Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  “It could, and their senses are keener than ours.”

  “I wonder why they’d be interested? Could you contact them? You said they know about the incident you witnessed. I’d like to find out what they know.”

  “I’ll try my best. Fae are tricksters and almost never come on command.”

  “It’s worth a try since we have no lead. Good luck at the market. I might drop by and say hello.” He touched his hat and headed back to his car.

  “Thanks. I need all the luck I can get.” She wished she could snap her words back. She needed to impress Rowe, not inform him that she struggled as a root worker. She bit her lip, took a seat in her Airflow, and drove out after him.

  The market didn’t start for two hours, but she wanted plenty of time to set up, exchange some greetings, and chitchat with Kandice as well as the other vendors. She yawned, tired from her long night concocting new products. One contained Gram’s dried mountain mint for enlivening dull dreams, and another had oak leaves fresh from the Holly Cabin tree that would increase willpower. The herbal blends of these new lines, their magic kicked up with doses of vervain, were steeped and infused into candles and lotions, and also roughly pulverized for sachet pillows. She wanted to make these and more lines in different products—bath salts, teas, and salves—but time limited her output.

  When she turned at the wooded intersection onto Bear Wallow Road, the rat tail of a possum whipped into the air from where it sat on the center yellow line. The animal faced her with a beady-eyed glare.

  Esme slowed, but the critter didn’t budge. With the car a few yards away, she stopped and honked. Without success, she inched the car forward and tooted a few more times.

  From behind, a pack of bats attacked her rear window. Their spine-chilling squeaks pierced her ears through the glass, too loud for normal bats. Oh please, don’t let them break through the windows.

  She blared the horn and stepped on the gas. Her heartbeat sped with the car’s acceleration. She clenched her teeth and swerved around where the possum sat. A tire hit with a sickening dull crunch. Her stomach lurched. Her focus wavered and her foot let up.

  The bats assaulted her driver’s window and some flew to the windshield. They clawed and chewed at the glass. Tore at the rubber around the windows.

  She shot the car forward.

  The ones in front wouldn’t shake off. Her speed flattened their wings against the windshield. Translucent webbing taut between long, finger bones. Their mouths gaped in her face, canines bared.

  The largest bat, shades darker that the others positioned himself in her direct line of sight. “Give me the black amber!” It was Raclaw.

  She grabbed and fumbled through the control arms until she found the wiper lever. It caught several bats by the wings and sent them careening away.

  Raclaw hovered, hideous and threatening, a mere inch from the moving blade. His jaw stretched wide. From a cavernous gullet, orange flames erupted and licked the glass between them. Cracks spidered across her windshield.

  Esme’s sweaty palms slipped around the steering wheel. The car swerved tight on a curve. She stepped on the brake to gain control. The back whipped toward a looming hillside. She spun the wheel and righted the car.

  Black smoke spewed from Raclaw’s gullet through the windshield’s cracks, with a vile odor of mold, carnage, and death.

  A red car honked and veered across the road to miss the Airflow, then skidded to a stop on the left berm. Esme fell forward into the wheel. Sharp pain shot through her ribs and shoulder, still injured from the same impact when she met Raclaw before. His fumes triggered waves of bile rising from her stomach.

  Raclaw and his pack disappeared into the woods. Faster than any flying animal could move.

  On the other side of the road sat the red White Eagle belonging to Thayne.

  He jumped from the car and raced to open her door. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” She rubbed a tender spot on her forehead. “A little bump when my head hit the wheel. That’s all. But my windshield. Whoa! I hope that’s all the damage.” She scooted from the seat, accepted his arm, and gulped fresh air. She coughed and bent double, pain stabbing her head. Was that from Raclaw’s smoke?

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Breathe with little sips.”

  She pushed up against his arm. “I need to get to—”

  “Breathe. Shallow breaths.” His strong arm clung tight.

  She complied, and after a few sips of air, her headache lessened. Tension eased from her limbs. With a few more breaths, she relaxed against his side and cautiously straightened. “It worked. I feel better. Thank you. Those bats, did you see them?”

