Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  Adara leaned toward the window.

  Lenore pushed him off and gasped for air. “Please, you don’t understand.” She held up the curvaceous root. “This charm is to make me a suitable wife for a man who needs one, like you.”

  “Of course, and also a good man’s folly.” He pulled her closer, groping her thin frame more like an animal than a man.

  “No. Not like this.” She pushed against his chest, breathless. “I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” He leaned against the edge of the table. “What’s wrong?”

  “We have to wait. Adara said I was chosen to present my fertility to the gods first before the man who wishes to be my husband.”

  “Adara.” Rowe shook his head and sighed. “You don’t have to do as she says.”

  “But she’s the high priestess.” As he moved for her, Lenore took a step backward. “I want to. It’s an honor to serve the coven. Mama was impressed.” She picked up her pocketbook. “I have to go now.”

  Adara voiced a silent cheer. The vervain juice did the trick she intended, rendering the girl chaste. For seven years, according to a note in the grimoire made by her great aunt Mildred.

  Adara crept around the outside of the house to watch Lenore leave on foot. Adara checked her watch by the flood light hanging at the garage gable and hunkered lower into the bushes to wait. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, louder with each passing minute.

  Ten minutes later, she unbuttoned her coat and felt for Father’s pendant at her neck. She pressed the onyx gem into her palm, and concentrated, silently repeating the phrase, Muto schema. She’d practiced personal transformation with Sibeal’s guidance over the summer with some success. Adara’s gaze dropped to study herself. She wore a dress identical to Lenore’s. Even the run-over brown spectator shoes looked the same. Adara twirled a mousy blond strand of hair before her face. With a confident smile, she wrapped the knocker on one of the paneled double doors.

  It opened, and Rowe grinned at her. “You’re back, and without that mandrake charm. Good to see that you decided not to follow Adara’s demands.” He waved her inside and rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologize for my forward behavior earlier. Without that mandrake, I assure you I’ll act differently. The charm affected me in a bad—”

  Adara wasted no time claiming her hard won prize. She threw herself at him and kissed him with pent up passion. She ran her hands down his chest, unbuttoning both vest and shirt. Touching his bare skin, heat instantly bloomed deep inside her, and her body trembled.

  He broke away and gaped at her, speechless.

  Standing before him in her true form, her coat gaped half off of her lingerie-caressed curves. Nervous laughter crowded her chest and fluttered at the back of her throat, finally filling the silence between them. She followed his gaze down her voluptuous body, and tugged at the belt at her waist, her lips curling as the coat slipped to the floor. His eyes widened as she swayed toward him to claim her victory.

  Chapter Three: Not So Familiar

  Rowe caught Adara by the wrist and glared into her smoldering black eyes that promised pleasure but seeped venom from their golden glints.

  “You’re hurting me.” The desire in her gaze extinguished as she writhed and pulled against his grip with her free hand.

  “How dare you trick me. I won’t let go until you tell me why you cast those spells.” His fingers squeezed Adara’s soft, pale flesh harder. “Tell me!”

  “As high priestess, I don’t have to answer to anyone about my magic.” She jutted her chin at him.

  “You have to answer to me when you hurt my friends.”

  She sneered. “Friends? Really? You’d run circles around simple-minded Lenore in any conversation.”

  “What chastening spell did you put on her?” He gritted his teeth, holding back his desire to make her feel pain for her actions.

  Adara grinned at him but said nothing.

  He twisted her arm behind her back. “What spell?”

  She groaned. “What could it matter? The coven will be better off without a simple fool like her procreating.”

  He pulled Adara’s arm until she winced.

  “The vervain spell.”

  Rowe stared down on her with disgust. “That’s seven years of chastity.” He released Adara with such force that she fell to the floor at his feet. He clenched his hands into fists, his mind raging. Anger clouded his thoughts. Undoing that spell required complex witchcraft. He wanted to slap sense into Adara, but couldn’t harm her either physically or magically. As high priestess, coven rules protected her. “What gives you the right to change someone’s life like that?” He spat the words at her.

  Rubbing the delicate skin of her injured wrist, she stared up at him with hurt in her eyes.

