Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) (17 page)

Chapter 19

Waxing Crescent

September 1946

C
hloe Winfred sat on the edge of her bed, gripping her new baby blue book bag to her chest. Her red plaid skirt, white blouse, and clunky Oxford shoes felt awkward on her tall, lanky frame. The blouse scratched her neck, and she knew the shoes would give her blisters if she walked more than a few feet, but at least she would blend into the crowd.

Just like her mother wanted.

Her mother meant well, but all her life she had tried—often with an alarming desperation—to make her daughter as normal as possible. And Chloe did her best to comply, meeting desperation with desperation, never knowing exactly who she was. There was a constant struggle inside her, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts that never matched up with what her mother told her she ought to be. Something inside her was dying to get out into the light of day, but Chloe didn’t know how to let it out.

First day of high school. Oh, goodie.

It would have been a thrilling day for her if she weren’t so terrified about keeping her true self hidden and worried about doing everything her mother wanted her to do. Chloe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her eyes drifted to the tall oak bookshelf on the other side of the room. She had all the respectable books that a girl her age should: a shiny set of encyclopedias, all the latest
Nancy Drews
, a collection of Shakespeare, a few Arthur Conan Doyle, and a spattering of pleasant novels. But the book that really mattered, the one that called to her in the dark of night, was tucked
behind
the bookcase, smashed against the wall, gathering dust.

Chloe set her book bag aside and crossed the room. She looked to see that her door was locked and then pressed her head against the wall next to the bookcase, squinting until she could just make out the dark form of the book on the floor behind the shelf. A familiar thrill fluttered in the space behind her heart and made her breath catch in her throat. Warmth grew around her.

Biting her bottom lip, she looked at the door again. There was enough time—her mother was busy cleaning up breakfast. Quickly, she dropped to her heels and then carefully slipped her hand into the small opening until her fingers brushed leather. Just that tiny touch sent tendrils of heat up her arm.

Awkwardly, she forced her smashed fingers to grasp the book and pulled it out.

Chloe held her breath, pressing the book to her chest, heart fluttering.

She pushed her feet out from under her and dropped to sit on the floor, her clunky shoes out in front of her, looking a bit too much like clown shoes. She rolled her eyes at the shoes and then looked down at the book in her hands. Her heart thumped more wildly, like a moth caught in a jar. Her eyes flicked once more to the door.

After a few seconds’ hesitation, she laid the book on her lap, resting her right hand on the worn leather cover as soft as silk. Her hand grew hot as a faint light radiated from the edges of the pages. The light grew brighter and soon streamed out of the book in brilliant blue-white ribbons, swirling around her, just as the water used to under her command. It’d been years since she allowed herself to use her bizarre power over water. She missed it with a phantom ache, like a severed limb.

Eyes closed, Chloe lifted her chin to bask in the heat and energy of the light—something she had not done the first time she opened the book.

The book was odd from the first moment she laid eyes on it in Dusty Pages, the tiny antiquarian bookshop in town. Chloe liked to visit the store while her mother did the weekly grocery shopping at the market down the street. She loved the smell of the old books, the weight of them in her hands, and the quiet of the spaces between the shelves.

On that balmy June day, just a few months ago, she’d been lazily running her hands over the crusty spines of weather reference books from the early 1900s, when a blue-white light flickered in the corner of her eye. Blinking from the top shelf of a haphazard and dangerously tall stack of books on the back wall of the shop was a small brown book. Chloe stood unmoving for a moment, her mouth slightly agape, the
shush-shush
of the ceiling fan suddenly loud in her ears.

She walked forward, almost in a trance, the light growing brighter as she neared. Soon she stood just under the precarious stack, her head craned upward, her heart skipping off excitedly. Heat moved down from the book like a summer breeze rolling over a hill. She gasped, recognizing the feeling, the energy, and knowing she had to get away from it before something happened that would further anger and embarrass her mother.

Chloe turned on her heel and bolted from the store, ignoring the questioning call of the proprietor. She ran out into the street and didn’t stop until she reached the far end of Main Street, next to the city park. She dropped onto a bench and covered her face with her hands, willing her body and mind to be still and forget.

