Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) Page 2
They kept everything fresh, and they twisted his confusion into tighter knots. These dreams might drive him crazy. How does Willa deal with this all the time?
Simon walked through the playground behind his apartment complex, through cold gray shadows. He stopped to sit on a bench, suddenly exhausted. A heavy and smothering sense of desperation settled over him, and the knot in his stomach tightened. He would not attempt to summon the power tonight. Just the thought made his arms hang heavy.
The worst part of what he had done was the loss of control. Simon hated not being in control, especially of himself. Despite the inherent craziness of his life and what he could do, he liked order and control. He worked hard to keep things well in hand. But this . . . this was slippery.
What if it happened again? What if, somehow, that explosion of blue power came back? What if someone else got hurt because of it?
What if it’s Willa?
A shiver moved through him. He dropped his head into his hands, with his elbows on his knees.
Not that they were likely to battle any Dark witches soon. Archard died at the cave—burned by his own raging fire—and his covens were broken. Simon and Willa only had to worry about school and training for the Elemental Challenge coming up in the summer, a rite of passage, and something all witches in a True Coven must do to prove their abilities. If he and Willa passed, they’d earn the title of True Witch like their coven-mates.
Simon looked forward to the challenge, but even his powers during training were beginning to make him nervous. Everything came so easily, and no skill seemed hard to master. Something should be hard or take some concentrated practice, but the only thing hard was trying to hold back, hiding his true capabilities just to avoid the worried glances in his direction.
I can’t even be normal when it comes to magic. Wynter, Rowan’s wife, had told him that he seemed to have two Gifts: his Mind gift and his healing ability, which normally came with the Gift of Water. Having multiple gifts wasn’t supposed to be possible, and no one could explain it—not even Rowan and Wynter. Inside him, the convoluted mix of power he didn’t understand and couldn’t predict worsened by what he’d done that night at the cave, coalesced into fear—fear of himself, lurking in the back of his mind, out of reach but lingering, like a bad taste.
He ran a hand back over his hair, the blond curls bouncing back into place. Maybe my parents were right. Maybe I am nothing but a freak.
Cold and tired, he walked slowly back around the complex, his eyes on the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He didn’t look up until he started up the front walk to his unit. Sitting on the front steps, he found Willa, a blanket wrapped around her and fuzzy leopard-print slippers on her feet. Her wavy chestnut hair was an attractive mess around her rosy-cheeked face. She smiled as he approached. Suddenly Simon didn’t feel cold anymore.
She yawned sleepily. “I had a dream that you were walking.”
He half smiled and sat beside her. “I had a dream, too.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
Simon put an arm around her and pulled her close, a layer of comfort. She dropped her head to his shoulder. “Not really, but I’m okay now,” he whispered, lying to them both. A wave of disappointment moved from her to him.
“Want me to stay? I can sneak back in my house early, before my parents wake up.”
He kissed her hair. “Yes, please.”
Willa looked up at his troubled, tired eyes and touched his cheek. “I’m here.”
The next day, after her classes at the university, Willa stopped at the Twelve Acres Museum, which housed a small but impressive collection of town artifacts in the old Town Hall building. She needed to catch up on some filing that the curator, Bill Bentley, had asked her to do. She’d been volunteering at the Museum since eighth grade and knew the collection and history as well as he did. Bill had told her on several occasions that he hoped she’d take his place one day.
After chatting with the receptionist, Bertie, for a minute or two, Willa went to the cramped, stuffy back office. It was freezing, and she flipped on the space heater before dropping her bag and navy blue pea coat to the floor. She grabbed the pile of papers from the desk, plopped them in the seat of the chair, and rolled it over to the filing cabinet.
As she worked, Willa’s mind wandered to her night with Simon. Her dream about him had been far more complicated than she’d let on. In the dream, she’d watched Simon walk down an empty sidewalk suspended in a black void. But he wasn’t alone. A menacing shadow followed only a few feet behind, its form constantly shifting and morphing so that Willa could never identify it. She’d woken just as the shadow reached out to grasp Simon’s shoulder.