  He felt a pang of empathy but worked to cast it off. Likely another transformational trick.

  “Seven years is nothing,” she said and pushed herself to standing. “She’s only twenty and will have plenty of time left to bear a houseful. Nothing as drastic as what my mother did to me. You don’t remember. You were only a toddler then.” She took a step closer. “We’re the same, you and I. I lost the love of my life. You’ve lost your wife, Edme. Neither of us have any relations left.”

  The hairs on the back of Rowe’s neck bristled at her mention of Edme. “No, we’re not alike.”

  “We’re meant for each other. Your right mind is still confused with grief.” She grinned and held out a hand to him. “We could be great together.”

  “Take that spell off of Lenore.”

  “I can’t.” When he failed to accept her hand, she dropped it to her side. “We need a female to pledge her fertility to the gods at the Mabon festival.”

  “After the ceremony, undo the spell.”

  “The gods will keep her fertility until Imbolc in February at the earliest. Whether the spell can be undone after that is up to them.” Her lips curled. “So you see, you and I have even more in common. With the gods claiming Lenore, you and I are the only folk in the coven who aren’t spoken for, unless widow Ester or old maid Tansy appeal to you.” She smirked.

  Heat rushed into Rowe’s face. It was clear to him now, how Adara had calculated this down to the last cold detail. She’d manipulated him into a corner and believed he had no choices but her. He stepped past her and opened the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Not till I’ve had my goodnight kiss.” She leaned into him and ran a hand along the open placket of his shirt. “You seemed to like the one I gave you earlier.”

  His back to the door, Rowe took hold of her upper arms and pushed her away. A pewter candleholder hurtled toward them and thumped hard against Adara’s lower back. It took Rowe only a moment to comprehend. Apparently the spirit of Uncle Petrus didn’t like how she was treating his great grandnephew and took swift action with his favorite reading light.

  Adara winced and spun around. She planted the toe of her dress shoe on the top rim as the candleholder rotated to get away.

  Glad for the help, Rowe nodded to the wing chair, which contained the magical spirit of his deceased aunt Tilly, another accomplished animator. The only chair that could hold the butterball of a woman, the huge upholstered piece lurched with wide strides on a straight course for the coven leader.

  Great Aunt Tanita’s favorite fireplace poker for building fires under her cauldron led a battle cry.

  Adara froze, her black eyes widened.

  Upon Tanita’s signal, a host of objects, each animated with the original owner’s skills, crawled, flew, or slid toward the trickster. A cavalcade formed: Ernie’s silver cigar cutter, Wona’s letter opener, and Maxwell’s pistol, among many others.

  When Bertrand’s enormous antique hall tree loomed over Adara, she pleaded to Rowe, “Help me! Make them stop.” She glanced his way and received only a glare.

  The heavy oak piece grabbed hold of her wrists with its garment hooks and pinned her in place as if facing a firing squad. Writhing, she stared down the o
bjects coming for her. “I should have known the McCoy home would be filled with animators’ enchanted toys.”

  The wing chair pressed its smothering girth against her, and she moaned.

  An instant later, the poker gave a shout to release. The furniture backed away, and Adara was not there.

  A chill breeze blowing through the open door signaled Rowe to run outside.

  The flood lamp on the old carriage house cast dim light over the side of the property. Far to the back, the pale striped face of a badger bared its sharp teeth. The animal hissed at Aunt Edna’s white lilac bush that swept low limbs back and forth across the ground like a hockey goalie. The bush snagged the critter’s stubby tail. With a vehement growl, the badger pulled free and escaped along the path to Owls Tail Creek. Dark wings fluttered after it, followed by the caw of a single crow.

  Rowe walked to the lilac and collected Adara’s trench coat. He peered at the now empty path and snickered. Yeah, it would be an ugly creature she turned into with that wicked heart.

  A series of low hoots came from high in the old willow tree that overhung the creek. Rowe looked up to find his witch’s familiar, an adolescent barn owl.

  “That was one mad badger,” Busby said and flew to a low branch nearer his master.

  “Did she keep moving or hide in the thicket?” Rowe asked in a hushed tone.

  “Made a beeline down the trail.” The owl’s white dished face captured the lamp light. “Was that the high priestess?”

