Crone's Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  The ambience grew as I listened intently. The cicadas, the metal, the earth, the wind… The crunch of dry leaves began sneaking through, adding themselves to the mix and setting up a rhythm.

  Scrape, crunch, thud, warble.

  Scrape, crunch, thud, warble.

  Underscoring the odd rhythm was an off-key hum, and the nag became very interested in it. I focused on the hum and noticed that it ran in an audible parallel to a severely muffled background of driving bass.

  I despised the nag. It was making me take notice of my surroundings, and now I was starting to be curious. I didn’t want to be curious. I wanted to be comfortable like before. But, that was slipping further away with each scrape, crunch, thud, and warble.

  Now I was noticing that labored breaths interrupted the hum at random intervals, falling in and out of cadence with the crunch and scrape that seemed to be setting the beat.

  On the heels of a metallic clunk, a tinny stream of noise masquerading as music suddenly vomited into the blackness. Severe notes, squealing outward from what might have been a guitar, intermixed with the heavy bump of a frenzied drumbeat. In reality, it wasn’t very loud at all, but given the disparity of it against the otherwise quiet darkness, it may as well have been a thunderclap.

  The nag started down a new path.

  It wanted to know about this driving thrum that insisted on being called music. I was just about to appease the annoying little monster when a hot stab of pain shot through my chest.

  I felt myself jerked upward, without warning or apology.

  Stark, blue-white brilliance exploded in my eyes, hot and fierce like an arc of lightning.

  The afterimage of a swirling tunnel and a wooded grove began fading from my retinas.

  Blackness.

  Crashing luminance, intense and stark.

  Nude flesh. Pale, flaccid, and marred.

  Blackness.

  Again, the impressed image began to fade.

  The violent strobe burst, casting a woman’s body in harsh light.

  Woman. Corpse. Blood.

  Blackness.

  Scrape, crunch, thud, warble.

  Light, coming faster and faster.

  Blood. Shoulders. Blood.

  Blackness. Light. Corpse. Blackness. Light. Blood. Blackness. Light. Shoulders. Blackness. Light. Head. Blackness. Light. Shoulders. Blackness. Light. Face. Blackness. Light. Brittany. Blackness. Light. Blood. Blackness. Light. Brittany. Blackness. Light.

  Headless.

  Pain.

  Pain.

  “…Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.” I heard Cally’s steady but frightened voice calling out.

  With each number she recited, focused pressure drove into the center of my chest, released, and then instantly repeated. I felt something tightly pinching my nose and something pressed against my mouth. Hot air rushed down my throat, and I was suddenly overcome by a need to cough. I tried, or at least I thought I did, but nothing happened.

  I spasmed suddenly and felt my body jerk as I sputtered and gagged. With a heavy wheeze, I drew in a deep breath.

  Whatever it was that was trying to smother me let go of my nose and moved quickly away.

  I tried to cough again and this time I succeeded.

  Then the cough came hard. I felt my shoulders lift from the floor as I sputtered and hacked.

  The next breath was easier.

  “He’s breathing.” This time it was Felicity, relief in her tenor.

  Soft fingers pressed against my neck, and I heard Cally announce, “He’s got a strong pulse.”

  The clamor of hurried footsteps met my ears, reverberating through the hardwood floor before halting with a heavy thump.

  “An ambulance is on the way.” RJ’s frantic tone now entered the mix of voices.

  “Rowan?” A handed patted my cheek lightly as Felicity called my name. “Rowan?”

  The back of my neck was on fire, and it felt as though it was creased with an open, festering wound. My head was already starting to throb, and I involuntarily let out a low moan.

  There was a frightening image dancing around inside my skull, insisting that I share it. My stomach soured at the very thought of trying to describe the horrific tableau. I wanted nothing more than to chase the vision from my mind and slam the door behind it, but a tickle in the back of my skull said no.

  The vision was beginning to fade, and I tried desperately to let it. The tickle objected. It was important even if I didn’t want to think so. I had to tell someone before it was lost forever.

