Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) (11 page)

“Yeah. Fourteen.”

“Their poor families.”

Willa nodded. “Mom, is this really what you wanted to talk about?”

Sarah shook her head and exhaled. “No, of course not.” She looked around the dimly lit room. “Funny thing is, it wasn’t the quakes that kept me from going to sleep earlier—it was what you said about moving out.”

Willa’s chest tightened. “Okay . . .”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t tell your dad. He’s not ready for that.”

Willa exhaled. “Yeah, probably not.”

Sarah looked up and scooted a little closer. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you to do anything after . . . after keeping the secret of who you really are. And also since things have been so strained between us all since the fall, but . . .” She pressed her teeth together, grimaced slightly.

“What, Mom?” Willa said gently. Part of her still hated that her mom had kept the truth from her, but she was working on not being mad about it. She hated the way it felt to be mad at her mom.

After a short exhale, Sarah said, “Can you wait until the summer to move out?”

Willa blinked in surprise, not sure whether to be relieved or upset. “Why?”

“So I can work on your dad.” She gave a little smile. “Give me the next couple months to convince him that it’s okay for you to move out and live with the other witches. If you were to suddenly go now, he might say or do things he’ll regret. I don’t want him to permanently ruin your relationship with him over this—he’s already pushing it.” She reached out to put her hand on Willa’s knee. “I know that this really isn’t fair to you, but do you think you can wait? Can you be patient with us a little longer?”

A dual feeling bloomed in Willa’s chest. She understood the reason to wait, but summer seemed so far away. However, nothing in her mom’s request was unreasonable. Willa didn’t want to make things worse with her dad either. So, she could be smug and pull the guilt card on her mom, using her betrayal as an excuse not to agree, or she could do the kind, respectable thing and stay until summer. She knew Simon would tell her to stay to protect her relationship with her parents.

Sarah studied her face, waiting anxiously. Willa exhaled, “Okay. Until summer. After the semester ends.”

Her mom exhaled and released a small bubble of a laugh. “Oh, good. Thank you, Willa. Really. We are so lucky to have you as our daughter.”

Willa nodded, uncomfortable with her mom’s thanks. “But, Mom, this is something I really want
and
need to do. It’s not just about getting separation from you and Dad. Come summer, no matter what, I’m moving out.”

“I know,” Sarah said meekly. “And I really do understand. I think you should do it. I moved out of my house at eighteen and never looked back. I learned a lot on my own, and I want you to have those experiences too.” She chewed on her lip for a moment and then added, “What about Simon? Will he move in too or stay at his apartment?”

Willa almost lied, thinking it might make things easier, but lies like that never worked. “The room at Plate’s Place is for both of us, if we want.”

Sarah lifted her eyebrows, tried to hide her shock. She laughed, “Well, that won’t make things any easier with your dad. You know how he is—always a little traditional about things.” She looked at the bedroom door, her body shifting as if to leave. Then very quietly, she asked, “Will you get married? I know you are young, but . . . being married is a good thing. And I’ve dreamed about your wedding your whole life.”

Willa’s heart fell. She and Simon had never discussed the idea of getting married. Their bond was so strong, so complete, that a ceremony to make it official didn’t feel necessary. Did she truly want to get married, need to? She reached out to touch her mom’s arm. “Mom, we are
already
bound together forever. It’s different with us; we’re soul mates.”

Sarah nodded stiffly, her eyes suddenly wet. “I know. I understand that, really I do.” She tried to smile. “I just . . . it’d be so sad not to hang a picture of you in a white dress.” She looked over and then gently, hesitantly touched Willa’s hair. “With your hair down, no veil. And maybe a vintage dress? I have my Grandma Mabel’s dress in a box downstairs. She got married in like 1940, but the dress looks like it’s from the twenties. Lace and beads and . . .” Her voice trailed off, stalled by emotion.

Willa had never realized a wedding was that important to her mom. Of course, she’d also fantasized about her wedding, just like every other girl in the world—she’d never wanted a veil either—but a big traditional wedding didn’t seem to fit in with who she was now, with the covens and witchcraft.
How do witches get married?
she wondered. She squeezed her mom’s arm. “Grandma Mable’s dress sounds pretty.” She smiled.

Sarah smiled back, and then seriousness returned. “Willa, it’s not just about the dress and the pictures and the party.” Her face screwed up for a moment, and she bit her lower lip. “It’s about being one, being partners. My mom wasn’t very good at being a mom; but when I started high school, she sat me down to talk. It’s probably the most normal memory I have of her.” She shook her head sadly. Willa had never heard Sarah talk about her mom like this. She leaned forward, attentive.

