Crone’s Moon argi-5

by M. R. Sellars

  The television was still chattering in the background when I dragged myself to my feet. The newscasters had moved on to another, far less horrific story, and the screen was filled with the image of a hyperactive blonde feature reporter whose actual name escaped me at the moment. Synapses were continuing to fire with fewer misses each time around, so I tried to grasp at the obscured bit of information for no other reason than to take my mind off the things I didn’t want to face. But, it didn’t help. I could still sense the foreboding tickle growing in the back of my brain, and in the end, all I seemed to remember was that she was named after a state.

  I stared at the screen for a moment longer and then gave up. I knew it wasn’t important and wasting my time on it would probably just make my headache worse. I reached up and rubbed my palm across the lower half of my face then gently touched my fingertips to my tongue. When I pulled my hand away and had a look, I found blood just as I knew I would.

  My tongue still felt like ground meat, and I hadn’t yet rid myself of the metallic tang that was invading my mouth. My head was continuing to throb with a dull ache, but other than that, the rest of my body’s agonies seemed to have fled as fast as they had arrived. That was both good and bad. Good, of course, because the pain was gone. Bad, because that meant they had been phantom pains. Oh, they had felt real enough at the time, but that was the extent of it. They only felt real. There were no wounds, abrasions, or bruises. There was no physical evidence to explain why they had been there to begin with. And, unfortunately, this lead me back to my earlier suspicion.

  My stomach twisted into a knot once again, and I felt a brief spate of nausea come over me. This was exactly the kind of thing that happened whenever I was experiencing someone else’s physical pain. And for them, it was real pain, not imagined.

  This had been a psychic episode, and it was all too familiar. Sometimes they were the same, and at other times they were vastly different. Usually they came in groups that were so similar as to not be able to tell them apart. But, no matter what, they maintained the common thread of blackouts and migraine-like headaches that seemed to linger forever. The types of phantom pains, odd tastes, auditory anomalies, or anything else always depended upon exactly what was being experienced by the other person.

  The last episode I’d had like this one had actually been a series of them, but that had been something like four or five months ago. As abruptly as they had started, they had ended. I’d tried to forget about them, but I couldn’t. I knew then that it was only a matter of time before they would return.

  The sickening part was that every time this sort of thing happened to me, somebody died. Worse yet, it was usually more than one somebody.

  I guess that’s what I get for being a Witch.

  CHAPTER 2:

  I was rinsing my mouth out with warm salt water when the phone rang. I gave a final swish and spit the pink tinged liquid into the basin, then grabbed a hand towel and blotted my bearded chin as I walked out of the bathroom. The electronic warble issued again, making the telephone sound just about as impatient as any inanimate device could be.

  “Chill out! I’m coming, I’m coming…” I said aloud, as if a verbal scolding would make it stop. It didn’t.

  I was still wiping my chin when I rounded the corner into the kitchen and glanced at the caller ID box on the wall. OUT OF AREA and a row of dashes was showing on the liquid crystal display, so I lifted the receiver then allowed it to drop right back into the cradle. I had no interest in dealing with a salesman who believed it was okay to ignore the no-call list, not to mention that I still had that headache.

  I continued walking over to the counter and retrieved a mug from the cabinet, then filled it with water from the filtered tap. I had just placed it on the turntable in the microwave when the phone began pealing for attention again. I slammed the door on the microwave shut, then quickly punched in three minutes and hit start before stepping back over to the phone.

  OUT OF AREA and a row of dashes displayed yet again, and once more I lifted the receiver then let it drop with a heavy clunk.

  The microwave was humming away behind me as I stepped over to the multi-tiered spice and herb rack mounted on the wall and began my search for dried willow bark. The search was going to be a huge pain in and of itself, and that just made my head ache more.

  Had I been in charge of the rack, the task wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, as everything would be in alphabetical order. My wife, Felicity, however, was the keeper of the herbs, and she had her own way of categorizing the bottles. Little groups of related and semi-related spices, barks, herbs, and teas lined the rack. The organization of such simply defied any explanation I could muster.

  However, put Felicity in front of it, and she could easily snatch up a bottle of whatever you asked for without even looking. Unfortunately, she wasn’t here at the moment.

  The closest I had been able to come in the minute or so I had been looking was in fact bark, but it was cinnamon and not willow. Even though it would have tasted quite a bit better, I desperately needed the salicylic acid, not the flavor. I was dragging my finger slowly across the labeled tops of the myriad of bottles, wondering if I should just give up and take some aspirin, when the phone began ringing once again.

  I tried to ignore it, but it wasn’t helping me concentrate, so I threw my hands up in a dismissive gesture and let out a heavy sigh. I took the few steps over to the phone and saw the same message as before blinking on the display of the caller ID. Now I was annoyed.

  I snatched the phone up from the wall cradle and stuck it to my ear, then barked, “I don’t want any!”

  I was just getting ready to slam the phone back down when I heard my wife’s stern voice issue from the earpiece in a quick stream, “Rowan Linden Gant, don’t you hang up on me again!”

