HARM NONE
A Rowan Gant Investigation
A Novel of Suspense and Magick
By
M. R. Sellars
E. M. A. Mysteries
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HARM NONE: A Rowan Gant Investigation
A WillowTree Press / E.M.A. Mysteries Book
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 1997, 2000 by M. R. Sellars
Cover design by Johnathan Minton, Copyright © 2000
Excerpt from Veteran of the Psychic Wars Copyright © Michael Moorcock, Used With Permission
Paraphrased Excerpts from Buckland’s Complete Book of WitchCraft Copyright © Raymond Buckland, Used With Permission
This e-book edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.
For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web: http://www.willowtreepress.com
Smashwords Edition – 2010
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would be sorely remiss if I didn’t take a moment to thank at least a few of the individuals who were there to act as my sounding boards and as my moral support staff throughout the writing and editing of this novel—
Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD without whom Detective Benjamin Storm would be just another one dimensional pseudo-cop; Jacquelyn Busch Hunt, Attorney, for the legal advice and mighty strokes of her blue pencil; Roxanne and Sharon for reading, re-reading, and then reading some more; and of course, my wife Kat, who put up with me throughout it all.
For my parents.
Thank you for teaching me
that the true value of the
written word is priceless.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.
In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I wanted to.
Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.
Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then.
Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.
And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…
Eight words ye wiccan rede fulfill,
AN IT HARM NONE, DO WHAT YE WILL.
Final Verse
The Wiccan Rede
Lady Gwen Thompson
Original Printing— "Green Egg #69"
PROLOGUE
Be it known to all that the circle is now to be drawn,” stated the slight, robed figure as she raised her arms upward to the sky. Her dainty hands held tight to the leather bound handle of a dirk, its brightly polished blade reflecting the light of the full moon high above. “Let no one be here but of their own free will. Blessed be.”
“So mote it be” came a solemn chant in unison from the coven members gathered around her.
The air was still in the large, semi-wooded Saint Louis backyard as the Priestess slowly and purposefully drew the ceremonial knife, her athamè, through the air above her, scribing a five-pointed star, starting and ending with the top point. With the imaginary Pentacle drawn, she fluidly lowered the dirk and brought her arms to rest outstretched before her and pointing to the East.
“R.J.,” she said to the young man directly before her. “Would you please light the circle candles?”
The young man gave a perceptible nod and pulled back the hood of his robe to reveal his mane of long black hair. Turning, he struck the end of a wooden fireplace match, bringing it to life, and as the flame settled to evenness, merged it with the wick of a yellow votive candle resting in a homemade stand.
“At the East, I bring light and air to our circle,” spoke the strawberry-blonde priestess from the center of the group. “All hail the Watchtower of the East, element of air. May it watch over us in our circle. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be,” chanted the gathering around her.
The young man worked his way to the South, and touched the burning match to a red votive.
“At the South, I bring light and fire to our circle” came the priestess as she made a clockwise quarter turn. “All hail the Watchtower of the South, element of fire. May it watch over our circle. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be.” The chant in unison came stronger.
Evenly, the young woman turned to the West as the young man brought a blue candle alight.
“At the West, I bring light and water to our circle. All hail the Watchtower of the West, element of water. May it watch over our circle. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be!” Stronger still the chorus echoed.
“At the North, I bring light and earth to our circle,” the priestess melodically spoke as she turned. The young man applied the fire to a green candle fixed securely in its holder. “All hail the Watchtower of the North, element of earth. May it watch over our circle. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be!” The coven’s chant lifted skyward, harmonious and strong.
The Priestess kissed the blade of the athamè and lifted it upward, scribing the Pentacle in the air once more.
“All hail the four towers, and all hail the God and Goddess. We welcome and invite Pan and Diana to join us in this rite we hold in their honor. Blessed be, so mote it be!”
“Blessed be, so mote it be!” chimed the coven.
At this point, the dark-haired man had returned to his original position in the circle, and the members had joined hands, interlocking their fingers, left palm up, right palm down.
“Ariel,” his gaze leveled on the priestess, “may I ask that you lead us in the weave.”
The young woman gave a nod and after once again kissing the blade of the athamè, laid it reverently on the altar before her.
“Weave, weave,” she began the melodious chant, “weave us together. Weave us together, together with love.”