Sarah went on. “She said something that always stuck with me, something I should have told you a long time ago, but it wouldn’t have made sense to you before now.” Sarah paused to take a breath and perhaps steady herself. “A marriage between soul mates is the most perfect magical circle. Find your soul mate, get married, be happy.” She caught Willa’s eyes.

Willa nodded, her heart full, and her head busy with thoughts. How could she talk to Simon about getting married now, with everything going on? Maybe by summer, by the time she could move out, things would be calmer, and they could make a decision then.

Sarah added, “Please, think about it. It’s your decision—yours and Simon’s—but thank you for waiting until summer to move out. That will help your dad and me a lot.” She reached forward and pulled Willa into a tight hug. “We love you so much. You’re truly amazing.”

“I love you, too. Thanks for coming to talk.”

Sarah stood with a tired sigh. “Get some sleep. See you in the morning.”

“Mom?” Willa said on impulse.

Sarah turned back, her hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“I know you were just trying to give me a good life. I know you didn’t tell me about the witch thing because you love me.” Emotion pulled at Willa’s heart.

Sarah blinked quickly and put a hand on her heart. “Yes,” she whispered.

Willa nodded. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something now or have to work really hard to make up for it. And I don’t want you to think I want to move out because of what you did. We’re okay.”

Sarah half-smiled and nodded, looking relieved. A fresh sheen of tears glistened in her eyes.

“Goodnight, Mom.” Willa’s chest filled with warmth, and it surprised her how good it felt to say those things. Before she’d said them, she wasn’t sure she believed them.

Sarah exhaled. “Goodnight, baby.”

Chapter 11

Waning Gibbous

April—Present Day

W
hen Archard’s butler brought the package to his office, he knew immediately what it was. It’d taken Rachel weeks to track down a mirror from the Dark Ages. Finally, an obscure dealer in Prague acquired one small round mirror believed to originate somewhere between 600 and 1000 A.D. She had it rush delivered, despite the small fortune it added to the cost of the mirror itself.

The butler retreated, leaving the office door open. Archard and Rachel had moved back into his home in the foothills of Denver after the success of the healing spell. Officially, the house had been sold after his death, but it still belonged to him. The careful scheming to ensure the validity of his demise had gone smoothly, thanks in large part to Rachel. She
’
d sold the house and then purchased it under a false name. She
’
d planted the body in the cave and switched the results of DNA and dental testing so that it was identified as Archard. She
’
d written the obituary and even wept over his grave for the funeral officials to witness.

No one but she and his butler knew the truth.

“
Rachel!
” he called. Soon she came into the office. He held the box out to her with a smile.

Her eyes lit up as she snatched it and sat in the nearest chair. She pulled a thin, sharp knife from inside her boot and sliced open the packing tape. Her hand dove into the foam packing peanuts. She pulled out a small tissue-wrapped object and tossed the box aside, scattering the packing across the floor. After stripping the tissue, she cradled the small mirror in her hands and gasped.

“What is it?” Archard asked, leaning forward in his desk chair.

She looked up, icy blue eyes bright with discovery. “It
’
s known magic.”

Archard returned her grin.

The mirror was a slightly convex disk of pure silver, about the size of a dessert plate. The edge was rimmed in bronze, the back etched with a pattern of the moon
’
s cycle. The antique dealer had done his best to polish the ancient metal, but a fractured pattern of
golden
lace, the mark of tarnish and age, remained. Archard crossed to stand over her shoulder. Despite its age, Rachel
’
s reflection shone clear on the surface.

Archard held out his hand, and she handed him the heavy object. The dealer assumed it had belonged to a noble or royal woman, but Archard felt the heat on the metal, the echo of spells, of magic. This mirror had belonged to a witch.
How fortunate for us.

After handing the mirror back, he went to his desk and pulled Bartholomew
’
s grimoire into his arms. He laid the book on the black marble hearth of his fireplace, a gigantic black opening in the wall, framed by a white volcanic ash glass mantel, and he flipped to the correct page. To all appearances, the page was blank, marked only with faint red lines; but the Dark witches knew it was enchanted and must contain something extraordinary if Bartholomew had hidden it so well. Several of their attempts to uncover it had already
failed
. But this mirror . . .
It must be the answer!