But she couldn’t. That curious space behind her heart throbbed, itching for her to go back.
No, no, no. I can’t. I won’t!
But the words were hollow even as she thought them. She knew that she would go back to get the book. The thing inside her, the thing her mother tried so hard to suppress, was waking up, taking over.

She fought with herself for another ten minutes, until the force inside her nearly lifted her to her feet. Shuffling and mumbling under her breath, Chloe stepped back into the bookshop, offering a shy smile and shrug to the shop owner, who only shook his head as he went back to work.

The second she turned down the aisle, the light burst out from the pages of the book, filling the room. Chloe put a hand over her beating heart as she stared in awe. She glanced back at the owner, bent over his desk.
How does he not see this?
Standing once again in front of the stack, Chloe marveled as the heat sparked along her skin.

She reached up her hand, lifting to her toes, but the book sat just out of reach. She glanced around for a step stool, but found none. So she tried again, straining up onto her very tiptoes, extending her arm as long as it would go. No luck. Chloe huffed, glared at the book. She didn’t dare ask the shop owner to get it for her.

She continued to stare at the book, wondering if she could get away with standing on a stack of books without the owner noticing. The book shuddered, flew off the shelf, and nearly hit her in the head. Ducking out of the way, the book hit the shelf behind her, and
thunked
to the floor.

Chloe blinked at it.
Did I do that?

“Everything all right back there, Chloe?” the owner called from his perch at the counter.

She flinched. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Lem. Just dropped a book.”

She had to get out of there. She snatched the book off the floor and took it to the counter. “I’ll take this one,” Chloe said as casually as possible. She held her breath, waiting for Lem to notice the light pulsing off the exposed edges of the pages.

Lem looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. He picked up the book, flipped it open. “Hmm. Forgot I had this old blank journal. You keep journals, Chloe?”

Chloe blinked at him, looked down at the pages, most definitely
not
blank. Writing, lots of writing, words, symbols, and drawings filled every page. Maybe it had been a blank journal once, but someone had filled it. She swallowed, tried to smile. “Yeah, I like to write down random stuff. Nothing profound.”

Lem nodded, punched a few buttons on the cash register. “That’s twenty-five cents. Good deal, huh?”

Chloe nodded as she pulled the money from the pocket of her blue skirt. She handed it to him in exchange for the book. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

“See ya next week,” Lem said, already turning back to his paperwork.

That afternoon Chloe had locked herself in her room to open the book in private. The light had burst out, causing her to panic and throw the small volume across the room. The ribbons of light moved around the space; she shrank away from their heated touch. When her mother called out, wondering about the noise, Chloe snatched the book and shoved it behind the bookcase.

Now, sitting on the floor, dressed for her first day of high school, Chloe opened the book for only the third time. The first page held a name and a strange symbol of an upside down triangle with waves of water inside it. She ran a finger over the name:
Amelia Plate—Gift of Water.
Her skin tingled, her heart raced. Something in that name snagged on her beating heart. Perhaps it was the reference to water.
Could this girl do things with water, like me?
The idea that she was not alone in her strangeness thrilled her.

She turned to the place she’d left off the last time. At the top of the page was another hand-drawn symbol of a pine tree, small and almost juvenile. Chloe ran her fingertip over the symbol and the word next to it:
courage.
Her heart squeezed. Hadn’t she just been wishing for courage, for the strength to face a new school, new kids, new eyes looking at her as if she was somehow wrong no matter how hard she tried to be right?

“Courage,” she whispered and then read the words written below it.
“Help me, all powerful sun and moon. Bring me courage, swift and soon.”
The words felt . . .
right
on her tongue. Heat stirred in the space behind her heart. She swallowed, repeated the words.
“Help me, all powerful sun and moon. Bring me courage, swift and soon.”
The warmth flared again, spreading outward through her chest and into her arms, legs, and head. It felt amazing, like a hug, like a kiss, like liquid, delicious courage poured into her body.

Chloe smiled and closed her eyes.

