Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) (28 page)

Simon turned to her. “What
’
s wrong?”

She popped out of her chair, already headed for the door. “Solace! I have to see if Solace is all right.” Chairs scrapped on the floor as others stood, alert to her panic.

Simon snatched his keys off the table and followed her. “I
’
ll drive.
”

Willa plunged out the side door and ran to the Jeep, Simon only a step behind, their feet slapping in the puddles of melted snow. Wynter called from the door, but Willa ignored her. She had to get to the museum; suddenly the whole world seemed to depend on it.

With her nerves tied in fiery knots, the one-minute drive up the road felt like an eternity. Finally, Simon parked out front. Willa ran to the door, fumbling with her keys. She unlocked it, and the big wooden door flew open with a squeal of protest. She stepped inside the dusty foyer.

Instantly, she knew something was wrong. “Solace!”
she squeaked. Then louder, clearer.
“Solace, are you here?” Willa took off running, racing through the museum, frantic. After one unsuccessful lap, Willa stopped in the main exhibit hall, panting. Simon hovered behind her, unsure how to help. She closed her eyes and tried to
feel
the ghost
’
s presence, a feeling she knew as well as the sound of her own breath.

Come on, Solace! Be here!

“Willa?” Simon asked tentatively, breaking her concentration.

A defeating crack of understanding broke her heart in two and turned her bones cold. Her hands started to shake. “She
’
s not here,” she breathed, the words fumbling on her lips.

Simon blinked and shook his head. “But I thought she couldn
’
t ever leave.”

“She can
’
t!” Willa heart palpated furiously. She spun around to face him, her eyes big and wild, like uncut gems. “Holy moon, Simon! Solace is
NOT
here!”

Chapter 34

Waning Crescent

July—Present Day

“W
illa, you can
’
t keep sitting here, just
waiting.
”

“Yes, I can.”

“But it
’
s been almost a week!” Simon rubbed at the back of his neck and took a breath to calm his voice. “I miss you. You
’
ve barely been home. You haven
’
t been training. Have you even slept a full night?”

Willa only moaned in response; her head pillowed on her arms on the cluttered desk in the back office of the museum. Beneath her face lay Solace
’
s favorite book, an 1813 edition of
Sense & Sensibility.
Simon sighed quietly, more from worry than frustration. He
’
d been trying to convince her for the last half hour that sleeping alone in the storeroom and wandering the exhibits all day would not bring her friend back. But she mulishly clung to the idea that Solace would somehow reappear, that she was only hiding or playing a trick, instead of . . . whatever had happened.

Simon stepped closer and put a hand on her back. “Come on, my Willa. You
’
re going to drive yourself crazy. Plus, Bertie keeps calling me wondering if you
’
re having some kind of psychotic break.”

Willa scoffed but didn
’
t say anything.

“Come home. Sleep in your own bed, with me, work with your magic, and help us figure out what happened.” He rubbed her back. “That is all you can do.”

She flinched away from him, sat up. The dark circles under her eyes gave her a haggard, beaten look that he hated. “No! I
’
m the only one who can see her. I have to be here if she gets back. If she needs help. . . I can
’
t accept that”—her bottom lip trembled—“that
he
took her from me.” Her eyes glassed over and the tears slipped down her cheeks. “
I can
’
t! I won
’
t!
”

Lifting her chin, she set her jaw, trying to fight the hiccup of sobs in her chest. Simon reached out a tentative hand, touched her shoulder. To his surprise, she collapsed into him, burrowing her face into his stomach, her hands clenching his belt. Simon cradled her head in his hands, his heart breaking, aching to make it better.

After a moment, he knelt down in front of her. “Listen: Elliot had a dream last night about Archard
’
s house in Denver. Rowan and Cal went to check it out. This could be our break in finding him and figuring out what happened. Don
’
t you want to be at home when they get back?” He said the words as gently as he could find.

She sniffled, nodded. “
I do, I just . . . It’
s Solace, Simon.”

“I know.” He wiped her hot tears away and pushed back her hair. “But you can
’
t do anything for her sitting here torturing yourself. You know she
’
d want you out there, solving the mystery. Right?”

“Yeah.” She exhaled her frustration. “I
should
be able to do something. What good is this Power of Spirits if I can
’
t help her and the others?” Her eyes dropped away. “I hear their voices all night long. And last night I dreamed that Solace stood between Archard and that other witch, the creepy one with the crazy eyes.” A shiver shook down her torso.