She’d immediately gotten up and snuck out of the house, knowing he needed her—and that he probably wouldn’t talk about what was really bothering him. It’d been four months—almost to the day—since the battle at the cave, since Rachel had stabbed Willa, Charlotte, and Elliot, and taken Simon hostage; since Simon and Wynter had been imprisoned in the cave; and since Archard nearly killed Wynter just to see Simon heal her. Four months since Simon summoned a power no one seemed to understand, to free himself and Wynter, killing their captors in the process.
Willa tucked a paper into a file and moved to the next drawer.
She knew it was eating him up inside, his healing nature in upheaval because of what he’d done. Simon fixed things, never broke them; and it didn’t matter why he’d done it, or even that he’d had to do it—it still hurt him. So then why wouldn’t he say anything? Their relationship was based on talking about the strangeness and on being open about how confusing it was to be witches; but something about this was untouchable. And the not-talking left a constant phantom pain in the bottom of Willa’s heart.
“Willa the Witch!”
Willa jumped and almost screamed. Lost in her thoughts, hearing the sudden sound of Solace’s shrill voice, Willa dropped a file, scattering papers everywhere. “Solace! How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?”
The ghost laughed, her round face, framed by chin-length blonde hair, flickering in and out of focus. “But it’s just too entertaining!” She leaned against the desk, arms folded. She wore an early 1930’s style dress: straight silhouette, dark purple, short sleeves, and playful organza ruffles at the collar. “I am sorry about the papers, though.”
Willa smiled. “Oh, sure you are.”
Solace smiled back, pale blue eyes sparkling. “I like your sweater. Black is a good color on you.”
Willa threw the mess of papers on the desk and then pulled the bottom of her black v-neck sweater down over the top of her boot cut jeans. “Changing the subject? Well, thanks, I like it, too. I got it last week when Simon took me to dinner at that great Indian place in Denver.”
“Sounds fun. Sure wish there was a way for me to leave this place and come with you on your dates.” Solace frowned as she looked around the bleak office. “I get so sick of this place. Why do ghosts have to be stuck in one place? Why can’t we roam free?”
“Why? So you can go around screaming in people’s ears?” Willa teased, but Solace didn’t smile.
“It’d just be nice to leave.” The ghost averted her eyes, looking down at her black Mary-Janes.
Willa sighed. “I know, Solace. I’m sorry.”
After another beat of silence, Solace looked up. “So, what scandalous thought were you lost in when I snuck up on you?” She added a waggle of her eyebrows.
Willa shook her head and turned back to the filing cabinet. “Sorry, nothing scandalous. I’m just worried about Simon.”
“Hmm. What is it now? Is he still not talking about the whole killing people thing?”
Willa shot her a look. “No, he’s not, but he’s still having nightmares about it. Last night I snuck out to see him, and he was so . . .” She paused, his face flashing in her mind. “So sad, I guess. I hate to see him like that. And these nightmares are wearing on him. No one understands that better than I do.”
“Yeah, but this is Simon. It’s not as simple as that.”
“Yes, I know,” Solace said quietly. For a moment there was only the sound of Willa moving papers, and then the ghost said, “I’m sure he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”
Willa frowned. “That’s what I keep telling myself. But I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right.”
Solace frowned, nodding thoughtfully. “Because it isn’t right. Not for him, for you, or for your relationship. It’ll drive a wedge between you.”
Willa looked up. Sometimes Solace was more insightful than she expected. A seed of fear grew in Willa’s mind, one she’d yet to acknowledge, the fear that this would, in fact, be a problem between her and Simon. She shook her head, turned back to the files. “I don’t think anything could ever really drive us apart, but . . .”
“But it will change things.” Solace lifted her eyebrows and leaned forward, giving Willa a knowing look. “Because he won’t let it out, and you won’t let it go.”
Turning back to the files, avoiding Solace’s gaze, Willa mumbled, more to herself than to her friend, “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Perhaps mostly that it would change Simon, permanently. Her hands froze over the files. Has it already?