“Chloe!” her mother yelled from behind the door as she rattled the doorknob. “You’re going to be late. What are you doing in there?”

Chloe flinched, snapped the book closed, and shoved it behind the bookcase. “Nothing. I’m ready.” She fumbled to her feet, grabbed her bag. Throwing open the door, she said, “I’m ready! Let’s go.”

Her mom looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Why so excited all the sudden? I thought you were dreading this.”

Chloe shrugged, still smiling. “Changed my mind. I just have a good feeling.”

Chapter 20

Waxing Gibbous

July—Present Day

T
he box, in its black velvet bag, had not left Archard’s side since he’d emerged from Bartholomew’s underground keep. Since arriving back in Colorado he’d worked nearly nonstop on the spells for his grand plan, fueled by the constant hum of the ancient anger contained within the vessel.

Now, he and Rachel stood outside a rented house in Twelve Acres, only blocks from the Light Covenant. As careful as they had been to mask their presence, Archard was still surprised Rowan wasn’t already charging up the driveway of this simple red brick rambler. Rachel fumbled with the key, opened the door, and stepped aside for Archard.

He started to move forward but stalled mid-step. “What is that?” he whispered. He spun around, expecting to see someone approaching, but found only the moonlit empty yard, with its neatly trimmed grass and box-shaped hedges. But the feeling he’d had . . . It felt like someone looking over his shoulder.

“What?” Rachel said with a yawn.

“I felt . . . something.” He stepped down the porch stairs, gray eyes darting back and forth. The sensation remained, growing stronger: eyes digging into the back of his head. “Rachel, someone is watching us.”

Rachel joined Archard on the lawn and lifted her hands. “I don’t feel
anything
, Archard. There is no one here but us.”

He scowled at her. The box in his hands shook, and he nearly dropped it.

“What’s it doing?” Rachel asked, narrowing her suspecting eyes at the box.

Archard’s heart started racing. He slipped his hand inside the velvet bag, fingers searching for the lock. He hissed when his skin met the metal. “Sun and moon, it’s freezing!” Hurriedly, he lowered the box to the grass and ripped away the bag. The box looked the same, the lock secure, but pulses of ice-cold energy came off it.

“Are they trying to get out?” Rachel took a step back, voice revealing her fear.

Archard ignored her and lowered his ear to the box. Even from six inches away, he could feel the biting cold on his skin. For once the box was oddly silent. But why?

Ice crystals formed around the True Healer symbol. Archard watched in uneasy fascination as the lacy pattern crawled outward. Goosebumps rose on his skin. All at once, he felt drawn to the box, held in place by it, and also that he should run far away. His body grew rigid with fear.

Then, without warning, a rush of cold energy burst up into Archard’s face, throwing him backwards. Rachel screamed. It felt as if a glacier had fallen onto his forehead, the pressure unbearable. He cried out in pain, gripping the sides of his head.

Archard summoned his magic, using all the skill he could muster to push back the attack, vaguely aware of Rachel standing over him, chanting her own efforts. He couldn’t breathe, his throat frozen. Death felt only moments away, and he panicked. He could not die now, not so close to triumph!

He called to his fire again and again, but the heat couldn’t penetrate the cold, now starting to move down his body.
No! NO!

The tremendous energy suddenly shifted, paused, and then retreated, freeing him. Gasping and coughing, he rolled away and managed to get to his feet. Bent forward, hands on his knees, he glared at the box, unchanged, unassuming on the grass.

He lifted his eyes to the orange-slice moon. For a split second he wondered if it was right to unleash the magic contained in the box, but then he stood up straight.
I beat it! I am in control.

“Archard, what was that?” Rachel stepped cautiously to his side.

“Perhaps some delayed enchantment or protection.” He shook his head. “But it’s over.” He walked forward, bent down, and scooped up the box. The moaning had returned, and he found a certain comfort in their awful cries. He slipped the box into its bag. “Come,” he said to Rachel, “let’s get settled and back to work.”

