Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) (12 page)

Chapter 12

Black Moon

May 569 A.D.

M
ist crept through the graveyard like an unwanted guest, slithering over the headstones, tasting the names of the dead. A squat stone church slept peacefully near the gate, the mist a blanket around its feet. Bartholomew’s boots cut through the dense white fog as easily and determinedly as swords. He strode to the highest hill in the small yard and stopped. A chill breeze licked at his long black cloak, throwing it around his sturdy legs.

His eyes, silver and bright, like the color of the moon behind a cloud, carefully surveyed the marked graves and surrounding area. The smell of the dead perfumed the air all around him: foul, meaningful, encouraging. He shifted his eyes upward to the dark sky—the sky of the black m
oon
—and breathed in its power.

Bartholomew felt the man
’
s presence long before he heard the loud crunching
footsteps.

“Luminary,” the man whispered roughly, “everything is prepared.”

Bartholomew nodded, but said nothing. His energy and attention were elsewhere. With practiced skill, he opened his mind to the energies around him. Immediately he felt the presence of the eleven witches of his Covenant at the base of the hill. He reached past them, found the sleeping graveyard keeper in the crooked shed at the edge of the yard. Farther still was the small town north of the lonely graveyard, and humble church. Each person
’
s presence filled his head, their intentions shockingly clear.

He exhaled his annoyance. Rebellion was such a bother.

The witch standing next to him leaned closer and whispered. “The mob is now armed and coming this way, Luminary.”

“Of course,” Bartholomew said, his voice like rich, luxurious velvet. “Let us begin then.” He held out his hand, and the witch handed him a moonstone with a crude skull and crossbones symbol etched into the surface, blackened with ash. “Tell them to start.”

The witch bowed and hurried off down the hill to his counterparts, who were already gathered in a circle around a small wooden altar, heavy with candles, herbs, and blood.

Their quiet chanting rose on the air like steam.

Bartholomew lifted the hood of his cloak and focused his mind on the bodies below the earth, turning away from the ones marching up the road. He pushed his powers to their limit and reached into the Otherworld, an icy blast of cold answering his intrusion. His lips twitched into a half smile.

It took immense concentration to push into the world beyond the living, to abuse the link that existed between the spirits of the dead and their decaying bodies, but Bartholomew
’
s unique powers gave him a keen mind and impeccable concentration.

The stone grew hot in his gloved hand, answering the chant of his Covenant and his own formidable magic. He gripped it tightly, the muscles in his arm and shoulder trembling.

The earth quivered under his boots.

He lifted his other hand and curled the fingers inward, pulling with all his power.

With a mournful cry, like wind over the moors, the Otherworld lost its battle to keep its own. Reluctantly, the ghosts of every body in the graveyard were pulled from the shuddering earth. At first, the wisps of white spirits were indiscernible from the mist, but Bartholomew pulled harder, and they rose above the fog, an army of ghosts hovering over their graves.

His lips pulled into a wide grin.

The ghosts moaned in protest, furious for being ripped from their rest. Lamenting cries flowed from their contorted mouths, staining the air, sending a chill through every person within a hundred miles.

A ways down the road, the mob stopped and lowered their weapons to listen. A whole town in pursuit of evil, blazing torches raised, paused, suddenly harboring fearful doubts. Each heart fluttered with cold dread.

Bartholomew directed the ghosts forward, using his hand to control and direct them. The moonstone in his other hand burned the leather of his glove, reaching for his skin, but he didn
’
t flinch. The spirits collected in a liquid-like mass at his feet, moaning, shoulders slumped forward, hollow eyes sending daggers at him.

Bartholomew looked into their cavernous faces and felt only the thrill of his impending conquest.

He turned, marched down the hill, his risen army slithering along behind him. They followed, wailing their protests, through the iron gates and onto the road. His Covenant stepped in behind, iron boxes in hand.

They marched until they found the townspeople, huddled like frightened animals in the middle of the road.

Bartholomew stopped, planted his boots firmly in the dirt, and let his ghosts collect around him. They rolled their heads on their feathery shoulders, shrieks rising from their open mouths as they sensed the intentions of the Dark witch. Reaching fluttering arms out at him, they begged to be released. They clawed at his cloak, but, again, he didn
’
t flinch. Instead, he stared at the pathetic group of men on the road, old and young, with the full force of his moonlight eyes.

At first the group could only stare in horror at the blasphemy before them, but then the panic eroded the shock. Some screamed, some stumbled backwards, and others dropped to their knees in prayer. Bartholomew quickly thrust out a hand and, with a merciless command, froze them all in place, locked in the chains of his magic. The screaming intensified, pushing upwards against the gray clouds.

