on your plate. Or worse.” Without acquiescence from Esme, the seer drew the line in the sand with that threat.

  A click cut off the connection and Esme stared at the receiver, trying to determine what to do. Her hand shook as she dialed Rowe’s number.

  “Hello, Esme?” his familiar deep voice answered, the lifeline she needed.

  “I just got a threatening call from Sibeal.”

  “The seer?”

  “Yes. She tried to pressure me into dropping my witness statement to you and Logan. Said she foresaw harm coming to me if I didn’t.”

  “That’s a complication we didn’t need.” He let out a loud sigh. “I’ll talk to Logan, and we’ll pay her a visit. Has anything happened at Holly Cabin that’s suspicious?”

  “Somehow dark magic got inside icicles on my porch.” She related the incident best she could remember. Since Rowe didn’t understand anything about The Cousins, she named Thayne as a friend and not the Winter King. “I don’t know if someone did that purposely to hurt me, or if my own magic accidentally backfired. I’m looking into what I did.”

  “We had some recent problems with coven members performing black magic, but Logan banned the violators. There may still be a few who practice dark arts, especially among the traditionalist founding families. Through the years they’ve become more desperate to keep status quo, resorting to drastic measures. After what Logan did to the others, though, I’d think they’d keep a low profile. Are the icicles still there so we can take a look?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what’s left of the magic and don’t want to chance getting near them to see.”

  “I don’t blame you. Logan and I will come by tomorrow and have a look. We need to check out another angle at the crime scene as well. No luck with that yet. We still can’t locate the body but have found plenty of magical residue that indicates strong spells were cast in the area. The sheriff had his men at the scene. They didn’t find anything other than signs of a scuffle inside the house like we described to you earlier. The sheriff has set a time limit, the end of December, for provision of evidence more concrete than magic, or he’ll close the case. So we’re up against the clock. If you remember any small detail you forgot to mention, let us know.”

  “Oh, no. The sheriff must be receiving bribes. Like Logan warned, Deputy Nesby is following me. He was at the market yesterday and asking prying questions. I didn’t say anything and dodged him.”

  Rowe groaned. “Logan’s got a hard fight as a new high priest after decades of corruption. But he’s tough. Hang in there. We’re on your side. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Esme thanked him and ended the conversation. The threat from Sibeal and deadline set by the sheriff ratcheted up the odds against justice, not to mention her safety. Esme paced the house.

  Winter Court guards remained on patrol at all three sides of the hedge surrounding her property.

  Grateful for that measure of protection, she withdrew to her warm spot in front of the fire and pulled Dove onto her lap. “Where was I?” She picked up the open book she’d cast aside when the phone rang. The chapter about hafling witches included numerous combinations, most she’d never heard of. She skimmed to discussion of waywards and read:

  A wayward witch, one whose heritage is mixed witch and fae, will at times exhibit no deviation from any typical witch. But when seasonal alignment of the particular fae blood is attained, the wayward shall be swayed by that inclination, prompted by caprice to turn away from what is right or proper according to rules of witches. During that season of fae magic alignment a wayward may be so willful that he/she can be rendered unable to separate witch from fae tendencies. He or she may exhibit a deviant and volatile mixed craft that may run a gamut from slight to extreme and dangerous in short spans of time, harmful to the wayward and others.

  The reference gave no advice on how the wayward might control extreme deviance. Esme’s only connection to her father had been through dreams, most from a long time ago. Those dreams always left her tormented, waking in sweaty, tangled sheets. Yet she longed for him, his gentle hands holding her while they danced. “Somewhere My Love.” The music box melody played in her mind, like it had in her childhood, in her dreams of him, and again when she ate the icicles. Was Erebus trying to save her? Or harm her unintentionally while in a crazed hafling state? She shut the book and stared into the fire.

  ***

  Esme spent the start of the next week preparing new products for the coming market
day and baking Gram’s pumpkin lavender bread for Thanksgiving at Gertie’s.

  Logan and Rowe were in and out testing and retesting the back porch icicles, again only finding magical residue without accurate identification of the type.

  Each time they appeared, Thayne’s fae quickly donned glamour to appear invisible. The guards shed their masks directly upon the men leaving and saluted Esme if she remained on the porch. While the threats hadn’t diminished, at least all the protection eased her nerves.

  At noon on Thanksgiving day Alice drove up in her rusted black sedan with rigged wooden bumpers.

  Esme stepped out of the house with a basket of her bread and another of small trial bottles of her new products to tempt Gertie and her family. “Will that car make it? I can drive.”

  “Pshaw! I didn’t want you to have to wait while I loaded her up. Hop in.” Alice tucked in her long velveteen skirt and pulled her driver’s door shut.

  Esme rounded to the passenger side while she hushed a chuckle at the sight of her neighbor’s hiking shoes and down vest over her party outfit. “Don’t you look fancy with your hair done up in a braided bun.”

  “And you, too, gal. Is that a new dress? The bias cut fits you nice. Wish I had a young body again.”

  “Something I picked up at Shireen’s dress shop. I couldn’t afford it, but needed something to lift my spirits.”

  “Good girl. Keep yer chin up.”

  Esme sat gingerly on the torn passenger seat cushion and looked for a spot to place her load. Covered dishes and baskets lined the entire backseat and floor, so she placed hers at her feet. “Looks like the whole meal’s back there.”

  “Close to it. Gertie’s not much of a cook. Her husband Tad, though, he’ll fry a turkey and have a venison roast that’ll make your mouth water.” Alice motioned to a blanket between them. “Iffen you feel a spring pokin’ through at you, use this. Tad just put in some new paddin’, though I’m still leery.”