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  Chapter 23

  Blood Moon

  October 1931

  Amelia woke in a panic, darkness all around her. In a rush of pain and sorrow, the memories of the night’s events swooped down on her. She spun around, flinched away, expecting to see the Dark witches emerge from the blackness to finish the job, but there was only silence.

  She was alone.

  Where are they? What happened?

  With a groan, she shifted her battered body off the stone altar, the chains broken on the ground, and took a few hesitant steps forward, straining her ears for any sound indicating the covens were still there. Am I dreaming? Am I dead?

  At the cave’s entrance, she peered out into the cold night, listening, waiting, but the only sounds to answer were the wind in the dry leaves and an owl hooting far off in the distance. She stepped out into the night, her heart thumping loudly, her hands gripping the ragged skirt of her filthy nightgown.

  Run!

  Amelia didn’t wait to figure out what had happened. If the covens had left her alone, she wasn’t about to sit around and wait for them to return. She bolted off into the trees, but before long fell to the ground, a bizarre pain firing to life in her chest.

  She reached to her chest and found the chain and possession pendant. She tugged, pulled, lifted, tore, gnashed but it would not leave her body—a slowly working noose, a wicked leash.

  Images of illuminated faces, green with power, orange with fire, burned on the surface of her eyes. They floated up from the ground, taunting her, bringing with them echoes of terror, pain, and wrongness. She flinched and shivered.

  This is not real. This is not real.

  The words thundered along the front of Amelia’s mind, a storm of disbelief, as she lay on the cold ground in a layer of chiffon darkness. October cold snapped at her skin leaving bitter blue and white bite marks. In the sky above, the brilliant blood moon hid its shamed face behind a mask of thick clouds. Uneasiness rippled on the air.

  What happened? What’s wrong with me?

  Crawling through the fallen, rotting leaves, Amelia tried to put as much distance as she could between herself and the cave, but the effort was monumental. She collapsed in front of a cluster of aspens, their white trunks like towering skeletons in the night. She gathered her tattered nightgown around her as much possible, but it was an inadequate barrier against the frigid night.

  Left to die.

  That part she hadn’t seen in the water when she was thirteen. She’d always assumed the Dark coven’s spell would end in her death, but here she was, alive and alone. Their spell to make her a part of their Covenant must have failed and they’d abandoned her, probably assuming she was dead. Amelia dug her fingers into the dirt, reaching into the earth for some hint of magic, just an ounce of power to break the necklace and undo what had been done to her. Empty, cold silence. The earth no longer heard her. She began to truly panic.

  Not only was she alive and alone, but changed. The spell may have failed in its ultimate goal, but it had done something else to her. She didn’t recognize herself. She felt displaced and forsaken. The heat of the magic no longer pulsed inside her. Instead, there was a gaping, aching hole the size of the world, where her gift should be. Her body was wrong, her heartbeat, her breath. And without her magic, how would she survive?

  Gone. Extracted. Changed.

  What am I?

  September 1991

  Harvest Moon

  She was the walking dead, a crone with no soul, no purpose. Trapped and waiting only to die. Amelia had never left the cave; it became her prison. For sixty years she’d wandered the woods, only able to go about half a mile before collapsing and crawling back to the cave in defeat. Her broken, deformed body required little sustenance and she survived on what nature provided.

  And waited to die. Always waiting.

  The morning dawned cool and gray. Amelia huddled in the cave, tucked into the black shadows, staring out at yet another morning. Her white night gown had long ago disintegrated to dust and she now wore a filthy black flannel shirt and baggy hiking pants she’d stolen from a backpacker who’d passed by and left his pack unattended for a time. The clothes hung from her bony frame. Her skin had soured to a sickly gray, her hair thinned and grayed into wisps, feathering off her head like Medusa’s snakes.

  Her mind was a hollow shell, scooped clean of all that she loved. She’d tossed it all aside many years ago, throwing it away to avoid the hurt that was wondering. Wondering why no one came to save her? Wondering what had happened to her little, precious Lilly? Wondering what they did with Solace’s body? Wondering if Camille, her husband Ronald, and the few remaining others had escaped? And most of all, wondering what had gone wrong to curse her with such a life?

