Crescent Calling (The Crescent Witch Chronicles Book 1)

by Axelle Chandler

  Looking back over my shoulder again, I peered at him. The man from everywhere with his thousand and one jobs, his cheeky lit, and his roguish exterior. I hadn’t felt this hot under the collar about a guy since…well, ever. I’d just looked at him and was all like hello sailor.

  “Cute, ain’t he?”

  Jumping a mile, I grimaced. “I suppose.”

  Maggie laughed. “So what about you? What do you do back in Australia?”

  My shoulders sank, and I rolled my eyes, but she was the first person to ask me about my life and not gush about Aileen and her impeccable standing in the community. It was just my life was in tatters right now.

  “That good, eh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I was working for a big bank in Melbourne, but a month ago, they handed my entire department redundancies. Then they shipped our jobs to a cheaper workforce overseas. I’m an unemployed drain on society.” I fist pumped the air with as much enthusiasm as I could manage. Which wasn’t much at all. “I’m currently drifting.”

  “I’ll never understand big business,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “It’s all cuttin’ costs and budget this, bottom line that. That’s why I like Derrydun so much. We look out for one another. It’s about the folk right here, right now. I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”

  “What about you? You’ve never wanted to go to the city?”

  “Nah. I went to study in Dublin when I was nineteen, then to London for a year, but I ended up comin’ home. There’s just somethin’ about this place…” She stared dreamily into the distance before squaring her shoulders. “Ah, that’s another story for another time. I’m meant to be workin’. I’d better get back to it. Enjoy your night, Skye.”

  As she moved back down the bar to serve some locals, I swiveled around on the barstool. Nursing my whiskey, I surveyed the pub. People were laughing in groups, clinking glasses, eating hearty meals being ferried out by the kitchen staff, and the low strumming of guitar music could be heard over the din. If this was a wake, then it wasn’t like any I’d seen before. There were no tears in sight.

  Everyone knew each other and gravitated around the familiar in their lives, and here I was, the stranger. Taking another sip of my whiskey, I began to struggle with the odd sensation of being alone in a crowd. I couldn’t even see Robert, and I wondered when the lawyer had left. Probably while I was up the hill with Boone.

  At the thought of the hot Irishman, my gaze fell on him for the tenth time since I’d walked into the pub. There was something about him I couldn’t quite put my finger on, and it wasn’t to do with his general hotness. Something else radiated around him almost like an aura. I’d always been a good judge of character to the point it had been like a sixth sense, but Boone…I couldn’t figure him out.

  Disregarding him, I turned my attention to the people standing around him, attempting to put faces to the names I’d learned that afternoon. Sean McKinnon, Mark Ashlyn, Roy, Mary, and Mairead’s parents, Beth and Gregory. There were a ton more, but I’d already forgotten who they were.

  Behind the group by the fireplace, a man was leaning against the wall, watching the room just like I was. Curious, I watched as the villagers milled around him but never once acknowledged his presence. Another loner like me.

  Realizing he was being watched, the man raised his head and zeroed in on me. He stared back, his face shimmering as if he were some kind of freaky mirage. I blinked, and his skin darkened to a bluish gray, and his teeth elongated into sharp points before the whole image snapped back. Stiffening, I was frozen to the spot, unable to look away.

  Something wasn’t right. Wasn’t this how psychosis started?

  Boone appeared next to me, drawing my attention back to reality.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, sitting beside me.

  “I, uh… I’m just tired. I haven’t had much time to rest.” Looking across the pub, the strange man had disappeared.

  Boone frowned. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

  Craning my neck, I searched for the stranger but couldn’t see him among the press of people.

  “Lost somethin’?”

  Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to Boone. “No, I… I’d better go home.”

  “Home, eh?” He grinned.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” I retorted, springing off the stool.

  “Maybe.”

  Rolling my eyes, I made a break for the door.

  “Goodnight to you, Skye,” he called out after me. “Be seen’ you!”

