Blood Moon (A Louisiana Demontale): Book 1 of the Crescent Crown Saga

by Schuyler Windham

  Leo drove down the highway to the outskirts of the city on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain toward the witch Beltane celebration. He glanced over at Arachne, words on the tip of his tongue.

  She met his gaze and his heart skipped a beat.

  “You can ask me anything you want.”

  Leo hesitated, focusing back on the road. “Tell me about Vrykos. You said he gave you your powers.”

  Arachne smiled at him curiously. “He did. He’s been a mentor to me ever since: showed me how to hone my powers, and how to cope with immortality. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”

  “It must have been difficult for you to lose your father.”

  Arachne took a deep breath and turned to gaze out the window. “My dad lived and died a humble life. I miss him every day, but the ache feels faded now. The world changes and moves on. For those of us who keep living, it’s difficult to forget the people we’ve loved and lost over the centuries.”

  “I understand why you’d want to avoid humans.” Leo frowned. “We have such short lifespans.”

  “It’s not easy. But a lesson I’ve learned over and over again is that it’s still worth caring about people despite the pain of losing them.” She nudged his shoulder playfully, flashing a smile.

  Leo noticed flecks of light in the distance and squinted. As they approached, he realized there were dozens of blazing bonfires on the beach. People gathered around as the sun dipped below the horizon, the flames casting ominous shadows over the dark water lapping at the shore.

  Leo parked his Civic next to Saint-Germain’s limousine, driven by one of his enthusiastic vampire servants. Eshe hopped out, followed by Keres and Saint-Germain.

  “I’m surprised you wanted to drive out here separately,” Saint-Germain chortled. “My ride is quite comfortable.”

  “I like driving,” Leo answered as he strapped his guitar case across his back. “And I especially like the extra time to chat with Arachne.”

  Arachne glanced toward him as he mentioned her name and a slight blush touched her face.

  “Does everyone have their gifts ready?” Arachne asked sternly. “Everyone be prepared. This could get dicey.” They nodded back at her, resolute in their mission.

  Arachne and Saint-Germain led the way toward the bonfires. People looked up from their picnics and the sigils they drew in the sand, some curious and others seething. Leo glanced at the throng of people and thought he recognized a face in the flickering darkness. But before he could place it, the person vanished. He shook his head and let it go. The shadows were just playing tricks on him, he decided. He needed to stay focused. They continued walking until they arrived at the largest bonfire of them all where three prominent figures stood.

  On the left stood an immaculate blond woman with long painted fingernails. On the right, a tall brown-haired man with olive-toned skin was bending over a cauldron. And in the center, Leo recognized Madame Serafine, who was wrapped in an emerald green shawl with lilies decorating her hair.

  “Good evening . . .” Madame Serafine caught Leo’s eye. He nodded slightly toward her.

  “How dare you trespass on hallowed ground!” The blond witch wagged a finger toward them as they stopped in front of the bonfire.

  “Vampires, and a demon no less. Not to mention . . .” the dark-haired man scowled toward Eshe. She held her head high and focused on the flames raging behind the three.

  “We are here on a diplomatic mission.” Arachne took a small step forward.

  In the blink of an eye, the blond-haired witch had cut her hand with a dagger, her blood dripping into the flaring bonfire. She then threw the dagger at Leo, the blade glinting in the moonlight.

  The dagger thumped into Keres’ chest as she threw herself in front of Leo. His heart stopped for a beat. Two beats. Keres slumped to the sand, grasping at the handle of the blade lodged over her right breast. But she gasped, her limbs writhing as if she were being burned from the inside-out.

  “Twila!” Serafine yelled at the blond. Her eyes widened as Keres struggled at their feet.

  “Keres!” Leo fell to his knees next to her, unsure of how to help.

  “Shoot!” Twila put her hands on her hips. “Was aimin’ for the tall one.”

  “Leo is no vampire.” Serafine’s words were stern, her chest heaving.

  “Will she be okay?” Leo looked from Arachne to Serafine and back. Arachne caught his gaze, concern swirling in her violet eyes. Her lip trembled ever so slightly, but she didn’t say a word.

  “I only boiled her blood.” Twila frowned. “The vamp will be fine. In a little bit.”

