Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) (14 page)

“But we
are
witches. I can’t go back to the way things were before. I can’t! And I’ve never quit anything in my whole life.” She sniffed, fighting the tightness in her throat. She laughed without humor. “In seventh grade I tried out for the volleyball team because one of my friends wanted to but was too nervous to go alone. We both made the team, and I played the
whole
season.” She looked up. “I
hate
volleyball. But I couldn’t let myself quit.”

Simon gave a small smile, his eyes lightening for the first time. “You played volleyball?”

Willa scowled at him. “Yeah, and I was really good. I just hate team sports. I’m like you: I’d rather climb a mountain or take a yoga class. But that’s not what we are talking about!”

Simon frowned. “Yeah. But this isn’t junior high sports, this is our lives.”

Willa sighed, her body heavy with exhaustion. “Exactly. We can’t just run away from it. I don’t think Rowan meant any real harm. You have to remember that we aren’t used to how they do things, how they think. To them, burying us alive might be totally normal. We have to give this
time
. It’s barely been six months.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But you are used to being on your own, and I get that. And I get that you feel like an outcast. I do, really. But I just . . . we can’t leave, can’t walk away because things get bad.”

Simon sighed heavily, looking past her down the street with what looked disturbingly like longing for escape. “I’m not sure we belong here, Willa. I want to think we do, but . . .”

The echo of his words from her dream sent a wave of cold down her neck. “Maybe we have to earn the right to belong. We have to keep trying.” She swallowed. “Rowan is trying to help, and you push him away. I try to help, and you push me away. We are getting desperate. Maybe that—” she pointed to the back yard, “—was Rowan getting desperate.”

Simon blinked several times and looked away. Willa wondered if she’d gone too far, but she didn’t regret her words. He needed to hear them.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and after a silent moment said, “But what if another Dark witch comes after the Covenant? I don’t want to spend my life fighting—I want to spend it helping, healing. When the quakes came, I thought about that a lot, and I’m not sure I can do it.”

“But the quakes didn’t come again. May’s new moon passed without any quakes. Maybe that threat is gone.”

“Maybe. But another will come. You can’t wield this much power without others wanting to take it or destroy it. I should have seen that from the beginning.”

Her anger flared again. “Simon, I’m not going to let you run away from this. You have unbelievable power. You need to embrace it, not hide from it. Let Rowan train you. Listen to him. Please, let him help! Let
me
help!”

Simon blinked at her again, shocked at her sudden fire. He turned away, jaw tense. “What if it doesn’t work?” he whispered.

“What if it does?” she countered firmly. “And I’m going to find the answer to why you have multiple gifts. I promise. That’s what I do—find answers. Okay? Can we at least try a little longer? Until the Elemental Challenge? If things are still bad or get worse, then,” she swallowed hard, “we’ll leave. Together. But you have to make more of an effort.”

He held her eyes, and she tried not to let them get wet.
Did I just say that?

“Okay,” he agreed.

She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. “Okay?”

He stepped forward, took her hands, lifted them to his lips, and kissed her dirty knuckles. “Thank you for yelling at me.” He smiled. “For you, I’ll stay, and I’ll try to train with Rowan. We’ll see how things go until the Challenge.”

Willa studied his face. “Okay. Good.”

Char came walking across the grass, head hung on her chest, hands in pockets. She stopped several feet away. “So sorry, guys. I know you need some time, but Wynter just got a call from a friend in England. Apparently, some baddie killed a bunch of monks. Will you come back?”

Willa looked up at Simon. “Not like this,” he said stiffly, looking down at his filthy shirt and jeans. “We’ll be back in a half hour.”

Char frowned, her round face looking nearly childlike with the expression. “Yeah, of course.” She turned away.

“Get in the Jeep,” he said to Willa. “We’ll clean up, and then we’ll hear about what’s going on in England.” He opened her door. “I told you the bad guys would be back.”

Willa nodded, a new knot of worry in her stomach.

Chapter 14

Waning Half Moon

May—Present Day

F
or the last four weeks, Archard and Rachel had been scouring England. Digging and cutting into both land and flesh for answers. From references in the final pages of Bartholomew’s grimoire, they guessed that the Dark witch’s last days were spent somewhere in England, but the country had changed a lot over the last five hundred years.

And the legends were as varied as the landscape.

Some said Bartholomew died in Scotland, taken by the Celts and buried alive somewhere on the moors. Others affirmed that he and his Covenant had been hunted down by monks in southern England, their bodies dragged behind wild horses until there was nothing left. Still, others claimed the Dark witch had never died, but still roamed the earth, living in secret.

Archard believed none of it.

