Scott Tracey - Moonset
“You talked to Quinn about this?” I demanded. “He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know us. Jenna’s a lot of things, but she’d die before she ever became like them.”
I hated these questions, the uncertainty they raised. My plan was simple. Find them. Bring them home. Easy. So easy it couldn’t fail. As long as I didn’t stop to worry about what it all could mean.
But logic wasn’t always easy. And it was a lot more insidious.
“Okay,” she said. “Forget I said it. But if we’re going to go, we should hurry. God only knows what’s happening in there.”
Ash had gotten me this far—but she was right. I opened my mouth, planning to tell her to wait here, but she bulldozed right over me.
“Don’t do that,” she warned, a sharpness to her words. “Don’t do the boy thing. I’m not waiting in the car, I’m not running away, and I’m not leaving you by yourself so I can go find help.” She threw her door open, and nearly leapt out of the car. I hustled to catch up to her.
“Besides,” she snapped, now pointing her athame at me from over the hood of the car.
“Someone has to make sure you make it out of this in one piece. You’re not going to sacrifice yourself for nothing.”
Was she some sort of crazy person? “This is serious! You could get hurt.”
There was just a hint of crescent moon in the sky, but more than enough to throw just a twinge of light across her face, illuminating a look I’d almost call viperish. “Now might be a completely inappropriate time to say this, but I’ve always wanted to punch your sister in the face. Just once.” She paused, looking up towards the sky wistfully. “Just saying.”
This was the last thing I needed. I stared at Ash, proving herself to be the insane girl I’ve always known she was.
“God, I hope that’s not your idea of a pep talk,” I said.
The moment ended, we looked at each other, and began walking the dirt path to the farmhouse. The closer we got, the easier it was to tell that the farmhouse had seen better days. The building had wood siding, nearly peeled completely off. The windows in the front of the house were all broken, and weeds had begun growing up at the corners, feeding off the building like a parasite.
In short, it looked like something out of Children of the Corn, or any other rural horror movie.
I’m such an idiot for doing this on my own. I glanced at Ash. Almost on my own. I’d managed to shove every scrap of nerves down underneath the fact that I didn’t have a choice. I had to do this. The Witchers wanted to believe that Jenna and the others had left willingly.
Whatever happened, they’d look at them as suspects, not victims.
That was what kept me going as we approached. And then the darkness settled in, grew limbs, and squeezed us tight.
I t was still the middle of winter; it was always freezing at night. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice it at first, the way the cold crept inside. My jaw clenched, my body grew slick with sweat, and my legs trembled a little. This is normal, I told myself.
“You feel that?” Ash whispered, sounding … uncertain. Nervous. Two things I didn’t expect to ever hear from her.
I stopped, noticing that as I did Ash stopped immediately too, and listened. Silence. And then, once I allowed myself to focus on the things around me, I felt it. A feeling like being watched, only not by just one pair of eyes. Hundreds.
Half of me wanted nothing more than to freeze in place, and wait for it to move along. This wasn’t any normal predator—this was something that the core of my being feared. “We know we’re in the right place, then,” I said, keeping my voice pitched low. We were almost at the front door.
“What is it?”
“Maybe it’s the Maleficia. Maybe he’s already started invoking it.” Maybe it recognizes me.
“Keep breathing,” I cautioned.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered.
“Come on,” I said. “I think it’ll be better in the house.”
I didn’t allow myself to think as I leapt forward, jumped the stairs on the porch, and threw open the half-hanging screen door. Only one hinge was still attached, making the bottom swing around haphazardly.
I twisted the knob of the front door and crossed the broken threshold. The moment I was inside, all the fear and nerves I was feeling melted away. There was nothing of the dark feeling inside—if anything, things inside were calm.
Too calm.
The front rooms were empty, except for leftover tools from half-finished renovation projects.
One wall near the side of the house had been ripped down to the studs, and bundles of wires had literally been pulled through drywall and left exposed.
I led the way, like I’d in some way be the one doing the protecting if push came to shove.
Middle school witches knew more magic than I did. My only saving grace was the athame—if it came down to it, I could seriously mess up whatever Bridger was doing here.
Ash and I didn’t talk, and we moved slowly, but neither one of us was making much effort to be quiet. The overwhelming, soul-crushing pressure outside meant that they were waiting for us. I kept in front of her, in case something came at the two of us. She kept pace with me, moving carefully through the house.
We didn’t have much further to look. The first open doorway we found—which looked like it had once boasted double doors—opened up into the rest of the house.
There were a few dividing walls in the house, but everything else had been demolished. The doorway opened into one large room—what must have once been a kitchen, dining room, and at least one, if not several, living areas. The far corner from us was covered in thick tarps, rustling against the night wind and leaking in a draft I could feel all the way over here.
