She sped out of the driveway and down the street, heading towards home. A horn blared and there was a screech of brakes. Bron looked in her rear-vision mirror and realised she’d just pulled out into the main stream of traffic without checking properly. She waved apologetically at the poor driver, but didn’t slow down. She had to get home. The closer she got, the more she knew what she was doing was right. There was an answer in the grimoires. She’d been foolish not to see it before.
She remembered Adeline saying to her when she first showed her the grimoires, ‘The Goddess speaks to us through the words held in these old pages. They hold all the answers to your problems, mo daor, if only you know how to look.’
She pulled to a halt in front of the garage and leapt out of the car, vaguely aware of Gareth coming to a stop in the driveway, panting. He had wrapped his aural cloak around him to hide from anyone who wasn’t Were or didn’t have magic, so she knew she was the only one who could see him. She waved, gesturing to him so he knew he didn’t have to follow her inside, then ran up to the front door.
Her hand trembled as she pushed the key in the lock and it took her a moment, but finally she was through. She dumped her keys and bag on the hall stand, the door slamming behind her as she ran down the hall to her bedroom.
Her grandma’s old chest stood in the far corner of the room, the dark wood gleaming in the light coming from the window in such a way it looked like it was lit from within. An omen from the Goddess she was on the right path? She hoped so.
She unhooked the lock and flipped open the lid. It crashed against the wall. Uncaring of the dent in the plaster, she ran her hands over the tomes within while whispering under her breath, ‘Goddess, please. I need some help figuring all this out. Please, speak to me. Let me know what to do.’
She didn’t feel anything from the first layer of books, so she removed them and tried the next, and the next. She was onto the fourth layer when there was a buzzing in her hands as she passed them over one of the grimoires. She passed them over again. The grimoire shifted, the front cover lifting, the pages inside sifting and rustling. With a cry, Bron grabbed it up. ‘Blessings be, Goddess. Thank you.’ She placed the grimoire on the carpet before her and held her hands over it like she’d seen her grandma do. The grimoire trembled then fell still and silent.
‘Come on.’ Bron clapped her hands with a loud slap and then rubbed them together to awaken the energies. ‘You can do this.’ She focused her thoughts on her needs, the questions she needed answering, and held her hands out again. The grimoire flipped right up this time almost immediately. The cover smacked into the carpet and the pages fluttered, falling open on an entry three-quarters of the way through.
Bron picked it up and began to read. It was the story of the Healer and the Moon. Adeline had loved to tell her that story. She said it had helped her find herself when her husband had left. Bron hadn’t understood back then, but now she did. The healer in the story had used the power of the moon at Yule, a moon of rebirth and redemption—a true Healer Moon—to find her essence in her darkest time and save her people. She’d used a new version of an old kind of magic to infuse into her spell and that was what had helped her win the day. But she had only known to do it because of the information given to her in a vision quest.
Her grandma had told her that a version of the story was written in every grimoire, but each version held the same spell. Adeline had told her the story so often, she knew the spell by heart.
A sleep spell for dream questing. She chewed on her lip. She wasn’t certain how that would help her with her problems, but if that was what the grimoire said she had to do, then she had to trust it. Vision or dream quests were by no means a straightforward means to an answer, but Adeline had always said that the answers you really needed were there. Bron had to trust that was true.
The spell had to be performed at dusk—so she still had time to gather the ingredients in her garden and settle herself with some meditation. Getting up, she placed the grimoire reverently on her dressing table and then went out into the garden with a basket and shears.
The garden had been designed with a healer’s needs in mind. She found everything she needed as she walked around; lemongrass for its uplifting properties, not to mention its great claritive scent; lavender to calm, and to enhance the lemongrass; rosemary with its dark green spiky leaves and spicy smell was one of those super herbs that was good for so many things, including its memory-enhancing properties. It was also great for de-stressing and to help cure headaches, one of which had been crawling in her head ever since she’d woken that morning.
She put the rosemary in the basket and continued picking the herbs and flowers she needed for the spell. She stayed focused on the task until she walked past the quaint log seat River had placed in the garden. The faint scent of chilli and chocolate tantalised her. She stopped to look down at the fragile, fading blooms. They should have died by now, but River had been keeping them alive. Why would he bother when the only person who would truly appreciate that scent here was her? It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t seem to stand being around her for long, despite the fact that he wanted to fuck her and make her come. But there were the blooms, kept alive, for nobody to enjoy but her.
As she breathed in the delicious aroma, thoughts spilled through her mind that just couldn’t be true. She shook her head. He didn’t like her. And she couldn’t stand here wishing that he did. She had things to do. Problems to solve. Answers to find. Her true identity to uncover. Any other issues would have to wait until after she figured out who she was and what she was supposed to do.
Walking back into the house, she closed the door on the garden, but the scent of chilli and chocolate lingered, haunting her, teasing her, reminding her of something she could never have. She tried to ignore it as she fetched the grimoire and went about the preparations, telling herself just because she wanted something didn’t mean she could or should have it.
Finally, she slapped her hands on the bench top in the kitchen and said, ‘Enough!’ Closing her eyes, she concentrated hard.