  He gently brushed hair from her forehead and examined the bump. Like before, his eyes flashed green and purple across dark irises. “I’m glad I could help.” He lightly touched the injury, and a cool sensation eased the heat and pressure.

  It seemed strange that he didn’t answer her question. When he moved his hand away, she fingered the raised skin, tender to her touch though not throbbing as before. She wanted to ask how he knew to tell her to breathe and what magic his touch held, but she didn’t have time. “I need to check my car and get to the market.”

  He loosened his support and kept his arm lightly at her waist as she walked around the car. “I didn’t see any damage.”

  “It looks fine, aside from the windshield. I can’t get that fixed till Monday.”

  “It’s not shattered so you should be safe for a short while. I’ll be glad to drive behind you to the market in case there is something wrong we can’t see. I was going to go there a bit later anyway.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” She moved back to her driver’s seat. Luckily with the door left open, Raclaw’s noxious odors escaped. She started the engine, which chugged as normal, and drove cautiously toward her destination. The red sedan stayed in her rear mirror, a real comfort. The memory of Raclaw’s smoke odor stuck in her nose. Her arms and legs still shook from the encounter, but she forced herself to rest against the seatback. She needed to arrive calm and collected for her crucial chance to win over the community.

  Despite Esme’s attempts to focus, confused thoughts popped up. Why did Raclaw want her black amber? What possible use could he have for it? Why did he want to harm her? Did he think if he removed it, he could kill her and then the weather would warm back to autumn’s temperatures for some advantage to his Autumn Court? She hadn’t done anything to change the weather. Was there any other possible reason for his attack? She couldn’t imagine anything. She touched her witch’s amber. No one was getting it from her.

  She turned into the marketplace and parked as close as possible to her booth. Four other cars and vans sat directly in front of the nearest door. She couldn’t wait for them to leave. The dozen loading doors would remain open only another thirty minutes. During market hours they were shut in winter and kept raised in summer.

  From her trunk she hoisted a crate of pint containers and trudged over fifty yards through the nearest open garage door to her assigned spot. Heat from exertion spread into her face. She returned and picked up another load with a groan.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that lifting.” Thayne appeared at her trunk. “Can I help?”

  “I feel fine after you mended my bump. But I won’t turn down an assist.”

  He picked up a heavy crate of jar candles as if it weighed nothing and followed her inside. She appreciated his willingness to help her through this difficult morning, but what did he want in return? He hadn’t answered her about whether he saw the bats. A rare few witches had the Sight and could see The Cousins without their consent. He knew what remedy to tell her to use for the bat smoke, but that didn’t prove anything. Calm breathing was generally advised for persons after trauma.

  She pushed thoughts of the bat attack away, spread Grammy’s market-table quilts, and arranged the crates. On her way back to the car, she met Thayne at the door.

  “You set
up your booth,” he said in passing. “I’ll carry everything inside.”

  “Thank you so much.” She slipped back to the booth and worked arranging products, signs, and business cards. Kandice Kelly’s bubbly laugh reached Esme from around the corner, and she hurried. She wanted the display to look professional before the coordinator arrived.

  Sweat beaded along her hairline as Kandice called to her, “Esme, this looks fantastic! And it’s so good to meet you in person.” The model-tall coordinator with a neat salt and pepper chignon hairdo made quick notes on her clipboard, then offered a manicured hand. Dressed in a fitted black and white checked wool suit and red heeled pumps, Kandice could easily cause down-to-earth types like Gertie some detachment. From Esme’s work experience in the city, Kandice’s polish didn’t fluster her. Although researchers tended to be laid back, she’d worked under many business personnel.

  She clasped Kandice’s hand and met her gaze. “Thank you again for allowing me to join the market on short notice.”

  “You’ve done such a nice job combining Grammy Flora’s homey style with punches of your own fresh marketing. It’s a treat for us to have new ideas.”

