Wolf Moon Rising

by Delilah Devlin

  Chapter Five

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  Much later that morning, Aoife cut flowers to make an arrangement for Father Guidry’s altar. Pink roses for gratitude for being a caring father to the community, red asters for his patience with their differences, orange petunias to provide him calm, and green chrysanthemums to celebrate their friendship.

  In their five years living in Bonne Nuit, Father Guidry had never passed judgment on the sisters, and he’d helped them assimilate into the fabric of the town. His example of acceptance, despite the way they looked and dressed, and the fact they kept mostly to themselves, never once attending his mass, had gone a long way toward helping the town’s folk accept them.

  In return, the witches did what they could to help him.

  Bryn gave him advice and plantings for his garden. Miren brought him shrimp from her boats. Radha created a lovely length of fabric for his altar. Darcy made him coffee mugs. Aoife’s gifts were always flowers.

  All the witches wove spells into their gifts to help him stay healthy and happy.

  Working at a long table inside the green house, she wrapped the flower stems with green florist’s tape and hid spindly witch hazel flowers beneath the wrapping—just to make her smile, because she’d be the only one to know they were there. Lastly, she cut a couple of marigold blooms and put them in the pocket of her long, lavender-colored skirt.

  When she stepped out of the green house, she waved at the laborers who were busy clearing out the last of the dead or dying vegetation from the flower beds outside. She continued on her way, smiling when she heard footsteps fall in behind her.

  “Going to see the good father?” Logan asked, moving up beside her.

  Logan was the third man assigned to guard her. With Hamdir away and Sigurd doing whatever had pulled him from her bed that morning, she felt a little lighter today with only a hawk to watch over her. She held up the flowers. “What gave me away?”

  Everyone knew Fridays were her delivery day to the church.

  Logan kept silent as they followed the paved road leading toward town. The walk was only a quarter of a mile and unless the weather was brutal, she preferred walking to driving, with her feet touching the earth. She preferred bare feet, but the weather was cooling.

  She was glad of her companion’s silence as they walked. She thought about that morning, waking inside Sigurd’s embrace. Not since she was a child when she would crawl into her mother’s bed had she slept with another person. At first, she’d been startled to realize she wasn’t alone, and then she’d been thrilled.

  Sigurd had yawned behind her, kissed her cheek, then left the bed. He’d dressed, then sat on the side of the bed to tell her he had an errand to run that day, and that he wouldn’t see her until later in the evening.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked.

  He caressed her cheek. “Are you disappointed I didn’t?” His dark eyebrow rose.

  She blushed. “Not…exactly. I’m just surprised.”

  “I wanted you rested. And…recovered.”

  “Oh,” she said in a tiny voice, knowing that her cheeks were now glowing.

  “Are you happy, little fairy?”

  “I’m all witch,” she’d said, wrinkling her nose.

  He touched her ear. “Except for these…”

  “I’m very happy, Sigurd.” She’d stretched and let the sheet fall away to tease him with a glimpse of her breasts.

  His low growl had been very gratifying.

  She and Logan passed the first small, whiteboard houses as they entered town.

  Logan cleared his throat. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m happy for you and Sigurd.”

  Warmth spread across her cheeks, and she gave him a smile. “Thank you. Nothing’s settled…” Sigurd hadn’t mentioned marriage, but she assumed they were at least exclusive.

  “Sigurd informed the demons. Said you were as good as claimed and that there would be no room in your relationship for more partners.”

  Her blush deepened. “Well…he was certainly thorough.”

  Logan chuckled. “He didn’t have to tell us anything. We’ve known for months.”

  “Well, thank you for letting me know.” She gave him a mock frown. “Sigurd wouldn’t have mentioned a word to me.”

  Thankfully, they arrived at the tiny church and that topic of discussion could be shelved for now.

  Logan settled on the steps to wait while she entered. Despite the small stained-glass windows near the rafters, the interior was shadowy. The priest was a frugal man and preferred to keep the lights off except on Sundays. She walked through the pews and headed straight to the altar, setting her vase in the center, and then removing the one she’d left the previous week from beneath the lectern.