Solace inhaled loudly and then clicked her tongue, “What about your parents? Any improvement on the home front?”
Willa rolled her eyes, and, as if on cue, her phone buzzed. She picked it up off the desk and read the text from her mom. Did you go to the museum? When are you coming home? Willa scoffed and shoved the open file drawer closed. Then she dropped into the old swivel chair and stared at the phone. “It’s getting ridiculous, Solace.” She typed a quick reply. “They’ve always been really protective, and we’ve always been close. I get it—I’m their only kid. But they refuse to let go of how things used to be.”
Solace rolled a ballpoint pen back and forth on the desktop. Solace was the only ghost in the museum who could touch things, move things. She read books, hid Willa’s phone on occasion, and often moved an artifact to a different display case when she was bored—much to Mr. Bentley’s dismay. Willa figured it had something to do with the fact that Solace was also a witch, as Willa had discovered in the fall.
“So what are you going to do?” Solace asked.
Willa dropped her head back and sighed heavily. “I have no idea. Things are rough between me and my mom. She keeps trying to make up for not telling me who I was all my life by being overly nice. And my dad . . . well, he’s in total denial. Some days he barely looks at me.” She put her phone on the desk, spun it around, fighting a sudden rise of emotion in her throat. “Part of me just wants to storm out, tell them I’m moving in with Simon, and living on my own like a normal adult. But . . .”
“But?” Solace flicked the pen and watched it roll off the edge of the desk.
Willa bent down, picked up the pen, and threw it back among the papers. Quietly, she said, “I don’t want to hurt them anymore than I already have. Even if the Covenant feels right to me, I don’t want to ruin things with my parents over it.” Looking at her hands, she added, “I don’t want to end up like Simon.”
Solace folded her hands in her lap. “I wonder how my parents and I got along? I can see both their faces in my mind”—she closed her eyes—“and sometimes I almost think I can hear their voices, but then . . .” She opened her eyes, now marked with sadness. “But then it’s gone.”
Willa’s heart ached for her friend. Not only was Solace trapped in the museum for an unknown reason, but she couldn’t remember any details of her life, not even her death. “I’m sorry, Solace. I wish I could help you remember.”
She shrugged. “At least I have a few of my mother’s grimoires, right?”
Willa smiled. Camille Krance’s grimoires, given to Wynter and Rowan while visiting her in Italy before her death, had become Solace’s new favorite reading material. She’d been through them at least six times. Willa said, “I just wish we could figure out what the Lilly references mean. Maybe we aren’t such good mystery solvers after all.” Willa had discovered the vague references to a person named Lilly when Wynter gave her Camille’s grimoires in the fall. But no one seemed to know anything about this person Camille was supposedly protecting or hiding . . . or both.
Solace pursed her lips, picked up the pen and twiddled it in her hands. “Well, that’s because you never read Sherlock Holmes like I told you to.”
Willa laughed, shook her head. Her eyes caught on the small clock hanging crookedly on the wall. “Holy moon!” She jumped up and grabbed her coat and bag. “Sorry, Solace, I gotta go. Training.”
“Oh, of course. Wish I were going.” She rolled her eyes and then smiled. “Have fun!”
Willa, half way out the door, pushed her head back into the room. “You’ve read Sherlock like twenty times. How come you can’t figure out who Lilly is?” She grinned, lifted an eyebrow in a mocking expression.
Solace huffed, threw the pen at the door, and disappeared.
Chapter 3
Blood Moon
October 1931
Ripples of Dark magic pulsed through the gloomy pre-dawn air, so repugnant that the stars turned out their lights. Camille Krance ran, pressing a precious and blanket-wrapped bundle to her chest. Tears dripped from her eyes, turning to ice on her cheeks in the cold October air. Terror and grief churned in her stomach and weakened her limbs.
Solace! My sweet, Solace!