  I tucked the handset back up to my ear, “Felicity?”

  “You don’t want any of what?” she demanded.

  “Sorry, I thought you were a salesperson,” I apologized. “The caller ID is coming up with ‘out of area’ and no number.”

  “Ahh,” she replied. I could almost see her nodding at the other end. “I forgot to charge my cell battery, so I’m using someone else’s. It’s an out of state number.”

  “Oh, okay, makes sense,” I replied, then sighed and didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. “So what’s up?”

  “That’s why I’m calling YOU.”

  “Come again?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of,” I told her.

  “Don’t lie to me, Rowan,” she pressed.

  I tried to circumvent answering the question by placing the burden back on her. “So what makes you think something is wrong?”

  “Give me a break, Rowan. You aren’t the only Witch living under that roof.”

  At times I forgot that my wife was prone to psuedo-empathic episodes where I was concerned. Much like I would experience someone else’s pain via an ethereal bond, she would see flashes of my torment within her mind’s eye. Due to the shifting and uncertain nature of the psychic realm, these images would at times be symbolic or incomplete. The first time it had happened to her, she thought that I was dead.

  Thankfully, they didn’t happen to her all of the time, and she didn’t have to endure the same physical torture as I. If she did, I don’t think I would have been able to handle it. The fact that she faced mental pain because of me was enough to make me nauseous just by itself.

  Realizing that she was going to get it out of me one way or another, I let out a resigned sigh.

  “Remember those seizures I had back in January?” I asked.

  There was a brief moment of silence at the other end, and then she spoke quietly, “Not again.”

  Her comment had been couched as a statement rather than a question, but I answered it anyway, “Afraid so.”

  “Why, Rowan?” There was almost a pleading tone in her voice. “Why you? Why does this keep happening to you?�
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  “I wish I knew, honey,” I said, reaching up with my free hand to rub my temple. “Seems like we both ask that question a lot every time this kind of thing happens.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Headache,” I grunted, then added, “Did a number on my tongue again. Broke my favorite coffee mug. But other than that, okay I guess.”

  “I’m only half an hour away,” she informed me. “And we haven’t even set up yet. Let me see if we can re-schedule the shoot, and I’ll be home within an hour.”

  “What for?” I returned. “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “But, Rowan…”

  “Really, Felicity, I’m fine,” I cut her off. “I’m a big boy, and I can take care of myself. I was just making some willow bark tea when you called.”

  “You’re sure, then?”

  “Absolutely. We can talk about it later,” I assured her. “Besides, they need you there to make pretty pictures for them.”

  “I don’t know about pretty,” she replied. “I’m shooting automotive parts today.”

  “What, no swimsuit models?” I asked her with a hint of good-natured sarcasm.

  “No, but I’m doing a lingerie shoot for the Kathy’s Closet chain next week,” she answered and then added her own query. “You want to help set up and tear down the backdrops and lights?”

  “Yeah, right,” I returned with a chuckle to what I thought was a facetious question.

  “Actually, I’m serious,” she returned. “It’s going to be an all day shoot, so I could use the help.”

  “Yeah, okay, if I don’t have a rush job or something for a client, sure,” I told her. Then I joked, “But are you sure you really want to get me around all those young models?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I trust you. Besides, you’ll be working for me and you’ll have to do everything I say.”

  “Everything?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she purred and then repeated the word with somewhat exaggerated pronunciation. “Ev-er-y-thing.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “And, of course, if you don’t, then I just might have to take some disciplinary action.”

  “Again, sounds interesting.”

  “You never know,” she answered with an amused giggle. “By the way, they also offered me a nice discount at their stores.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Uh-huh, so if you do a good job maybe I’ll let you take me shopping after we wrap it up.”

  “That could be fun,” I said.

  There was a period of silence following my comment and soon there was a palpable sense of seriousness creeping into the void between us. Our momentary lightheartedness disappeared in the wake of the recent verbal distraction.

  “You’re certain you don’t want me to come home, then?” Felicity finally asked, the concern edging her voice once again.

  “Positive sweetheart,” I told her. “We’ll talk when you get home.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure,” she said.

  “Go make some sexy pictures of carburetors,” I told her. “Gear heads need pinups too.”

  I heard her laugh at the other end of the line, once again breaking through the mantle of seriousness that originally cloaked her.

  “And, honey?” I added.

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what? Inviting you to a lingerie shoot?”

  “No,” I returned. “For everything else.”

  I could almost feel her smiling when I hung up the phone.

  *****

  I absently took a sip from the coffee mug and screwed up my face in disgust. Willow bark tea was not the most pleasant drink one could ingest to begin with and being an hour cold didn’t help it at all. I suppose that would teach me to look first and then drink. I glared at the cup as if it were at fault, then set it aside and hooked my finger into the handle of the cup I’d been reaching for to begin with- the fresh cup of coffee I had just put on the corner of my desk a few minutes ago.

  I took a sip from the new mug and found it to be only slightly less cold. I cocked an eyebrow and shot a glance at the clock in the corner of my computer screen. 10:47 A.M. was staring back at me. The few minutes had somehow expanded into forty-five. I guess I had been a little more preoccupied with my work than I’d originally thought.

