Crescent Legacy

  Please, not the Chariot, I thought to myself as I drew a card. Anything but the Chariot.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I turned over my selection, then took a deep breath. Now or never… I opened my eyes and relaxed when I saw the Five of Cups. It was a card of loss, but the loss wasn’t total.

  Studying the image, I saw that three cups were knocked over, but two were still standing. Holding up the card, I tilted it back and forth, watching the light play on the metallic design. This was one of those ‘the cup is half full or half empty’ scenarios. I could wallow in my heartbreak, or I could take what I had left and continue to fight.

  I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to be alone either.

  Getting up off my fat ass, I slunk outside, the cold air burning my cheeks. I glanced up and down the street, studying every facade, picking out all the little details I’d never bothered to notice before.

  The Virginia creeper covering Molly McCreedy’s had lost all its leaves, leaving behind a mess of vines and woody growths. An old bird’s nests lay ruined among the twists, bits of feather blowing in the icy breeze. Mary’s Teahouse stood out like a sore thumb, the hot pink neon contrasted to the snow nestled on the ground.

  The hawthorn tree had finally lost all its leaves and was full to bursting with little red berries. It was a strange sight to my eyes, only having ever known it in the summer months. It clashed with the teahouse, but it kind of fit into the irreverent spirit of Derrydun.

  The lights were on in the window of the handicrafts store, and within, I could see Cheese Wheel Aoife knitting by the fireplace. I wondered if she’d found anything else in Slieveward Bog to go with her ancient cheese.

  Glancing up the hill, the ruined tower house was shrouded in mist, the weather really taking a turn for the worse. I couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with Carman. The last time snow had fallen, she’d snuck back into the country. Was this cold snap a sign Boone had returned to the evil fold?

  My headache was stripped raw once more, and I held back a sob. Alone. Was this how Aileen felt all those years ago when she went through her own Crescent Calling? She’d left Dad and me behind and had come home to news her family had been murdered. She’d been alone then, dealing with all this magic brouhaha. How did she handle it? Thinking about Robert O’Keefe, the lawyer who may or may not be a leprechaun, I scoffed. Fat lot of good he was doing. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral months and months ago.

  Shrinking into my coat, I thought about the people who were here. Humans, innocent and welcoming all the same even though they’d thought Aileen was a little coo-coo, and I must be by extension. Maggie cared, and even Sean must, in his own crackpot way. The village was exactly like an extended family that lived in an insane asylum. Everyone was different, but we were all linked despite our abilities and despite me being a witch…and especially despite this being ground zero for a supernatural grudge match.

  No matter where I turned, Derrydun was still full of people who cared about me, and vice versa, no matter what Sean McKinnon dribbled. I had to go on just like Aileen had.

  The sound of metal scraping across earth drew my attention to the cottage down the street by the bus stop. Mrs. Boyle was bent over in her garden, shoveling snow from the path, her back all crooked. I didn’t want to say she was Derrydun’s Boo Radley, but she was the village recluse. An eccentric and borderline-crazy cat lady—without all the cats. The closest I’d seen to a feline army around here was Father O’Donegal’s tabby cat shitting in her garden. He got chased with the broom, too.

  I’d never stopped to speak to her, mainly because I was terrified of being whacked with her seasonal weapon of choice, and seeing her struggle to tend her garden was really making me feel awful about it. Without Boone here to help her, she was still getting on with it. If old Mrs. Boyle could, then so could I.

  Crossing the street, I approached the old woman, taking my life in my hands. I’d seen her chase kids half my age and gain on them, so I knew she had plenty of spritely energy in reserves. Spooking her was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “Mrs. Boyle?”

  The old woman glanced up at me, her fingers tightening around her shovel. The scowl on her face was positively apocalyptic.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  She looked me up and down before thrusting the shovel at me. Taking that as a ‘hell, yes,’ I began scraping the snow from the path, all the way from the gate to her front door. As I worked, she stood and watched me, much like she supervised Boone.

