Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  Waapake and his mother nuzzled each other under the glow of Keir’s lantern. The coyote ghost raised her head and released a soulful howl before bounding through the gardens, vanishing into the night. The veil reformed.

  ***The End***

  Back to series contents

  ~*~

  Blood Ice & Oak Moon

  A Coon Hollow Coven Tale

  by

  Marsha A. Moore

  ~*~

  Book Description

  Esme Underhill is about to discover a darkness hidden inside her that could destroy her chance for independence and possibly kill her.

  Esme’s mother took her young daughter away from Southern Indiana’s Coon Hollow Coven to prevent her from learning about the unusual witchcraft she had inherited. When Esme is twenty-seven, her beloved Grammy Flora passes away and leaves her property in the Hollow to her granddaughter. With this opportunity to remake her life and gain independence, Esme attempts to emulate Grammy Flora as a wildwood mystic who relies on the hedge world of faeries to locate healing herbs. But fae are shrewd traders. When they open their world to her, she must meet the unknown malevolence of her birthright.

  Thayne, the handsome king of the fae Winter Court, faces his own struggle to establish autonomy as a new regent. He is swept into the tempest of Esme’s unfolding powers, a dangerous threat to his court. His sworn duty is to protect his people, despite Esme’s beauty and allure, which tear at his resolve.

  Both Esme’s and Thayne’s dreams of personal freedom are lost…unless they can trust each other and overcome surmounting dangers.

  Chapter One: Winter Began

  Winter began at the exact same moment Esme started to unpack a suitcase in the small four-room cabin. Freezing rain pelted the windows. She ran out of the bedroom and yanked on the wrought iron handle of the heavy oak door, which creaked open on rusty hinges. Sleet fell on the huge garden that had been her grandmother’s.

  Esme wasn’t ready.

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” she said to a smoke-blue cat as she cautiously stepped off the stoop and gathered him into her arms. She brushed ice from his back, and pale blue crystals collected on her hand. “What on earth?” She moved her palm closer to examine the strange color, but the ice melted too fast and streamed up the long sleeve of her thin cotton blouse. She shivered and nestled the cat closer. Glistening ice threaded through her dark brown hair and straightened the wavy ends at her shoulders.

  Ice coated everything. The few remaining petals of purple coneflowers dropped and left seed heads that resembled caramel-centered lollipops. The berries of holly bushes that skirted the cabin’s foundation were covered in translucent orbs. In the side vegetable patch, stalks remaining from the season’s corn arced together and created a crystalline tunnel over the walkway.

  Esme retreated to whatever shelter the small porch offered, nestled against the door, and set the cat down.

  The season had changed.

  She wasn’t ready. Not without Grammy. She swallowed against a lump in her throat that had been bothering her since she first learned of her grandmother’s illness. No…since Esme had mustered courage to leave the apartment she shared with her dominating boyfriend Doug. And then suffered her mother’s ridicule after moving home at the age of twenty-seven. Esme massaged the tightness at the front of her neck. Pain coursed into the recesses of her mind. Actually, it’d started earlier, after her first visit to Gram since moving in with Doug last March. The contrast between them bombarded her body with signs of stress. Too bad it took half a year for her mind to comprehend. She rubbed the stress-knot in her throat and reassured herself she was here for good. Finally free. Despite the fact her boxes and bags weren’t unpacked, and freedom only a word she clung to. After Grammy had passed, Holly Cabin belonged to Esme…but the feeling of independence she always loved about the place seemed to have left with her grandmother.

  The mail car drove up and interrupted Esme’s thoughts. With the precipitation lightening, she scurried across the grass, avoiding the slick limestone cobbles, to reach the steel box at the road. It leaned precariously to one side, too large for the spindly wooden support post.

  As a successful hedge witch healer, Gram had relied on mail order for what she couldn’t grow in her vast plots. Small padded envelopes from supply companies crammed the box full. The orders had probably been placed months ago. Esme’s heart sank that Gram wasn’t here to enjoy using them.