Every wick in every candle in the kitchen and lounge room was suddenly alight, and moments later, a multitude of scents filled the air, drowning out the exotic, erotic scent of chilli and chocolate that would always remind her of River. She took in a deep breath, taking the other scents inside her body and waited for the relief to take over and the tension to slide away.
It didn’t.
Cursing, she turned back to her mortar and pestle and added the sprig of rosemary for memory, grinding it down to release the oils before sprinkling in the chopped lemongrass, lavender and chamomile.
As she worked, she began to hum under her breath, an old Muse song that always made her smile.
This time, she couldn’t find her smile. Instead, the tension carved a groove between her brows.
‘Bronwyn, grief is not forever. Stop acting like it is the only thing that matters.’
Her mother’s words echoed in her head—words said after Adeline Kincaid’s funeral all those years ago. Words that Bron had thought horribly cruel and heartless then. But now, she wondered if maybe her mother had a point. She wasn’t the centre of anyone’s universe—she wasn’t even the centre of her own right now. That’s what she needed to work on. Find herself. Be true to who she was. A healer who would find a way to help the man she loved.
Yes. She loved him. She had to admit that to herself now. She was seeking truths and to do that, she had to be truthful to herself. It hurt, knowing he would never return her love. But that wouldn’t stop her from helping him. Nothing could do that.
‘Do the spell, Bron,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Just do the spell.’
Chapter 17
Hours later, Bron lay down on her bed. The jasmine she’d picked was in a bowl next to her bed. The fresh oils she’d decanted were mixed and had been dabbed on her pulse points and at the point of her third eye. She’d lit candles in her room, and they flickered softly, a golden glow in th
e otherwise dark room. Clouds obscured the three-quarter moon, so even though her curtains were open, she couldn’t see the garden outside. She wished she could open her windows so she could at least smell those wonderful scents that lingered out there, blown on the still warm night air, but knew if she smelled the chilli and chocolate bloom again, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on what mattered as she put herself into the dream state.
She needed the only scents in the room to be those used for the spell, so the windows remained closed.
Canting the spell three times in her head, three times in a whisper and three times out loud, she closed her eyes and began the meditation cantrip her grandma had taught her years ago when she couldn’t quiet her mind. She breathed in deeply of the chamomile, lavender, rosemary and lemongrass from the burner near her bed, the faint sweetness of jasmine lingering on the edges of the key notes. The combination smelled like her grandma.
She smiled. Her body became heavy and her hands fell to her sides. The flicker of the candlelight shone through her eyelids, a golden glow that grew and filled the blackness in her mind.
Grandma. Everything always went back to her grandma. Adeline had been so wise. She’d understood Bron before she’d understood herself. She’d introduced her to her heritage, opened up a world of possibilities for her, been there when Bron’s parents had been too wrapped up in themselves and their work to care for their sensitive, magical daughter. She’d even helped Bron understand about the man who kept coming to her in dreams, laying claim to her in a way that was completely incomprehensible and not a little frightening to a young girl.
She’d always wanted to be like her grandma. To follow in her footsteps. To be loved and adored by her coven, by her customers, by her friends. When she’d watched her grandma work, she’d thought this is the life I want, if only she could stand up to her mother and father and tell them, ‘I want to follow in Grandma’s footsteps, not yours.’ She’d thought she’d done Adeline proud—but now she wasn’t so certain.
‘You are not your grandma, daughter. You never were.’
The beautiful, lyrical voice wove around her, the words stabbing at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath rasped in her throat as she grasped at the courage to speak. ‘You mean … I’m not good enough to be her.’
‘That is not what I said, Bronwyn Kincaid. You must make your own footsteps now, my moon daughter.’
‘But I don’t have my own footsteps. There are only my grandma’s.’
‘You are not your grandma,’ the voice repeated.
Tears burned in her eyes as she stared into the oppressive dark that surrounded her, pressing in on her, making her shiver. ‘Please … what do you mean? Am I not meant to be a healer? Are you saying I’m not good enough?’
Silence greeted her.
Moonlight suddenly pierced the dark, and she realised she was outside in a strange wood. Clouds skittered overhead in the dark sky, the two-thirds moon bright and clear behind them. It sent silver shadows that glinted strangely on the twisted old trees that surrounded her. The wind that made the leaves rustle above her head wasn’t a friendly, whispering wind. It whistled, taunting her, as the words in her mind echoed back to her.
‘You are not your grandma.’
Anger started to build inside her as those words wound around her again. What right did some voiceless presence have to make her feel less than she was? ‘You are wrong,’ she shouted into the night. ‘I am a Wiccan Healer, like my grandma was before me as Fate intended. I followed the path, the message left for me after she died.’
‘That wasn’t your path. You didn’t listen to the whole message.’
The roar of her anger stuttered inside her, allowing doubt to shove its way back in. ‘But, she left me everything—her shop, her house, the grimoires. I didn’t mistake that message. I know I didn’t. I picked up the thread Fate handed me and followed it. You can’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to do that?’
The odd, whistling wind rustled louder through the silvered leaves overhead. ‘You didn’t pick up the whole thread. Just as you are not picking up the whole thread now.’