The ground was hard beneath her slippered feet, and her long flannel nightgown was a poor hedge against the biting cold. Her face throbbed where a Dark witch had beaten her, with one of her stone-blue eyes already swollen shut and her gut sharply sore where she’d been kicked. Half of her graying blonde hair had pulled out of its braid and was matted to her forehead, cheeks, and neck. But she thought little about her own condition. At least Amelia’s baby was warm and content to sleep as Camille bobbed through the trees.
Horrible thoughts raced through her mind as she ran, visions of the night’s Dark events choking her.
Why?! Why my Solace?
Camille couldn’t help wishing her daughter’s terrible fate had fallen on someone else, anyone else. She’d waited so long for Solace, sacrificed so much to be her mother, and now . . .
She couldn’t bring herself to think the devastating words. If only she had fled Twelve Acres weeks ago, as soon as the trouble began, she might have protected her daughter. The desire to flee had been so strong, especially after Amelia’s husband and the others had been killed. I should have listened to myself. But she and her husband, Ronald, had a duty to the Covenant, to Ruby’s legacy. But this sacrifice . . .
Our daughter, our perfect little girl.
After the Dark witches had left her beaten and sobbing, Camille had taken Amelia’s baby to the safety of Town Hall. There, in the dark of the Covenant’s chamber, she’d hurried to perform a spell. The kind she hated, dreaded. But she was so desperate to do something—anything—for Solace. If she couldn’t save her daughter’s life, perhaps she could help her soul find peace.
With trembling hands, Camille lit a single black candle, placed it on top of Solace’s favorite book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, and chanted the words she hoped would guide Solace’s soul away from wherever the Dark covens had taken her. Murdered souls were forever trapped in the place of their death. The idea that her daughter would spend eternity locked inside the last horrible moments of her life made Camille sick. She turned and vomited. After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she continued her chant.
The room filled with waves of hot and cold magic, churning all around her. Lilly started to cry, but Camille pushed on. Come, Solace. Come to me, and I will help you rest.
Ronald burst into the room, interrupting the spell. “What are you doing?!” He looked at the candle, moved his eyes around the room. “Oh, Camille.”
“I can’t leave her there, Ronald. I can’t let her be trapped whe
re they murdered her,” she yelled, voice shrill, shaking.
“This kind of magic is dangerous. You know that!” He hurried over, picked up Lilly and pushed the baby into Camille’s arms. He kicked over the candle and the flame hissed out.
A rush of wind moved through the room, final and sad. “No! I have to finish the spell!” Camille yelled.
“No!” Ronald grabbed Camille by the shoulders. “Camille, they are coming back. We have to go. Now!”
“But . . . Solace. Our baby . . .”
Ronald’s round face and hazel eyes clouded with grief. “I know . . . It’s time to save someone else.” He looked down at Lilly’s tear streaked face. The baby was calm now.
Camille sobbed. Something crashed outside the Town Hall. Ronald pushed her to the door. “Go!”
Now, as she hurried through the forest, cold hatred hardened inside her—hatred for the Covenant, for magic, and for every little decision that led to this night.
Ronald was now busy helping their coven-mates and fellow witches escape—those that are left—and removing the Covenant’s records from Town Hall. Her heart reached out to him, praying they would all be safe. I’m so sorry, Ruby, my dear friend! But there had been enough death, and they couldn’t risk the lives of all their neighbors who were not witches and also called Twelve Acres home. Their exodus was a necessary evil
Be safe, Ronald. The Earth knows I can’t lose you too.
Exhausted, Camille collapsed against a tree, gasping for air. Gently, she pulled back the blankets to look at the sweet babe in her arms. The little round face was relaxed; the tiny lips parted as she breathed. Camille stroked the golden-red hair, her entire body aching with grief. Memories of her sweet Solace as a baby beat her down in an unbearable barrage: Solace asleep, nestled against her chest; Solace’s bright eyes shining with life and looking up at her only moments after she arrived in the world; her first steps and first experiments with magic; her lust for life; her sense of humor.
Then tonight, the memories Camille knew would never leave her: Solace’s screams as the Dark witches dragged her from Ruby’s house; echoing pleas for her mother’s help shattering Camille’s heart; Camille unable to help, bound by Dark magic and savage beatings.