  Esme sniffed back a tear, gathered the parcels and few letters into her arms, and hurried inside. With the mail spread over the scarred pine kitchen table, a letter addressed to Esme from the Coven Council gave her a surprise. She slit the seal with a paring knife and read the single sheet.

  Dear Miss Rebecca Esmeralda Underhill,

  Please accept our deepest sympathies concerning the loss of your grandmother, Flora Esmeralda Freestone. She was much loved and well-respected in our community.

  As per her documented wishes, the ownership of her property on 10510 East Lost Branch Run passes to you. This transfer has been filed in our office. At the request of High Priest Logan Dennehy, all council members have voted to reinstate you as a member of Coon Hollow Coven after your absence of twenty years.

  However, despite Coon Hollow Coven being your birthplace, a majority indicated the lapsed time was sufficient cause to withhold transfer of Ms. Freestone’s ceremonial standing to you, which customarily would accompany a property transference to blood kin of adult age. For explanation of how you may attain ceremonial approval in your name, please visit the council office at 50013 Owls Tail Creek Road.

  Enclosed, please find pamphlets describing the expected dress and personal property code of our coven, which adheres to the time period in which the coven was founded in 1935. This is to best protect our witchcraft traditions.

  Sincerely,

  Nathan Wells

  Coon Hollow Coven Council, secretary

  Esme’s gaze fixed on the words that acknowledged her as the property owner. She’d never lived alone. First her mom, then a roommate and finally Doug. Esme’s shoulders straightened and chest lifted with strength and independence at the thought of owning her own place. But, why wasn’t she approved for ceremonial status? Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and her heart raced. It’s not fair. I won’t be accepted as a healer. Only children not yet graduated from the coven’s secondary school were kept from participating fully in ceremonies. Esme loved learning the ways of a hedge witch and helped Gram every summer from grade school through college. Fascinated with tending Gram’s plants, Esme even studied botany in college.

  The research company she worked for had already accepted her request to work offsite and study mystic plants…at the stipulation she be reduced to part-time. She needed work here as a healer to supplement her income. She’d assumed incorrectly that her experience with Gram and college studies would’ve qualified her as an accepted healer. Her standing in the coven would be important to patrons, all except Gram’s closest friends who knew Esme well. An attempt at independence seemed bound to fail before she started.

  Her gaze drifted to the name used in the letter’s greeting. She hadn’t seen her full name in print for decades. It didn’t even appear on her birth certificate, which labeled her as Rebecca E. Underhill, one of the many things her mother insisted upon. Mother wanted nothing to do with the coven or witchcraft and said, “Esmeralda sounds too much like a witch. No need to encourage the darkness out.” Grudgingly, she accepted her own mother’s middle name for her child to uphold custom. Esme never understood Mother’s view since Gram was well-respected for her kind and gentle strength by all who knew her.

  To Esme’s Indianapolis friends, she was Becky. Only her mother addressed her as Rebecca. But inside, she was Esme. Gram had always called her that, or Esmeray in carefree moments. Her middle name suited the mystic inside Esme, something Gram must have known. If only Esme could use Gram’s last name Freestone. Underhill felt like a le
ad weight.

  Esme set the letter aside and paced the length of the rag runner through the small kitchen. Frustration wound her along a circular track through the sitting room, to her closet-sized guest room, and back. The space was too small to work answers out of her tangled mind. On the second pass, she sank onto the goose down comforter of Gram’s iron bed. Billowing fluff sheltered her from the problems. Gram’s linens, scented with homegrown lavender and rose sleep liniment, comforted Esme and tugged on her eyelids.

  She forced her eyes open and pushed herself up and off the bed. Hiding wasn’t the way to begin this fresh start in life. She’d done enough kowtowing to stronger wills, letting Doug and her mother run over her. At the back door, she paused long enough to grab a rain parka and pulled it on as she strode outside.

