Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  “How much is it?” Her pendant flew away from her chest, the crystal glinting with an overwhelming host of powers. Thayne didn’t have long enough to determine the types, since she glanced his way with eyes that fixed on his and commanded attention.

  “Fifteen thousand.” Harley opened the driver’s door. “Clean with new interior and paint as it came to us. We checked the motor, changed all fluids and belts. Nothing special, but sound.”

  Esmeralda moved toward Thayne. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “My name’s Thayne.” He offered her his hand, and when she accepted, he felt an explosion of fear locked head on with determination and longing. Intrigued at both the intensity and contrast, his glamour mask slipped. A twinge of his real being, his fae magic, touched her soft palm.

  Mortals’ feelings could be so circuitous, thoughts twisted one onto another, compared to the direct logic of fae. The shadowed feelings of witches further tortured their innate mortal convolutions. This woman was a witch. And mortal, but different in some way Thayne had never experienced.

  She flinched and pulled her hand back, directing a remark at the manager. “Open the hood and let Thayne take a look.”

  Harley complied and leaned a hand on the fender, gaze settled on the engine.

  Unable to read the man’s downturned eyes, Thayne checked the air for changes in Harley’s breathing pattern. Nothing tangible reached him. With no other method available, Thayne grimaced and placed a hand on the car’s steel body. The iron in the steel shot weakness through him as though it had been injected into his veins. He took a steadying breath. He must form a correct opinion about this car or this woman and her talisman would no longer be easily available to him. His glamour slid again. On his fingers touching the metal, his hidden silver rings and their red garnets emanated into shadows. Mortals couldn’t perceive that minor change. Could witches? Could Esmeralda?

  He sucked in another breath, recalled his father’s fortitude, and read the vibrations channeling along the metal from the man. Thankfully he gained a reading: disappointment and reluctance, probably to make the less valuable sale.

  Thayne peeled his hand free of the metal, and with the same single-pointed determination, read Esmeralda’s black amber that dangled over the engine. Another intense contrast, like the woman herself. Striking dark and light powers. Dark magic, not only belonging to King Raclaw and the Autumn Court, but also from Esmeralda herself startled Thayne. The amber contained untapped darkness from a familial thread and fanned by abuse. Though the quantity of dark outdid the light, the good powers within her talisman possessed a purity so intense, they claimed Thayne’s breath. The talisman could be a real weapon. Outstanding, just like the woman.

  He looked up at her. “Everything seems in order. Basic, but will be fine for your needs. Perhaps Mr. Hinks will give you a free warranty if you contract with him for your next years’ service on the Prius.”

  The manager rubbed his hands on his pants as Esmeralda watched. Finally, he spat out words that seemed painful. “Deal, Ma’am. Esme. We’ll let you take a test drive and draw up the papers while you’re gone. Let’s go inside.”

  They walked to the front of the building, and she paused with Thayne on the sidewalk. “Thanks for your help. Do you live in the coven?”

  “Yes, but—” Thayne stammered.

  The manager coughed, eye motions clear that he wanted to speed things up. His interruption worked for Thayne, who didn’t know how to answer her question.

  She passed him a small card handwritten with: her name; title as a root doctor, alternative medicine; address; and phone number. “I’m new in the coven and looking for work. Haven’t had a chance to get cards printed. I’d be grateful if you’d pass my name around.”

  He lifted the card and smiled. “Will do. Enjoy your Airflow.” He walked to his car and slunk into the driver’s seat, watching the enigma of Esmeralda slip toward the office door. The tempting sway of her hips added to his confusion. How would he be able to control her or the talisman? “Glad you’re driving, White Eagle.”

  “I’ll bet you are, my King.” The guard laughed as he revved up his engine and drove away.

  Chapter Five: Hoarfrost and Glaze Ice

  During the rest of the afternoon Esme prepared for the upcoming Saturday coven market. She exchanged her jacket for a comfy wool sweater, a heather gray cable-knit Gram had made for her. She pushed up the sleeves and packed crates with bottles of liniments, salves, and balms to heal an array of ailments, the last of Grammy’s concoctions. Esme needed to learn how to make these and soon. While sorting, she recalled her unusual encounter with Thayne at the used car lot.

