Blood Moon Read online

Simon kissed her hair. “Let’s get some sleep and see what tomorrow brings. There’s nothing we can do but take this one small step at a time.”

  They lay in silence for a few minutes before Simon felt himself drift off to sleep.

  A few hours later Willa was lost inside the mystical world of a dream.

  She ran. Hard and fast. Even faster. Her feet ached each time they hit the cold, hard earth. Her lungs burned, screaming for more air, her heart pounded, pleading for a rest.

  No. Faster!

  The thick crescent moon grinned, its milky-silver light lengthening the shadows, giving the night an ethereal creepiness. Willa felt Archard’s Dark magic pursuing her, its long-reaching fingers clawing at her back. It urged her to stop, to relent and give up, but she couldn’t. Simon was in trouble and their deep-rooted love, their incorruptible connection pushed her past her limits.

  Faster! Simon, I’m coming!

  Tall, spindly trees flashed past her line of sight, blending together in one unending scene of forest. She dodged branches as best she could, but they reached out and clawed at her face, arms and legs. In her haste, she hardly noticed the pain.

  The huff huff of her breath reverberated off the trees and circled back to her ears, labored and loud. The trees finally gave way to a clearing. On the other side of the clearing was the yawning, black mouth of a cave. Willa hurled herself toward it, but when she tried to enter she met a solid, invisible wall.

  She pressed her hands to the cold barrier and then began pounding, yelling. Simon! Simon! In the cave there was only thick darkness as she strained her eyes to see through it. Then suddenly, Simon appeared, standing far back in the chamber, his eyes closed, skin deathly pale, face spotted with blood.

  Simon! I’m here! Simon!

  But he didn’t open his eyes. Willa continued to pound and kick the wall until her hands and feet were bloody pulp. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing. A deafening series of cracks louder than thunder split the night in two. She flinched, clapping her hand protectively over her ears. Rolling to her back, she looked up at the sky through the canopy of trees.

  White lines spread across the sky like cracks in dried mud, as bright and terrifying as lightning, and moving alarmingly fast. Then, like a million mirrors dropping onto a stone floor, the sky shattered, snapped, and fell apart. Sharp shards, as bright and silvery as glass, tumbled down toward the earth. All around her the shards struck the ground, slicing and stabbing. Some were as big as a house while others as small as raindrops.

  She spun around and peered into the cave. Simon was gone; her chest tightened with fear and pain.

  Thud thud thud.

  The shards fell faster. As Willa struggled to her feet, scrambling to get out of the way, one of the pieces of sky tore a deep gash in her forearm. The pain pushed her onward, her need for shelter overwhelming her horrified fascination. She searched frantically for a place to hide and found a small opening in an outcropping of rock coming off the cave.

  She put her head down and ran, the shards slicing and bruising her. The dark area between two large boulders winked at her. She skidded to a stop, slamming into the rocks, before dropping to the ground to try and squeeze her battered body into the space. She managed to push her head, torso, and hips inside, almost safe, when a large dagger-shaped shard pierced her calf, slicing all the way through the muscle, pinning her to the ground.

  Willa woke up with a jolt, pain radiating from her calf. She tossed the blankets back and inspected her leg—normal, safe. Just a dream. Just a dream.

  When she turned to look at Simon, all she found was cold, empty bed.

  Chapter 22

  Waxing Crescent

  Present Day, October

  Archard’s pristine appearance had slipped into disrepair over the course of a day. His hair was mussed, shooting out in chaotic, crusty threads. He hadn’t shaved and his goatee was morphing into a beard. The white dress shirt he wore was wrinkled and sweat-stained, and he had rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d eaten only scraps and emptied too many bottles of Scotch.

  The air in his office was stale and tired, trapped behind the thick door and heavy drapes. A fire blazed in the magnificent fireplace, sucking more clean oxygen out of the space. The walls watched nervously, cringing each time empty bottles were hurled at them; several black rings in the carpet still smoked from angry punches of fire.

