by Pat Spence
‘Blue Moon’
(The Blue Crystal Trilogy)
Book One
By
Pat Spence
Pat Spence is a freelance writer and previously a magazine editor. She has also worked as a copywriter in advertising agencies, a freelance trainer in personal development and jobsearch skills, and a massage therapist/aromatherapist. She is married with one child, has a degree in English Literature, reads Tarot and is learning banjo.
Follow The Blue Crystal Trilogy at https://www.facebook.com/bluecrystaltrilogy and see the Blue Moon trailer at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFvsXlPem4Q
Other titles by Pat Spence:
The Blue Crystal Trilogy:
True Blue (Book Two)
Into The Blue (Book 3) coming soon
Abigail’s Affair
Copyright 2014 Pat Spence
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For Steve and Amelia.
‘All other things, to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay…’
The Anniversarie. John Donne.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.
The Sunne Rising. John Donne.
Table of Contents
THE BEGINNING
PART ONE: ATTRACTION
1. The Viewing
2. Meeting Theo
3. Out Damned Spot
4. Missing Theo
5. Mist Shroud
6. Age Destroys Her
7. Family Conference
PART TWO: DESIRE
8. A Change of Heart
9. Surveillance I
10. Getting Close
11. The Hall Reborn
12. Danger in the Gardens
13. Face on a Necklace I
14. Face on a Necklace II
15. Unusual Powers
16. Surveillance II
17. A Beast in the Fields
18. Party Preparation
19. Family Pow-wow
20. Arrivals
21. The Blue Moon Ball
PART THREE: KNOWLEDGE
22. Kimberley Chartreuse
23. Truth
24. Under Threat
25. Granddad
26. Reconciliation
27. Attack I
28. Martha
29. Viyesha
30. The Blue Crystal
31. Attack II
32. The Lunari
33. Family
THE BEGINNING
Monday 25th March was an ordinary day, no different to any other. But when I look back, I see now that this was the day things began to change.
I can also see that I couldn’t and wouldn’t have changed a thing. It was as if everything that happened was somehow pre-ordained, and I was simply playing my part in a story that was meant to be, that had started many thousands of years ago….
PART ONE: ATTRACTION
1. The Viewing
The estate agent glanced impatiently at her watch, and looked out of the window for the fifth time that minute. ‘Time-wasters,’ she muttered to herself pursing her lips with irritation, ‘they probably won’t show. Just like that lot the day before. And if they do, there’s no way they’ll want to buy this old heap’. A look of distaste passed across her carefully made-up face as she glanced around the room. The once ornate fireplace had long since lost its earlier splendour and was now dimpled and chipped. A large chandelier hung from the central ceiling rose, cracked and mottled, and pieces of the delicately decorated ceiling scattered the floor like old confetti, yellowed with age. Everywhere, the stench of damp and decay hung heavy, the windows too rotten to open and let in fresh air.
Outside, the grounds fell away into the distance, a mass of tangled vegetation and thick undergrowth. The once formal gardens were now desolate and unkempt, the flowerbeds ravaged by age and neglect, and the pathways choked by an advancing army of weeds and lichen. Above it all the Cedars of Lebanon towered, majestic and tall, looking sadly over the mayhem below.
The estate agent moved her manicured forefinger down the filthy glass, trying to see out a little better and get a glimpse of her missing clients.
Without warning, a loud bell sounded in the hallway, making her jump.
“What the…?” she muttered. “How did they get to the front door? I never saw them coming.”
Baffled, she rushed out of the ballroom and into the vast hall. The huge brass bell echoed again in the cavernous walls.
“Alright, alright,” she called, hurrying to open the huge, metal studded oak door, stiff with disuse. The door creaked open, its hinges rusty and unyielding, and the estate agent peered out, her eyes struggling to take in the brightness of the sunshine after the gloominess within. A man and a woman stood on the doorstep.
“Mr and Mrs de Lucis?” she asked falteringly.
“That’s us. So sorry we’re late,” said the blond woman before her, with a voice as soft as butter candy. “I hope we haven’t kept you.”
“No, not at all,” said the estate agent, her eyes wide open in disbelief, taking in the sleek black car that stood outside and the swarthy chauffeur who lounged nonchalantly against the passenger door. “I didn’t see you arrive, that’s all.”
“Can we come in?” said Mr de Lucis, with a smile, revealing perfect white teeth.
“O… of course,” said the estate agent, stepping back, and allowing the couple to enter. She swung the heavy oak door back into place, feeling so unsettled she quite failed to register that it swung easily and noiselessly back into place, without a hint of rust or creakiness.