  But I wouldn’t have been so fine. Leo’s heart leapt in his chest. The protection spell no longer hung over him. He felt the weight of death just paces away in the darkness, and his nerves were alight with energy.

  “We are here on a diplomatic mission,” Arachne repeated. The three witches eyed her.

  “Go on,” the dark-haired man said.

  “The Crescent City is home to many magic wielders, such as yourself and other creatures of the night—vampires, werewolves, even demons. We seek to limit the bloodshed of humans in the city and forge an alliance with your covens.”

  “Come now?” the man sneered.

  “You expect us to believe this nonsense?” Twila laughed. “Monsters are as monsters do.”

  “Let’s hear them out,” Serafine interjected. They eyed her suspiciously and quieted.

  Arachne took a deep breath. “As a show of good faith, we present to you Beltane gifts.”

  Saint-Germain stepped forward with three corked bottles. “For each coven leader—Twila, Serafine, and Cohen—I offer Hawthorne Brandy, blessed with the singing of spring birds.” He set the bottles in the sand at their feet.

  “I gift each coven the finest dyed rope for handfasting, soft as silk and strong as steel.” Arachne set down her bundles carefully on the beach next to Saint-Germain’s bottles.

  Keres growled as she grasped the handle of the dagger and roughly pulled it from her breast. Blood dripped down onto her dress. She took a few breaths, her teeth bared in pain. Leo offered her a hand and they stood together. Keres dusted the sand from her dress and pointed to three pots with sprigs of green, which she had dropped at her feet.

  With clenched teeth she said, “I present young lilac bushes for each coven, thirsty for the light of the Hare Moon.”

  Eshe stepped forward next with three tubs of thick yellow butter.

  “In honor of spring’s fertility, I offer raw butter from the first green grass grazed upon by heritage herds.”

  Finally, it was Leo’s turn. His head was still reeling from the dagger being thrown into Keres’ chest. He swallowed hard as he pulled the acoustic guitar from the case on his back. It felt heavy in his arms as the witches eyed him curiously. Eshe set three jars in front of him and he began to play.

  Leo fingerpicked a melody, down to a minor chord and swinging back up to a bittersweet major. He wrote it earlier that day. Despite being new, it reminded him of an ancient folk song, evoking wonder, delight, and soft-spoken promises. He drew inspiration from the old Irish songs his mom would sing to him when he was young. When the song ended, Eshe screwed the lids onto each jar.

  “I give you a new song for Beltane, captured in these jars,” Leo said. He bowed his head slightly and stepped back from them.

  “This is unprecedented.” Cohen’s mouth twisted into a half-frown, half-smirk. “I accept your gifts, though at this time I will refrain from entering into an allegiance. Trust takes time. We will enter into a neutrality agreement.”

  “Ditto,” Twila said.

  “I accept your gifts as well as your allegiance,” Serafine said carefully. “And I welcome you as my guests to our Beltane celebration.”

  Cohen turned back to his cauldron and raised an oak staff. “We shall proceed with the festivities! Two names will be chosen by the fire to represent our May King and Queen.” Sparks emitted from the cauldron. A piece of bark scrawl
ed with runes erupted from the flames. Cohen plucked the bark from the air and read the name.

  “Our May Queen is Phoebe Broussard, of Serafine’s Coven!”

  The witches watching on the outskirts of their ring erupted into applause. A young woman Leo recognized as the cashier from Little Mystic’s sauntered to the front. Two young blond women to the left scowled at Phoebe as she stepped toward the coven leaders. Phoebe had a poof of hair on top of her head and smooth ebony brown skin. She wore a familiar purple lipstick on her full lips, hoop earrings, and a flattering floral dress. She bowed as Cohen placed a crown of flowers on her head. Serafine smiled warmly at her granddaughter.

  Cohen turned back to the cauldron, which began emitting sparks once more. Another piece of bark sputtered from the flames which Cohen caught midair.

  “Our May King is . . .” Cohen frowned, confusion wrinkling his brow. “. . . Leo Gaumond of No Coven.”

  Everyone stared at Leo. Sweat dripped from his temple. No applause. Instead, the witches murmured in the darkness beyond.