The remaining members of the coven joined in and they sang the verse twice more. When the last note had drifted away on the still air, no sound was left but for the midsummer song of the crickets.
>
“The circle is cast,” Ariel finally said. “You may release hands and we shall remain as one.”
The group released their grasps on one another and while remaining alert and attentive to their priestess, began to relax.
“Our circles are a happy time,” she continued, her strawberry-blonde hair drifting lazily about on a sudden breeze as she turned around the circle, bringing her eyes to bear on each member’s face. “A time for us to rejoice in our kinship with nature...with the Mother Goddess Diana...and with Pan the Hunter. Our circles are meant for exchanging knowledge. Tonight...” Ariel caught her breath and looked down at the ground. She paused for what seemed an eternity to all present as a single teardrop began its slow journey down her cheek. Sadness welled in her voice as she began once again to speak. “Tonight, we come together to make a decision; a decision that will affect the direction and future of this coven. We have all discussed this over and over, so I will spare you the details.”
The members of the coven lowered their gazes to the ground as she once again paused and angrily wiped away another tear that had escaped her eye. They knew how much she hated losing control of her emotions, and they felt a great empathy for her. They remained quiet and kept their gazes averted as she struggled for her composure. However, one member among the group refused to grant her the reprieve. He stared at the back of Ariel’s head, unblinking, with cold grey eyes. His face remained expressionless, and to the coven, that cold countenance was the most frightening thing of all.
“Let it be done,” stated the young dark-haired man known as R.J. in a compassionate attempt to assume her painful burden.
He stepped forward to the altar and lifted a pewter goblet from its weathered surface. One by one, R.J. stepped before each member of the coven and held the goblet out to them, and one by one, each member deposited a single stone. When he came before the expressionless, grey-eyed man, he waited. The man continued to stare, as if looking straight through him to remain fixed upon Ariel.
“Go on, Devon,” R.J. said, “you still have a vote.”
Momentarily, the expressionless man’s eyes unglazed, and he focused his glare on R.J.
“I don’t recognize this vote” was all he said, and once again he seemed to stare icily through to Ariel.
R.J. fought back his desire to tell Devon just where he could get off. This was going to be over soon enough, and he knew there was no need for an altercation now. He continued around the circle and came finally to rest in the center.
Standing at the altar opposite Ariel, R.J. held out the goblet and let a stone fall into it from his own palm, silently casting his vote. Slowly, Ariel lifted her hand to its rim and dropped in her stone. It rattled and clinked in the tense silence of the circle, then fell still. She brought her gaze up to meet R.J.’s, drew a deep breath, and then gave a slightly perceptible nod. R.J. tilted the goblet down to the altar and poured the stones out upon its surface. The pebbles glittered, as if winking back at them in the candlelight, each of their polished surfaces obsidian black.
Ariel turned and faced Devon, summoning every bit of strength in her being and borrowing from her fellow coven members as much as she could.
“You know the most basic law of The Craft is to harm none.” She stared at him coolly as anger seeped in to replace sadness. “You have violated that law, Devon.”
He continued to stare back at her, pupils large in his irises like puddles of ink in dirty grey ice. The circle candles flickered as a mild breeze began to blow.
“So I sacrificed a dog,” Devon answered her frostily. “You little wimps are just afraid to take the next step. You’ll never be anything but a bunch of wannabees.”
Ariel continued, ignoring his comment. “For your disregard for life and the most basic of Wiccan laws, you are hereby banished from this coven. Your punishment is that which you bring upon your own self, as anything you may do will return to you threefold. May the God and Goddess take mercy upon you.”
“So Mote It Be,” the members of the circle solemnly chimed.
Devon looked slowly around the circle, resting his cold gaze for a moment upon each member of the coven; finally, leveling it once again on Ariel’s face.
“You’re going to wish you never did this, Ariel,” he said. “Fuck you... Fuck all of you.”
Three weeks later...
CHAPTER 1
Blue-white wisps curled upward from the lit end of a tight roll of tobacco that was hooked under my index finger. I took a lazy puff and rolled the spicy smoke around on my tongue before blowing it outward into an evenly spreading cloud that wafted about on the warm breeze. Then, with a lazy stretch, I rested my forearm across my knee and contemplated the slowly growing ash on the end of the cigar.