Rachel scooped up three large blue pillar candles and handed them to Archard. He set them along the top of the book, evenly spaced—right, center, left. From the large bookshelves in the corner of the room, she gathered a vial of ocean water, a bowl of seashells, and Archard
’
s black athame. She handed those to him as well and then went back to find a small picture easel. Kneeling next to Archard, she placed the easel at the bottom of the blank page and set the silver mirror into
it, her hands hovering
to make sure it didn
’
t tip. After it didn
’
t fall, she angled it to reflect the candlelight and blank page.

She nodded to Archard, who snapped the candles to life.

Rachel
picked up a pen and pad of paper from the desk and set them next to the book. With the round pommel of his athame, Archard smashed the shells in the bowl into tiny pieces, which he then sprinkled around the perimeter of the blank page. Rachel unstopped the small vial and gently poured the salt water over the surface of the mirror. The water dripped off and formed a puddle underneath the easel.

Everything was prepared.

Eyes alive with anticipation, Archard looked over at Rachel. She smiled broadly, offering the palm of her hand. He held her eyes for a moment and then pressed the tip of his ritual knife to her skin. She didn
’
t blink
as he opened a small cut. He then did the same to his own hand.

Each of them pressed several drops of blood into the bowl, which Archard mixed together with the tip of his knife. Then, carefully, using the knife like a pen, he drew a crescent moon symbol in blood at the top of the page.

Rachel lifted the pad of paper onto her lap, pen poised and ready, and hand trembling slightly with nervous anticipation. Archard’s heart raced, eager to uncover another of Bartholomew
’
s secrets. After the tremendous success of his healing, Archard was certain Bartholomew would never fail him. He
knew
the answer to exacting his revenge and forging his own Covenant was in this book. He only had to find it.

Archard closed his eyes and said the spell.
“Powers of water and sea, we come to you with a plea. Mirror so clear and bright, reveal things lost with your mystic sight.”

The air stirred with magic, first hot and then quickly turning cold, as the Powers recognized the Dark source of the call. The bloody moon at the top of the page pulsed bright red. Rachel
’
s eyes stayed locked on the mirror.

In his
deep and commanding voice, Archard repeated the spell. The temperature of the air plummeted until their breaths plumed out in white puffs. Rachel shivered, but kept her eyes fixed on the mirror, not even daring to blink, afraid of missing something.

“Archard . . .” she whispered.

“Shh,” he hissed, his own eyes carefully watching the silver surface.

A flash of light burst out of the mirror. The sound of whispers crept into the room, but neither of the witches looked up. Finally, it appeared: the page, reflected in the mirror, with the hidden words revealed at last, crisp and clear.

“
Rachel . . .
” Archard gasped. She ignored him, frantically copying down every word, all of it in Latin, but that was easily dealt with later.

Frost rimed the mantel and the marble floor around the book. The candle flames flickered, almost sputtering out. Archard turned his head, listening, trying to pick out words as the whispers grew louder. Rachel flipped to the next page of her pad. She copied down everything for a second time—just to be safe.

The whispers grew louder and louder until Archard wanted to put his hands over his ears. Then, with a rush of wind, the voices were gone and the reflection in the mirror vanished.

“Did you get it?” Archard asked.

She nodded, taking a deep breath. “Every word.”

Narrowing his eyes in pleasure, Archard turned to the cold hearth. With one sweep of his hand, an enormous fire burst to life, heat
instant and wonderful.
“Let
’
s see what Bartholomew was hiding.”

Together, Archard and Rachel sat huddled in front of the roaring fire. Rachel waved a hand over the Latin words, which shimmered and morphed into English. Archard hovered over her, looking down at the paper. Anticipation skittered around inside his gut, and he could hear Rachel’s heart pounding as loudly as his.

“Read it,” Archard commanded in a hushed, eager tone.

Rachel swallowed. Tipping the page toward the fire to catch the light, she read:

Another town rose against us tonight. I grow weary of these ignorant rebellions, but the unenlightened always fight what they do not understand. However, tonight I gave them a display of power they will not soon forget.

I
’
m pleased with the results of the spell. It took a great deal of preparation,
and I had worried about its ability to raise so many, but it worked. With my unique skills and the Covenant’
s magic, the Otherworld could not resist my command. A whole graveyard of souls raised, and half a town
’
s souls extracted and stored in my carefully crafted iron boxes.

I had full control.