  When the last shovelful of snow was cast aside, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and handed back Mrs. Boyle her shovel. Hesitating, I spied movement down the road, and my heart skipped a beat.

  A shadow was looming out of the mist, and I froze, watching the misshapen blob grow darker as it approached. When the muffled thumping cleared into definite hoof beats on the asphalt, my heart slowed. It wasn’t a fae coming to eat me. It was just old Fergus and his faithful Jack Russell terrier riding on his donkey’s back.

  Fergus raised his hand as he passed, his dog lifting its head to peer at us. He was going to Molly McCreedy’s.

  “Do you suppose his donkey gets cold?” I asked the old women as it’s hoof beats echoed dully.

  Mrs. Boyle scowled at me.

  “Do you have any other jobs you need help with?” I added, knowing I wouldn’t get any small talk from her that didn’t involve foul words in Gaelic.

  She shook her head. “Gread leat.”

  It basically meant ‘go the hell away,’ so I pushed through the gate, making sure I latched it behind me.

  Crossing the street, I pressed my nose against the window of the handicraft store. The glass was cold, and my breath began fogging it up. Spying Aoife still by the fireplace, I knocked and waved when she glanced up.

  The woman unlocked the door and gestured for me to come in out of the cold. Instantly, the scent of lavender and rose wafted up my nostrils from the display of handmade soaps by the door.

  “Skye,” she said. “Are you all right, dear? I heard—”

  Before she could ask about Boone’s disappearance—boy, gossip traveled faster than gastro around here—I picked up a throw rug from the basket by the till. “I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.”

  “Yes, of course.” She eyed the rug in my hands and blinked in bewilderment.

  “What do you know about donkey coats?”

  Chapter 12

  “And…we’re live.”

  I peered at the laptop as Mairead clicked a button with a flourish.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “The website is open for business?”

  “Duh.” The Goth girl rolled her eyes.

  “So how does it work? With the shop and the magical Internet?”

  Mairead tapped the updated employee handbook she’d painstakingly worked on since the new computer equipment arrived. “It’s all linked, so if someone buys somethin’ in the shop, it’ll be taken off the website.”

  “What if someone buys it online?”

  “Then the computer won’t be able to scan the item if we don’t have any others in stock,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this, you know.”

  “I can see the thousand euro I spent on all this hasn’t gone to waste,” I said, picking up the fancy barcode zapper thingy and brandishing it like a laser pistol. “Pew! Pew!”

  Mairead snatched the scanner from me and clucked her tongue. “This isn’t Star Wars.”

  “Yeah, Star Wars is a guaranteed HEA.”

  “HEA?”

  “Happily. Ever. After.” I made a face and took out the tarot cards, more out of habit than anything.

  “So, when we get new stock, we have to enter it into the computer,” she went on. “Then print out barcodes.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “You’ll know how much you have sittin’ in the storeroom with a click or two,” Mairead complained.

  “So the stockroom is
all clean and fully itemized?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t pay me enough for that.”

  “I could…” I smiled sweetly and shuffled the tarot cards.

  “Is this my shop or yours?”

  I shrugged and set the cards on the counter. Fanning them out, I let my palm hover over the top, sensing the energy they were giving off. I hadn’t drawn one since I pulled the Five of Cups, and that was a week ago. Things were… Well, they were still raw.

  “You’re still wearin’ the ring,” Mairead noted.

  I snorted, loving how she called it ‘the ring’ like it was the One Ring from Lord of The Rings and it would eat my soul or something equally as horrifying. One ring to rule them all… Anyway, maybe it was hope that made me keep it on. Hope that what Boone and I had was real, and hope that he would come through the door of Irish Moon like nothing had ever changed. Or maybe it was just a reminder of the sacrifices I’d made to ensure the safety of Derrydun, Ireland, and everything else in the world.

  Ignoring the tarot cards, I stood and reached for my coat. “Do you think you could hold the fort for a while?”

  Mairead narrowed her eyes. “Where are you goin’?”

