Blood Moon

by KB Anne

  Amorin’s like the grandfather I never had. The one I never knew I needed. I find solace in his company. A gentle guide, not replacing Gram, but the other arm of her. He seems wise for the most part, but there’s one question that I have to ask him.

  “Why do you believe I’m Brigit?”

  He turns to me, gently taking my hands in his. His clear blue eyes search mine. “Why don’t you?”

  To that, I have no answer.

  15

  Bumpy Flight

  The Vessel’s within reach. Well, except for the hulking body of Clayone, half-man, half-wolf, standing in front of it. Blood pours out of Scott. He doesn’t have much time left. I need to get Clayone away from him before it’s too late.

  Tears stream down my face as I consider my next move. Running into the meadow will lure Clayone away, but Scott might die in the meantime. If I fight him here, will there be enough time to retrieve the Vessel and save Scott before Clayone destroys me?

  “Gigi, you must protect yourself at all costs. It doesn’t matter how many lives you save if Clayone wins in the end. Protect yourself,” Gram chants. “Protect yourself.”

  “I can’t. I can’t leave him. I can’t! I can’t!” I scream. Desperation rakes through me. “Don’t make me choose. Don’t make me choose.”

  “Gigi, wake up, honey. You’re dreaming. Honey, wake up!” Dad gently nudges me. “It’s getting worse,” he murmurs to Amorin as I rub my eyes. I can’t escape the feeling of dread that Scott’s in mortal danger and I’m stuck in an airplane between Dad and Amorin instead of protecting him.

  “We must wait until she’s ready,” Amorin whispers back.

  I try to read their minds, but they’ve blocked themselves to me. Spell work probably, or Druid rune protection, or a combination of the two. But I haven’t the strength to break through. Scott lying on the ground in a pool of blood is all I can picture along with the line from the prophecy, “One will fall.”

  From the airport, a train takes us to Amorin’s village. Along the way, a countryside of endless green pastures with little sign of civilization rolls past my window. Amorin’s home is a half hour’s walk to Saint Brigit’s Cathedral in Kildare, but Dad insists we wait until morning to visit the library.

  “Welcome to my home. You’ll find what it lacks in size, it makes up for in character,” he says, leading us down the path.

  From the thatched roof to the wooden shutters to the stone foundation, his cottage is exactly what I envisioned it to be, with the exception of the two broomsticks hanging above the front door.

  “Your transportation?”

  “Believe it or not, they are supposed to keep evil witches from entering the house. They must work, because I haven’t found one inside yet,” he says, winking at me.

  It’s all too easy to fall into a smile with Amorin around, but I don’t want to smile. I want to cry. I want to rip down the baskets from his ceiling, because they remind me of Gram’s place. I want to toss the drying herbs into the fire and leave, because it feels so much like home it makes me hurt. Because Gram isn’t in it, and she never will be.

  Dad picks up a book from the stack on an end table. “Trying to learn something new, Amorin?” He flips the cover for me to see, Journey to the Otherworld.

  Amorin sets a kettle of water on the stovetop. “I saw it and couldn’t resist. For thousands of years, followers studied under an experienced Druid for a decade or more. Now anyone can buy a book on Druidry at a local bookstore and study the craft. It blimey blows my mind. Where would I be without my mentor? Where would you be?”

  “Times have changed, and we need to change with it or go extinct. The true practitioners will put in the time. At least now, more people can read about the craft and decide for themselves whether they want to become more involved or not. These books educate people that we aren’t flying around on broomsticks and casting hexes on our enemies. We’re peace-loving, Earth-centered followers. It’s time the damage wrought by Caesar, Shakespeare, and Hollywood is vanquished. Once people learn the truth, our cause will grow,” Dad says, leafing through the book.

  “You’ve always been a progressive thinker, Mark. I hope you’re right on this one, and small covens of Dark Arts followers don’t spring up all over the world. But enough talk about troublesome affairs for the evening. Let’s have some tea and biscuits before retiring.”