  With a spring in her step, she headed toward the kitchenette in a room at the back. She busied herself heating water for tea, placed bags and the marigolds in the bottoms of the cups, and poured steaming water over them. Then she went in search of the good father.

  She found him brushing off the narrow sidewalk at the side of the church, dressed as always in his black shirt and trousers, his white collar ringing his throat. “Good afternoon, Father,” she called out.

  He glanced her way, and a smile spread across his narrow, homely face. Of Cajun descent, he skin was as swarthy as most of the town’s people.

  “I’ve made tea.”

  “I was hopin’ you’d say dat,” he said in his deeply accented voice. “I’m ready for a break, Aoife.” He led the way back inside, and they sat, as was their custom, around the folding table inside the kitchenette, sipping their tea.

  “Marigolds, hmmm?” he said, his bushy eyebrows rising.

  “They won’t poison you. And they are very pretty,” she said, widening her eyes. She found most people thought she was a little dim-witted, and she didn’t mind. Most, but not Sigurd. If she’d given him that look, he would have narrowed his eyes in warning.

  “Aren’t marigolds for grief?”

  She shook her head. “They help with certain disorders,” she said softly, glancing at his trembling hand. When used with just the right spell…

  “Well, thank you. Should I add marigolds to my garden, then?”

  “No, no. I have plenty in pots.”

  His eyebrows shot upward. “I don’t need ’em more often dan when we share tea?”

  She canted her head, ready to tease to get him off the subject of the flowers. “If you’re angling for me to come more often…”

  He laughed. “I know you’re a busy woman. I thank you for brightenin’ my Friday afternoons.”

  She smiled and nodded her head. Giving her cup a swirl, she gazed down at the yellow flower floating in the cup and wished the father continued good health.

  “Somethin’s different, cher.”

  Blinking, she raised her face.

  His dark gaze was studying her expression.

  She couldn’t help it, another blush filled her cheeks with heat.

  “Dat young man always hoverin’ ’round—he finally make his intentions known?”

  She cleared her throat. “You mean, Sigurd?” she asked, trying to don her flighty mask.

  The father arched one brow. “You know well which young man I’m talkin’ ’bout.” He sat back in his chair. “He gonna marry you?”

  Alarm rang through her. “We’ve just started…seeing one another…”

  “You been seein’ one another for months.”

  Surprised at the heat in his voice, she didn’t know how to respond. “Um, he says he loves me,” she said, her voice smaller.

  “Better put a ring on your finger—that’s all I’ll say.” He gave her sharp nod.

  Which had her nodding right along with him. “Yes. Um, maybe…” She bit her lower lip. “There’s a complication or two,” she mumbled, more to herself, but his sharpening gaze had her realizing the priest expected her to continue. “I can’t have children,” she whispered.

  “Can’t or won’t?�
��

  Which struck her as an odd question. “Both…?”

  Father Guidry sat forward in his chair and reached across to place his hand atop hers. “Your gods will plague you—as will your own conscience—if you deny your nature, Aoife. Trust in yourself. And in him.”

  Distracted by the warm hand squeezing hers, she wondered idly if she meant “him” as in Sigurd or “Him” as in the Christian god? And had he really said “your gods”? She guessed her coven hadn’t hidden their activities or inclinations as well as they’d thought. Something she’d have to mention to her sisters.

  Knowing she should remove her hand from beneath his, because it had lingered too long, she was reluctant to lose the connection. Of all the people in the town, he was her favorite. The father figure she’d always craved. “I should go,” she whispered, staring at his gnarled, spotted hand.

  “Finish your tea, cher. Don’t let those marigolds go to waste.”

  At last, he withdrew. The topic of conversation turned to Vindlér Construction and the new complex Ethan and his partners were putting up near the town. Construction crews had already broken ground, and many of the townspeople had been hired, with promises of jobs later when the complex was complete.