  It wasn’t a long walk back to the cottage, but I couldn’t shake the image of the weird man at Molly McCreedy’s. If he’d been real at all.

  Outside, the main street was lit, but behind Irish Moon, the garden was dark, and long shadowy fingers stretched across the vegetable patch. Shivering, I sank into my jacket and tried not to look back. The sensation of a hundred pairs of eyes watching my every move was freaking me out even though I knew I was alone. I suppose that was the problem. Anything could be lurking in the darkness where I couldn’t see.

  My boots crunched loudly on the gravel path as I hurried through the night. Fumbling for my keys, I stood under the eave and wrestled with the lock. The moment the door opened, a dark streak darted through my legs and disappeared into the house.

  Letting out a yelp, my heart twisted, and I fell back against the doorjamb. Was that a cat? It had better be a bloody cat because I had no patience left to wrangle any wild beasts tonight. Were there any dangerous animals in Ireland? Did squirrels sneak into people’s houses and attack their faces while they slept at night? Who knew. I was on foreign soil.

  “Hey!” I exclaimed running inside and slamming the door closed behind me.

  Bumping into the kitchen door, I turned on the light and spied a big tabby cat sitting on the table. It was watching me with its big green eyes, its tail flicking back and forth.

  “Just make yourself at home, cat,” I said with a pout.

  It yawned, showing its teeth and bristly tongue.

  “Well?”

  It licked its whiskers and continued to stare at me.

  “What do you want, hey?”

  It blinked slowly and rose to its feet like it was going to pounce. Standing beside the table, I looked it over. It was quite a pretty thing. Large for a house cat, but its coat shimmered with a rich tabby color, and it even had a tinge of ginger.

  “So, are you a boy or a girl?” Holding up its tail, I made a face. “Yep. You’re a big boy all right. Are you Father O’Donegal’s cat? If you are, then you made quite the scene at the funeral today.” The cat headbutted me, nuzzling up for a pat. Placing my hand on his head, I scratched behind his ears. “You don’t have a collar, though…” I glanced at the fridge. “Are you hungry? I’ve got chicken casserole.”

  The cat mewled and jumped off the table, making a run for the hall.

  “Oh, no you don’t!”

  Chasing after it, I groaned as I saw it leap up the stairs.

  “You had better come back down here!” I shouted, knowing full well cats were right little so-and-so’s and never listened to anyone but themselves. It wasn’t coming back down anytime soon.

  Glancing up into the darkness of the second floor, I grasped onto the balustrade. Who knew what lingered up there. Memories, smells, personal belongings, clothes, and knickknacks. All the things I didn’t want to face.

  I placed my foot on the first step, and it creaked. This was how horror movies began. Get a grip, Skye. Thundering up the stairs, I flung open the first door I found and saw it was a bathroom. The next door along revealed a bedroom—which, by the lived-in feeling, must’ve been Aileen’s room.

  Tiptoeing across the room, I found the lamp beside the bed and turned it on. The room was illuminated with a warm glow, revealing the cat had found his way to the most comfortable place in the house. Aileen’s bed.

  “Typical,” I said, running my hand over his head. “Where have you led me, buddy?”

 
Turning my attention to the room, I began to add to the things I knew about my mother. A handmade quilt lay across the foot of the bed, the gold panels shimmering in the lamplight. The vibrant sun and moon design was kitsch and reminded me of a quilt cover I had as a child. I’d been obsessed with stars, and whenever Dad and I went to the beach house, we would sit out on the deck, and he would point out all the constellations he knew. Then I would spend hours staring at the moon, trying to make out all the craters through his battered pair of binoculars. Maybe Aileen had done the same thing before she left us, and this quilt was a reminder. It was a comforting thought.

  Turning to the dresser, I ran my fingertips over a little tray of jewelry, studied a bottle of perfume, and peered inside a silver box. Opening the lid, my heart skipped a beat as I saw a familiar image. Picking up the photograph, my hands began to shake. The edges were worn, which meant it had been handled a lot. I knew because I had one exactly the same.