  “Go up there,” Arachne muttered, motioning slightly with her head toward the bonfire.

  Leo froze for a few more beats before he finally trudged forward. He ducked his head low so Cohen could reach and place a crown of flowers on his head. He stood next to Phoebe, unsure of what to do next.

  “The May King and Queen are chosen! They represent the eternal bond of earth and sky, the union of the Sacred Marriage.” Cohen grabbed a bottle and two goblets from his sack. Uncorking the bottle of golden liquid, he said, “Now the May King and Queen will drink from the sacred mead—spring honey procured from last Beltane.”

  Cohen poured the golden mead into the goblets and handed them to Phoebe and Leo. Phoebe sipped from her goblet and gave Leo an encouraging look. He stared down at his goblet for a moment longer and then sipped from it, mimicking her. The sweet, tangy mead kissed his lips. He swallowed gratefully, hoping the alcohol would quell his nerves.

  The witches erupted in applause. A shorter girl who looked like she could have been Phoebe’s sister cheered wildly near the front.

  “Now the May King and Queen will lead us in a dance around the bonfire.”

  Oh no. Leo glanced nervously at Phoebe. Ballroom dancing, sure—he knew all the steps and could twirl his partner with ease. But witch dancing? Flutes started up a serene melody.

  “Don’t worry. I will lead,” she murmured. Phoebe placed the palm of her right hand up toward him. “Put your hand to mine and hold your other arm behind you.” He did so, and then slowly followed her as she paced in a circle. They kept their palms toward one another for several turns.

  “Now we spin the other way.”

  Leo turned on his heel and found her palm on the other side again, turning once more in the circle. The flutes flared into a jig and the rest of the witches joined around the flames, many interlocking arms in a big circle around them.

  “Thanks.” Leo smiled weakly as they turned. No one was watching them anymore.

  “The Beltane fire chose your name over Cohen’s grandson,” Phoebe said. “He’s going to be awfully bitter.”

  “Just as bitter as those two over there?” Leo cocked his head toward the blond girls who remained to the side instead of dancing, their heads conspiratorially close.

  “Twila’s daughters,” Phoebe laughed. “The flames favor certain covens over others. It chooses the names most worthy to represent the May Royals.”

  “But I don’t have a coven. I’m not even a witch . . . that I know of.”

  “Even so, the flames chose your name.”

  Leo reflected on this for a minute as they spun around in another circle.

  “It is ceremonial . . . if you want to step away with me for a while,” Phoebe looked away, a slight blush touching her cheeks.

  “To . . . ?”

  “Beltane represents the fertility of spring.” Her blush only grew. “The May King and Queen are expected to consummate that tradition . . . but if you don’t want to, I understand . . .”

  “Oh. Oh!” Leo blushed, glancing back to Arachne. “I’m so sorry! I have a girlfriend. I . . .”

  Phoebe pressed her lips together and gazed off toward Arachne. She was leaning in to Keres, checking in with her.

  “I’m sorry,” Leo repeated.

  “I hate her,” Phoebe muttered.

  “What?”

  “I hate her.” She glared up at him with steely eyes. “I was supposed to be Goddess Nyx at the Mardi Gras parade. I had the votes. I was a shoe-in. I don’t know why my grandma let her take my throne. Everything is so political.”

  Leo spun in another rotation wordlessly, trying to gather his thoughts. Madame Serafine seemed to favor whatever Saint-Germain’s plans were.

  “I don’t blame you. She’s very pretty,” Phoebe sighed. “But you should be careful, Leo. She’s a demon. She’s dangerous, a killer. Demons abuse dark powers for their own benefit, and theirs alone. No matter what she promised you, she can’t be trusted.”

  Leo spun one last time and then his hands fell to his sides.

  “It was lovely to meet you, Phoebe,” he said. “I’m done dancing now.”

  Phoebe watched as Leo paced away, back toward his friends. A hand reached out and grasped his shoulder.

  “Hey, man.”

  Leo spun around to face a young man with a short wiry afro, scrawny physique, and maple brown skin. His smile beamed widely from his baby face, a nervous twinkle in his walnut-brown eyes behind thick-framed glasses.