“What if he destroyed the boxes?” Rachel asked as she drove over yet another narrow, bumpy country road on their way to the port town of Bideford.

“Not a chance,” Archard replied. “Bartholomew would never destroy those trapped souls. There is too much power in them.”

Rachel slammed on the brakes of the rented Mini Cooper to wait for a flock of sheep to cross the road. “Still, they could be anywhere.”

Archard shook his head and brushed at the thin lapels of his black suit. “No, he would have kept them close.”

“How do you know that?” Rachel tapped her glossy black fingernails on the steering wheel.

“Because that is what I would do.” Archard flicked a spot of lint off his pants.

Rachel cut a doubting glance in his direction and then laid on the horn, hurrying the sheep along. “Well, these monks better give us some real answers. The black moon is coming up fast.”

“If rumor serves us right, these monks will know about every witch sighting, hunt, escape, and spell done in Southern England for the past thousand years. They were the ones responsible for the famous Bideford witch trial hangings. Three witches.” Rachel shook her head. Archard glanced out at the lazy sheep. “They
’
ll give us what we need.”

Two hours later, they arrived at the ancient monastery, hidden in the hills outside Bideford. Rachel and Archard stood outside the squat stone building, glaring up at it in the brilliant morning sun. To the right, an apple orchard sloped away and around the monastery. To the left, a quiet field of grass rolled over the hills, soaking up the sunlight. The scent of garden soil and sea salt played on the air.

Rachel shielded her eyes as she squinted at the thick line of blue on the horizon. “This place has known magic.”

“Yes, I feel it, too.” He lifted a hopeful eyebrow at her as they made their way into the building. Heavy silence greeted them. The vestibule,
ancient
and unchanged since the day it was built, was lit only by an inadequately small candle chandelier. A yawning
corridor
spread out in front of them. From the darkness of the hall came the sound of shuffling, hurried footsteps.

Archard and Rachel waited impatiently for the owner of the
footsteps to
appear. Soon they saw a squat monk dressed in a traditional brown
habit
and sandals. At the sight of the two witches, he squared his shoulders, and crossed himself.

“You do not belong here,” he said, his voice rough from disuse and heavily
accent
ed.

“No,” Archard said, meeting the monk
’
s tired eyes with his own steel gaze, “but we need information. Give us what we ask, and we will leave you in peace.”

“And if we do not?”

Archard offered a wicked smile, all the answer the monk needed.

“State your request, witch; but know that we are accustomed to dealing with your kind,” said the monk, his lips pursed in distaste.

Archard
’
s grin grew. “I need to see your records from the 1500s. Anything to do with a man known as Bartholomew the Dark.” Archard didn
’
t miss the flash of recognition on the monk
’
s face, although he tried to hide it.

“We know nothing of this man, and we do not allow outsiders to see our sacred records. You must go.”

Archard had to admire the man
’
s
courage
, the way he managed to keep his voice level as he said the words. He sighed. “I
’
m sure you can make an exception for us.” Archard gestured to Rachel who glared, like a panther on the hunt.

The monk swallowed but didn
’
t move. “Please go.”

Archard stepped forward, his fine shoes clipping the stone floor. The monk stood his ground. Heat rose under the witch
’
s skin as he locked his gaze on the man, who had the gall to stare back. Archard stepped around him, a predator
’
s circle. When the monk began to protest, again demanding that they leave, Archard released his magic and the man
’
s body burst into flames. His scream of pain and terror filled the stone room, echoing.

Rachel moved aside casually as the monk ran forward, flapping his arms, a chaotic streak of flames. She and Archard watched calmly as the monk dived out the door and then collapsed, a burning,
shrieking
heap.

The witches turned away. Rachel followed Archard down the hall, the monk
’
s final cries echoing along the stone walls. They found the records housed in the basement, in a series of small rooms lined with boxy wooden shelves packed with scrolls, books, and papers. Oddly, no one else tried to bar their way.

“Where are the rest of the monks?” Rachel asked warily as they surveyed the shelves.

“It doesn
’
t matter,” Archard waved her off. “Do you see what we need?”

It took them only a few moments, searching with a bit of magic, to find records that mentioned a Dark witch in the 1500s.

Archard gingerly pulled
an ancient
codex from its place and took it to a long wooden table in the center of the room. He waved his hand, morphing the Latin into English. The witches leaned in, head to head.

The satisfying triumph of discovery throbbed in Archard
’
s veins. “These are the monks that killed Bartholomew,” he whispered. “Holy moon! How do you think they managed
that
?”

Rachel leaned close to the writing. “It says they tracked down the Covenant not far from here. Bartholomew had an estate to the west, on the coast.” She looked up. “Do you think he kept the boxes there?”