The tick of the grandfather
clock in the corner of the room grated on Simon
’
s nerves. The icy pain from the cliff had been replaced with a jittery, electric energy that skittered along his nerves, heightening his senses and bringing to a boil a rush of power, the kind he hadn
’
t felt since . . .

What happened up there? What
’
s wrong with me?

He glared at the gold face of the antique clock, the second hand thudding past the numbers.
Has it always been that loud?
When Wynter pushed a mug of steaming peppermint and passion fruit tea in his face, he flinched.

“Sorry, Simon, I didn
’
t mean to startle you,” she said gently. “
Here.
” She continued to hold out the mug. “Drink this. I dropped a calming potion in there too.”

Simon took it stiffly, held it between his hands, the sweet smell filling his nose. Willa sat next to him on the leather couch, watching his every move. Wynter and Rowan sat opposite in another leather couch. The living room of Plate
’
s Place still smelled like paint, but it was finally complete. The original wood floor shined with a high gloss, the old hearth now boasted a new granite
fireplace
and a dark wood mantel. The built-in bookshelves were full of books and grimoires, the wainscoting painted brilliant white in contrast to the slate blue walls.

And that clock.

Simon glared at it as he took a sip of tea, too annoyed to drink anymore. He set it on the coffee table, turning to Wynter and Rowan.

“So, what was it?” he asked in a tight voice, referring to his hike with Willa.

Rowan frowned. “I wish I could say for sure. It
’
s very odd.”

“Is it connected to the quakes in the spring? Or the monks in England? Rachel at the diner?” Willa asked, setting down her own cup of tea. “Did we stumble onto something?”

“Possibly,” Rowan nodded. “I think we better go back tomorrow. Maybe we can discover what happened.”

Simon sighed as he rubbed his forehead. “If there is something out there, why did it attack me? And why did the owl die? Are the two connected?”

“Maybe it didn
’
t
attack
you. Maybe it just
affected
you in some way. The owl too. Maybe whatever hurt you, hurt it also,” Wynter offered.

Simon grunted in frustration.
Maybe.
Why did everything turn into one big guessing game?

“I thought you guys were experts in witchcraft.” Simon sat forward, elbows on knees. Willa
’
s eyes went wide. “But it seems like all you do is shrug your shoulders and guess.”

“Simon!” Willa said and put a hand on his back; but he didn
’
t stop,
couldn
’
t
stop, his fear and frustration bubbling over; and the strange power in his gut churning, seeking an outlet.

“You don
’
t know why I have powers I
’
m not supposed to have, or how I killed three people without even trying. You don
’
t know if Rachel was here, or what the earthquakes mean. And now something tried to tear my head apart, and you
still
don
’
t know. Why—”

“Simon, stop,” Willa begged, pushing harder into his back. Wynter and Rowan barely moved, listening silently.

“No. I want to understand,” he flung back without looking at her. “We joined this Covenant so we could learn, so we could find answers when weird stuff happened, but so far we
’
ve had a whole lot of weird and
no answers
.” Simon
’
s heart raced, and he found it hard to draw breath. His skin grew hot, tingly. His next words came out in a stiff yell. “WHAT IS GOING ON?”

The magic left his body involuntarily, and the gold face of the grandfather clock exploded. Willa and Wynter screamed, ducking their heads, but Rowan didn
’
t flinch. He watched Simon with a penetrating, inquisitive stare. Simon stared back as a shower of gears and glass hit the floor.

Simon rarely lost his temper. He
’
d learned from a young age to bottle up his anger. There was the time his father had slapped him across the face for healing his mother
’
s finger after she cut it while making dinner. He
’
d wanted so badly to erupt there in the
kitchen, a
half cut onion on the counter and his mom
’
s red blood on the whit
e tile,
but he didn
’
t. He
’
d held it in, pushed out the front door and ran around the block until his ten-year-old legs crumpled beneath him.

Willa drew back her hand for a moment, turning to look at the remains of the clock, and then placed it back on Simon
’
s back, applying slight pressure. “Simon?” she whispered. He blinked, breaking the stare-down with Rowan, surprised and suddenly ashamed and too shocked to say anything, even to apologize.

