Blue Moon (3 page)

Sierra Morgan loved driving at night. Well, twilight, really, when she got to watch the world become coated in dust colors broken only by the soft glow of lights. She drove down a country road, the dusky fields and shadowy forests spotted with an occasional orange streetlamp. She hummed to a tune on the radio, enjoying the moment. She loved her car, the way it felt under her hands as she turned into the bend. She thought she could live in the car; it had everything she needed—a radio and compact disc player, a huge trunk and comfortable seats, the smell of leather upholstery covering up another, musty smell coming from the back. The car was one of the few things she would miss when she was gone.

The announcer came on and said the time, and she looked at the dash clock for confirmation. She sighed with impatience. She was going to have to quit soon—a pity, really, since she'd been hoping to finish tonight.

In the middle of the road ahead of her a mangled anima* * * *ay, entree for a group of late-dining crows. She sped up, swerved with practiced skill, braking when she heard the satisfying thunk of two feathered bodies. She smiled at the thought of killing two birds with one car.

She turned off the radio, opened the door and got out. She paused, listening over the purr of the engine for the sounds of other traffic, then began looking for her prey. She could see one body a few feet up the road. She picked it up carefully by its leg and went for the other. She reached into the weeds for it, minding the broken goldenrod stems and garbage, and took them over to the headlights. She studied their beaks and the shapes of their heads, nodding in satisfaction. Definitely crow. It wouldn't do to get a raven or a magpie by mistake.

She flicked away a black feather that clung like fluff to her grill then popped the trunk on her way back. The crows joined several others lying on a tarp, and she felt distinctly pleased with herself as she slammed the lid shut.

Before getting back in, she inspected herself for burrs and used a hand wipe to clean the smell of crow off her hands. As she fastened her seatbelt and continued on her way, she hoped the combined smell of poultry, carrion and dust wouldn't be noticed by the valet at the party.

She flicked the radio back on. The first part of the job was done. Now all that was left was to pluck the suckers.

Sierra, besides being a crow killer, was thirty-two, widowed and infamous. The infamous part was partially because of her husband. He had been a shining star of the political world, immune to bribes, stalwart and perfect. At least, until he'd been photographed capering around naked in a hotel room with a waitress by two private detectives. The man who hired them demanded political favors in exchange for silence. Instead of giving in, her husband called a press conference.

She could remember him in front of the cameras, remember how handsome he looked.

"I want you to know,” he said, “that I have tried to do my best while in office. Sometimes, when people do their best, they succeed in their goals and overcome temptations and roadblocks placed in their path. I am not one of these people. I am so sorry.” He had paused and looked directly at the camera. Even now, Sierra believes he was looking right at her. “I have to resign."

He took a gun out of his pocket, put it in his mouth like they teach you on TV and blew out his brains all over the state flag draped across the wall behind him.

Well, she assumed the last part, since she'd only seen the first part of the conference on playbacks as the news repeated the clip over and over again. While her husband was making history as the first publicly broadcast suicide, Sierra was oblivious. That morning, he had given her a small wad of money and bidden her have some fun, get herself something nice for her birthday the following week. He knew her habits, that she would leave the house after lunch, wander around shopping at her favorite places then eat dinner, as he'd already said he wouldn't be home in time for it.

When she got home she dropped her bags in the bedroom then began to change clothes because her bra was digging into the side of her breast. She sat down on the bed, and that was when she saw the envelope.

Inside was a creamy sheet of paper folded twice around what she had to assume was the chastest of the photos.

"I have never loved anyone but you,” he wrote. “I am so sorry for what I have done and for being such a coward that I cannot look you in the eyes and tell you the truth."

You would think she would have screamed, or cried, or got up and started packing. Instead, she walked over to the TV and sank to her knees in front of it. Too numb to even feel impending dread, she hit the on button.

It was there right away as the anchors reported their breaking news.

Breaking news. Yes, it certainly was.