  “Thank you,” Esme beamed. “That’s the look I aimed for, infusing my ideas with hers to appeal to a wide range of clients.”

  Thayne rounded the corner with the last box and winked at her. “You’ll be a hit.”

  “I agree.” Kandice said to him on her way out and called back to Esme, “Sweetie, if you need anything, let me know.”

  Heartened that Kandice noticed her marketing theme, Esme smiled and arranged her personal supplies.

  An obese woman wearing support stockings that fell to her slippered feet, waddled from the next booth to the front of Esme’s display. “I’m Ruth, an’ I sell pet treats if you’re needin’ any. I see you’re takin’ Grammy Flora’s spot.”

  “I’m her granddaughter, Esme.” She offered a hand, which wasn’t accepted.

  Ruth eyeballed the healing products and snorted a few times, then looked up. “You might wanta move your car since customers are headin’ in.”

  “Oh! The car. Thanks.” Esme dashed out and repositioned the Airflow. She gathered her purse and a basket with record-keeping supplies, then ran back to discover the loading door closed. Slipping between incoming customers, she hurried to the main door. At that entrance, she wound her way through a crowd at the food carts and dashed past fifty-some vendors to her booth. Her booth was in the middle of the market hall. She guessed another fifty occupied booths in the rest of the building.

  She arrived out of breath and arranged the last items.

  Ruth nodded from where she reclined in a cushioned rocker, feet propped on a tufted footrest.

  At least Esme didn’t look completely unprepared as she perched onto her wooden stool that she’d found with the rest of Grammy’s basic market set-up.

  Directly in front of her booth, Thayne leaned casually against a support post and lifted a pop in his hand. “I got you one, there by your receipt book.”

  She reached for it and took a sip. “Thanks. Can I interest you in a healing product in return?” The more people she talked into sampling, the more likely she was to make future sales. Thayne looked like he could easily afford to buy plenty. He wore neatly pleated pinstripe trousers and shiny black wing tips. A color-blocked tan and black crewneck sweater stretched across his toned pecs. His black hair hung in loose waves to his shoulders without the customary fedora other coven men wore. Against his chest hung a silver handcrafted medallion wrought with an arrow passing in front of an eye set with garnets. Two garnet rings, of the same design, adorned his fingers. Ruth may have had a rocker and footstool, but Esme had a handsome man buying her pop. A much better deal. She smiled at him, and he flashed a grin of dazzling white teeth that lifted the corners of his black goatee into tempting dimples.

  Thayne strolled around her three-tabled display, perusing the items, while other customers wandered in.

  Two women picked up the open tester jars and sniffed. A brunette inspected the candles and said to her friends, “Smells like it’ll do some good.”

  “Seems like a safe way to try out her wares. Lotions might give a rash,” one of the others added. The woman’s reasoning was what Esme expected after her failures the day before, and it was why she’d taken time to make candles.

  She set the pop down and hung at the table edge.

  “We’ll take four of these jar candles, two of each remedy,” the brunette said with a grin.

  “Great.” Esme completed the transaction and included a goose grease sample and several business cards in the bag.

  Encouraged, she welcomed newcomers into her booth with more assertive marketing statements: “Renew your vitality before the hectic Yule.” “Make an appointment for me to cleanse unwanted energies from you or your home.” “I can help bring you luck to earn more money in time for Yule gifts.” “Book an appointment with me to protect your home and family from evil.”

  Her slogans brought in a crowd inspecting her goods with positive comments about her testers. Many bought single items to try at home.

  A bulky man with a tow-headed crew cut and a wad of tobacco in his cheek stood outside the booth and stared at Esme, then entered.

  He emitted the sour body odor of a rabble-rouser, and she tensed.

  Thayne looked at the man and leaned against the post.