Rowan scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned toward Simon, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Simon looked at the floor, his shoulders slumped forward. Rowan said, “Simon, you
’
re right. We haven
’
t had any answers lately, especially involving you. And for that, I
’
m sorry. There is much we know about magic and regular witchcraft, but being in the Covenant and dealing with Dark threats is almost as new to us as it is to you. We
’
ll have to help each other along the way.”

Looking at the white lip of his mug of cold tea, Simon nodded. Willa rubbed her hand up and down his back, a small comfort.

Wynter inhaled quietly and said, “First thing tomorrow, we will go back to the cliff and try to find some answers. But I think now, Simon, you need some rest.”

Simon nodded again. Willa spoke for him. “Can we stay here? In our room? I think we
’
d both feel safer.”

“Of course,” Wynter replied, her voice full of understanding and sympathy. “If you think your parents will be okay with it.”

Willa sighed.
“I
’
ll think of something to say.”

“All right. Rowan and I will check all the protections on the house before we go back to bed and . . . clean up the mess,” Wynter said.

Simon flinched.
How did I let that happen?

Wynter and Rowan
stood.
“
Good night,” Rowan said quietly.

Willa stood, tugged on Simon
’
s arm. He rose to his feet robotically, followed her up the grand wooden staircase, a headache forming at the back of his skull.

The hall to all the
bedrooms was quiet. Grateful no one had awakened with the noise of the clock exploding, Willa held tightly to Simon
’
s hand, pulling him to the door of their room. If she hadn
’
t been so worried about him, it would have been exciting to be spending another night there.

She turned the doorknob and pushed the door back. The lavender she
’
d hung above the small fireplace sent a puff of fragrance out into the hall. She was about to step in when Rain
’
s door opened. She shuffled out into the hall, dressed in faded
flannel pajamas
, h
er hair
squashed against her head. She blinked at them.

“I thought I heard something. What
’
re you guys doing here?” she asked, moving forward. She
looked
at Simon.
“What
’
s wrong?”

“Long story,” Willa said tiredly. “Can we tell you in the morning?”

Rain stopped next to Willa, still eyeing Simon, who stared blankly into the room through the open door. “Yeah. Let me know if I can do anything.” She touched Willa
’
s arm, and Willa noticed for the first time that all of Rain
’
s tattoos were of water, in all different forms and colors.

“Thanks, Rain. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she said with a small smile and then shuffled back to her room. Her door shut with a quiet click.

Willa turned back to Simon and pushed him into the room. He walked over to the deep arm
chair
by the little
fireplace
, and collapsed. He held his head in his hands. Willa took a moment to look around the room, trying to calm herself.

The small room had turned out beautifully. She and Wynter had stripped the hideous wallpaper and replaced it with cream paint. The crack in the ceiling had been mended, the wood floor polished and refinished. Atop the new nightstands were two squat Tiffany lamps Willa had found in a vintage shop in Boulder. A small desk was pushed into the corner, near the two tall, narrow windows, and an empty bookshelf
stood
against the wall next to the door.

It felt like home. At least normally it did. Not tonight. Nothing felt right tonight.

She crossed to the windows and lifted them open. The warm night breeze pushed in, tossing the sheer curtains toward her. She caught a panel in her fingers and let the water-smooth fabric pull slowly away. Simon sat next to her, still and quiet.

“I
’
ve never heard you talk like that,” she whispered.
Or be destructive like that.
A brief flare of anger rose inside her.
Except for
the cave!
She hated that the whole thing had ever happened and hated what it had done to him. Maybe finding out they were witches hadn
’
t helped after all.

He shifted and dropped his hands with a long sigh. “I know,” he said weakly, avoiding her eyes.

She turned, sat on the edge of the bed, so soft and comfortable, much better than her bed at home. Her fingers trailed along the time-worn fabric of the blue, green,
and cream quilt.
“Are you
ever
going to talk to me?” She kept her eyes low.

Simon
’
s head lifted, and she felt his eyes on her, but she couldn
’
t find the strength to look at him. “Willa, I . . .” was as far as he got.