  He was definitely hot. Too hot. With that strong jaw, cleft chin, and prominent cheekbones, he looked like a model. His striking black goatee contrasted with an alabaster complexion, which was pretty enough for a girl. Tall and trim with a broad chest, he looked to be about her age, somewhere in his mid-twenties. He wore no wedding band on his left hand. She chided herself for checking. Force of habit was the best excuse she could muster. She needed to stay unattached to learn to live on her own, an independent woman like Gram. Esme had flinched at the touch of his hand. At least reflexes kept her on target, even if her hormones didn’t.

  Esme clung to the last amber liniment bottle, and her gaze drifted into empty space.

  When Thayne had examined the Airflow’s engine, red glinted from his left hand as it rested on the fender. Looking for clues, she studied his face. His black hair irridesced purple and green, like feathers of a grackle bird. And the same black sheen shot through the brown of his irises for an instant. His grackle eyes flicked over her as if searching for something, then his normal appearance returned. A trick of light? Or was that another omen like the magical ice? Shifting light was on her list to research in Gram’s journals.

  Thayne had helped so much with her car selection. Without him, the shyster manager could’ve talked her into a bad deal. But did Thayne’s favor come with strings attached? There were strings with everything her ex-boyfriend Doug had done for her. Nothing with him came free or out of love. Every gift of jewelry or fancy clothing or dinner at a nice restaurant piled up debt she owed him, not in monetary debt she could repay, but in commitments that couldn’t be broken. A bondage of heavy chains. Doug enjoyed reminding her how much she owed him for his fake endearments of love, kindness, and affection. A ploy to keep her tied to him.

  Dove rubbed against Esme’s ankles, and she bent to stroke his back. “You’re right. None of this matters. I’m not shopping for a boyfriend. I have you.”

  She returned her attention to the jars and took inventory. “Not enough goose grease for this Saturday’s market. Dove, I hope you know how to make that product.” Receiving only a meow, she pulled a notebook from Gram’s shelves labeled “Market Wares” and thumbed to the correct page.

  A recipe, or what Gram called a receipt, listed the ingredients and methods for making goose grease. Now that the weather had grown cool, people would be needing this home remedy for all sorts of colds and congestions. In a huge double boiler pan over low heat, Esme stirred the correct combination of beeswax and olive oil for the base. She added measured amounts of camphor, menthol, and wintergreen oils. When the ingredients were thoroughly mixed, she poured the concoction into clean pint canning jars and wiped up any spills while the drips were still warm.

  The melodious honk of a vintage horn jolted Esme to look out the kitchen window. Someone had delivered her blue Airflow sedan and parked it outside the shed. A black pickup stopped nearby.

  Esme quickly lidded her jars, checked that the stove was off, and chased outside.

  An older man with salt and pepper hair met her at the front door. “Would you be Esme Underhill?”

  “Yes, that’s my coven car. Looks just like a VW Bug!” She lifted onto her toes.

  He laughed and extended a clipboard and pen for her to sign. “She certainly do! Name’s Dwayne Sadler, the shop owner. I’m glad
you’re pleased.”

  “Is the warranty included?” She accepted the paperwork.

  “Yep, thanks to your friend with the red Kissel White Eagle. Damn, that car of his is fine. Musta cost a mint. Seen it around town a few times. Where’d he get it? I’d like to learn his contacts so I can turn a few of them rare ones.”

  “No idea, but I’ll let him know.” Esme read the warranty. She found it all in order and signed.

  Keys in hand, she waved goodbye to the shop owner, who hopped in beside the driver of the pickup. Dwayne’s words resonated in her mind. Owning that White Eagle must mean Thayne had money. So did Doug, and he used it to buy her and bind her. Another reason to avoid getting involved.

  Esme darted inside to get her purse. “You up for a fun drive, Dove?” She whisked him up and they got into her new old car. Working the stiff clutch and shifter took some coordination on the curvy hill-country roads. If she owed Doug anything, it was teaching her to drive a stick with his 5-speed Vette. The Airflow’s engine chugged through first and second, then hummed in the higher gears. She smiled, grateful for Thayne’s help. Once she found a rhythm between clutch and shifter, she attempted winding Bear Wallow Road to the market grounds.