The police came and told her. “Do you have someone to call?” they asked.

"No,” she said. It was no surprise that the police had been given this task, that none of her husband's cronies or staff had stirred themselves. The policewoman wrapped her in a blanket from the couch. She had greeted them in her slip.

They left eventually, and the phone began to ring. She unplugged it and returned to her position before the bedroom TV. She sat there, eyes dry and mouth slack, while they replayed the footage over and over, discussing the impact, revealing things she hadn't known before and didn't hear now. No murderer or drunk driver had done her the mercy of committing their crimes early; it was a slow news day, and they had an hour and a half to fill between sports and weather.

Eventually, the news changed—a blip on the world news, and then the world news became tabloid and entertainment TV. She slumped over on her side, and that was when she realized there was nothing left for her here.

She lay that way until morning.

Now, more than two years later, she was driving to a party, going to this one specifically because there would be old friends attending and she wanted to look them in the eyes one more time, say her mental goodbyes and wonder if she would miss them.

Ironically, Sierra would have forgiven her husband. She would have forgiven him anything.

A few hundred years before, the Pierce family had built a crypt for themselves. It had a small chapel on top with two alcoves so the first husband and wife to be buried there would have an exalted resting place. There was a small stairway that led to a chamber below where several niches waited to serve future generations.

Jonathan Pierce, the last of the descendants, lay in one of the niches. He was not yet dead, but he'd spent most of the last several years wishing he were. In the cool dark, he lay awake inside a body that no longer belonged to him.

The story of how he came to be in this horrible mess was simple. The last son and heir to the Pierce fortune, he had spent much of his time studying folklore and magic. He had come across old prophecies that declared magic would come to the world again for the space of one day and one night. Jonathan was determined to be in that spot should it happen during his lifetime.

So, he mapped and researched and studied, following the trail of the odd and the mystical, looking for a few true magical happenings. He knew the first law of magic was like to like, and knew that the majority of true magical happenings would be drawn to one place.

When he found it—an area in Pennsylvania only a day's drive away—he was thrilled. He bought a house and had it renovated, sold the Pierce estates and took himself there. He had a friend who dealt in antiquities who would send him anything esoteric or strange. So, when Jonathan received a wooden box in the mail he paid for it without question and attempted to opened it.

It was a silver box, as big as two hands, decorated with runes. He tapped at it, he pushed the sides. He went at it, carefully, with a screwdriver and a hammer.

It would not open.

But when he shook it something heavy moved inside, tantalizing him.

He set it on his desk and left it in the semi-forgotten existence knickknacks live in, until the night it opened itself.

He remembered it well. He had been writing notes down from a book he'd borrowed. He looked at the box once, and all was normal. Then there was a little click. When he looked again, a drawer had slid out the front.

Half-hidden in rotted blue velvet was a jewel, and he picked it up with reverent hands. It was large and heavy; his fingers could barely close around it. When he held it up to the light, he could see that it was not black, but a very deep navy blue. He could make out a symbol in the center of it but could not read it, the carefully cut facets misleading his eyes.

Now, lying in darkness, he cursed himself for his curiosity and diligence, for Jonathan was not satisfied until he knew what the symbol meant. He sat in his chair, feet propped on the desk edge, and turned the jewel carefully, sounding out the possibilities in the warmth and comfort of his study.

Finally, he turned it just right, and the symbol became clear. He named it out loud, triumphant.

No sooner had the sound of his voice died when he felt coldness seep from the jewel and into his arm. He looked at the case, and as if someone whispered the interpretation of the marks to him, they became readable.

"True evil cannot be destroyed, only contained."

Thus, the possession of Jonathan Pierce became complete.

Jonathan now spent his existence in a corner of his own mind, watching with terror the evils the spirit that possessed his body committed. Several years ago, the spirit—Sabin, it called itself—had fought with something. Jonathan had no idea what it was, but their body was damaged in the battle. Sabin dragged them to the family crypt, where for the past several years their body had slept and healed while Jonathan stared at the darkness in his head and wondered if he was damned.