Simon gripped her upper arms. “I know exactly how you feel.” When she looked at him, he gave her a small smile.

Her own lips twitched into an attempt at a smile. It broke his heart to see her trying to be happy when he knew she was so devastated. The smile faded away, and her eyes turned desperate. She said meekly, “Maybe she crossed over. Do you think she crossed over and those voices I heard have nothing to do with Solace?”

Simon frowned. It would be too amazing of a coincidence, and Willa knew it; but he hated to pick apart her fragile hope. “It
’s possible.
”

Willa
’
s tired eyes wandered away again; she knew he was placating, knew that
’
s what she wanted him to do. “I never got to tell her how she died. Never got to tell her that you carry her magic.” She pressed a finger to his chest. “Maybe that
’
s a good thing.”

He couldn
’
t take the haunted look on her face any longer. He stood, pulling her with him. “Come on. You need some real sleep.”

“But what if . . . ?” she began half-heartedly and then gave up the argument, allowing Simon to pick up her bag and guide her out of the museum.

Solace
’
s copy of
Sense &
Sensibility
sat heavily on Willa
’
s lap. She shouldn
’
t have removed it from the museum—it was a precious artifact and worth a lot of money—but Willa couldn
’
t leave it behind. She caressed the soft leather cover, fingering Jane Austen
’
s embossed name.

Her mind moved to one of the last conversations she’d had with her ghost-friend. They’d sat in the hot, poorly lit office in the back of the museum, Willa polishing some of the silver artifacts, Solace lounging on top of a bookcase. “I wonder if I had a beau?” the ghost mused, a favorite question.

Willa had smiled. “Oh, of course you did.” Always her answer.

“Do you think he was like Willoughby or Colonel Brandon?”

With a roll of her eyes, Willa said, “Hopefully neither one. Jane Austen
’
s men are too perfect for my taste. Too . . . dashing, not enough . . . manliness.”

Solace sat up, hand on her heart, feigning offense. “How can you say that?”

“Because it
’s true.
” Willa smiled as she dotted more polish onto a large platter.

“Willa Fairfield, you take that back! I
’
ll not hear you insult Jane Austen in my presence.” Solace liked to play the dramatic.

“Oh, come on, Solace. Wouldn
’
t you rather have a man with depth, with complications, with . . . realness?”

“
I don’
t think that
’
s a word.
”

Willa rolled her eyes again. “How about a man like Mr. Rochester, in
Jane Eyre
? Much more interesting.”

“That cranky old man? Sun and moon! I suppose next you
’
ll suggest that horrid Heathcliff from
Wuthering Heights.”
Solace shook her head.

“Well, at least Heathcliff loved with fiery, eternal passion instead of—what
’
s that phrase from your book?—‘polite affection.
’”

Solace rolled her eyes. “You
’
re crazy. Isn
’
t Simon perfect, like a Jane Austen man?”

Willa scoffed.
“Most definitely not, and that is why I love him.”

Solace sighed and fluttered back into her lounging position. “Oh, to be in love.”

As the memory faded away, Willa smiled sadly and turned to look at Simon
’
s profile. He
’
d let his hair grow out a little in the last weeks, and the yellow curls had softened around his face, covering the tops of his ears and draping his forehead. She liked the wild effect. Her eyes traveled down his stone-cut jaw to the bulk of the muscles in his arms as he held the steering wheel. There was certainly a little of both Rochester and Heathcliff in him: a complicated mix of passion, intelligence, and tortured past.

His nightmares had stopped. She hadn
’
t realized it before, but his bad dreams had stopped at the same time hers began. Did that mean he had finally come to terms with the cave, or was he too distracted by the recent events to worry about three dead witches?

Sensing her stare, Simon turned. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just . . . tired.” A smile twitched at her lips and then fell away. “What about you?”

He looked at her briefly, turned back to the road. “I
’
m fine.
”

“That doesn
’
t sound too convincing.”

He sighed.
“I know.” He brushed at the curls on his forehead. “It
’
s hard to be convincing when I don
’
t know how to feel from one minute to the next.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Do you think our lives will always be like this? This crazy up-and-down chaos?”

Simon turned to her with concern. “It
’
s all
my
fault.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He bit his lower lip, looked out the windshield. “I
’
m a mess, and I
’
ve dragged you into the middle of all of it. And I really am sorry for that.”

“Simon . . .”

“I think the training is helping though. Rowan is a task-
master.” He smiled. “I
have
felt more in control.” Simon kept one hand on the wheel and with the other fiddled with the top of the gear
shift.