  “Yes.” Rowe nodded and examined the coat.

  “Whew, boy. You’re in a heap of trouble now.” Busby fluttered his wings as if unbalanced, then resettled on his perch.

  “Yep, I am.” He let out a sigh. “And I’m not sure what to do about it.” He turned and strode to the front door, the small owl sailing behind him.

  Rowe found his relations’ favored belongings waiting for him. With the wave of his hand, he said, “You can all relax. Thank you for coming to my aid.” He patted the wing of Tilly’s chair. “After Edme died, you all did your best to comfort me. It’s good to know you still support me, but I need to fight this battle myself.” Rowe accepted his fedora from the top hook of Bertrand’s hall tree that extended to meet his hand. He collected his blazer from the dining room, removed keys from his pocket, and said to Busby, “I’m going to the cemetery. I probably should keep you with me. I’ll drive slow so you can follow.”

  “Ready when you are.” The owl winged to the gable point overhanging the carriage house Rowe used as a garage.

  Rowe hadn’t used a witch’s familiar until after his wife Edme passed. For years, she’d kept a female barn owl familiar and allowed it to nest while she herself was pregnant with her and Rowe’s first child. Edme urged Rowe to take his choice of the five owlets for his own familiar. He’d put up a fuss, preferring to work alone, unlike most witches. He couldn’t imagine sharing his magical spirit with an owl, or any creature for that matter. He’d agreed to make Edme happy. Not intending to make use of the gift, he chose the runt of the nest in order to spare it from the hard hunting life of a non-magical owl. Once chosen, Edme fussed over the owlet. She named the runt Busby days before she died birthing their still-born child.

  The hapless bird seemed to have adopted Edme’s warmth and wit, traits which endeared him to Rowe. But using Busby as a familiar had proved awkward. Now, embroiled with the vengeful high priestess, Rowe needed to have all magical avenues accessible. A familiar could use his magic for him if needed.

  Rowe locked his house, in case Tanita or Tilly got an urge to be over-protective and follow in the forms of their preferred household items, but knew no barrier would stop them if they decided to help. He slid open the carriage house doors in front of the hoods of two Studebakers, his father’s favorite makes made locally in South Bend. The long cars filled the length of the building. Rowe chose the President convertible coupe and cranked the top down so he could keep an eye on Busby for his first flight following a car. After Rowe’s encounters tonight, though, he would have preferred the stealthier black sedan to the light green coupe.

  He drove along Owls Tail Creek Road only as long as necessary to reach a connector, afraid the twists and turns might confuse Busby. Although the day had been warm with Indian summer temperatures, the night air blowing past made Rowe shiver. Or was it from fear of how to handle the predicament that faced him? He maintained a speed of fifteen miles-per-hour, and the barn owl kept pace. Together, they traveled to the opposite side of the coven, where the valley’s elevation rose.

  Bordered by coven farms on three sides and a woodlot on the other, the cemetery stood dark and quiet. Rowe followed the gravel driveway back a hundred yards between fields of golden corn. He parked in a small lot under a wide sugar maple. On the other side of the tree, stood a tall wrought iron gate. Smoldering autumn brush fires at neighboring farms tinged the air with the smell of burnt sap.

  Rowe waved his hand in front of the lock and the gates opened. He passed without breaking stride. Although he’d been to the cemetery many times during the past year and a half, his grief had been too fresh to share with Busby.

  Without a word said between them, the owl glided at Rowe’s shoulder. His footsteps fell with measured rhythm through the maze of boxwood hedge-lined paths, crunching the pea gravel underfoot.

  Several statues nodded as he passed, although no voices greeted him. Usually at this hour, mothers sang lullabies. Only the calls of locusts and crickets filled the close night air.

  He stopped in front of a graceful female statue, a diminutive likeness of his former wife. Her alabaster face glowed as if lit within by the moonlight. Troubled with the uproarious evening, Rowe’s inhibitions fell away. He knelt at Edme’s marble feet and hung his head. “Damn, Adara! She tricked me. Why didn’t I see through her? She enchanted a young woman, who’s just a friend, causing me to become attracted to her. Then Adara used that attraction. She transformed herself into that woman to seduce me. I’ve been played for a fool.”