Sabin stirred, and Jonathan wept in horror the way a soul weeps, which is to feel pain without release. He felt his eyes open, and he was forced all the way into the back, into silence and dread, where even his thoughts were no longer his own.

Sabin sat up, stiff from years of lying on the stone platform. He rubbed his eyes wearily, felt the roughness of scar tissue on his cheek. He took a vial of precious magic from his pocket and rubbed a drop into his skin. Another pass with his hand, and his face was smooth again. He capped the bottle, stretched. He could feel a blue moon coming, and its possibilities sang in his blood.

He climbed the stairs out of the crypt, his mind already brimming with cruel plans. He was hungry, and wondered if his servant was still waiting for him.

Alex drank his coffee slowly. It tasted like tepid mud water and did nothing to calm his stomach after his dinner of greasy salt strips—bacon, according to the counter girl—twin circles of burned rubber and stale bread. (Eggs and toast, respectively.) He'd have to go soon, but right now he wanted to try and enjoy himself. Just for a few moments more, watch the people, watch the traffic outside, relax.

The diner was grubby but warm, and it was good to sit, elbows on the scratched white counter, staring at the pattern of gold flecks, coffee rings and cigarette burns. You could tell the place had once been a slightly classy joint. The counter still had chrome trim in some places, and distant, tinny music proved that at least one of the miniature jukeboxes in the booths still provided music.

You could feel time in this place, and although he was slowly drowning in the combined smoke from the cooking and the patrons, he wanted to study it, let it sink in. His stool screeched as he turned to look out the window. It was growing dark outside. He didn't have a car, partially because he was trying to make his money stretch, partially because his driver's license was fake. It would do in a pinch, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to test his luck.

He didn't have a fiancee anymore, or a job, so he was free, unfettered for the first time in memory, a fact that wasn't that impressive, as he didn't remember anything past five years ago. And as long as his savings lasted, he could remain so. Free to walk across America, which he had decided to do. Free to sit inside a diner and regret buying the buck-fifty meal.

Five years before, he had been found in a ravine by a woman named Meg and her cousin. He didn't have any bumps on his head, just a few burns and scratches—nothing to cause his memory loss. The police ran his prints, a short-lived investigation was launched, but no clues could be found to his identity. He picked the name Alex Kincaid out of a book Meg's mother—a woman named Lucille—had on her bookshelf.

Lucille might not have found him, but she was his life saver. She gave him her basement to live in and persuaded the cousin to get him a job as an accountant. The numbers made sense to him, and he had an uncanny knack for telling when a person was fudging just by talking to them. He fixed up the basement and began paying her rent.

It was not the recent past he was interested in, though. He thought, perhaps, if he set out on foot, maybe he'd be led to somewhere familiar. Perhaps, someone would recognize him, or maybe some odd landmark would trigger his memory. He had a feeling that if he found just one thing, he'd be able to link it to another, and another, until everything fell into place.

"You don't know it's the same guy."

Alex looked over at the two men. They had been taking turns staring at him; both had freakishly colored gold eyes. He looked away quickly, for the skinnier of the two was studying him with undisguised hostility.

"We were brought here, Tark. Fate, all that. We were meant to see him."

They both stood up, the one called Tark grabbing the other's arm.

"Sabin!” he hissed, then said something in his ear.

"Fine,” Sabin growled and threw some crumpled money on the table. He slammed out the door, Tark on his heels like a devoted puppy.

Alex pulled his attention back to his thoughts. He'd actually enjoyed himself so far. Most of his possessions sat in four good-sized boxes in Meg's cellar; the rest were on his back. He wandered where his will took him, had seen some really neat things. He stayed in odd places—YMCAs and church basements—or slept wrapped in a tarp in the woods.