  “Rowan?” Felicity called again.

  “No head,” I heard myself whisper.

  “What?” she asked.

  I felt the warmth of her face near mine as she bent closer.

  “No head,” I repeated as my short brush with consciousness rushed toward its end. “Brittany. No head.”

  * * * * *

  “His vitals are fine. He’s coherent; he knows his name, day of the week, the year, who the President is…” the paramedic was telling my wife, letting her voice trail off as the list grew. “I’m sorry, but there’s not much we can do if he refuses to go with us.”

  Her partner was already loading equipment back into the life support vehicle, which was still lighting up our front yard with its wildly flickering light bar. I hadn’t checked, but I was sure that neighbors were standing on porches and peering out from behind their drapes at the commotion surrounding the ‘Witch house’. This wasn’t the first time we’d provided a light show, and unfortunately, it probably wasn’t going to be the last.

  As was procedure, a police officer from the local municipality had responded along with the paramedics. He had stepped out onto the front porch himself, and I could see him through the glass of the storm door as he was speaking into his radio.

  In sharp contrast to the activity in the immediate vicinity, Ben was still sprawled on the sofa, unconscious and oblivious to everything.

  Luckily enough, the afghan Cally had laid over him earlier was still in place, hiding his sidearm and badge, so we didn’t have to explain to one cop why another cop was passed out in our living room. Although, there had been some question as to why he was sleeping through the ruckus. We had simply explained it away as us not letting a friend drive drunk, and fortunately, that had been satisfactory.

  “But, his heart stopped,” Felicity insisted, still trying to convince the paramedic to cart me off to the hospital.

  The young woman shrugged and shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve got no proof of that. His EKG looks perfectly normal.”

  “Felicity…” I started.

  “Your heart DID stop, Rowan,” Cally pitched her offering into the fray, cutting me off.

  I shot her a glance and frowned. I knew she was just being concerned, but at the moment, I needed someone on my side not Felicity’s. Fortunately, RJ was staying out of the way in the kitchen with the twins, Shari and Jennifer, who had arrived with Felicity’s Jeep somewhere in the middle of all this. I’m sure they were hearing the whole story from beginning to end.

  Still, if there was a silver lining to the situation at all, at least the seizures were happening to me again instead of Felicity. For that, I was thankful. It also didn’t hurt that I was now back on the side of the fence I was used to occupying. For all its pressures and pitfalls, it was still a path I had grown accustomed to walking.

  “Look, Felicity, I…” I continued.

  “What if I tell you to take him?” Agent Mandalay took her turn at interrupting even though her question was directed at the paramedic. She had already flashed her badge and federal ID when she arrived on the scene moments behind the paramedics, so it was no secret that she was an FBI special agent.

  “Is he in your custody?” she asked.

  “He can be if that’s what it takes,” Constance replied.

  “Constance!” I appealed again, louder this time. “Felicity! Both of you. All of you. Listen to me. I’m fine.”

  She turned
to face me and shook her head as she shot me a concerned look. “Rowan, what I walked into here a few minutes ago doesn’t exactly inspire me to believe that.”

  “You know what it was as well as I do,” I told her, trying to skirt around specifics in the presence of the paramedic. If I started talking about ethereal visions, then she might very well change her assessment of me. I glanced over at my wife and continued. “You too Felicity. Especially you. I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  “Row,” Felicity replied. “Cally and I performed CPR on you. I think I know what I’m talking about.”

  I looked back at her with pleading eyes and spoke in a deliberate tone. “You know what it was, Felicity.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I am,” I stated, lacing my voice with all the confidence I could muster. “And, I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Once again I repeated a declaration I had already made over a half-dozen times in the past fifteen minutes.

  She stared at me for a moment as if visible evidence that would dispute my claim would suddenly appear. As it was not forthcoming, she finally turned her gaze away and closed her eyes.