It had been more than six months since my last cigarette, so my wife, Felicity, was none too excited when I decided to revive my old habit of cigar smoking. As I am not one to do things halfway, these weren’t the greenish, dried out logs you pick up at the local stop’n’grab. Not at all. My humidor was filled with rich, Maduro-wrapped symbols of masculinity available only from a good tobacco shop. Inevitably, with such quality there comes a price, and said price served simply to provide Felicity with yet another reason to harbor disdain for the habit.
Of course, with any marriage—well, good ones anyway—there is a generous amount of compromise. The “compromise” that had been reached in ours was something on the order of a matter-of-fact statement from my headstrong wife of, “If you’re going to smoke those things anyway, you’re going to do it outside!” After eight years with this auburn-haired, second generation Irish-American dynamo on a five-foot-four frame, I had learned to cut my losses and run; for as much as she hated to admit it, Felicity fit neatly into the stereotype of the tempestuous, Irish redhead. Though her singsong accent was normally faint—unless she was tired, angry, or had been in close proximity to her relatives, whereupon it became very pronounced—her stubbornness and temper were with her 24/7.
In this particular instance, however, the fact that there was no way she was about to let me in the door with a lit cigar was only one of a trio of reasons I had for being parked on the cement stairs of our modest, suburban Saint Louis home this warm, late summer’s evening. The second and most important reason for smoking outside was that we had only recently discovered that Felicity was six weeks pregnant. The third—I was waiting for someone.
Earlier in the day, I had received a phone call from my long time cohort, Ben Storm, a detective with the Saint Louis City police department. Since he had a tendency to work somewhat bizarre hours, I was pleasantly surprised when he suggested that he drop by this evening for an impromptu drink to congratulate us on our impending family addition. I was more than agreeable to the idea; unfortunately, the tone of his voice told me there was an underlying, less social reason for the visit. His inflection only confirmed a suspicion that had been nagging at me for nearly two days now.
Late Wednesday night I had received a short, cryptic call from a distracted and extremely official sounding version of my friend. He had been seeking information about the meaning of a religious symbol known as a Pentacle. Though I knew he was perfectly aware of my religious practices, I was mildly amazed he had equated me with the emblem. In keeping with his official demeanor that night, as soon as I finished giving him the requested details, he abruptly ended the call with curt politeness.
When we spoke again today, I was sure I had detected a definite note of that same distraction in his voice. I hoped that I was wrong but deep inside felt that I wasn’t. However, on the chance that I might have misinterpreted the tenor of his speech, I had kept the observation to myself, mentioning it neither to him nor Felicity.
“I take it Ben hasn’t gotten here yet.” I heard the half question, half statement from my wife through the screen door behind me.
“Nope,” I replied and took another lazy draw from my cigar. “But you know how Ben is. If he says six in the evening, he really means eight.”
“Ever since his promotion, we’re lucky to see him at all,” she expressed. “Are Allison and Ben Junior coming?”
“I doubt it. He said something about Al taking the little guy out shopping for clothes.”
“Well...” She pushed the screen door open a bit to allow one of our cats to exit the confines of the house. “I’m going to go upstairs and pay some bills. Let me know when he gets here. I don’t want to miss this little celebration. Remember, I’m the one who’s pregnant.”
“I doubt that you’ll let me forget it,” I answered, looking back at her with a grin. “I’ll call you when he shows up.”
She smiled in return and left me to my cigar and quiet contemplation of the tree-lined street, as well as my attempts to dull the secret, foreboding sensation with a tumbler of single malt scotch on the rocks. Ten minutes short of an hour later, not only had I still not managed to shake the feeling, but it grew even stronger as a tired-looking Chevrolet van rolled into my driveway. The engine knocked and complained as the driver switched it off, and then it sputtered into silence. After a moment, the door opened with a labored screech, and the occupant extricated himself from the seat.
Ben Storm was a Native American, six-foot-six with jet-black hair and the finely angular features one associated with the boilerplate portrayal of feather-adorned natives from TV Westerns. He kept himself in excellent physical condition and made a very imposing figure both in and out of uniform. When he had been a street cop, I often joked that he was the last person I would want to see coming down a dark alley at me if I had done something wrong. He always made it a point to bet that he would be the first person I would want to see coming down that alley were I in trouble. I never hesitated to agree.
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