Bartholomew moved closer. A few men cried out for mercy; he didn
’
t even glance at them. Lifting his hands, one palm open to the sky, the other gripping the moonstone, he closed his eyes.

Blinding light burst from the stone in a thick ribbon. The witch whipped it forward to wrap around the group, a lasso, a death sentence. His free hand twisted forward, directing the army of ghosts to do their duty.

The ghosts wailed.

The men wept.

Bartholomew opened his eyes and watched.

The cloud of angry spirits—fathers, brothers, grandmothers, wives, and great-grandfathers of those in the mob—moved into the circle. Bartholomew dipped his hand to the earth, and the ghosts followed his command. They
plunged
their ephemeral limbs into the chests of the men, still frozen by the Dark witch
’
s command. One by one, the ghosts wrapped their hands around the souls of the mob and then, like tugging weeds from the garden, wrenched them out.

The night shivered with tortured cries.

When the souls of all but one of the offenders was extracted, Bartholomew sent the ghosts flying back to his Covenant, ready and waiting with his specially prepared iron boxes. The ghosts dutifully deposited each soul into a box, and then they returned to prostrate and moan at Bartholomew
’
s feet.

The boxes clanged shut, the locks clicked into place.

Nearly a whole town of souls boxed and put away.

On the road lay a mass of bodies, wilted on the cold dirt, faces frozen in horror. One young man stood fixed and alive, a single survivor. Bartholomew stepped around the bodies, stopped in front of the boy, towering over him. The Dark witch fixed his fathomless eyes on the boy
’
s and whispered in his burning voice, “You live to tell the tale. Go back and warn the living of what happens when you cross Bartholomew the Dark.” Bartholomew nodded, and the magic holding the young man in place released. The poor boy fell to the earth, cowering. Bartholomew withdrew the circle of light back into the moonstone, now melting the flesh of his hand. He gazed down on the boy, who finally scrambled to his feet and ran back to the town.

Bartholomew turned, walked away, his cloak flapping behind him. He led the ghosts back to the graveyard. At the top of the hill, he directed them out to their individual graves, still partially hidden in the mist. They wailed in sorrow and relief.

The witch raised the moonstone out in front of him and dropped it to the earth, bits of his burned flesh going with it. By the time the stone hit the grass, Bartholomew
’
s hand was fully healed.

The Otherworld took back its borrowed souls with a hiss of freezing air.

Bartholomew turned and made his way out of the graveyard. His silent Covenant, burdened with the boxes, followed.

Chapter 13

Waning Half Moon

May—Present Day

A
fickle spring had finally descended
on Twelve Acres,
casting off the winter chill and bathing the world in warmth. The windows of Willa and Simon
’
s room at Plate
’
s Place were thrown open wide, the new sheer curtains dancing in the breeze. Early evening sun poured into the room as thick and bright as honey. Outside, the massive weeping willow tree laughed in the breeze, its lithe branches swaying in tune with the buzz of new life.

Willa and Charlotte sat on the bed, studying for finals. Willa was dangerously behind, having spent most of her free time searching through grimoires for clues to the mystery of Simon
’
s powers instead of studying. Despite the looming threat of losing her academic standing, her lack of focus was made worse by the echoes of last night’s dream.

Shortly after dropping off to sleep in her bed at her parent’s house, Willa dreamed she was standing in
this
bedroom, the Plate’s Place room, watching herself and Simon asleep in the bed. The room was a pallet of gray, with colors muted by the cold night. Suddenly, Simon woke, eyes wide and frightened as he looked around the room. He immediately woke her and said, “Willa, we have to go. We can
’
t stay with the Covenant. We don
’
t belong here.”

His sense of urgency, the plea in his eyes, woke her from the dream. Unsettled, Willa soon realized that what she’d seen was more than a dream—it was a lost memory. The night of the first earthquakes, back in March. Simon had had his nightmare, turned on the TV, and he
’
d said something to her, but she
’
d been too sleepy to remember his words. Until now.

Simon
’
s words came back to her with startling clarity.
Willa, would you come with me if I needed to leave? Would you leave the Covenant?

Simon was thinking about leaving.

The idea rocked her off center. That night she
’
d been able to get him to open up and talk about his powers. Since then, he
’
d clamped down even tighter than before. He hadn
’
t faked another failure in training, but he was still holding back and refusing specialized training.

Is he pulling away? Getting ready to leave?