She turned to look at the couple, noticing how they seemed to light up the dark entrance hall. Tall, elegant and well dressed, each wore a pair of large sunglasses, giving them an air of mystery and more than a touch of Hollywood glamour. Mrs de Lucis wore a pale pink pencil skirt with matching jacket, showing off her slender figure to perfection. A string of pearls nestled at her neckline, and her blond hair was pinned back in a chignon, giving emphasis to her high cheekbones, small straight nose and pale pink lips. To say she was beautiful was plainly an understatement.
Like his wife, Mr de Lucis was impossibly good looking. His face was strong and chiselled, framed by tousled, blond hair, and there was no denying the athletic build beneath his expensive pale blue suit. To the estate agent, he was the closest thing to a Greek god she had ever encountered. They were probably in their early thirties, she guessed, staring enviously at their flawless pale skin. It was as smooth and white as alabaster. Simultaneously, they removed their sunglasses, revealing the most electric blue eyes she had ever seen.
She stared, fascinated, and for a moment struggled to find a word to describe them. Striking? That didn’t do them justice. Stylish? They were more than that. Then she had it. Radiant! That was it. They were like two exquisite jewels, shining brightly.
“Are you al
right?” enquired Mr de Lucis, in a caramel smooth voice that took her breath away.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, gazing into his deep blue eyes and feeling a strange fluttering in her stomach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your car. I was a little surprised to see you, that’s all.”
“It has a very quiet engine,” said Mrs de Lucis, in her smooth, silky voice. “One doesn’t always hear it. Now, perhaps you could tell us about the house.”
The estate agent snapped into professional mode.
“Yes, of course. Please, follow me.”
She led the way into the ballroom, talking animatedly. “Hartswell Hall is a wonderful example of Victorian architecture. It was built by a wealthy merchant in 1851 for his wife, who sadly died before she could move in. It had many uses over the years, but was most recently owned by a recluse, who shut himself away from the world. It went on the market nearly two years ago, when he died. As you can see, it is in need of a little re-decoration.” She laughed affectedly.
“More than a little,” said Mr de Lucis, prodding one of the rotting window frames and revealing the black decay beneath.
“But nothing we can’t handle,” said his wife, running her fingers down the chipped stone fireplace, then removing a cobweb that hung from the chandelier, “Have you had many viewings?”
The estate agent stared. Was it her imagination, or did the chandelier suddenly look brighter, as if life had suddenly been breathed back into it? And didn’t the carvings on the fireplace look somehow a little more defined? She shook her head and focused on the question.
“Viewings? Oh, yes,” she said, seizing the opportunity. “There are plenty of people interested in this property. I wouldn’t be surprised if it went to sealed bids. It has great potential.”
“It certainly does,” said Mrs de Lucis, her voice barely discernible. “I think it will suit our purposes admirably.” She glanced at her husband. “We’d like to make an offer.”
“You would?” asked the estate agent, in surprise. “Don’t you want to look around?”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied Mr de Lucis. “We’ve seen enough.”
It was enough for the estate agent. Scenting a deal in the making, she drew out a clipboard from her large shiny handbag and snapped into pecuniary mode.
Right,” she said, “as you know, it’s on the market for £1.5 million, but we do have other interested parties.”
“£2 million,” purred Mrs de Lucis. “That’s what we’re prepared to pay.”
“For total exclusivity,” added her husband. “No other viewings, no other offers considered. Do we have a deal?”
The estate agent could hardly believe her luck.
“£2 million? We most certainly do. I’ll need to run it by the Executors, of course, but I don’t anticipate a problem. Consider Hartswell Hall yours. Congratulations!”
She went to shake Mr de Lucis’s smooth white hand, starting slightly as an electrical charge seemed to pass from his hand to hers. As she looked into his eyes, she noticed small flecks of grey that glinted like granite amidst the electric blue.
Behind her, Mrs de Lucis smiled agreeably.
Outside, the rust-bound hands of the three golden clocks that adorned the old Clock Tower began to move slowly and inexorably around their tarnished faces.
2. Meeting Theo
I wiggled my toes to the bottom of the bed, feeling cosy and warm. I tried to open my eyes, but the effort was just too much and I lay back on the pillow, luxuriating in its downy softness and trying desperately to get back into my dream. Somewhere in the distance I could hear my name being called, but the pull of sleep was just too great. I couldn’t respond.
“Emily,” the voice sounded, getting louder. “Wake up.”
I felt someone shake my shoulders gently.
“What time is it?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to see the red digital figures on the alarm clock.
“Time for you to get up if you don’t want to miss the bus,” came my mother’s voice.
There was an edge to her voice that said, ‘If you don’t respond now, I will get very annoyed,’ and I sat upright, noticing with horror that it was already 7.30am.