  A robin landed near the entrance of the cave, picking the dirt for bugs. Amelia, head resting back against the stone, watched the intrepid creature with a vacant, vague stare. Then, a warm breeze rushed into the clearing and the bird spread its wings and flew off. The air swirled into the cave and moved over her sunken, skull-like face. Amelia sat up.

  Is that magic?

  With the breeze came a tickle of energy that stirred in the space behind her heart. She gasped and strained to feel, to hold onto the sensation. It grew, pulsing now and prompting her to stand. Walk, walk, walk, it whispered to her and she was compelled to listen.

  She stood and stumbled out of the cave, blinking at the sunshine. The air grew hot, stirred by magic. Tripping over her eager feet, Amelia followed.

  For hours, she walked, led by the whispering wind. When night fell, and the large harvest moon, September’s full moon, rose into the sky, she walked on. Miles and miles from the cave, her broken heart beating oddly in her chest, her feet now bloody from so many miles, but her body did not fail her as it had so many times before.

  When the full moon reached its zenith, she saw in her mind the face of a baby, a fetus, unborn, but pulsing with power. She must find this unborn child; he could save her—that was what the wind whispered as it pushed her on.

  Soon, she stopped in front of a quiet, Colonial-style house, the white clapboards glowing in the moonlight, the many windows dark and sleeping. The wind spiraled around her. Here, he’s here!

  Stumbling up the stone steps to the front porch, Amelia held her breath, ignoring the trail of blood her feet left and the nagging call of her body to stop. The baby’s face, plump and pink, grew bright in her mind.

  She fell on the door, scratching her yellowed and blackened fingernails down the mess of the screen, the screech echoing ominously in the still night. She scratched and pounded, desperate sobs building in her throat. Please. Please. I need his help!

  After several minutes the front door pulled back and the wild, angry face of a woman with bluntly chopped blond hair and a swelling pregnant belly, appeared. At the horrific sight of Amelia, she stumbled and then fell backwards, crab walking away from the door. Amelia summoned an ounce of strength and pulled open the screen door, falling into the foyer. She pulled her mouth open and, in a voice like crackling paper, said, “Please. I need his help.” She lifted her skeletal hand and pointed at the woman’s belly. The mother-to-be put a protective hand over her womb and continued to back away.

  “Get out!” she spat at Amelia.

  Amelia pulled her body forward, digging her fingernails into the polished wood floor. “Please,” she wheezed. “I only need to die. Your baby . . . he can break the curse.”

  The woman froze, petrified. She lowered her wide, terrified eyes to her stomach where the baby rolled and kicked. A strange look of understanding and defeat moved over her face. Amelia, now close enough to touch her, lifted her arm, hand trembling and touched the firm swell of the woman’s belly. The baby quieted. Amelia felt a small pressure under her hand, an outward push, and then there was a massive rush of heat from him to her, and then from her to him.

  A blissful peace filled her body and she dropped her hand to the floor and sighed in long awaited relief.
The Dark necklace around her neck burst into flames, turning to ash. Amelia’s heart beat correctly just once before it stopped. The poor woman beside her screamed, gripping her belly as a contraction seized her body.

  Amelia closed her eyes and died.

  Chapter 24

  Waxing Crescent

  Present Day, October

  “Simon?” Willa whispered, moving her eyes around the dark room and straining to hear a response. Then louder, “Simon?” She jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Empty. She couldn’t breathe right. Suddenly, her heart and lungs were gripped with panic and her body cold with trepidation. My dream. No, no, no! “Simon!” she yelled.

  She ran out into the hall, slipping on the smooth, polished wood floor. The house was dark, quiet. She froze to listen. The ticking of a clock. The hum of the heater. Hurrying down the stairs, she kept her senses tuned outward. “Simon?” she called, her voice echoing loudly. She went to the kitchen first. Empty. She looked out the back door and found the yard also empty.