“Yes,” Archard said with certainty. “The difficulty will be finding them. The estate may not exist anymore. And most likely, he kept them well
hidden
and guarded with
impenetrable
enchantments.”

Rachel
’
s eyes snapped wide. “The monks attacked, killing the Covenant members by trapping them in the house and setting it on fire. At first, they believed Bartholomew died with them. But it says that they found Bartholomew
’
s body in an old church on his estate the next morning. No one was sure who killed him or how he died. That
’
s strange.” Rachel read on silently for a moment. “They burned the body, divided the ashes into six boxes. They sent each box with a different monk with instructions to bury the remains all over Europe in unmarked, twelve-foot-deep holes.”

Archard stood up slowly, his eyes alight. “Let
’
s go. We have to find that church.”

The Mini jostled down the
dirt road, which was abandoned and overgrown with tall grass. Archard held a map open on his lap, stolen from the monks, with the location of Bartholomew’s estate marked in red.

“It should be around here somewhere,” he said, squinting out the window.

“There
’
s nothing here but trees and grass,” Rachel snapped.

“Stop the car. We
’
ll have to walk, search for ruins.”

Rachel jerked the wheel, maneuvered the car off the road. Archard left the map in the car. For a moment they stood in the field, the grass reaching for their waists.

“Do you
feel
that?” Archard whispered, his hand held out in front of him. The air rippled with potent magical energy.

“Sun and moon!” Rachel whispered back.

“This way!”

The witches trooped off into the trees with hurried, eager steps, allowing the cold call of Darkness to guide them forward. Soon the trees parted, and the witches stepped out into a field of more tall grass. But this field wasn
’
t empty.

Surrounding some barely visible stone ruins
stood
an army of monks—at least twenty—all standing in a line, elbow to elbow, faces set, brown robes flapping in the coastal wind. Archard glanced at Rachel. “Found the other monks,” he said snidely.

One brave monk at the center of the line, called out. “Leave now, witches, and we will spare your lives!”

Archard stepped forward and collided with an invisible barrier. He put his hands out, pressed against the thin layer of magic. He laughed. “I see you
’
ve learned a few tricks from the witches you
’
ve hunted over the years.”

The monk narrowed his wide-set eyes. His bald head and thin face dripped with sweat. “We learned to fight fire with fire.”

Archard couldn
’
t help the devious smile that spread on his face. With a short chuckle, he said, “Well, I highly doubt you
’
ve ever seen fire like mine.” The witch pressed his hands harder into the barrier. A few sparks spurted from his fingers, then ripples of orange-blue flames crawled outward along the wall, spreading through the air, eating away at the monks
’
magic.

The monks watched, horrified, sweat-drenched.

As the flames finished their work, crackling down to the ground, Archard threaded his withering stare down each set of wide monk eyes, tasting the stink of their fear on the air.
Savoring it.
His mind groped for an elegant, devious way to end them, one that Bartholomew would approve. After all, the Dark magic in this place cried
out, begging
Archard to use it.

With the monks’ meager wall devoured, nothing but ocean-scented breeze stood between them and the witches. The leader swallowed once and stepped forward. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words never left his throat.

Archard raised his hands to the sides, palms skyward. Twenty small stones levitated under his command, lined up, ready for battle. A second later they hissed, hot red, glowing, and heated by his fire. The monks froze and eyed the stones. Archard
’
s lips twitched.

The witch let the moment linger, enough for the monks
’
fear to build, and then he thrust his hands forward, sending the stones to their targets—t
wenty
red hot stones, twenty monk heads. The lead monk barely had time to lift his hand before the stone struck his forehead, dead center, the blazing stone melting flesh and charring bone. Twenty stones hit the ground with a collective hiss in the grass behind the monks a second before the bodies crumpled. A small curl of steam rose from each pierced forehead.

Rachel
’
s laugh filled the humming air. “Very biblical, Archard.”

He merely straightened his suit coat. They stepped through the maze of bodies to the ruins of the church, which consisted of a few piles of stones half buried in the grass.

“See anything?” Archard called to Rachel as she walked the perimeter of the site. He could
feel
it—the ground nearly vibrated with energy—but where was it; how could he get to it? “It
’
s got to be underground. Look for some kind of opening.”

“It
’
s too overgrown.” Rachel stopped and looked up. “We need to clear the site.” Marching through the weeds, Rachel joined him, and together they lifted their hands to summon a whirlwind of magic to sweep over the sight. The air churned, spun, and then rocks, grass, dirt, and roots were ripped away, pushed back as easily as brushing crumbs off a table.

Left behind was a naked patch of dirt and one gaping hole in the center.