  Gram’s cat, Dove, zipped alongside with a sharp meow, slipping out before the door closed. Esme smiled, grateful the tomcat kept Gram company during her illness. She’d doted on the smoky blue stray that happened into her garden one early fall afternoon and never left. Gram swore he was an omen and chose his name ‘cause of his white-winged breast patch. She used to say, “One day soon my spirit will fly on those outspread wings, and together Dove and me we’ll roam the wooded hills.” Gram loved those hills. Thinking about the hills drew Esme to gather Dove and head outside.

  Ice still peppered down, adding more layers to the spiky crystalline grass blades. A breeze blew at Esme’s back. She allowed the wind to guide her toward the woods behind the cabin. At the trailhead, ice coating the bittersweet vine berries glistened the same shade of blue she’d rubbed from Dove’s coat. Alert to the strange color, she followed a line of branches dangling sky blue icicles, each one more fanciful and richer in hue than the last. A beautiful play of light, ranging from cerulean to ultramarine. Even worth the chill at her ankles, which were bare in her cropped jeans.

  Whenever Esme paused to marvel at the colored icicles, Dove pawed them and then dodged when they dropped.

  Minutes later and deeper in the forest, the ice pelted heavier, and Esme reached for the hood of her raincoat. Strands of hair fell forward, woven with frozen ultramarine threads. The same purplish tint coated twigs along the path. Light from the sky reached this far into the woods since all but the oak trees had lost their leaves. The unusual color couldn’t be caused by light refraction. She’d never seen any rain, sleet, or snow like this, not even in the Hollow. Grammy had taught her a little about omens. Was this a sign?

  Esme scurried along the trail, sliding at times and spotting richer and deeper shades of purple and red-violets. At the far side of the woodlot, iris-hued spider webs clung to berry brambles. She gasped at the beauty. Tempted to touch, she extended a hand but at the last instant resisted.

  A deep groan echoed from the adjoining property ahead.

  She snatched her hand back and scanned for some god of nature angry at her ruinous attempt. Grappling for Dove, Esme crouched behind a thicket.

  The cat gave a single hiss, then clung to her leg.

  In the distance, a big middle-aged man, both tall and wide, staggered behind a shed, dragging a long, clumsy load wrapped and tied into a blanket. His balding head snapped in her direction, eyes wide and face blanched gray-white. “Who’s there?” His booming voice sliced the delicate webs from their branches. Crimson freezing rain assaulted both trail and yard.

  Esme froze, afraid to move and attract his attention. Her heart, drumming against her ribs, threatened to give her away. She wanted to run home. But if the colored ice omen was meant for her, she needed to stay and learn its meaning. Could the man see the omen?

  Thankfully, her cover must’ve fooled Baldy. He resumed lugging the limp bundle, and didn’t seem affected by the magical ice.

  From between the tangle of branches, Esme studied him.

  His wet, black shirt clung to his round belly. Blood-red ice coated his load, tracing the outline of a human body. Smaller than his, probably a female. Was she dead? Of natural causes? Or had he murdered her? The thought wrapped around Esme’s breath and trapped it deep in her lungs. Her legs twitched. Gaze riveted on Baldy, she positioned to bolt from potential danger.

  He rolled the body into a depression Esme couldn’t see.

  She leaned to one side, bracing herself with a hand on the ground.

  Over what looked like a freshly dug grave, Baldy grunted as he shoveled and kicked dirt and large rocks. Clumps of red clung to long strands of his comb-over, now hanging along one ear. Was it ice or real blood?

  Dove huddled closer, and Gram’s voice from years ago spoke in Esme’s mind. “Blood ice is stained with revenge.”

  Crimson liquid dripped from the man’s eyes and fell from grimacing jowls. The face of a demon.

  A sharp blast of thunder slammed against Esme’s eardrums. She shuddered and fled, Dove at her heels. Would the storm cover their escape? She didn’t know. The thunder and beating of her own pulse filled her head.

  Only when the freezing rain returned to a light-blue color, did she pause. Heart thumping, gasping for air, she looked back. Nothing moved. No sound pursued her.

  She jogged the short distance to Holly Cabin, where Dove screeched and clawed onto the logs of the back porch. Esme scooped up the hissing cat, who quieted in her arms, and ran inside. Purse and council letter in hand, she darted back out and locked up.