  Kandice Kelly, wife and mother to two councilmen, had been kind on the phone and agreed to give Esme the same market booth Grammy had used. If Esme did well selling at the market, the Kelly family’s approval might help her gain ceremonial standing. With a working car that met coven standards and a kind favor from Kandice, Esme felt empowered. She slowed the car and found the correct booth number before pulling away from the silent marketplace.

  The setting sun’s last rays glittered off skims of frost formed by the evening’s colder air settling on the ground. Esme approached the intersection at Owls Tail Creek Road with caution, testing her brakes until certain the Airflow held the road. She turned and drove past the creek-bordered woodlot surrounding the Coven Council office, which stood quiet and dark, strangely without any trace of frost like near the market. Gloom draped the office building, or perhaps the incident with Oscar had left her with a gruesome association.

  Esme needed to call councilman Rowe McCoy again since her attempt last night had been unsuccessful. She slowed the car and wrangled her cell from the purse Dove occupied as his booster seat. Holding the phone, she hesitated. “Cell phones aren’t allowed, so I better use the house phone when we get in. I’ve got to play by the book if I want to get ceremonial status.”

  As she continued on her way, sunlight struggled to reach the pavement even through leafless trees of the dense forest. She wound past cabins and cottages nearly claimed by trees and turned onto West Lost Branch Run, the long way home to Holly Cabin.

  When she rounded a sharp curve, a thick branch crashed in front of the car.

  Dove let out a yowl.

  Esme swerved to avoid a collision. The car skidded. She stepped on the brake, which did nothing. At the gravel shoulder berm the brakes grabbed hard. Esme fell forward over the wheel, and Dove clung to the seat by his claws.

  When Esme regained her bearings, she checked the cat.

  With both tail and fur spiked, he hissed and wouldn’t be calmed by her touch. He spilled onto the floor and hid under the seat.

  Esme stepped out of the car and examined it for damage. Nothing appeared out of order. Luckily, they’d stopped before colliding with the fallen limb, but it blocked her route home. She’d need to turn around and circle back to the other end of Lost Branch Run.

  Dark birds sped from high in the tall trees, crying a chorus of piercing, staccato squeaks. Bats.

  She darted around the fender. A sense of dread shot through her.

  Before she reached her closed door, a pack of dozens of bats circled the car.

  Her heart jumped. The creatures glided closer. She screamed and ducked beside the car.

  The flapping of their leathery wings drilled a shrill noise against her eardrums.

  She struggled to reach the door handle.

  One menacing bat hovered between her and the car, inches from her face. Its mouth gaped, fangs on display as if ready to strike.

  Her pulse raced, and with her hand finally in place, she willed her fingers to discover the workings of the unfamiliar latch.

  The hostile animal lunged for her chest, biting her talisman.

  She yanked the door open but couldn’t get past the diving bat.

  Inside the car Dove jumped onto the back of the driver’s seat, hissing and spitting wildly.

  Esme swatted the assailant off the pendant. The bat didn’t scare easily. It hovered in front of her face.

  The pack dove for her, bats biting her hair and coat.

  The lead bat spat in her face and snarled, “Your witch’s black amber will belong to me, King Raclaw of the Fae Autumn Court.”

  Another magical creature after her! She shrieked and dodged, but the bat dove again for her amulet and gripped it firmly between his teeth.

  A rush of adrenaline flooded her veins. The urge to flee fell away and her jaw clenched. Fear and panic fell aside to a violent wave of anger. Anger so intense, it frightened her and excited her at the same time. Heat rose to her temples and flooded her with energy. She smacked the vile bat hard onto the pavement. Where had her strength, a zealous urge to fight, come from?

  The king flopped with an injured wing. Raclaw’s bat shape morphed into a full-size humanlike form dressed in brown camouflage fatigues. Although his face and the brown hair straggling at his shoulders appeared human, his legs, arms, and fingers bent awkwardly with extra joints. He struggled to sit, holding his injured arm.