Rumors of this power will spread far and wide. Therefore, I must protect it with a most potent enchantment. Otherworld magic is not for every witch who walks the earth, and any attempt to perform this spell—or any similar—without the abilities I possess, will surely result in death . . . or worse.

The air once again grew cold around them, and Rachel
’
s lips were pale from speaking the Dark words aloud. She paused, put a hand to her mouth, and let her eyes travel down the rest of the page. She looked up at Archard. “He outlines the specifics of the spell here. Every detail. But it takes a Covenant, a black moon, and Bartholomew
’
s ‘
unique skills.’”

Archard nodded, the fire throwing shadows over his angular face. “What were those skills, I wonder?”

She glanced down at the paper. “It doesn
’
t say here. We know he could control others, and now it appears that he could control the dead, but how . . . ?”

Archard frowned, narrowed his metal-colored eyes in thought. “Just think of the possibilities—controlling the dead, commanding the Otherworld. Let me see the spell.” Archard held out his hand, Rachel handed over the paper. “There
’
s a black moon at the end of July,” he said absently as he continued to read. After scanning to the bottom of the page, his eyes widened. “This symbol,” he pointed to a stack of three ovals, with a line through the middle of all three. “It was on the page?”

“Yes, at the very bottom, in the corner and kind of small. But I don
’
t recognize it. Do you?”

Archard tossed the paper aside as he jumped to his feet. He raced across the room to the bookshelves, scanned quickly until he found what he
needed
. He brought back a small cloth-bound book, sat next to Rachel again, and flipped pages. She watched him intently.

After a moment he jabbed a finger to the page, a triumphant smile on his thin lips. “There. Look. The key to Bartholomew
’
s powers.” His heart raced, heat swirling under his skin.

Rachel leaned over to look at the page. At the top was the same symbol and below it the explanation of what it meant.

“
Holy
mother moon!” she whispered.

“Exactly!” Archard returned. “We know Bartholomew was a Mind witch—there are Mind symbols throughout the whole book—but this . . .
this
explains how he could do all he did.” He pointed to the spell that had raised the dead. “How he could do
that
.” Archard flipped the grimoire closed and pointed to the worn, indecipherable symbol on the front, below the Luminary sun. “That must be what this symbol is, rubbed out, either by time or purposely.” Archard inhaled deeply. “Unbelievable. Bartholomew was a True Healer.”

He paused to take another breath, attempting to control the fever of excitement burning inside him. “We can
’
t duplicate his skills, but maybe there is something else. He mentions capturing souls. Those trapped souls would have
tremendous
power. Those souls will be particularly angry and potent.” He rubbed at his goatee, grown back as thick as before, and stared into the fire. Suddenly, he jumped up and went back to his shelves. Several minutes later, he returned with a large, crumbling grimoire made of crusty brown leather. Releasing the clasp, he threw it open. After flipping pages for a moment, he looked up at Rachel, his eyes full of devious plans. The fire flared, responding to his heightened emotions.

“What?” she begged.

“I think the souls may be powerful enough to use
in place
of Bartholomew’s
unique skills.
”

“What do you mean? You think they can make you as powerful as Bartholomew, a Mind witch
and
True Healer? Why not just snatch that Light witch boy—the one who
’
s
actually
a True Healer?
”

Archard waved his hand dismissively. “Because this is far less messy than trying to force him to do the work for us. No, we must use those imprisoned souls. They are already connected to the Otherworld and ripe with Dark magic.”

“And do what?”

The fire flared again as Archard
’
s mind raced toward the possibilities. “We use them to pull ghosts from the Otherworld, just as Bartholomew did. This grimoire,” he pointed to the dusty pages, “is the last surviving book of a very powerful Dreamer with the Gift of Spirits. Long ago, Light witches tried to wipe out all the ghost spells to keep people from trying to raise the dead
—
too many people died or worse in the process. But this book survived. With these spells and Bartholomew
’
s, I can pull any ghost I want back from the arms of the Otherworld.”

“And do what with them?” Her brow furrowed as she lagged behind his thoughts.

Archard slowly smiled. “Form a Covenant, of course.” He eyed Rachel and watched her face as the idea took root.

“A Covenant of
ghosts
.”

“Exactly! One I will control
completely
, one that cannot die, or leave, or fail.”

Rachel inhaled sharply, smiled wickedly. “Sun and moon!” she whispered.

Archard snapped the large grimoire shut, dust puffing out in all directions. “We have to find those souls.”