  He carries over a tray with a bright blue- and green-wash teapot that reminds me of Gram. He pours the tea into a matching cup and offers it to me, Gram’s pottery stamp in plain view. The mug almost slips out of my hand at the shock of having a part of Gram with me in Ireland. I want her with me always. At least I have a piece of her here.

  As I bring the tea to my lips, my sense of smell alerts me that Amorin slipped a sleeping potion into it. Thoughts of sneaking out immediately enter my mind. I pretend to drink it as Dad and Amorin make small talk about the weather. I may not be able to read their minds, but I know they’re trying to lull me into sleep. After a few minutes I yawn and stretch. The required performance takes little effort. While they’re engrossed in conversation, I dump the tea into the sink. As I wish them good night, I yawn again for good measure.

  A short while later my bedroom door creaks open. I lie still with my eyes closed, breathing in and out, hoping Dad will buy my act. I’ve been through this scene a hundred times with Gram. Eventually he closes the door, but it takes a ridiculously long time. He’s far less trusting than Gram was, or else he knows me better than I realize. I wait until two sets of snores drill through the thin walls of the cottage before I slip out the window and into the night.

  16

  Creepy Cathedrals

  Racing across the countryside, a heightened sense of possibility rushes through me. Tonight I will find that book. I will finally get to protect the ones I love. I will fix this mess before anyone else I love dies as a consequence of my stupidity.

  In the distance the white turrets of Saint Brigit’s Cathedral stick out above the ancient trees. One soars higher than the rest. One holds the treasure I seek.

  A soft light glows from a side entrance. The hairs on the back of my neck shoot up. A sinister shape emerges from the shadow just to the side of the entrance, morphing into an old woman wearing a black robe and carrying a lantern.

  “May I help you, dear?”

  There’s nothing about the old woman’s appearance that suggests danger, but something about her unsettles me. And I can’t read her mind, which is both frustrating and a relief.

  “I know it’s late, but . . .”

  “Late? It’s not late. It’s just the right time,” she says.

  I immediately warm to her.

  “Could I come in? I just got here, and I’ve been dying to see the Cathedral my entire life. I’ve taken the Google Earth walking tour about a thousand times. There’s this book I’ve wanted to read . . .”

  She opens the door for me. “Books we have, but we have thousands.” She leads me down a long hall and through a large archway. She stops and lifts her lantern, illuminating a room over two stories tall, covered from floor to ceiling with books. “Can you be more specific?”

  I step away from her and toward the nearest shelf. It’s easier to lie to someone when you’re not face to face, or sleeve to robe in this case. “Actually, no. I dreamt about a book that was really old, and I wanted to see if I could find it.” I realize far too late that I’ve revealed too much. My mind reading’s been off since arriving in Ireland, and so, evidently, is my ability to lie well.

  She studies me. My neck prickles from fear. Terror. I don’t know, but it’s enough to make me want to run away and hide. Fortunately, my desire to find the book overrides my irrational fear.

  “Well, that is another story,” she says. “Books we dream about have extremely powerful magic tied to them.”

  I choke on my spit. “Magic?” I cough. “Isn’t this cathedral a Christian memorial?”

  She shakes her head as she laughs. “It is, dear, b
ut magic can be found everywhere. For instance, Saint Brigit is said to control the harvest and bring the dead back into the world of the living. How is that not magic?”

  I nod to humor her and also to hide my shock, because I’m freaking floored right now. “Do you have any books on Saint Brigit?”

  She puts some books on the closest shelf. “Oh, there are many books on Saint Brigit written by mundane Catholics much too imbedded in this world to even consider the possibility of an Otherworld.”

  I step toward her. “Otherworld. You’ve been there?” Then I remember to play it cool. “I mean, Otherworld, what’s that?”