  I stared at the candid snap of my dad, Aileen, and me and wasn’t sure what to think. I was a baby in the image, barely old enough to open my eyes, but my parents were smiling at the camera with the beach I knew like the back of my own hand in the background. Boone seemed to think she loved me. He’d said as much that afternoon on the hill. Maybe the photo was proof she thought of us at least some of the time.

  Sliding the photo back into the silver box, I turned. Staring at the bed, I sighed. Dare I? It would be better than another night on the couch. The cat began to purr happily and kneaded his claws on the bedspread.

  “This is such a weird place,” I said to the cat. “I’m either still jet lagged, or…” I shrugged. “I’m talking to a cat.” I snorted and rubbed my eyes. “This is my mum’s room, huh? Do you think she and Robert were, you know?” I snorted and shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Actually, I was beginning to think Robert’s strangeness was just an Irish thing, but the more I get to know him, the more I think it’s just because he is strange. Everyone here has their own quirk. What’s mine? What was Aileen’s? She had a crystal shop in an out-of-the-way Irish village. It’s not exactly the same as the traditional handicraft store next door.” The cat had opened his eyes and was watching me. “I mean, am I supposed to call her Mum, or what? It feels better to call her Aileen. For now at least.”

  Lying back on the bed, I stared at my new buddy, who’d closed his eyes.

  “Do you believe in monsters?” I asked, stroking his back. “I think I saw one at the pub. A man with bluish-gray skin and pointy teeth.” The cat meowed and curled up into a ball. “I know, right? I’m so tired I’m starting to hallucinate. It’ll be better tomorrow. Are you going to hang out here tonight?” The cat didn’t move, so I assumed he’d decided to stay over. “All right, but don’t hog the bed, okay?”

  The cat didn’t even twitch.

  Kicking off my boots, I shimmied out of my jeans and crawled underneath the covers. Burrowing into the sheets, I studied the stripes running through the mysterious cat’s back before switching off the lamp.

  There was no such thing as monsters. Hallucinations brought on by exhaustion, however…

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning, the cat was gone.

  After a frantic ten minutes searching for him, I couldn’t find where he’d gotten out. All the windows and doors were locked tight. Scratching my head, I began to wonder if he was a mirage like the man at the pub had been.

  When I opened the front door, double-checking for cat-sized escape routes, I saw a package shoved underneath the cheery welcome mat.

  Bending over, I slid it out and saw my name written on the orange paper. Glancing around the garden, nothing stirred apart from the odd bird flitting across the lawn searching for fresh worms to feast on.

  Taking the envelope inside, I turned it over, but there was no postmark or indicator as to who had left it. It had been hand delivered by someone, and I was positive it hadn’t been there last night.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I tore the parcel open and tugged out a stack of papers. It was paperwork for Irish Moon. Robert must’ve left it.

  Reading through the various reports and tax returns, I was surprised at the figures. The takings were rather healthy for a little crystal shop in the middle of nowhere even if it was on the so-called tourist trail. Aileen had really built something here, but what was I supposed to do with it? Stepping into my mum’s shoes and picking up her life as my own wasn’t exactly something that had crossed my mind. It also sounded weird. I didn’t want to be Aileen version two.

  If I wanted to, I could sell up and go back to Australia. I wouldn’t have to worry about getting a job straight away, not with the money that now sat in my savings account. Or I could travel for a while and see the world. With nothing and no one to hold me down, I could go anywhere.

  The cottage and everything in it would fetch quite a bit considering its proximity to the village. Then there was Irish Moon and its inventory. What was I going to do with that?

  “Shoot!”

  Scraping the chair back, I grabbed my jacket, phone, and keys and ran from the cottage, slamming the door closed behind me. Hearing the latch lock into place, I legged it through the garden, leaped over the fence, and bolted to the street.