  Aoife couldn’t help the little smile curving her mouth. If only the father knew demons were responsible for Bonne Nuit’s new prosperity.

  Suddenly, a feeling swept over her. One she couldn’t name. But she knew she had to leave. Now. She pushed up from her chair. “I have to go.”

  The priest stood. “Thank you for the flowers, dear. And for the tea.”

  She gave him a vague smile and walked quickly from the room, through the pews, and out the door. The sight that greeted her had her frowning. Something was up. All of her sisters stood beside Logan.

  And then she sniffed. There was an acrid, smoky scent. Fire. Her gaze went to forest beyond the town. A plume of black smoke rose high into the air.

  Behind her, she heard a gasp. She turned. Father Guidry stood staring at the plume of smoke. “No, no, no…” he muttered under his breath.

  She glanced again at her sisters, whose expressions were set.

  Bryn stepped toward her. “Come with me.”

  She shook her head. “What’s going on, Bryn?”

  Her sister witch shook her head. “Nothing you need to concern yourself about.”

  And then she knew. “No!” she shouted. “The oak?”

  “Not here,” Bryn said, her tone even.

  The priest rushed past her, faster that she would have thought possible for his age, and he was heading toward the dock beside the bridge.

  She rushed down the steps then sidestepped Logan who tried to stand in her way. With a wave of her hand, she pushed him with the force of her thought, out of the way and hurried after the priest, lifting her skirt to run.

  She caught up with him just as he untied a pirogue from the dock and stepped inside. She stepped in after him and took a seat.

  His gaze met hers. His mouth tightened.

  Footsteps clomped down the dock, but she didn’t look back. “Go!”

  He started the engine, which drowned out the voices calling her name, and the boat entered the canal.

  She didn’t wonder about his concern. A fire in the forest would explain it, although not the fact he hadn’t bothered to raise an alarm before he left.

  Minutes later, he ran the boat into the bank, and they stepped out, not bothering to take the time to do more than loop the rope around a fallen log. Together they rushed into the forest.

  The closer to the ancient oak they drew, the more certain she was of what was happening—and that her sisters had known. They were burning the tree. Closing the portal. By the time she reached the clearing, she could barely breath she’d run so fast. When she broke into the sacred space, Father Guidry pulled on her arm. “It’s too late,” he said and then wrapped his arms around her middle to hold her back.

  Sigurd, Ethan, and several of the demons stood in a wide circle, watching the flames lick upward, consuming the branches of the great, old oak.

  Tears filled her eyes at the loss, not only of the only doorway she’d found, but for the spirit of the old tree.

  “It’s too late,” the priest muttered. “What have they done?”

  His words broke through her misery. Suspicion settled like a hard knot in her belly. She pushed away his arms to face him. “Why do you care about an old oak tree?”

  “Yes, Father,” Bryn said, entering the clearing. “Why do you care?”

  Her sisters surrounded them, and the demons all turned as one to watch.

  His dark eyes glittered as he held her gaze for a long moment. Then his shoulders fell, and he reached for the white collar, pulling it from his neck. The instant it left his skin, light shimmered around his frame, blurring his image. When it faded, she took a step backward. Another set of arms enfolded her. Sigurd’s, she knew. She didn’t fight his embrace as her knees wobbled.

  The creature standing in the clearing in front of her was fae. Tall, broad-shouldered, with silvery hair that fell to his shoulders—and blue-green, glittering eyes.

  Recognizing him instantly, she stiffened inside Sigurd’s arms. “Were you waiting for me to conceive to steal my child?” she asked, her voice thick with anger.

  Her father raised his hand. “Daughter, it’s not as simple as that.”

  Sigurd’s curse in her ear was bitter. His arms tightened.

  She pushed at his arms and wriggled until he let her go. Not glancing back, she stomped toward her father. “Then explain it to me. Explain how you could be here, be my friend for years, and still want to steal my child.”

  “Your child is the price of your mother’s freedom…” he said, anguish in his face.