  Her panic was now acid in her throat, chills raised the hair on her neck. “Simon?” she said louder. Running again, she went to the front of the house and skidded to a stop in the foyer. The front door was thrown open and Simon stood on the porch in only his boxers. Cold, snow-scented air blew into the house, hitting Willa in the face. She gasped and then exhaled in immense relief. She tipped her head and stepped slowly forward.

  What are you doing?

  Simon’s hands were at his sides, balled into fists, his head lifted to the sky. Willa stepped next to him. His eyes were squeezed closed, his face a stone of concentration. “Simon?” she whispered and put a hesitant hand on his cold arm; the muscles were ridged, coiled tight like he was ready to spring.

  “Do you feel that, Willa?” he whispered, not opening his eyes.

  Willa looked out at the night, the massive maple trees and the pines surrounding the house. “All I feel is the freezing cold,” she said hugging her arms over her chest, her tank-top and shorts doing little to keep her warm.

  Simon shook his head, a small jerky movement. “No, there is . . . something.”

  The hairs rose on her neck again, a cold sense of dread wormed into her heart. “What?”

  Simon finally opened his eyes and looked down at her, his irises black in the night. “Someone is here.”

  Simon grabbed Willa’s arm and pulled her back inside. The feeling had woken him, an odd itch in his mind, but now he was sure there was something or someone close. And he was even more certain that the icy presence meant they were in danger.

  “Simon, what—”

  “We have to wake everyone, right now!” He looked down at her confused eyes.

  She stared back for a few tense moments and then said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  He nodded, grateful for her understanding. They ran back to their room and threw on jeans, hoodies and shoes before running first to Wynter and Rowan’s room. Simon pounded on the door. A moment later, Rowan answered, eyes bleary, his hair a mess around his face. “Simon? What’s—”

  “Someone is here,” Simon cut in. “I can feel it.” He pushed meaning into the words, hoping Rowan could understand.

  Rowan narrowed his eyes and then they flashed wide. “Wake everyone. Meet in the kitchen. Go!”

  Simon went one way and Willa the other, knocking on doors and pulling people from their beds. Within two minutes, the witches were all gathered in the kitchen, one dim light turned on over the sink. Grumbles of questions moved around the room, but Simon waited for Rowan before he said anything. Rowan crossed the room and stood in front of him. “What do you feel?”

  The room instantly quieted as all eyes locked on Simon. “It woke me up. Some cold feeling. Sorry, it’s hard to describe.”

  “No, it’s fine. Go on,” Rowan prompted.

  “I went out front and it got stronger. It feels like a presence. I can’t quite tell if it’s one person or a group, but it feels dangerous.” Willa, standing at his side, took his hand and he looked down at her wide eyes.

  Rowan whipped around. “Charlotte?”

  Charlotte already had her eyes closed. “He’s right. It’s there, beyond the walls of the ranch. I don’t know what it is either.”

  “It’s Archard,” Wynter said quietly. Everyone turned to look at her. “Who else would it be?”

  Rowan nodded. “Agreed.”

  Simon’s stomach tightened as he pulled Willa closer. “But you said the ranch was protected and that it would take him a while to find us?”

  “I know, and he shouldn’t have been able to find us so quickly. I don’t know how he did, but there isn’t time to discuss it. We have to fight, here and now.”

  “Fight?” Simon gasped. “Willa and I just started training yesterday.”

  Rowan put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I know, Simon,” he said gently. “You two stay here in the kitchen with Charlotte and Elliot. Help them cast some protection spells. The rest of us will go out to meet Archard. If he somehow gets past us, don’t try to fight—run. You run out the back and down to the barn at the base of the hill. There’s a truck there with keys in the glove box. Get away as fast as you can. Understood?”

  Simon nodded. Charlotte and Elliot moved to stand with him and Willa. They nodded, too. “Yes, Rowan” Charlotte said.

  “Good.” He tried to smile reassuringly and then turned away. “The rest of you, follow me.”