Willa forced a smile. “That
’
s good.
” She looked down at her hands. “What about . . . I mean, if Archard comes . . .” She felt Simon
’
s eyes rest on her, and she exhaled. “What about in a fight?” He didn
’
t answer right away, and Willa could sense his struggle.

Finally, he said, “I guess we
’
ll find out.” He huffed out a breath and added, “I can still feel it growing. The training helps, but my powers are still increasing. I don
’
t know what
’
s fueling it
, or if I can slow it down. The thing that really scares me though . . .” He gripped the gearshift knob until his hand was white.

“
Tell me,
” Willa whispered.

He didn
’
t look at her as he pulled the car to a stop outside Plate
’
s Place. “That deep down . . .” He paused again and licked his lips slowly. “I like the power.” The words barely left his mouth; Willa wasn
’
t even sure if she
’
d heard him correctly.

A chill
brushed her neck, causing the hairs there to stand on end. Unsure how to respond or even what to think, she rested her head against the window and gazed out, her eyelids like heavy drapes. Maybe Simon enjoying his powers was a good thing. Maybe it meant his acceptance of them, his willingness to work with them. But ripples of worry moved off her heart. Yet, could she complain that he was talking to her, telling her something like that? She wanted that, had asked for it.

A streak of movement came around the side of the house. Willa sat up. “Was that Koda?”

Simon turned. “What?”

Spinning in her seat, Willa looked out the back of the open Jeep. “There!” She pointed. Simon swiveled his neck. The wolf ran down the street, away from the house.

“Where is he going?” Simon said, eyes narrowed at the retreating form of his Familiar. The wolf suddenly stopped, looked back at them, and then gave a short howl. “He wants us to follow him.”

Willa frowned; she was still trying to figure out the witch-
Familiar relationship. She was used to animals coming to be healed, but not to having one around all the time—especially a wolf that acted more human than canine. “Okay. Go,” she said.

Simon flipped the Jeep around. The wolf loped through the streets, his spindly legs propelling him effortlessly. Willa noticed the confused looks of bystanders as the wolf raced by.

A few minutes later, Koda turned down a road Willa knew well. She held her breath, her heart jumping, senses alert. Koda stopped at the iron gate of the Twelve Acres Cemetery. The town cemetery was small, clean, and peaceful. The gate, designed in the shape of intertwining ivy vines, stood squarely in a squat stone wall.

Simon parked the Jeep. He and Willa exchanged a look and then followed the wolf through the gate. Koda padded ahead, looking confident of his destination. Willa visited the cemetery often. Part of her town historian training included knowing the graves of all the important people who had lived in Twelve Acres. Plus, it offered a serene place to walk and think.

Koda cut sharply off the path and onto the grass. He weaved through the newer headstones to a group of much older ones. Willa felt dizzy, her head a bobbing balloon. Simon gripped her arm. “What
’
s wrong?”

“That
’
s Ruby
’
s grave,”
she stuttered.

Simon
’
s head snapped back. Koda whined, pawing at the foot of the tall stone. The late afternoon sun pooled in the etched names of Ruby and Charles Plate. Simon left Willa, dropped next to his wolf. “What is it, Koda?” he said.

Willa closed her eyes, trying to push down the wave of fear rising in her throat.

“Willa! Look at this,” Simon called, looking up at her from the grass.

Willa swallowed and dropped to her knees. Near the bottom of the stone was a mark, b
lack, eerie
, and wrong: a small skull and cross bones. The sight of it brought stars to Willa
’
s vision. She teetered and Simon caught her.

“No, no. That can
’
t be here,” she mumbled. Koda pushed his nose forward to meet Willa
’
s eyes. He lifted a paw and put it on her knee. In the sun-yellow circles of the wolf
’
s eyes, she saw her fear confirmed. She shook her head quickly.

“What is it, Willa?” Simon tightened his grip on her.

“Check the other headstones!” Koda moved closer so Willa could lean into his body. Simon crawled over to check the stones for Amelia, Peter, and Amelia
’s parents
.

Willa watched him closely, her hand buried deep in Koda
’
s bristle-brush fur. When Simon
’
s face fell, she knew.

“They all have that mark,” he said quietly.

She closed her eyes and tried to pull in a steady breath.
Is it possible? Did Archard really . . . ? Why?
To Simon, she said, “Call the Covenant, and tell them to come as soon as possible.”