Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) (15 page)

Chapter 15

Waxing Gibbous

July 1501

B
artholomew sat in a high backed chair, his long legs stretched out and his boots close to the crackling fire. His midnight eyes gazed intensely into the flames as his right hand rubbed absently at the leather cover of his grimoire. Resting in his lap, the tome was now more than a thousand years old, bursting at the seams with Dark spells and coveted secrets; yet it looked as pristine as the day the bookmaker finished it.

The witch found it easier to think with the book near him, and he currently faced a complicated decision
—
one that required delicate planning and the most intricate preparations of anything he had yet accomplished.

In his long life of one thousand and fifty four years, he
’
d been everywhere, seen everything, and shattered the boundaries of every type of magic imaginable. He was
tired
. Not physically tired—thanks to his healing abilities, which kept him eternally young and healthy, he still looked and felt like a fit thirty-year-old—but soul-tired, exhausted by the tedium of living. Food had lost its flavor, women their beauty, his bed its comfort; even magic had grown dull, boring.

Though he had always called England home, his great country was also becoming a bore. And with the wedding of Arthur to Catherine of Aragon only a few months away, things were only going to grow more tedious. He
’
d looked Arthur
’
s brother, Henry, in the eyes and seen all the ridiculous trouble in his future.

The world currently had nothing to offer him.

It wasn
’
t only a loss of interest in life and the world. Even after so much time, he felt the loss of his wife, Brigid, as keenly as that September day when they
’
d burned her. The vengeful burning of the entire town had done nothing to cool his rage, and neither had time or magic. He
’
d found brief moments of distraction while working his brilliantly Dark spells, stomping down his enemies, and ruling the night; but the pain always resurfaced, an inevitable grievous sunrise.

Recently, with all pleasures dulled, the only thing left was his pain, his hurt, magnified by the gaping mouth of so much time. Brigid
’
s sweet voice haunted his dreams; her beautiful face plagued his thoughts. Several times in the last months, he
’
d woken in the middle of the night, sure he felt the heat of her body next to him, only to find an achingly empty bed. Though he
’
d searched diligently, no woman had been able to fill, or even lessen, the void she
’
d left in his heart. No one had been able to take her place, be his partner in magic and in life.

Loneliness was his only companion.

It was time for a change, a significant one.

Bartholomew sighed as he crossed one ankle over the other, the fire
’
s heat not as soothing as it had been in times past. He narrowed his eyes, the thoughts in his head shifting, moving into place. Flicking a finger toward the fire, he sent a burst of magic into the flames. Mumbling his own brand of scrying spell, he asked the fire to show him the possibilities of the future he was contemplating. Having long ago mastered the skills of prying information out of the Otherworld, the flames quickly answered his request.

Slowly, a picture formed: faces and places shaped of orange-yellow flames. For several minutes, he studied the fire. When he had seen enough, the decision was cemented.

With another flick of his fingers, the flames returned to normal. He opened his grimoire, flipped to the back, and magically added another page. He placed his hand on the fresh page, closed his eyes, and with a whispered spell, inscribed his thoughts and plans into the paper. He would record it, but no one beside himself would ever be able to see it.

With the details down on paper, Bartholomew stood. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders. Then, with the book tucked under his arm, he strode out into the night. Shadows gathered around him, folding him into their camouflage so that he passed through the pre-dawn twilight unseen and unheard.

The small church on his estate hunched low to the ground, stone crumbling and thatched roof sagging. The Dark witch eased inside and marched past the empty, rotting pews. He stepped over the fallen cross and altar and bent down to lift a hidden hatch in the floor.

The hatch opened, creaking in protest, and thudded loudly when Bartholomew dropped it back. Gathering his cloak around his legs, he stepped sure-footed down the stone steps into the stale, sour air. At the bottom of the stairs, he held out his palm, and a small flame burst to life to light the way.

Cobwebs hung like silk curtains along the walls and from the stone overhead, moving aside magically to allow his passage. He followed a narrow hall deeper into the earth, twisting and curving like the body of a snake, the air growing ever colder.

Finally, Bartholomew came to a thick wooden door, adorned with iron hinges and a large curved handle. In the center of the door, a single symbol had been etched into the wood: a five pointed star. Bartholomew extinguished his flame by snapping his fist closed and placed his hand against the star. After closing his eyes, he muttered a spell. A loud
clack
echoed off the rock walls, and then the door swung open with a nasty breath of stagnant air. He sniffed at it and walked over the threshold.