Now it was some sort of makeshift chapel. Row after row of church pews had been set up in the room, facing a fireplace. Along the walls were dozens of candles and piles of wax spilled all down the wall and onto the floor.
“I’m here,” I called out. “I know you’ve been waiting. But I’m here now.”
Directly in front of us was the oldest fireplace I’d ever seen. It was made from bricks that had seen better days and mortar that had been chipped away decades ago. There was a distinct jaggedness to the shape, and it even leaned to the left. A man stood in front of it, and I steeled myself for my first meeting with Moonset’s only surviving protégé.
But the warlock standing in front of me wasn’t Cullen Bridger, a man almost old enough to be my own father. It was a kid, even younger than me.
It was Luca.
Twenty-Eight
“I don’t know why they surrendered, nor do I care to speculate. At this time, all we know is that Moonset has been apprehended, their cult dismantled, and the war ended.”
Illana Bryer
On the voluntary surrender of Moonset
“Luca?” Ash’s voice was barely a whisper.
I expected some kind of attack, or at the very least, gloating. But Luca looked like he wasn’t even aware of our presence. His was hugging himself, and he looked lost. At the sound of his name, he dropped to the floor, legs tucked under him, and began rocking back and forth.
Framing him on either side, with their backs to us, sat my family. They were seated in the first row of pews, with Malcolm and Jenna to the left, and Bailey and Cole slumped on the right.
All four of them faced Luca, but he didn’t seem to notice. He continued rocking. That’s when I noticed the way Jenna was slumped against Mal’s shoulder, and Cole’s hand was dangling lifelessly from the arm of the bench.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t some sort of demonic Bible study. “What the fuck,” I breathed.
Luca didn’t even notice us. His head was craned awkwardly to the side, looking more like an extra in The Exorcist than a high school boy. He finally looked towards us, though his eyes never actually left the ceiling. “Who are you?”
“It’s Justin,” I finally said, keeping my hands upright at my side, trying not to look like a threat.
Luca was the warlock? Luca had been the one to summon us to Carrow Mill? But he acted like he hated us. I didn’t understand.
He cocked his head to the side suddenly, and I flinched. Luca didn’t notice, his ear was towards the fire. Then he started nodding. “I remember now. You’re one of them.” He cupped his hand and made a beckoning motion.
A burst of air swept forward from behind me, like a giant fan that had just been turned on. It stank, smelling like burnt plastic and Cole’s dirty gym socks. At first I thought the room was darkening, but then I realized it was the wind. It was just like the presence I’d felt when the
Harbinger had killed himself, with faint traces of awareness like we’d felt outside. Maleficia isn’t supposed to be aware. This is something else. The shadowy wind, like diluted black smoke, swept over the fire and caught fire: smoky air igniting into green fire.
The flames sailed across the room, swirling around Luca. Into him. He flinched, his body seizing up for a moment as he absorbed … whatever it was. Maleficia?
Luca raised his head, nodded once, and Bailey turned in her seat. Her eyes glowed with the same shade of green as the fire that had just disappeared inside Luca. She squinted at me, eyes sightless and vacant. Next to me, Ash exhaled and then collapsed onto the ground.
“Ash!” I dropped down next to her, feeling her neck and praying for a pulse. Why was Bailey doing this?
We only need one. At the theater, Bailey collapsed after using too much magic. She’d been weak. Something must have slipped inside. That had been what Quinn was worried about. But even above my arguments, he wouldn’t have ignored the signs. They would have checked her out to make sure she was okay. So whatever was inside of her had been able to fool the
Witchers.
Ash drew in a breath. Slow. She was still alive, but unconscious. Bailey settled back in her seat, looking straight ahead. They needed one, and they took Bailey. She could make the others do whatever she wanted. Ash shifted next to me, murmured something nonsensical. She wasn’t dead. Bailey hadn’t killed somebody.
“Don’t be angry,” Luca said, faintly. “They slip through the cracks, and you’ll never know they’re there.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
Luca tapped his temple. “I have to keep them safe. They need us. We’re chosen. ”
We only need one. We. I looked at Jenna and the others. “Are they … ”
“ … sleeping,” Luca finished. His voice was hoarse and he was drenched in sweat. Sitting so close to the fireplace couldn’t have been helping. More than hoarse, his voice sounded raw. As if he’d spent the last hours screaming.
Luca had aged twenty years in just a day. His skin was sallow, hanging off of his bones. He’d already been skinny, but now he looked almost emaciated, his eyes sunken in and huge. “They said that you must come together. I had to prepare the way.”