  I leaned back in my chair. The springs underneath the piece of furniture creaked as it tilted, then I was almost certain that I heard my joints creak as I stretched. I drew in a deep breath then pushed my eyeglasses back up onto the bridge of my nose. As of late, I’d been finding myself allowing them to slip down so I could look at the monitor over the top of the rim.

  I knew that meant it was time for a trip to the optometrist. Actually, I’d known it for a while, but I’d been avoiding it. I fully suspected I was going to need bi-focals, and that just meant I was getting old. No one ever wants to admit to aging, and I suppose I was no different.

  I looked at the coffee cup in my hand then back at the clock. I mulled it over for a minute and then decided I would go ahead and get one more fresh cup-if there was any left. I was just pushing my chair back from the desk when the phone rang. This time it was my business line, so I didn’t bother with caller ID. I simply rolled the chair back in and took the receiver in hand, cutting the device off mid-peal.

  “Gant Consulting,” I answered.

  “Yeah, kin you fix my com-pooter? It’s broke.” A poorly disguised and all too familiar voice grated from the earpiece.

  “No, Ben,” I returned without missing a beat. “How many times do I have to tell you? I do custom software and networks, not computer repair.”

  My cop friend guffawed at what he perceived to be an amusing prank call, and I had no choice but to break into a grin myself. His good humor had a tendency to be contagious, as did his sullen moods; and I’d been on the receiving end of enough of that type of phone call from him to know, so this was a pleasant change.

  To be honest, considering what I’d experienced earlier I was surprised to find his tone so jovial. I had been expecting that I would hear from him but figured it would be something I didn’t want to hear. That was what always seemed to happen whenever I had one of my episodes.

  “So what’re you doin’?” he asked.

  “Working,” I replied. “And for some reason, feeling very old.”

  “Yeah, funny how it creeps up on ya’,” he said. “I remember goin’ to bed one night feelin’ like a twenty year old. When I got up I had all kinds of old man pains, and I had no freakin’ idea where they came from.”

  “Same here.”

  “Come on, though,” he jibed. “I thought you Witches were immortal.”

  “Have you been watching sixties sitcom re-runs again?”

  “It’s the only thing on TV worth lookin’ at anymore. Besides, the Montgomery gal is pretty hot.”

  “Ever wonder why they changed Dicks mid series?” I made an obscure reference to the change of actors from the old show.

  “Not really,” he replied. “But I have been wondering when you’re gonna wiggle your nose and make shit show up outta thin air.”

  “Not going to happen, Ben.”

  “Crap. I hate when you tell me that.”

  As entertaining as the conversation had been, I was still wondering if another shoe was about to drop. “So, what about you? Shouldn’t you be out catching bad guys or protecting us from evil doers?”

  “Day off,” he told me.

  “Lucky you,” I said, still slightly suspicious. “So what are YOU doing?”

  “Talking to you.”

  “You’re in rare form today.”

  “So sue me. So you wanna do lunch? I’m buyin’.”

  “You’re buying? What’s up, you win big at the riverboat?” I chuckled.

  “Hell no,” he answered. “Lost fifty bucks last time I did that.”

  “It’s a little early for lunch yet isn’t it?” I asked.

 
He came back with a question of his own. “Depends. When’d you get up this morning?”

  “Point taken,” I replied. “Yeah. Lunch sounds good. I could use a break anyway. What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a great little Indian place on Olive, downtown.”

  “Yeah, been there. I can go for that,” I told him. “So you want me to meet you?”

  “Nah,” he returned. “I’ll pick ya’ up.”

  “Okay, so I need to change into something Felicity wouldn’t be ashamed of me to be seen wearing in public.”

  “Well light a fire under it, Kemosabe. It’s hot out here.”

  I wondered for a moment at the comment then said, “Where are you, Ben?”

  “Right now? Standin’ at your freakin’ front door waitin’ for you ta’ get your happy ass down here and let me in.”

  His comment was followed by a click as he hung up, and then the doorbell began ringing in a vicious staccato brought about by him leaning on the button. Our two dogs joined in with a chorus of barks and howls as they squared off with the door downstairs in order to protect the house from invaders.

  Yeah, I definitely needed a break. I dropped the phone back in the cradle and pushed back, gathering up the used coffee cups before tugging open the office door. As I started down the stairs, I wondered if I should fill my friend in on what had happened to me earlier this morning.

  Before I reached the bottom, I had decided it could wait. There was already a niggling feeling in the back of my head that told me Ben and I would be spending a lot of time together in the very near future. Whether he knew it yet or not.

  We might as well start off on a happy note; because I already knew what was looming before us would be far from pleasant.

  CHAPTER 3:

  I wasn’t someone you could describe as a big fan of heights. Standing here at this particular moment, looking down through the railing from the top level of the old Peerless-Cross department store parking garage, smack in the middle of downtown Saint Louis, I was reminded of that fact in no uncertain terms.