The room beyond was lit by dozens of fat, drippy candles. On the wall opposite the door was a shelf carved into the stone; on the shelf were eleven iron boxes
—
containing the stolen souls of nearly an entire town. A smile twitched to life on Bartholomew
’s lips.

Seated in a simple, stiff wooden chair was an exquisite woman, a princess in a wasteland. Her body glowed strangely, emitting a supernatural light, like pearls in the moonlight. Curls of shiny, blue-black hair, like raven
’
s feathers, hung down her back to the floor, her face like a painting: creamy, flawless skin, with black eyes and blood-red lips. A dress, a slip of black, with many layers of fabric, like wisps of shadows, enhanced her ethereal quality. The smile she flung at Bartholomew was colder than the arctic air around them.

“Are they safe?” he asked, answering her smile with a chilling stare.

She nodded once, continued to smile stiffly, unnaturally.

He moved around her to the shelf, inspecting the boxes. The air filled with mournful whispers. At the last one, he stopped, opened his book, and flipped to the last page. Cradling the tome in one arm, he used his other hand to pull a small muslin pouch from the pocket of his cloak. In the pouch was a tangle of brown moss soaked in his blood, a lump of coal, and a moonstone carved with a skull and crossbones. He laid the pouch on the box.

The ethereal woman floated over to stand behind him, hovering like a rain cloud. He ignored her and looked to his book. With a wave of his hand a spell appeared on the last page, the words burning bright blue.

Reaching into his shirt, Bartholomew produced a simple
necklace
: a long, tarnished silver chain and a crude triangular pendant that had once belonged to his wife. He clenched the pendant in his fist and shut his eyes. The words of the spell trickled out of his mouth, raining down over the box of trapped souls. The pouch ignited with blue-green flames, illuminating Bartholomew
’
s hooded eyes. The flames burned bright for a few moments, consuming the offering. When there was nothing left to burn, the flames died, leaving behind a symbol scorched into the top of the box. The stacked and bisected ovals—the symbol of a True Healer and Bartholomew
’
s chosen mark.

A throb of painful cold spread down his body, starting at his head and hovering in the space behind his heart. With a grunt, he reached out to grip the edge of the stone shelf, almost dumping his precious grimoire to the floor. The sensation continued to grow, the pain increasing until he had to clench his teeth together and squeeze his eyes shut. For a moment, it felt like the cold would ice over his heart and stop it right then. He held the stone shelf so tightly that a chunk broke off and crumbled in his hand.

Then the cold left him, like the shutting of a door, the spell completed.

He straightened up, took a breath, and closed his grimoire with a satisfied snap.

When he turned, the woman gave him a questioning look, her hair draped around her like a cloak. Her eyes moved from the box to the necklace in his hand. Bartholomew stepped within inches of her, trapping her onyx eyes with his.

“One day a witch will come for these boxes. Allow him to take just that one. Nothing else. Understand?”

She blinked once and smiled her ghoulish grin.

Bartholomew looked back over his shoulder at the box, an odd twist of excitement in his gut, a burst of real feeling that he hadn
’
t experienced in ages. He spun away from the woman and made his way back up to the world.

Morning was just breaking in the eastern sky, cracking the night
’
s facade. Bartholomew smiled as he walked away to meet his death.

Chapter 16

Waning Half Moon

May—Present Day

A
rchard and Rachel stood over the black hole, looking down into the shadowy nothingness, the air unnaturally quiet in the field. The breath coming up from the hole smelled like Darkness. Rachel squatted down and squinted. “So, you think the boxed souls are down there?”

“I
’
m sure of it.” Archard said, breathless and unable to slow the excited beat of his heart.

Rachel flicked her palm open, and a flame burst to life. She lowered it past the boundaries of the hole. “There are stairs. But who knows what kind of enchantments Bartholomew put in place to protect those boxes. It could be dangerous.”

Archard frowned. “Rachel, it
’
s not like you to hesitate.”

She snapped her fist closed and scowled up at him, her icy eyes hard. “This is Bartholomew we
’
re talking about. You should show some respect,
too.
”

A good point. “Then we need a revealing spell.” He looked around the field. “Give me your ring, then
get me
some of that pine.”
Rachel
slipped the antique, heirloom ring from her finger. It was made with one large, square
blood
-red garnet surrounded by tiny diamonds set in a thick gold band. She handed it to him and then went for the pine.