She jumped as the voice sounded around her, no longer just in her head. ‘What thread?’ she managed to ask, her voice a dry husk. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You are not only a Wiccan Healer. Nor are you only a witch.’
‘Then what am I?’ she asked the wind.
‘The answer is in your heart.’
Anger rose again past the doubt; anger that had risen the day she realised she was tired of being told by her parents who she was meant to be, what she was supposed to do. The anger bubbled in her chest, making her breath come in short, sharp gasps as she spun in a circle and shouted to the sky. ‘Who are you to tell me that? I’m leading a perfectly happy life—so what’s wrong with that? Who are you to question that?’
‘I am your Goddess. And you are not perfectly happy, Bronwyn daor. And you won’t be. Not until you have accepted who it is you are meant to be. The strength inside you must become the strength without. When you have embraced your true Fate, listened to the truth in your heart, then you will be perfectly happy. Then and only then will the man you dreamed of step out of the shadows and join you, hand in hand, to forever be a reflection of your strength at your side.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Yes you do. You saw it in a dream when you were a child, but with only the half thread of Fate in your hand, you forgot the important parts. Follow the thread. Pick it up from where it broke in two. Be who you are meant to be and trust in yourself. Listen to your heart, it will help you find your soul. Because when you do that, you will truly be whole and happiness will glow from within, not just be a face you put on to please others.’
‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘I am happy. I want to be who I am.’
The voice didn’t answer. There was only the echoing of the whistling wind saying over and over, ‘Find your soul. Your happiness is there.’
The wind disappeared and in its place a fog began to creep through the trees surrounding her, its fingers crawling along the ground, reaching towards her with a cold, grey, wet grip. Ice skated along her skin, fear tightened in her chest as the fog began to swirl around her feet, pulling at her, grabbing at her clothes, soaking through the material until they were a heavy weight on her skin. She tried to brush off the fingers of fog, but it just swirled around her, a silver grey that held its own eerie light.
The world swam around her. She knew she was hyperventilating. Her heartbeat was a drum in her chest, its painful beat throbbing in her head. She lifted her hands towards the sky as the fog crawled up her body, pulling, pulling. ‘Wake up. I want to wake up now.’ She clicked her heels together three times, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, using her ‘safe word’ that was supposed to pull her out of the dream casting if it got too nasty for her to withstand.
Nothing happened.
‘I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home,’ she cried, her voice a piercing wail in the fog as her heels clicked together over and over. The fog sparked and swirled around her, pulling her further into the land of dreams. She struggled and fought it until the breath squeezed her lungs and her cries died on her lips, her heart a thunder in her chest.
‘You cannot go home yet. There are still secrets to be found in the past. Things you must know if you are to conquer what must be conquered.’
A wolf’s howl sounded out of the darkness.
‘Go. Go see what the past has to tell you. You have ignored it for too long.’
Bron tumbled out of the whirling dark fog and landed in a crinkle of dried leaves, the scent of moss and damp earth filling her nose as she took in a sobbing breath. A wolf’s howl sounded again—an aching, lonely heart. Pulled towards that sound, Bron stumbled to her feet, dead leaves clinging to her bare knees and hands. Not stopping to brush them off, she ran through the trees towards the sound tearing at her heart, squeezing at her chest. The wol
f. It sounded so sad. So sorry. So full of grief and pain. She had to do something to stop the pain. To help.
The dark woods opened up onto a clearing. A witch stood in the middle of the clearing, sky clad, her deep red hair a lick of blood on the pale skin shining silver in the glow of the three-quarter moon above her. An ancient stone dance, crumbled into disarray, stood sorry sentinel around her. In the shadows of those stones, shapes crept towards her. At first, the way they moved made Bron think they were animals, but then she realised they were people; men and women, clothed in animal skins sewn together with rags. They were thin and dirty, yet despite their unkempt state and the hesitant way they moved through the shadows, there was a certain fluid beauty in their forms.
One turned to look behind, his eyes glowing eerily blue in the dark. Another looked back, and another—amber and silver orbs glowing in the night, seeing beyond the light and into the dark places where only shadows hid.
Were.
One of the Were lifted his head to the sky and howled. The woman to his left picked up his howl. Shivers skated over Bron’s skin as she saw more and more men and women—and children—slip from the shadows of the trees, walking towards the dance and the witch standing naked at its centre. The witch, seemingly oblivious to her audience, raised her arms to the moon, and in a voice as clear and enthralling as a nightingale’s song, called out, ‘Moondust, come to me.’
Shivers traced fingers of excitement across Bron’s skin and up and down her spine as moondust fell from the sky at the witch’s command, covering her in sparkling glitter that swirled and reshaped itself as she moved her hands in the moonlight.
The Were stopped as one, their bodies vibrating as if they were fighting to move; a rising sea held at bay by some mysterious, unseen, yet turbulent force. Then as one they howled, the sound piercing the night with their fear-tinged, grief-stricken song.
The witch’s lips moved, her voice a mere whisper among the howls, but a whisper full of magic that meant it could be heard. ‘Have faith, my friends.’
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