  Tow-head scrutinized her tables and read her signs. He took a couple steps back and spoke in a loud voice over the heads of those gathered. “Missy, you have tables full of lotions and candles, but I can’t smell no moon-rise or witch-fire in a one, other than those with labels in Grammy Flora’s own hand. How can you call yourself a root doctor when you ain’t got no witch-knowing? I hear tell you’ve got a fancy degree about plants, but from what I see, there ain’t enough witch-fire here to do better than what I could buy at the Bentbone drugstore.”

  The man caught her off guard. Her stomach churned. “Sir, if you’d like to try some samples, I’m sure you’ll be pleased.” She knew she had witch-blood, and it needed to be awakened for her to advance as a root worker. The products she’d made were based on Grammy’s receipts and should work. She hadn’t had time to appear at the mystic altar, the doorway to the otherworlds. Or was she actually avoiding opening herself to the mysticism of a wildwood healer? Her mother’s unsaid reasons for moving them from the coven cast a shadow of fear. As did her father’s disappearance and label as a wayward. She couldn’t counter the man’s claims and avoided his gaze to tend to a woman wanting to purchase a candle.

  Tow-head smirked and walked away.

  Many potential customers exited after him. A few remained to purchase candles and accept free samples.

  When they left, Esme slumped onto the stool and hung her head. Should she ask Kandice about the tow-headed man? Was he a known trouble-maker? But all he’d said was true, things she didn’t want Kandice to know.

  Thayne approached her in the empty booth. “I’d like to make a purchase.”

  Esme dragged to the table where he stood, her thoughts knotted with the expository accusations.

  “I’ll take one of everything. And I’ve been admiring your pendant. Lovely stone and rare. I’d like to buy that from you.”

  The skin on Esme’s neck prickled. She bagged up the items and bit her lip to keep her mouth shut before she made the sale. “The total for this is one hundred twenty dollars and fifty cents. My pendant isn’t for sale.” She kept her eyes down, not wanting to see his handsome face and let the attraction she felt for him soften her resolve to secure the deal. Had she been right about him from the beginning? He sure seemed like her ex, wanting something in exchange for favors. She refused to be treated that way again … it hurt too much.

  He laid five hundred dollars on the table. “Will this change your mind?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She needed the money. If Raclaw only wanted the black amber, then the evil faery would attack Thayne and not
her. He’d only been kind to her to get the talisman. He deserved the problems that went with it. But what if Raclaw intended to kill her and get autumn back? He could go ahead and kill her easily if she sold the crystal to Thayne. She clasped the stone in her sweaty palm. It was part of her, something she created for her own protection. She’d vowed to not give herself away to her ex’s lust in exchange for his trifling gifts. This was the same. Her protection wasn’t for sale. And neither was her body.

  She took only enough bills to cover the cost of her goods. “My pendant’s not for sale.” She turned to make change. She stood erect, head held high, while inside her heart sank at the thought of him having an ulterior motive. When she moved back, he’d vanished with his purchase sacks and the remaining bills.

  Chapter Nine: Mama’s Pizzeria

  Thayne forced himself to exit the market hall at a slow, human walking pace. Slipping out at fae speed, he wouldn’t be seen by mortals, but those well-skilled in witchcraft might notice. As it was, probing eyes of many witches scratched over him.

  Although the building was open to the public, coven members, dressed in Thirties-style clothing, monitored outsiders. The witches granted respectful space to the droves of bag-laden tourists, visiting the picturesque wooded hills and shopping in artist galleries of Bentbone.

  Christmas shopping for enchanted wares meant money in the witches’ pockets. Thayne displayed his bags from Esmeralda’s shop as camouflage, though not to good effect. Her refusal to sell what he’d come for burned through him. By the way the witches stared, he imagined his face bore a mark of her denial like a beacon glowing on his forehead. Regardless of what they saw, he held tighter to his glamour.

  Down the long main corridor, he stayed close to the cover of vendors’ carts, then fell in behind a trio of hippie artisan types who no one seemed to notice. Many rented booths in the artist section of the market, a recent addition made by High Priest Logan Dennehy and publicized widely in effort to bring in more revenue. Thayne now wished he’d chosen to dress in tattered jeans and layers of beads.