  Archard stood with his forehead to the smooth surface of the mantel, mumbling incoherently, tapping a finger nervously on his thigh. Nothing is working. Where the hell are they? There has to be a way to find them!

  Behind him, the desk was half buried under at least a dozen different books. He’d emptied his shelves, dragging each and every grimoire from his extensive collection to the desk. It was an impressive display of magical records, some as ancient as the written word. Some were stolen, some paid for, some killed for. After all, knowledge was power, and the more he had available to him, the more power he had to build upon. But none of it was helping him now, the fire-hot emotion of his want threatening to cook his sanity.

  A quiet knock came at the door.

  “What?’ Archard roared, his voice cracking in his desert-dry throat.

  The door creaked open a few inches and the white, drawn face of his dreary butler appeared. “A package, sir.” The edge of a brown box passed the boundary of the door and hovered in the air.

  Archard leaped across the room and pounced on the box without a word. He pushed the door shut and hurried over to his desk. With a wave of his hand he sent the stacks of books flying in every direction, an avalanche of pages. He ripped into the rectangular package.

  The packing paper tossed aside, Archard stared down at his last resort with hungry, blood-shot eyes. A grimoire, the most important one ever. He’d heard rumors about it years ago, but now he hoped they were true; he needed them to be true. It’d taken his man nearly a year to track this book down.

  Now, here it was, in his hands, and it couldn’t have come at a more dire moment. Archard took it as a sign.

  He fumbled for his chair and sat down. He lifted the large, black leather book with due reverence. The ancient pages and worn binding creaked under his touch. He ran a hand over the metal adornments on the cover and thick metal clasps that kept the book closed. The cover held no title except for the symbols of the Six Gifts arrayed around the Luminary sun symbol engraved on a metal medallion in the center. The symbols were almost worn away and hard to identify. One symbol, below the sun, was impossible to decipher. But he knew, without a doubt that this was the grimoire he’d been searching for.

  Goose bumps rose on his forearms. Holy mother moon! Archard held the book to his nose and breathed in its power.

  Many had claimed it lost, burned, destroyed, buried—anything but intact. At first he had scoffed at the rumors of its discovery, but then the possibility of using the magic inside had kindled in his mind like wildfire; the urge to possess such a tome had become far too tempting to ignore. If it did exist, he had to have it. In his mind it was rightfully his. The grimoire of Bartholomew the Dark, Luminary of the last Dark Covenant, could only belong to him

  Little was known about Bartholomew. His magic and power were the stuff of both legend and nightmare. He and his Covenant were solely responsible for keeping the world in the Dark Ages, and every Dark witch since that time dreamed of knowing the secrets of his power. Some even said he found a way to take away free will, the one thing everyone knew the magic would not do. Archard knew that if Bartholomew had been able to do that, then he had been able to do anything.

  With a delicate touch, Archard removed the clasps and lifted the cover, nearly giddy with anticipation. As the book sucked in its first breath, a wave of Darkness washed over him, chilling even his black heart. The corners of his lips twitched.

  Page after page revealed Dark magic like Archard had never seen. Some were simple, but remarkably ingenious spells, others twisted rituals he couldn’t wait to try; and some pages were blank,
concealed by spells he wondered if he’d ever be able to break.

  The power of it all rippled over his skin, seeping in, intoxicating him. The fire of his desire sparked on his fingertips, leaving scorch marks on the pages as he flipped through the book, now certain of his success.

  Three hours into his exploration, he found what he needed: a scrying spell that could find anyone, anywhere, no matter the protective magic and without a personal item to link the spell. Clutching the massive book against his chest with one hand, Archard flew around the room gathering the items he needed for the spell.

  Soon, he was outside, beneath the waxing moon, his supplies laid out on the ground. The trees turned their faces away from the Dark that trailed after him as he moved around, preparing things.

  On the ground he placed an iron bowl, into which he poured holy water. The first step was to taint the water with blood, his own. With his athame he sliced the flesh of his forearm and let the hot, red blood drip into the water, the drops suspended in the liquid, slowly spreading out into tendrils of red. Then, to staunch the blood flow he pressed his palm to the cut and sent a wave of concentrated fire, cauterizing the skin. He hissed through clenched teeth, but hurried to continue with the spell, ignoring the pain.