“Mum, have you seen the time?” I shouted. “I’ve only got half an hour before the bus goes. Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”
‘Better get a move on, then, hadn’t you?” she retorted. “Your breakfast is ready, all you have to do is eat it and put some clothes on.”
I quickly pulled on a pair of old grey jeans, ripped at the knee, a black T-shirt and my new grey SuperDry jacket, a recent purchase on eBay. Converse trainers and a black leather rucksack completed the look. Yes, that worked. I might be late, but I still had an image to keep up.
Running into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and took a good look in the mirror. Yuk. Dark circles under my eyes made me look ancient. I searched through the various pots and potions on the shelf until I found my mother’s Instant-Action Anti-Fatigue Eye Gel.
‘Refreshes skin, reduces puffiness, regenerates appearance. Proven formula. Instant results….’
Great, just what I needed. My mother swore by this. I applied it liberally and was instantly disappointed. If anything, it accentuated the dark circles, which now glistened brightly. Sighing impatiently, I attempted to wipe it off and applied eyeliner to my now greasy eyes, usually my best feature. Why did these disasters always occur when you were late? I quickly dragged a brush through my tangled blond hair and tied it up in a high ponytail. That would have to do. One day I would find the time to have a proper beauty routine. Grabbing my rucksack, I ran to the top of the stairs, and letting my hand slide down the stair rail, took the steps two at a time, rushing into the breakfast room, breathless and flushed.
Granddad was already there, wearing his brown cardigan and eating his usual boiled egg and toast. Mum was in the kitchen, stacking up the dishwasher.
This was my family: Mum, blond, pretty, a young-looking forty year old, who worked as a wages clerk for a local timber company, and Granddad, aged somewhere in his 70’s. Mum had divorced my dad when I was just two and had never remarried despite various offers. He lived in America and worked in sound production, but I didn’t have much to do with him. There’d been sporadic contact over the years, when he’d visited the UK on business, but when I was ten, he’d remarried and started a new family.
After that, there’d never been room in his new life for me and, to be honest, it didn’t much bother me. I’d been too young when he left to have established a relationship with him, and on the few occasions I had seen him there’d been such a distance and awkwardness between us I was always glad when the visit came to an end. Enforced trips to McDonalds and the cinema were hardly my idea of a laugh, and I dreaded the obligatory questions about school and family. Over the years, he’d sent me a few photos of my new half-siblings, twin girls and a boy, but they looked nothing like me. They were thickset and dark, and I could never relate to them as family. It would be quite interesting to meet them, I suppose, but there again, you don’t miss what you’ve never had. So I didn’t give them much thought and was actually quite relieved when dad stopped visiting. And, of course, we had Granddad.
We’d lived with Granddad for fourteen years now, ever since my gran had died and the house had got too big for him. It was an arrangement that suited us all. Mum and I had exchanged our small, rented flat in the city for a nice house in a village, in the right catchment area for the best local schools. Granddad had company and we had security. Mum had a permanent baby-sitter and I had a surrogate father figure, albeit a granddad. Although, mum did get a bit miffed when people occasionally mistook him for her elderly husband, which was always a source of amusement for me. I mean, who in their right mind could think my mum and granddad were an item? He looked just like a granddad: snowy white hair, twinkly bright eyes and a kind, friendly face that was always smiling. There again, by implication those same people must have thought he was my dad, which is a bi
t embarrassing now I think about it, although it’s hardly something I’d lose any sleep over. He was just my Granddad and he was there when I needed him. I didn’t think much beyond that. His nose was permanently in a book, and when not reading, he’d be listening to jazz records - most of my formative years had been spent listening to Acker Bilk, Kenny Ball and his Jazz Men, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie and other notable greats. He also had a predilection for wearing carpet slippers and brown cardigans, despite mum’s best efforts to smarten him up. As you can see, not exactly the kind of husband you’d automatically place with a well-presented, fit-looking, forty year old woman.
“Morning Gramps,” I shouted at him, making him jump, then grinning widely at him.
“Morning, Emily,” he said, neatly cracking open his egg. “Ooh, good, a nice dippy yolk. Yours’ll be hard. It’s been standing there for ten minutes.” He looked up. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Nothing. I shouldn’t have watched the late film, that’s all. It didn’t finish till 1.30 this morning. Don’t tell mum,” I added quickly.
“Don’t tell me what?” asked my mother, coming out of the breakfast room.
“That your Instant Action Anti-Fatigue Eye Gel is complete rubbish,” I said. “I’ve just tried it. Doesn’t work.”
“You have to give it time. You know, that thing you don’t have much of…” she answered.
“Then why is it called ‘Instant-Action’?” I pointed out, “Honestly, I think most of these potions are a complete waste of time. And I bet it wasn’t cheap.”