  I knew she partly blamed me for driving Boone away, and so did I, but there was nothing I could do to help that now.

  “It’s… Witch business,” I replied.

  “Like that’s an excuse,” she muttered sullenly.

  “It’s not an excuse, it’s a fact,” I declared, shrugging into my trusty leather jacket. “I have to ask a tree a question.”

  “You’re weird.”

  “I know. Isn’t it delightful?”

  Outside, the weather was still rotten. Winter seemed to go on forever here, and the dreary sky was a testament to my sour mood. There was nothing to differentiate one day from the next—thick fog blanketed the village and shrouded the tower house every morning, it cleared by mid-morning to gray skies, sometimes we were given the gift of misty rain, and then night fell and brought a frost along with it.

  Bundling up in my jacket, I pulled on my old beanie and covered the tips of my ears, and then I shoved my hands into my old faithful fingerless gloves. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear the ones Boone had given to me at Christmas, so I’d gone back to the ones I’d had before. Old familiars.

  The path to the hawthorn was quiet. A little bird flitted through the trees but flew away when it heard me approaching. Everyone had gone and found someplace warm to be, including all the animals. I was the only mad person out here.

  Stepping into the clearing, I studied the knotted and gnarled truck of the ancient hawthorn. It looked different this time of year. Its branches had lost most of their leaves, and thousands of red berries had sprouted in their place. When spring came, I knew it would be white with blossoms, heralding the new season.

  Glancing around the clearing, I shivered. Boone and I had shared so many things here. He’d revealed his fox shape to me over there, I’d stabbed his brother in the eye a little to the left, we’d fought the craglorn by that tree stump, and so many other things. Conversations, attempts at unlocking his memories, declarations of love… The list went on.

  I couldn’t help wondering if I’d managed to crack open the curse on his mind, would things have gone differently between us? If his brother Dub hadn’t shown up and lured it out of him, maybe he would still be on my side.

  I turned toward the hawthorn and placed my hands on its trunk.

  “Did you know who he was?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes. “Did you know he was her son? Did you know he’s a thousand-year-old shapeshifter witch?” I may as well have been talking to myself. “You’re a useless bunch of biatches, you know that? No wonder everyone hates us.”

  A hissing and clicking sound echoed behind me, and for a moment, I thought I’d royally peeved off the Crescent ancestors, but I felt darkness looming in the forest. A darkness that was familiar.

  I jerked around, my eyes widening as I saw a craglorn move through the trees. I hadn’t even sensed it coming! There was no excuse. I should’ve known it was lurking around the village. I was so stupid.

  Its body was the same bluish black I remembered from the last one I’d faced, and its talons were just as razor sharp, too. Beady, black eyes with no whites stared at me as it froze just inside the clearing. It wasn’t as tall or quite as alienesque as its deceased friend, but no less terrifying.

  “Magic,” it said in a strange, twisted voice. “Maaagggiiiccc…”

  “I’d turn around, and go back if I were you,” I said to the craglorn. “I know you’re hungry, but the buffet is closed.”

  The creature’s head tilted to the side, listening intently to what I was saying. “Magic?”

  I shook my head. “You can’t have mine. I need it.”

  “Hungry…” It glanced at the hawthorn and bared its teeth. “Home. Home. Home!”

  It leaped forward, jumping on elongated legs, and I almost fell on my ass in fright. I rolled to the side, dodging a swipe of its claws and summoned my magic. I wasn’t the same Skye who shat her pants fighting the same creature six, or however long it was, months ago. I didn’t need a web to trap it or a charged athame to stab into its leathery hide. All I needed was a can of Crescent whoop ass.

  I was strong enough. Just me. Me alone.

  My magic rose in an instant, responding to the adrenaline tearing through my veins. The surge of power was a kick in the guts. It was the strongest I’d been yet, and it scared me more than the thought of being gutted by one of those talons.

  My golden magic took my breath away as I launched at the craglorn, and the moment the light touched it… Well, a sonic boom had nothing on the way I tore that thing apart.