  “Dear, you don’t have to pretend with me. You can trust old Carman. I knew you belonged to the Order of Brigit the moment you stepped into the candlelight. Each follower of Brigit has an aura a seer won’t miss. I myself have been a follower all my life.”

  She takes my hands into her ice-cold ones. I think it’s to reassure me, but it fills me with something else.

  Dread I think.

  17

  Piles of Something

  Gram never got the chance to share anything with me about the Order of Brigit, with the exception of a few details. I’m sure she assumed, like I did, that we’d have years together. Decades maybe. But now she’s gone, and her life story’s gone with her. As a member of the Order, Carman seems to be the closest thing to Gram I have left.

  “You’re still in her service?” I stare at Carman with a newfound respect. “I thought most followers left the Order when their thirty years were up.” Gram never mentioned any choice to remain in her service forever.

  Carman pulls at a black onyx crystal necklace. It could be my imagination, but the stone shifts and swirls when she touches it as if it’s alive and trying to speak. Or get out.

  “I chose to stay. I love working here with Her books, Her works, Her spirit. There is no place I would rather be. I’ve waited all my life for a moment to be in Her presence, and I will remain until she returns.”

  I wander over to the other side of the room and pull a random book about winemaking from the shelf. “I hope your wish comes true.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will. The moment is close at hand. Very close indeed. Now, let me show you some books you might be interested in.”

  She gestures for me to follow her. I reluctantly put back the winemaking book, which might be useful in the future. All those grapevines outside Amorin’s cottage ought to serve some purpose other than making a complicated and painful escape route. The library magically expands with each step, reminding me of Hermione’s purse. Surely a dream come true for booklovers and Potter fans alike. I’m impressed that Dad was able to restrain himself from visiting until morning.

  Carman winds her way through the shelves, pulling books as she goes. She eventually places them on a table deep within the catacombs of the Cathedral. “Sit, and I’ll bring you more.”

  In a way, Carman reminds me of Gram. Powerful, commanding of respect, and old, in addition to her being a member of the Order. I suppose that’s why I listened to her and sat down instead of searching for the one book I needed to find. A book that isn’t in the pile.

  Without Gram to guide me, maybe Carman will help me find my path. Not replace her—no one could replace Gram—but maybe fill the void. Maybe help guide someone who needs serious guidance.

  She hefts a mighty pile onto the table. “Here are some more for you, dear.”

  “I would have helped you carry them.”

  She waves me off. “I’ve got strong arms from decades of carrying around books, but the bones are tired. I’ll retire to my room if you don’t need me anymore this evening.”

  “I’m fine, Carman, and thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I love meeting new followers. Leave the books on the table. I’ll put them away in the morning. Good night, dear,” she says, shuffling away.

  “Good night, Carman,” I call after her, but she’s already gone, disappearing back into the shelves from whence she came. And yes, I used “whence.” Ancient library equates to appropriate ancient verbiage.

  Henceforth, I shall continue to use such language until such time that I grow bored or decide to commit a particularly heinous act. I laugh to myself, having entirely too much fun. I decide to quit yammering and get to work. None of the books from the three towering piles even resembles the one from my vision, but rather than ignore the hard work Carman went through to gather them for me, I decide to indulge her efforts for the time being. I’ve got a soft spot for old people.

  The spine cracks as I open the first one from the largest pile. A gorgeous, hand-painted picture covers the first two pages along with the caption, “As Earth meets Sky, so too will Dagda and Anu join and create divine children who shall be celebrated for the ages.”

  Intrigued, I continue reading.

  * * *

  Dagda and Anu, Mother Earth and Father Sky, called many different names but nearly universal across every faith and religion, were prolific in their childbearing, but none of their children were as celebrated or beloved as their third daughter, the Goddess of Healing and Fertility, Inspiration and Poetry, Divination and Prophecy, Fire and the Forge, known simply as Brigit.

  * * *

  And shut.

  The only “chosen” daughter I want to read about is Queen of the Damned.