  Cool stone hands caressed his neck and shoulders.

  “Your love was so pure, so true. I need you, Edme.” Tears welled into the backs of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Many times, she’d told him to stop crying over her. “What can I do against Adara? Her position as high priestess protects her.” He looked up at his wife’s chiseled face, wondering why she remained silent.

  Her features contorted into a pained expression, and she opened her arms to embrace him.

  Busby circled above them.

  Rowe hugged her and tried to fool himself that he felt her heartbeat next to his. “Why don’t you speak to me?” Pulling back, he caught a glimpse of the black crow, Dearg, Adara’s familiar, winging away from the tree-line across the field. His cawing echoed throughout the woodlot trees like an ominous chant.

  “Did Adara curse you?” Rowe asked, studying Edme’s ashen face.

  She nodded and drew her hands to her mouth.

  He stood and shook his hands in the air, letting out an animalistic scream. “Damn that woman! Does she think by taking you completely away from me that I’ll need her? Is she insane?” He faced Edme, temples pulsing. “I vow to get your voice back.” He gave her cheek a gentle kiss and left to search for clues through the maze of grave markers and statues of all shapes, ages, and sizes.

  Those he recognized from when they had lived lowered their heads as he passed. None spoke, and he assumed Adara had enchanted them as well.

  Enraged, he walked every path looking for any who could speak to offer advice. With no consequences to pay, words of the dead rang truer than those of the living. But on this night, even the dead paid a price to the evil coven leader. Their silence granted her more power.

  Rowe reached the central roundabout marked with stepping stones that paid homage to the four pagan gods. Standing upon the eastern point, he said, “ Lords of Air, I summon, stir, and call you up to aid those who lie in this sacred ground.” He stepped to the southern stone. “Watchtowers of
the south, Lords of Fire, please bring aid to the spirits lying herein.” He repeated his appeal to the lords of water and earth at the western and southern positions.

  When he stepped off the final stone, the face of the moon peeked from behind a cloud and shone down on the circle. A boy called to him from behind. The voice of his brother Grant.

  “Rowe, come here,” Grant whispered.

  Rowe spun and dashed to where the statue of his brother sat on a bench. He wore knickers like he did when he fell from a tree limb and died.

  “Vika was here and cast a shield over me.” Grant spoke in a hushed tone. “She tried to protect Edme and the others, but that crow came too soon. Go get Vika.”

  Rowe nodded and patted Grant’s knee. “I’ll find her.”

  Rowe left him and dashed through the maze, sliding on the pea gravel as he rounded turns. When he reached his car, he looked up at Busby fluttering overhead. “I’m going to Vika’s. Do you know the way in case we get separated?”

  “Nope.” He blinked his wide-set eyes at Rowe. “I only met her once at home.”

  Rowe let out a sigh. “You can ride in the car.”

  Busby gave a sharp shake of his head. “I’m scared. Would rather fly, if that is okay with my master.”

  “All right. I’ll drive slow. Let’s go.” Keeping track of a familiar, especially an untrained one, cost Rowe time he didn’t want to waste. He hopped into the driver’s seat and took the most direct route to the old witch’s home. She’d been a family friend for decades, even helped his mother give birth to him. A good soul he always turned to in times of need.

  Rowe turned away from the coven’s fields and drove through the rugged pasture lands. A herd of dairy feeders stared at his car as he passed. He turned onto a narrow lane into a stretch of woods. He hoped, like the cows, Busby could see the pale green hue of his car since heavy branches darkened the road. Unable to find the owl’s white face overhead, he reminded himself that owls had great night vision.

  He pulled off onto the gravel tracks leading to Vika’s. Under the dense tree canopy of mature oaks and hickories, he strained to see anything other than what his headlights illuminated. The Studebaker’s wide tires bumped over a series of potholes, and the tall front gable of the house came into view. As a child, he was always afraid to visit, believing the house belonged to the evil witch who wanted to eat Hansel and Gretel. His mother reassured him there were no witches as evil as that one in the story. After his evening with Adara, he wasn’t as sure.