  She felt the earth tilt beneath her feet. “My mother lives?”

  “Harnessed, inside the fairy realm.” His gaze went to the tree. “Imprisoned to ensure I’ll fulfill my task.” When he looked at her again, there were tears in his eyes. “We would never have left your baby there, but we needed it.”

  Radha stepped toward them and raised her fingers to his temples. Her head tilted as she studied his expression. “He tells the truth.”

  “Well, there is no child. There will never be,” Aoife said harshly.

  Her father’s head bent. “This is all my doing. My fault. I fell in love with a witch. She bore you, and she has suffered because of what I am.”

  Aoife frowned. She didn’t want to feel sympathy. Didn’t want to feel anything but anger toward the man who’d caused all this pain, but she understood love. “The Powers are to blame,” she said flatly.

  His head rose. His eyebrows lowered.

  “They set her in your path. Your one true mate. They knew the consequences, but now, we have to do what you told me to do…father.”

  Tears tracked down his cheeks. “We have to trust?” he said, his voice cracking.

  She gave him a slow nod, feeling surer of what she was saying, because these weren’t her words, she was channeling them. “Yes. There’s a plan. One we can’t see.”

  “Not yet,” Bryn said, walking behind her and slipping her arm around Aoife’s waist.

  Aoife lay her head on Bryn’s shoulder. “We could go on as I had already planned. I’d never bear a child.”

  Bryn rested her cheek against Aoife’s hair. “But you can’t. Not with your mother trapped.”

  “But how can I use a child as bait?”

  “You have the power of the coven. The Elements combined.”

  Ethan cleared his throat, drawing her gaze. “You have twenty demons willing to do battle.”

  Her father reached out tentatively and touched her arm. “You have a fairy, who understands that realm. I would fight for you.”

  His direct gaze and the firmness of his jaw said he was willing to die. He’d do whatever it took to keep them safe.

  “We have a Wolf Moon in just a few hours…” Bryn murmured.

  Ethan sig
hed. “You’re seven months, Bryn.”

  She tossed her glossy dark hair. “My child can take it. He’ll be born a warrior.”

  “He?” Ethan’s voice rose. “You’ve been teasing me for months. He, she. Is it a son?”

  Bryn’s body shook with laughter. “He, darling. Now, get over yourself. I’m dancing naked in the moonlight.”

  There was laughter all around, the demons’ chuckles deepening at Ethan’s surly glare. He was jealous of his wife’s pregnant body and had banned her these last couple of months from dancing naked.

  Bryn raised her head away from Aoife’s. “Sigurd are you prepared to marry our sister.”

  Aoife’s glance darted to Sigurd whose gaze rested on her. “Yes.”

  She drew a slow breath and straightened. “Tonight…”

  “Tonight, sweetheart.”

  They gathered around the tall, majestic oak as they had before. All the witches and their demon brethren stood nude in the moonlight. For the first time, Aoife danced without the cloak of her glamour.

  And this time, it was Aoife’s duty to waken the great tree. She drew near and rapped three times on its rough bark.

  “Waken, spirit of the oak.

  Stand guard while we revel.

  Defend our secrets from evil.”

  She bit her lip then whispered. “And please forgive us for the sacrifice of the ancient oak.” She rapped again then joined her sisters to dance, moving outside the shadow of its branches to capture the moonlight with their skin.

  The flames from the torches they’d struck into the ground flared outward then whooshed inward. She felt the ground shiver beneath her feet then settle. Protected by the Elementals, they were free to dance. Free to consort without fear they’d be seen by anyone not approved by The Powers.

  As Aoife swayed, she raised her arms, bathing her skin in the silvery light, drawing its power into her soul. With each turn and dip, she felt herself growing stronger, surer of what must happen. There was a plan. She had only to wait for the clues to unfold to understand it. In the meantime, she’d marry her wolf and rejoice in the echo of their bond.

  As she moved around the circle, she found him, standing still, his golden eyes glowing. She halted in front of him and reached out her hand.