  Mairead was leaning against the wall, waiting for me.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I exclaimed breathlessly, fumbling with the keys.

  The Goth girl looked rather cute today in a black dress, black boots, and her matching black hair done up in twin French plaits. When I appeared, she smiled brightly.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Sundays are quiet. Church is in the mornin’, and the buses don’t usually come until late if they come at all.”

  “Why aren’t you at church?”

  She made a face and gestured to her outfit. “Do I look like I subscribe?”

  “Point taken.”

  Unlocking the door, I let us inside. Immediately, I was drawn to the little tubs of tumbled stones—amethyst, citrine, rose quartz, snowflake obsidian, and more—and dug my fingers into the colorful array while Mairead turned on all the lights and busied herself with opening the store.

  I wasn’t really into running a shop—at least, not right now—but she seemed to really enjoy it here. Maybe I should ask her if she would like to take on more responsibility. At least until I figured out where my heart lay. I thought about it for a moment, and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She knew the ropes and said she needed the extra cash.

  “What did Aileen pay you?” I asked.

  “Nine euro an hour,” Mairead replied, retrieving a feather duster from behind the counter.

  “That doesn’t sound like a lot,” I said with a frown. “Is that minimum wage here?”

  “You can pay me more if you want,” the girl said with a grin. “I won’t mind.”

  “Right.” I admired her tenacity. “Would you help me out this week, then? Full-time until I can work out what I’m going to do. That should help you out, right?” I did the math in my head. “Four hundred for the week? Then we can talk next Sunday‬.” ‬‬‬‬‬‬

  Mairead’s eyes lit up with dollar signs—or was it euro signs?—and she nodded enthusiastically. “I won’t let you down, Skye.”

  I felt uncomfortable being in the power position, so I just shrugged. “You’re helping my clueless ass out.”

  “If you want to take some time off, I can handle things here today,” she added, swatting a large crystal with the feather duster.

  Thankful for the chance at a break to gather my thoughts, I left Mairead to handle things at Irish Moon.

  The sun was out today. Finding my way behind the row of shops, I followed a path that wound through a pretty copse of trees before opening up to a lush field and the tower on the hill. Dew glistened on the grass as I wandered, and the sound of water gurgling in the creek followed my footsteps. The air was cold for the turning of the seasons. Summer was only a handful of weeks away, but I was still layering on a jacket before I
left the house.

  Walking on autopilot, I wandered up the hill, following the path, my thoughts taking on the same rambling pattern. What was I going to do? How long was I going to stay? Did I actually want to know more about Aileen, or was it a perverse sense of duty that was forcing me to hesitate? Nevertheless, there was a deeper question I was avoiding in the shadow of the bad luck of the past month. What did I want to do with my life? The million-dollar question.

  Realizing I’d reached the pinnacle of the hill, I glanced up at the ruins as I approached. A sign sat in front of the structure where the path opened up into a little cul-de-sac, bordered with some old railway sleepers that made the whole thing look neat and tidy. The ground was worn, which meant tourists from the buses that stopped in the village came up here to take a photo of yet another ruin that dotted the Irish landscape.

  Stopping by the sign, I read the inscription, which had been embellished with an artist’s representation of what the ruins would’ve looked like when it was intact.

  The White Tower. 1635–1756.

  The legend of Mary Byrne is one of the lesser-known tales of witchcraft from the period but nonetheless, one of the most intriguing. She lived in this very tower house, having married Joseph Byrne, the Lord of Diore Dún. Their lands comprised of the village proper and several square miles of wild forest, which still stands today.

  To the locals, Mary was known as a healer, using herbs and natural remedies to aid the sick and less fortunate. Though, through her kindness, she also found her end.

  She was tried for witchcraft in 1756, found guilty, and burned at the stake. In the days after her death, the tower house was said to have mysteriously caught on fire. It may very well be true. Damage to the structure is consistent with high temperatures, and it leaves historians to wonder, was it purely a tragic accident? Or was it retribution from beyond the grave?