When Archard had the pine bough in hand—large, but not too big to carry—he stripped a small branch of its needles and slipped Rachel
’
s ring onto it. He held out his hand. “Knife,” he said without looking up.
Rachel
pulled the small knife from her boot, and handed it to him. Expertly, Archard carved a small, five-pointed star into the main branch.

“Ready?” he asked as he handed back the knife.

“Yes.”

Archard held the bough in both hands and closed his eyes.
“Mighty Fire, power and dread, reveal the dangers now ahead.”
H
ot air
swirled around them and the pine burst to life with brilliant white flames, pulsing and glowing.

“Follow me.” Archard stepped down into the hole, descending the dusty stone steps with Rachel close behind. At the bottom, illuminated by the fiery pine, a narrow passage curved away to the right. Archard held the bough at arm
’
s length, moving it back and forth through the air. “So far, no enchantments,” he said. Rachel frowned, pursing her pink lips.

The witches walked in single file along the passage. The stone walls were dry and draped with cob webs. The air smelled of dirt and stale time and grew colder with every step. Archard led with slow, cautious steps, both of them constantly watching the burning pine bough, waiting for the flames to flair red in warning.

Soon, they stood at a heavy wooden door. The iron hinges shone flat black in the light of the white flames, with no signs of age. In the center of the door, carved into the wood, was the five-pointed star.

“This is it,” Archard whispered. He moved the bough close to the door, leaning away, fully expecting it to flair red.

When the enchanted flames did not react, Rachel scoffed. “Not even the door is protected. I don
’
t believe it.”

Archard cocked his head, listening. The air grew even colder. “Is that . . .
singing
?” he asked, leaning his ear close to the door. A sound, deceptively faint, almost nonexistent, floated on the air. “I can
’t quite . . .
”

Boldly, Rachel reached forward and tried the latch on the door. Unlocked. She pressed the heavy timbers aside and candlelight flooded the hall. Singing, soft and sublime, filled the hall.

Hearts racing and stomachs tight, the witches stepped into the chamber beyond. Hundreds of candles lit the cave-like room, and in the center was one
simple wooden
chair. Their jaws dropped at the sight of the creature sitting in the chair—was it a ghost, or something else? The pine bough flared blinding red and crumpled to ash in Archard
’
s hand. Rachel
’
s ring hit the stone floor with an ominous ping.

The mysterious woman turned two fathomless black eyes on them, her red lips moving as she sang her lilting song. Her black dress and raven feather hair floated around her like a cloud. The song stopped and she smiled a cold, unfriendly smile.

Archard looked at her, unblinking, and felt suddenly like a scared child peering into the eyes of a cruel teacher. He knew immediately that whatever she commanded he would obey.

“So you
’
ve come,
” the woman said in a voice like diamonds—hard, but indescribably beautiful.

Rachel,
not as impressed with the woman
’
s beauty or power, stepped forward to retrieve her ring. With it safely back on her finger, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“
He
told me you would come.”

Rachel widened her eyes. “Who told you?”

The creature ignored Rachel, focusing her eyes on Archard, smiling her horrid smile. “You came for them, did you not?”

Archard nodded submissively. Rachel narrowed her eyes at him. “Who are you?” she demanded of the woman.

The woman continued to look at Archard. “I am what I am,” a cryptic, breathy reply.

Rachel moved her eyes past the creature to the
stone
wall into which was carved a single shelf. On the shelf, a row of iron boxes. “Archard! The boxes.”

Finally, Archard was able to pull his eyes from the woman, the sight of the boxes and of so much power, deadening her enchanting hold on him. He took a step forward. The woman, seemingly without moving, stood, blocking his path.

“You may take only one.”

“What? No. I mean to take them all.” Archard found it difficult to look her directly in the eyes.

“Then you will die,” she said airily.

Archard folded his arms. “Speak plainly, woman.”

“When
he
left the boxes, it was on the condition that no one take them ever,
except
you.” She waved a white hand in front of his face. “And you are allowed to take only one.” She extended a slender, ghostly finger. “That one.”