Grabbing a chenille throw from her bed, she tossed it around her shoulders and stood gazing out the window at the dark street. Her mind couldn
’
t process the idea of leaving.
Would you come with me . . . ?
She could never watch Simon walk away, never not go with him—the idea drove an icy chill through her heart. But neither could she imagine leaving the Covenant. The decision to join had been difficult enough; its reversal seemed impossible.

In many ways it
’
d been easy to start fresh, become a witch, and join the covens; but in others, it
’
d been incredibly intimidating. Willa was accustomed to a simple life, a life that rarely changed. Being a homegrown Twelve Acres folk, raised by two parents who worked and lived in quiet ways, the greatest adventure she
’
d had before meeting Wynter in the basement had been the annual family road trip to nearby national parks. Her simple past made a future of greatness feel impossible, out of place.

But she
’
d taken a leap of faith, accepted Wynter and Rowan
’
s offer, with Simon’s support. Life in the Covenant was reality now,
comfortable
, although often unpredictable. She couldn
’
t even fathom a life beyond what they had now. What was the alternative to life in the Covenant? What was Simon thinking?

Simon
’
s words also
brought up a whole new issue Willa had never considered. If Simon felt so out of place that he wanted to leave, did that mean they really were out of place? In her grimoire reading, a pattern had emerged of covens forming only where strong bonds and familial legacies already existed—not by accident, and not so suddenly. Witch circles formed carefully—
very
carefully. But here they were, members of True Covens and the
Covenant
, and all within a year of discovering their powers.

Maybe it wasn
’
t fate, maybe it was just an accident. A mistake.

Now, in their
room in Ruby
’
s home, a place Willa loved more than anywhere else, she looked across the bed at Charlotte and questioned everything.

Charlotte had traded her token sweater for a cute lilac top trimmed in lace, but her hair still hung in one long braid. Fiddling with the end of the plait and biting her lower lip, Char read her economics book. It occurred to Willa that she knew next to nothing about Charlotte, or any of the Covenant for that matter. Who were these people she
’
d turned her life over to?

Mentally exhausted from her night of worry and debate, Willa knew the only comfort was information. Answers.

“Hey, Char,” Willa said, pushing her history book aside, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she answered, not looking up.

“How did you and Elliot meet?”

Char dropped her braid and looked up with a smile. “Actually, we grew up next door to each other. Our parents are in a coven together—just a regular one though, nothing fancy like us.”

“So you always knew you
’
d be together?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. We were best friends as kids, and when we got older it just became more. We
’
re soul mates like you and Simon.”

Willa nodded
, smiled. “What about the True Covens? How did that happen? How long have you been with Wynter and Rowan?”

Charlotte closed her book and drew her knees into her chest. She wore mint green skinny jeans, her feet bare. “
Well, let
’
s see. I met Wynter and Rowan when I was ten. Wynter and my mom knew each other when they were young—met during a family trip to
Oregon
or something. They reconnected later as adults. One night while they were visiting, Elliot and I snuck out of our beds and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation.” She laughed. “'
Course, it’
s kinda hard to spy on witches, but we did overhear them talking about Wynter and Rowan wanting to form two True Covens before they
sent
us back to bed.” She paused to smile and shake her head at the childhood memory. “Anyway . . . Wynter wanted my mom and dad to join, but they are too loyal to their own coven. Elliot and I, however, couldn
’
t let go of the idea.”

“So you joined when you were only
ten
?” Willa raised her eyebrows.

“Not exactly. A couple weeks later,
Elliot
dreamed that we were standing with Wynter and Rowan on a high cliff, watching the sunrise. In the dream, she told us it was our destiny to join the True Covens.” Char tossed her braid behind her. “I found Wynter
’
s number in my mom
’
s address book, and we called her. At first she laughed—politely, of course—and thanked us for our interest, but said they were looking for adults. We were devastated but resigned. Then, a year later, Wynter came to us, said she couldn
’
t shake the feeling that we should be members of her covens.” Char let her legs go and leaned forward. “I think it helped that we
’
d both recently completed our Elemental Challenge. The youngest successful challenges in our family histories, I might add.”

“
Impressive.
”
Wow! They were only eleven! Simon and I are so far behind.

Char pursed her lips, looked at Willa with her piercing Mind-witch look. “So what
’
s really on your mind? Why the sudden twenty questions?”

Willa shrugged.
“I just realized I don
’
t know much about you guys.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Uh-huh. Is that it?”

Willa smiled as normally as possible. “Of course.”