  “Cool tune, bro.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Weiland.”

  “Hey, yeah.” Leo reached out and Wieland aggressively shook his hand.

  “I’m Phoebe’s cousin.” He nodded back toward her. She was sulking near Serafine, who had a hand on her shoulder. “Good thing she didn’t bite your head off.”

  Leo laughed nervously. Almost.

  “Anyway, I play myself. Saxophone. The keys. We should jam sometime.” Wieland’s grin widened expectantly.

  “Sure thing.” Leo nodded.

  Wieland pulled out his phone and they exchanged numbers.

  “Nice to meet you.” He patted Leo on the back and shimmied back into the circle of dancers. Leo shook his head slowly, and then turned toward Arachne. Keres was no longer there with Arachne, Saint-Germain, and Eshe.

  “Hey . . .” Leo started. “So . . . that was weird.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Arachne bit her lip, her eyes tearing up.

  “It’s cool. Just awkward. Phoebe tried to come onto me . . . kind of . . .”

  “Oh, Leo,” Arachne wrapped her arms around him, lifting him a few inches off the ground.

  “Oof, Arachne! Put me down!”

  “Are you okay?” She set him down on the beach.

  “I’m fine!” he insisted. “Worried about Keres, though. She’s the one who had a dagger in her chest.”

  Arachne directed him to the shoreline thirty yards away, where Keres sat with her back to a bonfire flames, her toes in the cool water.

  Leo pecked Arachne on the cheek and went over to sit down on the beach next to Keres.

  “You didn’t tell Arachne about Mardi Gras,” Keres said, her eyes on the water.

  Leo shook his head. “You made a mistake. I don’t want to be a wedge between you and Arachne.”

  “You’re better than I thought,” she sighed.

  “So are you.”

  Keres looked up from the water and met his warm smile with a gasp. Then she erupted into laughter.

  “I’m not a shitty person. Just sometimes a bitch!”

  “You’re not a bitch,” Leo murmured.

  “You know, Arachne is like a sister to me. I can be somewhat of a zealot when it comes to her.”

  Leo chuckled. “I get it. I don’t want anything to happen to her, either. And I have my own sister to worry about. They seem to attract trouble.”

  “That’s for sure!” Keres scoffed.

  “It’s natural to be overpro
tective,” Leo said. Then he turned to face Keres, trying to catch her eye. “Thank you.”

  She leaned back on her hands, extending her legs further into the inky black water.

  “I couldn’t just let you die,” she retorted. “Arachne would never forgive herself, and nor would I.”

  Leo tentatively brushed his hand to her shoulder. She tensed.

  “Keres. Thank you.”

  “It was worth it.” Keres smiled, relaxing her shoulder into the palm of his hand and tilting her head to smirk at him. “I still don’t like you much. But Arachne does. So, I’ll be civil. For Arachne.”

  “I understand.” Leo let his hand drop back down to his lap. Exhaustion set into his limbs from the day. All he wanted was to slip into bed and dreamless sleep. All he could do was worry about the trouble witches could conjure up.

  Chapter 15

  June approached as a warm breeze from the gulf, and they were no closer to discovering the whereabouts of Lilith’s crown. Saint-Germain stayed holed up in his study, trying to decipher the ancient Sumerian texts to no avail. Every few weeks, he sent Arachne to recruit more vampires across the city to her cause.

  The farmer’s market crowds bustled about on the walkway overlooking the Mississippi river. Leo thumped his upright bass and crooned an old jazz tune. A few onlookers clapped and tossed dollar bills into his case as he finished another song. Leo spotted Arachne as she weaved through the throngs of people. He spun his bass flamboyantly and plucked a fancy riff. Then he tipped his hat to her.

  “Good morning ma’am,” he winked.

  She blushed and giggled. “Morning!” Then she hesitated. “I do feel awful; you’re here every weekend and every other day, it seems.”

  “I’ve got to take advantage of busking with the warmer weather.” He shrugged. “It was either stay employed at a dingy bar, or help you. I’d rather play music than work at that bar anyway.”

  “But you should be playing in venues . . .”

  “Alas,” he sighed and then took a swig from his water bottle. “What can I do you for?”