  “What would you like to do?” The paramedic asked, addressing Agent Mandalay. “Am I taking him or not?”

  “It’s up to you, Felicity,” Constance told my wife. “If you want him to go to the hospital, I’ll make it happen.”

  I didn’t say anything more. The two of them had allied with one another almost as soon as Constance arrived. Once that happened, my opinion became instantly moot. Arguing with them had accomplished nothing so far, other than provide fuel for my headache.

  Felicity finally let out a heavy sigh, and when she spoke, her normally lilting accent thickened, underscoring her words with a serious edge. “No. If he’s wrong, I’ll just kill him later, then.”

  CHAPTER 15:

  The shrieking whirr of the blender was biting into my skull as Felicity repeatedly pulsed it on and off. I rubbed my temples and watched on, as in a quick motion, she popped off the lid and added yet another ingredient to her homebrewed hangover remedy.

  I slid my hand back around to the base of my neck, brushing it gingerly against my flesh. It was still throbbing, and I wondered if I must have hit something on my way down when I blacked out earlier. What little memory I had of the incident was all but completely out of focus, but I did seem to recall falling forward, not backward. I pulled my hand away and inspected it for blood but found none. Apparently, there was no wound even though it felt like there should be. Whatever it was, I just wished it would go away.

  My friend groaned as he opened one eye and looked at me. He was sitting at the breakfast nook, or to be accurate, he was sprawled in a chair next to it. He had one elbow planted against the tabletop, and the side of his face was pressed into his loosely doubled fist.

  I was sitting across from him, nursing a cup of coffee and staying out of it. I’d been on the receiving end of the Felicity hangover treatment before, and while it seemed to work, I knew what was in it, and moreover, what it tasted like. I didn’t envy him one bit.

  Besides, I was too preoccupied to get involved. I was still busy wishing that the aspirin I had taken would actually do some good for my own headache. I knew they wouldn’t really, but if they worked their usual chemical magic, they would at least dull it a bit. Eventually.

  Agent Mandalay was positioned diagonally across from Ben, standing with her back against the wall and watching him intently. We were down to just the four of us now, Cally and RJ having shuttled the twins back to Nancy’s house after helping us re-arrange the vehicles. It was a good bet that they shouldn’t be present for what was about to transpire, so we had ushered them out as graciously as we could under the circumstances. Still, we had to promise to give them an update as soon as we knew anything.

  “Yo, Kemosabe,” Ben eventually croaked, barely loud enough to be heard over the whining blades.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why you got a freakin’ potato in a shoebox?”

  I hadn’t paid much attention to it, but the physical remnants of Felicity’s recently dissolved binding were still adorning the table.

  “Leftovers from a spell,” I replied.

  “What kinda spell? Potato salad or French fries?” he chortled.

  “A binding actually.”

  “Binding. You mean like yer shorts?” He found himself amusing again.

  “It’s like a magickal version of a restraining order,” I offered without acknowledging his attempt at humor. “Basically, it’s supposed to keep an individual from doing or saying whatever it is the spell is directed toward.”

  “‘Zit work?”

  “Depends,” I replied, avoiding the recent details. “Sometimes they backfire.”

  “Then you make potato salad, right?” he chuckled.

  “Yeah, Ben. Whatever.”

  The pulsing whine of the blender’s motor came to a halt, and I looked up to see Felicity pouring a healthy measure of dangerous looking liquid into a glass. In a quick flourish, my wife settled the pitcher back onto the base and quickly dropped the lid onto it before stepping over to the table.

  “Drink it,” she demanded, planting the full glass in front of Ben. “All of it.”

  “What is it?” Ben muttered as he turned and gave the glass a one-eyed stare.

  “It’s an old family hangover remedy,” she replied. “Just drink it.”

  “I’m drunk,” he mumbled. “I’m not hung over.”

  “You’re both,” she told him. “But you won’t be either one after you drink this.”

  He turned his head farther, and I could tell he was trying to focus on the collection of bottles, cans, and cartons my wife had lined up on the counter during the preparation. He finally gave up and rolled his head back forward.