  Archard stood at the gate of the ranch. Behind him loomed a row of black shadows—his covens, standing shoulder to shoulder. Their feet and hands shuffled restlessly, nervously, but Archard was like stone, looking at the shadowy path beyond the gate

  Once more he went over the magic in his head; he couldn’t afford a last-minute fumble. The new spells and incantations from Bartholomew’s book were etched onto the slate of his mind. He would make no mistakes.

  Everything has to be perfect.

  He motioned with his hand and two shadows broke off from the line, moving toward the gate. Leon and Gavin each held a small bottle of fresh cat blood. Archard observed how they held the bottles far from their bodies, heads tilted away. He rolled his eyes at their revulsion.

  Pathetic!

  They looked at him.

  “Do it,” he hissed.

  Carefully the two men poured the stolen blood on the earth all along the front of the gate; the thick liquid hit the powdery dust and congealed. When the task was finished, the two witches retreated, and Archard stepped forward. He raised his hand and muttered the required spell. A blast of icy wind rushed from behind, blowing past the witches, and racing up the lane, smashing the protective spells around the house as easy as snapping a twig.

  Archard chuckled under his breath.

  With a quick sweep of his hand, the gate ripped from its hinges with a loud creak, exploding backwards onto the ground. Archard advanced, his covens following. The enormous trees withdrew their branches, cowering as far back from the stench of evil as they could.

  Archard drank in his own power, each step forward a jolt of wicked anticipation.

  The house was quiet, the windows dark. No one was expecting him this time. Archard stopped at the edge of the trees, ran his eyes over the grand wooden posts and log walls, briefly wondering how they would look ablaze with fire.

  Not yet—patience!

  He rotated his head to the side. “Do you feel them, Ellen? Where are they?”

  A curvy woman with skin the color of fine espresso closed her eyes. Her hands trembled with the effort. “In a room at the back of the house, Luminary.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  A grin spread across Archard’s face as he spun on his heel.

  “Follow me. And be ready.”

  Willa’s body went numb with fear. Archard? No, not here. Not now! She turned her face into Simon’s shoulder and he put his arms around her. She looked up at him as he spoke to her mind, understanding her fear. I will not let him hurt you again
.

  She nodded, trying to even the rhythm of her breath. Char put a hand on her shoulder. “Help us do the spell, okay? Rowan and the others are all extremely powerful. They can beat Archard and his covens.”

  Willa nodded. “What do we do?”

  Char half-smiled and nodded. “Simon. In the fridge, get some basil. Willa, from that cupboard there,” she pointed, “get the salt.” Willa nodded and did as she was told. Charlotte raced into the large pantry, where hundreds of jars lined the shelves filled with herbs and stones. Willa grabbed the box of kosher salt and set it on the table. Elliott had already drawn a large five-pointed star on the wood with a small piece of chalk. He took the salt and started to pour it over the chalk lines.

  “What is all this?” Willa asked when Char came back to the table with a jar of pine needles, another of sage, and a few fat white pillar candles.

  “All herbs, stones and minerals—everything that comes from the earth—have magical properties. We use them to help channel the magic and also to help tell it what we need it to do. These all represent protection.” She unscrewed the lid and handed the jar of dried sage to Willa. “Throw it onto the star, and Simon, do the same with the basil.”

  Willa raised her eyebrows at Simon who shrugged and turned to do as Char instructed. Once all the herbs and salt were in place, and the candles lit, Elliot waved them all to stand behind the table near the star. He held out his hands and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a loud crash from the front of the house.

  Wynter exhaled, trying to calm her racing heart and the tension in her muscles. How did Archard find us? Fear circled in her stomach, churning up her nerves. Rowan threw open the front door and she followed him out into the cold night.

  First, all she saw were the dark figures of the trees, but then the Dark witches stepped out from the shadows, a line of black bodies, threatening. Wynter held her breath and cut her eyes to Rowan. He narrowed his eyes at Archard’s covens and said to her, “Do you feel that?”