  Bats circled him, some on the ground and others in the air. The chaotic moment granted Esme the freedom she desperately needed.

  She grabbed at the chance, jumped into the car and slammed the door shut.

  At the sound of the car’s engine, the pack assaulted the windshield.

  She yanked the shifter into reverse and backed from the fallen branch.

  King Raclaw stood, his good hand glowing red with fire.

  Faster than she thought safe, Esme cranked the wheel and turned the car around. The rear end fishtailed.

  In the rearview mirror, Raclaw took a step and hurled a ball of fire at her.

  Esme gasped. She stepped on the accelerator. The Airflow sped away, narrowly missing the flames.

  Esme barely negotiated the first curve and gripped the wheel tighter.

  Dove dug his claws into the seat.

  She tore along Owls Tail Creek Road, checking her rear mirrors along every short stretch of straight road.

  Dark images flitted through the air behind her, though small and distant, unable to keep up with her speed.

  She exhaled through clenched teeth, then set a course cutting back to Holly Cabin from the other end of her road. Would Raclaw and his bats be there? The question hung heavy in her mind.

  When they approached home, twilight darkened the sky but no bats. Shards of ice marred the pavement. Was Raclaw blocking her path home from this end of her road? She sucked in a breath.

  But with closer inspection of the conditions, she released a shaking breath. Rather than the sharp silvers revealed at first glimpse, her road and driveway actually looked as if someone had spilled Christmas glitter. Esme strained for a view of the road past the cottage. All appeared normal. No squeaks of flying bats. The tightening between her shoulders relaxed. She parked in her shimmering driveway, bundled Dove into her arms, darted inside, and locked the door.

  With the kitchen phone in hand, Esme searched her purse for Alice’s paper with Rowe’s number. Dread and horror eased when she found it and made the call, but the ringing went on and on. What if he wasn’t home? Who else could help with faeries who attacked as bats? Garrett, the sheriff’s deputy? Not likely. Desperate, she clutched the phone tighter.

  After ten rings, a male voice answered, and Esme breathed silent thanks as she said, “I’m Esme Underhill, granddaughter of Flora Freestone. Am I speakin
g to Rowe McCoy?”

  “Yes. I’m Rowe, and you’re Grammy Flora’s Esmeralda. Welcome back to Coon Hollow.” His voice rang with a smile. “I remember so many summers when you were younger and chased behind her, helping with her healing visits. What can I do for you?”

  His warm tone heartened Esme, but she chose to begin the conversation with a discussion of her coven standing to better measure Rowe’s support. “Well, three things. One, I don’t understand why I wasn’t granted ceremonial status. I want and need to work as a hedge witch healer here. Without that approval my abilities won’t be trusted by some members.”

  “I fully understand your dilemma and have pushed for approval of your higher status. You have to understand, though, that some on the Council wish to see proof of your positive contributions to the coven first. They have a valid point, but their terms of monitoring seem lengthy and unfair. I’m working on your behalf. Unfortunately, the current political instability of the Council is preventing quick action on any issue.”

  “Thank you for keeping my interest in mind. I really appreciate it.” She moved to the sink and looked out the window, checking for bats or anything suspicious. When everything appeared normal, she hesitated to ask Rowe about attacks from forest faeries occupying bat forms. She’d been unharmed, and the threat had stopped. Most importantly, as a hedge witch, she above other witches should be able to work with The Cousins. The rest of the coven looked to wildwood mystics to help them cope with troublesome faeries. Rowe made it clear that she needed to prove herself. Asking for his help with The Cousins was not good proof of her abilities.

  “You had other questions?” Rowe asked.

  Alice’s words recommending Rowe zipped through Esme’s mind. She had to trust someone with what she’s seen during the blood ice. If Alice trusted Rowe…Esme took a deep breath. “Yes. I witnessed what I think was a potential murder at the home behind mine, through the woods.” She pulled the words up her aching throat. Her tongue stumbled on a few, although once spoken, she felt lighter without them hidden inside her. “I spoke to the sheriff’s office, but they said—”