  “What’s in it?” he asked, his voice still a gravelly rasp.

  “Never you mind what’s in it. Just drink.”

  “No thanks.” He closed his eye and slumped down even farther.

  “It works, Ben,” I offered.

  “Mebbe so, but I’ll pass.”

  Felicity pushed the glass closer to him then gave his shoulder a light slap with the back of her hand as she adopted an even more stern tone. “Aye, drink it or I’ll be sitting on your chest and pouring it down your damn throat.”

  “I don’t think she’s bluffing, Storm,” Agent Mandalay offered from her vantage point.

  “Yeah, well ah’m fuckin’ bigger’n she is,” he told her.

  “Maybe, but I think she’s meaner,” Constance returned. “And besides, I’ve got a pair of handcuffs she’s welcome to use.”

  Ben opened a single eye again, then both. After a moment, he dropped his hand down and pushed himself back up in the seat. He wasn’t fully upright, but he was moving in the right direction at least. He wrapped his large hand around the glass and lifted it, inspecting the contents with bleary eyes.

  “Bitch,” he muttered.

  “Which one?” Constance asked with a thin smile.

  He looked at her and then cast a wobbly glance up at Felicity who was still standing over him.

  “Both of ya’,” he replied.

  “We love you too,” Felicity replied sweetly. “Now drink.”

  He lifted the glass up to his face and peered into it with one eye then passed it under his nose. He wrinkled his forehead and then put the glass back down as he announced, “Smells like shit.”

  “Constance,” Felicity said.

  “Storm,” Mandalay returned amid the metallic clink of her handcuffs slipping out of their case.

  “All right, all right,” he returned, then picked up the concoction again.

  “Just hold your nose,” I offered the bit of advice. “And drink it as fast as you can.”

  “Yeah, right,” he sneered back at me, then put the glass to his lips and tossed it back.

  Halfway through the first gulp he started to grimace. As the glass started back down, Felic
ity quickly placed her fingers against its base and forced it back up. He gagged for a moment then swallowed hard and finished the drink.

  My wife wrapped her hand around the bottom of the glass then deftly took it from him as he pitched his head back forward and began to sputter.

  “JEEZUS! Fuck me!” he exclaimed, waving his hands in the air and working his mouth in an attempt to evict the lingering flavor. “What the hell is that shit? It tastes like somethin’ died!”

  “It’s not that bad, then. It’s just egg yolk, tomato juice, brewers yeast, Tabasco, vinegar, salt and a few other things,” Felicity returned. “Oh, and a couple of anchovies. Mustn’t forget those.”

  “Jeez…” he continued, face screwed up in disgust. “Fuckin’ hairy fish?”

  “Fish don’t have hair, Ben,” I told him.

  “Bullshit. Anchovies got hair.”

  “Those are small bones.”

  “You call it bones, I call it hair. What’re ya’ tryin’ ta’ do, Felicity? Kill me?”

  She ignored the question as she began disassembling the blender and washing the various parts in the sink.

  “No,” Constance told him. “She’s trying to wake you up, so I can kill you.”

  “Oh yeah? So what’d I do to you?” he grumbled.

  “Briefing. Seven-thirty. Mandatory attendance,” she returned succinctly.

  If the few hours of sleep combined with my wife’s home remedy hadn’t sobered him up yet, Mandalay’s words did so post haste. A pained look of realization washed over my friend’s features as he closed his eyes and dropped his forehead into his palm. “Oh jeezzzz… Fuck me…”

  “Yeah, fuck you is right,” Constance agreed. “Look, Storm, I’m not even going to ask what your problem is. I don’t want to know. Rowan says you’ve got your reasons, and I’m willing to leave it at that.”

  Ben shot me a startled glance from beneath his hand, and I just gave him a nod of reassurance as I mouthed the word ‘later.’

  “Listen, Mandalay,” he groaned. “I’m sorry… I”