  He added the ashes of seaweed and three fire-blackened amethysts, their pleasant lavender color hidden, marred. The final ingredients were the key to Batholomew’s spell: the eyes and heart of an owl.

  Even in Archard’s abundance of evil he had never sacrificed another creature for the magic. Certainly, he’d been responsible for the deaths of others, but this was much different.

  All witches, even Dark, maintained a level of respect for the creatures of the earth. There were rules that must be followed to control the magic—they can be bent, and twisted, but never broken. To purposely kill in the name of the magic, to rip the very fabric from which it is made, to sacrifice to draw power—that was breaking the rules. And it was crossing a line, or more appropriately, it was climbing over a wall and jumping down the other side into the kind of Darkness from which there was no return or redemption.

  Archard did not hesitate to jump.

  He stood, his gaze piercing the night as he searched the several acres of woodland behind his house, home to many owls. He watched the trees for several moments, his sleek athame dangling in his right hand. His mind came to a grinding halt, stopped in one place, focused on his task until he was oblivious to all else. He felt nothing but desire to find his prey.

  Finally, he saw it—the silver, shadowy form of a common barn owl, drifting soundlessly on the air.

  He stepped over the iron bowl and walked forward, his stride long and determined, eyes trained on his victim. He rubbed his thumb against the cold blade of his knife in anticipation. As he walked, he raised his left hand, waved it over his body, cloaking his movements with magic. The crunch of his feet through the brush instantly muted.

  The bird landed comfortably in the high branches of a thin tree, spread its golden-white wings to straighten the feathers, blinking out at the night. Its white facial disk, like the face of the bright moon, framed two coal eyes and a long, sharp finger beak. The owl scanned the ground for its own prey, oblivious to the hunter drawing near.

  The knife sliced through the air and found its target. With a sickly thud, it plunged into the bird’s breast. The owl fell out of the tree, its dying screech fouling the air.

  Archard didn’t flinch.

  A tear-drop stain of blood spread over the white feathers, seeping into the fibers, a badge of Darkness. Archard scanned left to right, half expecting some instant punishment for his actions, but the woods were silent, eerily still. He walked over to the bird and stared down at its black-hole eyes looking up at him accusingly. A curious thread of pleasure wormed its way into his blood, stitching a cold sense of power through his veins. Something in his soul shifted, a down-step toward power yet untapped. With sinister eagerness he scooped the body of the owl up from the ground and hurried back toward the house.

  Archard placed the bird next to the iron bowl and knelt in front of it. Tightly gripping the knife’s handle, he pulled upward and the blade came free with a slick sucking sound. The owl’s blood bubbled out of the wound and ran down both sides of the small ribcage. He placed the sharp tip of the knife on the bird’s breast just below its round face, while securing the delicate body with his other hand, the silky smoothness of the feathers caressing his palm. With sure strength he pressed downward and pulled back.

  The owl’s chest opened up.

  The earth shook beneath him.

  The blood was thick and warm as it bathed his hands and wrists. The hollow bones snapped easily, sending a spray of speckled blood over his face. Soon, the slick heart was in his hand. The fouled water sizzled when he dropped it in. Next, he held back the owl’s eyelids and with an almost culinary detachment, slid the knife around the eyes, disconnecting them from the sockets. He tossed them into the water with a sizzle; the two eyes then bobbed to the surface.

  The job was done.

  Archard tossed the mutilated carcass away, carrion for some opportunistic scavenger. Then he knelt back down, the hard ground biting at his knees. He curled his body over the water and began the chant, glancing only once at the grimoire for reference. The words slithered out of his mouth, slinking down into the charged water. The ground shuddered, bucked against his will, but he persisted, perspiration soaking his shirt, dripping from his nose into the water. The contents of the bowl bounced and sloshed. Ice-cold wind slapped Archard in the face, several crows dived out of the sky to snap at his flesh; still, he persisted.