Charlotte leaned back on her elbows. “It
’
s all pretty much the same old story: family connections and the guidance of the magic. Each of us demonstrated exceptional abilities with our Gift and were looking to do more with our skills.”

“And everyone
’
s been together for the last eight years?”

“Pretty much.”

“What about . . .” Willa swallowed, looked at the quilt, “the two members that Archard killed? The ones Simon and I replaced?” She had wondered before, but never had the guts to ask.

Char looked away, suddenly fixated on the movement of the curtains. For a long moment she didn
’
t speak, and Willa wondered if she ever would. Finally she said, “Their names were Levi and Bobbi. Levi was Cal
’
s younger brother, Bobbi his sweet wife.” She smiled sadly. “Cal was so protective of Levi. It nearly killed him when we . . . when we found Levi and Bobbi like that.” Her voice clouded with emotion.

Willa couldn
’
t help the question. “Like what?” she whispered.

Char sat up, crossed her legs and looked down at the quilt. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, her face pinched in pain. “Archard flayed them piece by piece—probably had knife-happy Rachel do it.” Both girls shuddered, having tasted the pain of Rachel
’
s blade. “Then he strung them up from the trees at Cal and Darby
’
s house.”

Bile rushed up Willa
’
s throat, her heart squeezed tightly. “Oh, Char. I
’
m so sorry.”

A few tears trickled down Char
’
s round, porcelain cheeks. She nodded. “Bobbi was so nice. She taught me how to make apple pie, and she had this laugh . . .”

A crow cawed loudly from the branches of the willow. Something in the bird
’
s mournful screech sent chills down Willa
’
s back. Not only were she and Simon new, they
’
d taken the place of people who were meant to be there, people who were already True Witches, already family.

“We really are the misfits around here, huh?” She hadn
’
t really meant to say the words out loud.

Charlotte pinned her with a look. “What do you mean?”

Willa exhaled, shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“No, what is it?” Char reached out, taking Willa
’
s hand. The gesture made Willa
’
s throat tight.

“We
’
re just so far behind and so . . . out of place. We
’
re not family, and barely
even friends
—
just strangers who were in the wrong place at the right time. And then there
’
s Simon . . . I know everyone worries about him. Sometimes I just feel like we might be holding you all back.”

“Hey, no,” she squeezed Willa
’
s hand. “No, you are
not
. We love you. You are right where you should be. Don
’
t ever think otherwise. The magic brought you to us. That
’
s as good as being
actual
family.”

Willa appreciated the words, but she couldn
’
t bring herself to fully believe them. She wanted to, but couldn
’
t, push aside a shadow of doubt. Something she couldn
’
t shake since remembering Simon
’s late night questions.

They both jerked in surprise when Elliot knocked on the open door. He wore his usual polo shirt and jeans. “Hey. Sorry! You two okay?”

Char smiled b
rilliantly at her soul mate. “Yeah, of course. Just startled us.”

Elliot smiled back, his teeth extra white against his dark brown skin. “Good. Well, Simon just got home, so it
’
s time for the next small challenge.”

Willa nodded and slid off the bed. Char followed but grabbed her shoulder before she could leave. “
Hey, don’
t worry so much. Everything is fine,” the Mind witch whispered. Then she hugged Willa hard and sure. Willa half smiled, doing her best to take her words to heart.

Blindfolds again? Really?

Simon stood on the back porch, Willa at his side, a black silk blindfold on his face. They
’
d been blinded before coming out of the house, and Rowan had said nothing about this next test. Who knew what waited for them in the backyard.

Simon hadn
’
t faked anything since Willa confronted him about it, but doing well in basic training was fine, acceptable. These preparatory tests were a different story. He was
expected
to fail or at least struggle. If he didn
’
t . . .

Taking a slow breath, he tried to reach out and sense something from his coven-mates. An odd tremor answered his search.
What is that? What
’
s going on?

Someone pushed him forward, said nothing. He stumbled down the steps and moved over the grass. The willow rustled overhead, a few branches catching on his face. Willa was still next to him, her breathing loud. His own heart picked up speed. The yard smelled of wet earth.

Okay, not liking this.

Another push from behind, this one hard. Falling forward, Simon expected to hit the grass, but instead he kept falling until finally landing with a painful thud on what felt like wood. He rolled to his back with a grunt. Above him Willa screamed and then her body thudded too, but the sound was oddly distant.

The light changed, something blocking it from above. The air felt closed in, the sounds muted.

Simon ripped off his blindfold to total darkness. His hands lashed out and met smooth wood.
No. No way.

Staccato thuds sounded from above him like a machine gun. His stomach turned over.