Her eyes and finger pointed to the box farthest to the right. Archard followed her eyes to the plain, unassuming box. Only one thing set it apart from the rest: the True Healer symbol burned into the lid.

“Why only that one?”

“Because
he
said.”

“Do you mean Bartholomew?” She nodded once. Archard
’
s heart thudded. “And if I try to take them all?”

Her grin spread. “Then I kill you. And quite plainly
, witch,
your powers are no match for mine. I did my best to prevent this, but here you are. So if you try to do more than he said, I will enjoy ending you in the most painful way possible.”

Archard believed her. He did not know what she was, but he sensed enough to know that she was not a witch and not a mortal. “Do you know how many souls are in that box?”

She blinked once. “Not for me to know.” She turned away and was instantly back in her small chair. “Now, go. I do not enjoy company.”

Archard moved his eyes to Rachel. She narrowed her own and then crossed the room. Her hands hesitated a moment before lifting the box off the shelf. The room around them sighed. She tested the weight in her hands. “Feels empty. Archard, are you sure this isn
’
t some trick, some . . . decoy?”

The woman answered, her wasted eyes still locked on Archard. “No trick. Souls have no earthly substance, you
fool
.”

Rachel grimaced, bared her teeth. “If you are lying,
creature . . .”

The woman
’
s eyes flashed to Rachel, and with the full weight of that unearthly stare on her, Rachel shut her mouth. She moved sheepishly back toward Archard and the door.

“Did Bartholomew say anything else?” Archard asked, intrigued beyond reason at the idea that the powerful witch had left a box just for him.
How did you see so far into the future, Bartholomew? How did you know I would come?

The woman only blinked.

Archard looked at Rachel. “
Well, let
’
s go then.”

“
A warning,
” came that strange voice. “If you open it, you
will
regret it. Most grievously, I
’
m afraid.
”

The creature’s enchanting nature could not deaden Archard’s arrogance. “Oh, I doubt that,” he shot back. Then, without a backwards glance, he led Rachel to the door and closed it hard behind them.

Back at the hotel, Archard
and Rachel sat on the bed, the box between them, the sounds of mournful, muffled cries leaking from it. Archard could not pull his eyes away from the True Healer symbol burned into the top of the gray metal. Rachel trailed a finger along the lid of the box, over the etched lines of the Healer symbol, until her skin stung from the cold of it. “Will one box be enough?” she asked.

Archard frowned. “All of them would certainly be better; but yes, I believe one will work. Don
’
t you feel it—how angry, how powerful they are?”

She nodded reverently. “So we wait until the black moon to raise the ghosts?”

Archard stroked his goatee. “
No, I don’
t think so.”

When he didn
’
t continue, Rachel scooted closer and said, “But the power of the black moon—”

“The power in these souls is even more than I imagined,” he interrupted. “We need the black moon for the Binding. The ghosts we can get anytime.”

She shifted her eyes to the box. “But a Binding is supposed to take place under a blood moon.”

“Traditionally, yes, but this is no ordinary Covenant—a rare moon, for a rare kind of Covenant. The black moon
’
s power will ensure that the Binding holds the souls here in this world. Otherwise, I fear, the Otherworld might call them back.”

“So why take the ghosts early? Are you thinking the full moon in a couple weeks?”

He shook his head slowly, brows pulled low in thought. “
June’
s sun moon would be too soon. I need time to get all the spells right. We
’
ll wait until July
’
s, the blessing moon, just to be safe. We pull the ghosts from the Otherworld, with the help of these souls, and then two weeks later Bind them under the black moon.” He patted the box. “That will give us enough time to be sure we can keep them here, and also allow them time to marinate in the box. Add their anger to this and increase the power. We will need that power.”

Rachel widened her eyes in realization. “To break the Light Covenant.”

“We can
’
t bind our own until their bond is broken.”

Moving closer, Rachel ran a cool fingertip over the rippled scar near Archard
’
s right eye. “Who will you raise, Archard? What ghost-witches will you steal for your Covenant?”

Archard lifted his metal-gray eyes to her. “I know
exactly
who I will take.” He eyed Rachel conspiratorially but didn
’
t elaborate. He lifted the box and shoved it into a black velvet bag and tightened the strings. “Time to go. We need to get back to Denver. I have a lot to do to perfect the spells we
’
ll need
.” He widened his eyes. “And I want you to find us a place in Twelve Acres. We
’
re relocating.”