  And then there it was, the image he needed, forming on the surface of the red-black water like a film of oil.

  He collapsed to the ground, a hideous smile on his dry, cracked lips.

  Archard’s composed couture had returned. He stood on the sagging steps of the white church, perfect in an espresso-brown pinstripe suit and cobalt blue shirt. Tilting his head to the sky, he studied the afternoon sun, bright and triumphant, just as he felt. The giddiness of his discovery tingled inside him, bubbles of delight that wouldn’t subside. In his hands, now scrubbed white and washed of the blood he’d spilled, he held Bartholomew’s grimoire. His great treasure, his key to dominance.

  Remorse was not something Archard knew or understood. The owl’s life had simply been what was necessary. He didn’t care that the earth was furious with him, or that it often shook dangerously beneath his feet in a scolding reproach. In fact, it pleased him that he could anger it so, but still command the magic—it was the ultimate dominance! He now understood why Bartholomew had reigned so long and with such potent Darkness. This kind of power was irresistible and unstoppable.

  The cars began to arrive with the rolling crunch of dried leaves. Archard wanted to reveal his plan, to brag of his newfound power, but he didn’t want his fellow witches to see it. He carefully smoothed his features into an expression of haughty indifference.

  Very soon, his coven-mates were gathered at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him eagerly. “Come inside. I have news,” he said.

  Archard stood in front of his regal chair and watched them all file to their seats, cross their legs or fold their hands. Each kept an eye on the book in his hands. When they were ready, he lifted it up in front of him and said loudly, “This is the grimoire of Bartholomew the Dark.”

  Eyes flashed open, jaws dropped, and the whispers ran around the circle. Archard grinned.

  Gavin cleared his throat, fingered his glasses. “No disrespect intended, but are you sure? General belief is that it doesn’t exist.”

  Archard rolled his eyes and cocked his head in Gavin’s direction. “Yes, I am sure. Do you think I would say it if it weren’t true?” He scoffed. “This is Bartholomew’s book, without a doubt. I’ve already put its magic to work, and I’ve never felt anything like it. This,” he raised the book higher, “is the answer to everything.” He lowered it and pursed his lips together
briefly. “I know where the Light witches are—all of them. We leave immediately. Not only can we take the two witches we need, we can kill the rest for good measure. All problems solved.”

  He expected awed whispers, looks of disbelief, even applause—anything but the heavy silence that filled the inside of the church that stank of fear. He looked from face to face, all downcast except for Rachel, who met his glare with steady ice-blue eyes. She nodded her approval.

  Archard flicked his eyes back to the rest of the group. “Why do I smell fear?” he roared, throwing down the grimoire onto the seat of his throne with a satisfying slap.

  Dora bravely raised her eyes. “Forgive us, Luminary. Perhaps it’s the rumors that surround Bartholomew. We’ve all heard the stories—too horrible for even our tastes. It feels dangerous to toy with his magic.” She folded her arms primly and moved her eyes to her fellow witches, begging for support.

  They all nodded and mumbled in agreement. Archard folded his arms. “To this day, Bartholomew is the only witch ever to form a Dark Covenant. That tells me something, and it should tell you something. We can’t do this without his magic. It is the key. Are you all really that naïve, that cowardly, that you won’t take this road with me?” He spit the words at them, red sparks falling from his mouth, hissing out in the cold air. He took a deep breath and pushed down the fire of his anger. Then he said, “I am offering you a way to form a Covenant, to grant us power we can’t even imagine. But perhaps I chose my coven-mates too rashly.”

  The room now smelled of shame and wounded pride. None of them wanted to admit cowardice. They might not have had Archard’s deep-rooted inclination for evil, but they were all extremely powerful Dark witches, ravenous for power and prestige. Even if they feared Bartholomew, they still wanted their names tacked into witch history next to his.

  Slowly, each face rose and met Archard’s challenging stare.

  Jaws tightened.

  “Then we go,” Archard whispered.