  ***

  Esme stepped hard on the brake of her Toyota Prius, skidding gravel as she turned into the coven council parking lot. Thankfully, the tires held. No ice had fallen there.

  Still out of breath and trembling, she hurried toward the door. Only a few small windows punctuated the massive red-brick front of the old schoolhouse that had been remodeled with a second floor. Unlike most Victorian homes and log cabins in the area, the building lacked a welcoming front porch.

  She shivered. Her status at the coven was already shaky. Could stepping forward as a witness somehow be used against her? This was the coven council and not bound by laws, unlike the police. When her fingers contacted the brass handle, reflexes jerked her hand away.

  Reporting the crime was the right thing to do, an obligation. And if she kept her head and dropped a few well-placed hints, supplying that useful information might prove her worthy of receiving Gram’s ceremonial status. Esme clutched the handle again. Resisting the urge to leave, she pushed the door open.

  Dove slipped in without a sound, but a brush along Esme’s bare ankle reassured her he was there.

  Esme’s footsteps creaked over the wooden floorboards, which lifted spirit voices of children laughing. Years ago, she’d poked all around the old school building looking for those invisible kids to play with. Now the young voices sounded eerie and foreboding, not at all playful. Her hands shook as she withdrew the letter from her purse and placed it on the service counter.

  Someone shuffled and huffed in the adjoining office, but didn’t greet her.

  “Hello. Can someone help me?” Esme called in the direction of the noise.

  After a loud sigh, a man answered. “Be right there. Give me a minute.”

  One minute turned into more. To keep calm, she read flyers arranged in neat stacks on the counter, the same that had been sent with her letter. She knew her car model wasn’t approved, but had forgotten details of the dress code. Jeans for women weren’t allowed unless when doing hard outdoor labor or forest gathering. Hopefully, her outfit wouldn’t defeat her attempt to gain a favor from the councilman.

  The office shuffling grew louder, and the gray outer hair on Dove’s back raised like a layer of smoke around his blue coat.

  Esme clenched her jaw and took a half step back.

  A tall man appeared in the doorway, wearing a dark shirt with wet fabric that strained to cover his gut. He ran a hand through his few strings of damp hair, positioning them over his wide bald head. “Sorry ’bout how I look. Ran into a freezin’ ice squall gettin’ to my car. Name’s Oscar Burnhard, member of the coven council. What can I do for you?” He slid a dre
ss code flyer her way, then offered his hand.

  Esme snatched the literature and her letter, holding them in front of her like a shield, and backed to the door. Willing her vocal cords to operate, she stammered, “Oh. I…I just…I needed this information. Thanks.”

  Chapter Two: The Road Ahead and The One Behind

  In the few moments she’d encountered the possible murderer, he exuded the bitter odor of revenge, which still burned Esme’s nostrils. She barely breathed as she drove along twisty Owls Tale Creek Road. Her hypersensitivity to uncommon smells often put her in unusual situations, though most not this frightening.

  Dove dug his claws into a seat cushion when Esme rounded a sharp curve.

  The Prius lurched. Blood red ice crystals slid across the wiper well. Luckily the road was clear. Otherwise she might find herself testing the ravines’ guard rails. Even with dry pavement, Esme struggled to negotiate curves as fast as she wanted. The road ahead and behind split her concentration. She kept checking the rearview mirror for any sign of Baldy Oscar.

  In the council office, he didn’t let on that he recognized her from the crime scene. But her thudding heart wouldn’t accept that as truth.

  As her gaze returned to the road ahead, a gleam of chrome in the mirror caught the corner of her eye. Her heart jumped. A second look revealed nothing, the trailing vehicle hidden from sight. Did she dare slow down to see who followed? Without knowing the type of car Oscar drove, she’d need to be close enough to see his face. That would be too close since she had a modern car not permitted for coven members to own. She didn’t need more negative encounters attached to her name.

  Esme fully focused on the road’s curves. She turned onto a somewhat straighter route away from the creek and sped toward the sheriff’s office in the small town of Bentbone.