  * * *

  After wasting hours searching the shelves, scouring the spines of hundreds, probably thousands of books, and finding nothing, I return to the table ready to cause some destruction. Without any gasoline to torch the place, Carman’s piles might be my best bet. At the top of one of them, there’s an old leather journal that I missed earlier. The only hint of a title is the shadow of gold left in some of the letter grooves. The leather, the binding, and the pages are similar to the spell book I found in Gram’s attic.

  Someone scrawled spells and incantations along the margins in this one too. The spell work fascinates me, but the rhythm of them seems different, reminding me more of the curses in the other spell book, but not exactly. A folded piece of parchment slips out from between the pages. Upon opening it, I realize I just found my very own Marauder’s Map. Well, not people moving around in a there’s-Severus-Snape-walking-the-halls-mischief-managed kind of way, but seven features are clearly identified with runes written around them. A rectangular-shaped block tower with what looks like a small castle sits on top of a hill in the center of the map. The Cathedral is clearly marked with an intricate cross just north of the castle, and an enormous tree grows between the Cathedral and the castle. In the northeast corner of the map there’s a round block tower with one lonely window, and to the west is a large mound. I passed the grassy mound on my way to the Cathedral. It must be more than just a pile of dirt and rocks. I’ll check that out on my way back. Amorin’s hamlet isn’t on the map, whether because it’s too far west or too small I can’t say. At the southeastern section there’s a huge bonfire with figures dressed in fur dancing around it. The people are drawn with such detail it’s almost like they’ll step off the page. A woman at the center with her arms raised in the air commands the dancers. At the very edge, there’s a hamlet, or at least a square building with a cluster of smaller buildings. I wonder who lives there.

  Of course, the thought of stealing the map crosses my mind. I mean, who would know? There’s no one in the library except Carman and me, and she went off to bed, so really it’s just me. Herein lies the conflict. The brainwashing Scott and I received as children leads me to question my own map-thievery actions. We weren’t subjected to anything as aggressive as shock therapy or waterboarding, but we were taught that books were to be treated with respect. Defacing a cover or marking an interior page was akin to committing one of the deadly sins—although I guess since we’re not Christians, that falls into a gray area.

  Perhaps if I copy it . . .

  I take a piece of paper from the sketchbook in my backpack and make a few attempts at tracing it before scrapping the entire operation. I
t’s too damn dark in here to make tower from mounds of the features. I glance around to make sure no one’s watching as I fold the map along the creases and shove it into my back pocket along with my pathetic attempt at forgery.

  Adrenaline pulses through me at the theft. I haven’t felt a rush like this in a very long time, but it’s pulling at my conscience. I rub my hands up and down my legs, trying to convince myself that no harm was caused to the book. Someone probably filed the map in the book by accident or put it inside for safekeeping, and now, it’s safely stowed in my pocket. End of story.

  No book was damaged in the making of this robbery.

  I take another deep breath and flip to the next page, where I almost shit myself. A wolf creature leaps out ready to snap my neck.

  Well, I guess it didn’t actually leap off the page, but it certainly looked like it did. With its long mangy hair and powerful canine teeth capable of ripping a person’s throat out in one bite. And eyes, though different from Ryan’s, still sadly human.

  “Populations of werewolves exist all over the world, but they all can be traced back to Clayone, the Original Werewolf.”

  Merely reading his name, sends shivers down my spine. An eerie feeling of being watched settles over me. I reach into my pocket and withdraw the pepper spray I managed to smuggle past airport security. Cautiously, I turn around, searching the dark entryway of the library for the source of my discomfort. Even though I don’t see anyone, that doesn’t mean someone’s not there. I’ve been through enough to know that things hide in the shadows—as in my guardian stalker from Vernal Falls, though fortunately/unfortunately he’s a few thousand miles away. I call out, “Hel-loo?” hating that I sound like a freaking chicken. It’ll destroy my reputation.