  It wailed, and the sound lodged into my brain. I fell to my knees as the craglorn disintegrated, and the clearing darkened around me.

  It’d been so easy to take its life. One second… Something terrible lived inside me. My Legacy wasn’t something to be revered. I didn’t want it.

  “Why did you have to do that?” A tear fell from my eye as I knelt by the scorched earth. “I don’t want to kill anything anymore… I don’t want to be a Crescent. Not if it’s like this. I don’t want to care…”

  Caring is what makes you different.

  My head shot up, and I stared at the hawthorn.

  “Who said that?”

  Only the wind answered me, fluttering through the trees and rustling the berries on the hawthorn above.

  Caring is what made me different? Different from what?

  Scurrying forward, I placed my hands on the tree. Closing my eyes, I felt the gnarled bark scratch against my palms as I cast my magic out. Tendrils of golden light probed the hawthorn, but I felt nothing other than the natural growth of the tree. No ancestor spirits, no doorway, and no answers.

  Someone had told me about the journey being more important than the destination, but I couldn’t remember who. Is that why they wouldn’t speak to me?

  “No one’s going to help me,” I said to the tree. “So it looks like I have to help myself.”

  Wiping away my tears, I brushed off the dirt on my knees and straightened my top. Combing my fingers through my hair, I sucked in a deep breath and centered myself.

  I could fight the fae and their mummified craglorn cousins, that much was clear, so casting a few barriers and wards wouldn’t harm anyone. It would keep the village and the hawthorns safe or at least slow down anything that decided it wanted to get through badly enough. The magical signature would attract fae like a moth to an open flame, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. Time was running out, and an inbuilt intruder alarm would be more helpful now than before. Boone had warned me against it, but he wasn’t here to fly around the village as a gyrfalcon with his gyrfalcon eyes and shapeshifter senses—which I now understood were an added side benefit from his unknown witch abilities—so I had to be proactive on my own.

  I couldn’t believe it had taken me almost a month
to figure this out. That’s what wallowing gets you, I thought to myself. A bigger hole to sit your ass in.

  I made my way back to the village with a new purpose. My fingers felt all tingly from my tussle with the craglorn, and I shoved my nausea away. I’d studied barriers and wards in the Crescent spell book and had meditated on the hawthorns more than I probably should have in an attempt to figure out their secrets.

  Spotting Fergus’s donkey hitched out the front of Molly McCreedy’s, I smiled. She was wearing the coat I asked Aoife to make. Emerald green trimmed with earthy brown and lined with the same. It was a sign I was back on the right path, I was sure of it.

  Opening the door to Irish Moon, I stepped inside and immediately felt the relieving hum of the crystals. My fingers had just begun getting their feeling back when Mairead blew a raspberry at me.

  “Took long enough,” she said.

  “Just stopping by for some supplies.”

  “Like what? Fertilizer?”

  “Very funny,” I shot back at her, picking up a bound wad of sage.

  “You better scan that.”

  “I will.”

  “What were you doin’ out there anyway?”

  “I’ve told you about the hawthorns. I had to see if someone was home,” I replied, deciding to omit the part about the craglorn I’d just nuked in the clearing…and the existential crisis I’d had immediately after. “Shit is about to go down.”

  “Did it tell you that?” Her eyes widened. “I know Carman is comin’, but it hasn’t seemed real.”

  “Believe me, I know all about that.” I held out the smudge stick for her to scan. “Put me down for four of these.”

  “What’s this for?” she asked, brandishing the scanner.

  “I’m making an electric fae fence.”

  “Are not!”

  “Am too!”

  The scanner beeped as Mairead tallied up my inventory. I added a bag of pink Himalayan rock salt to the pile and began fiddling with some clear quartz tumbled stones. Maybe I could use these as an anchor to make the spells last longer. There was no way I was walking a thousand miles around the countryside on a weekly basis if I didn’t have to. Quartz held a lot of grounding power and would echo the natural energies of the hawthorns. That was if I cast the barrier properly.