Blood Ice and Oak
Moon
Coon Hollow Coven Tales, #3
by Marsha A Moore
Publication Date:
October 3rd 2016
Genre: PNR
BLURB
Esme Underhill is about to discover a
darkness hidden inside her that could destroy her chance for independence and
possibly kill her.
Esme’s mother took her young daughter away
from Southern Indiana’s Coon Hollow Coven to prevent her from learning about
the unusual witchcraft she had inherited. When Esme is twenty-seven, her
beloved Grammy Flora passes away and leaves her property in the Hollow to her
granddaughter. With this opportunity to remake her life and gain independence,
Esme attempts to emulate Grammy Flora as a wildwood mystic who relies on the
hedge world of faeries to locate healing herbs. But fae are shrewd traders.
When they open their world to her, she must meet the unknown malevolence of her
birthright.
Thayne, the handsome king of the fae Winter
Court, faces his own struggle to establish autonomy as a new regent. He is
swept into the tempest of Esme’s unfolding powers, a dangerous threat to his
court. His sworn duty is to protect his people, despite Esme’s beauty and
allure, which tear at his resolve.
Both Esme’s and Thayne’s dreams of personal
freedom are lost…unless they can trust each other and overcome surmounting
dangers.
Buy Link: Amazon
Chapter
One: Winter Began
Dear Miss Rebecca Esmeralda Underhill,
Please accept our deepest sympathies
concerning the loss of your grandmother, Flora Esmeralda Freestone. She was
much loved and well-respected in our community.
As per her documented wishes, the ownership
of her property on 10510 East Lost Branch Run passes to you. This transfer has
been filed in our office. At the request of High Priest Logan Dennehy, all
council members have voted to reinstate you as a member of Coon Hollow Coven
after your absence of twenty years.
However, despite Coon Hollow Coven being your
birthplace, a majority indicated the lapsed time was sufficient cause to
withhold transfer of Ms. Freestone’s ceremonial standing to you, which
customarily would accompany a property transference to blood kin of adult age.
For explanation of how you may attain ceremonial approval in your name, please
visit the council office at 50013 Owls Tail Creek Road.
Enclosed, please find pamphlets describing
the expected dress and personal property code of our coven, which adheres to
the time period in which the coven was founded in 1935. This is to best protect
our witchcraft traditions.
Sincerely,
Nathan Wells
Coon Hollow Coven Council, secretary
Esme’s gaze fixed on
the words that acknowledged her as the property owner. She’d never lived alone.
First her mom, then a roommate and finally Doug. Esme’s shoulders straightened
and chest lifted with strength and independence at the thought of owning her
own place. But, why wasn’t she approved for ceremonial status? Her hands
gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and her heart raced. It’s
not fair. I won’t be accepted as a healer. Only children not yet graduated from
the coven’s secondary school were kept from participating fully in ceremonies.
Esme loved learning the ways of a hedge witch and helped Gram every summer from
grade school through college. Fascinated with tending Gram’s plants, Esme even
studied botany in college.
The research company
she worked for had already accepted her request to work offsite and study
mystic plants…at the stipulation she be reduced to part-time. She needed work
here as a healer to supplement her income. She’d assumed incorrectly that her
experience with Gram and college studies would’ve qualified her as an accepted
healer. Her standing in the coven would be important to patrons, all except
Gram’s closest friends who knew Esme well. An attempt at independence seemed bound
to fail before she started.
Her gaze drifted to
the name used in the letter’s greeting. She hadn’t seen her full name in print
for decades. It didn’t even appear on her birth certificate, which labeled her
as Rebecca E. Underhill, one of the many things her mother insisted upon.
Mother wanted nothing to do with the coven or witchcraft and said, “Esmeralda
sounds too much like a witch. No need to encourage the darkness out.” Grudgingly,
she accepted her own mother’s middle name for her child to uphold custom. Esme
never understood Mother’s view since Gram was well-respected for her kind and
gentle strength by all who knew her.
To Esme’s
Indianapolis friends, she was Becky. Only her mother addressed her as Rebecca.
But inside, she was Esme. Gram had always called her that, or Esmeray in
carefree moments. Her middle name suited the mystic inside Esme, something Gram
must have known. If only Esme could use Gram’s last name Freestone. Underhill
felt like a lead weight.
Esme set the letter
aside and paced the length of the rag runner through the small kitchen.
Frustration wound her along a circular track through the sitting room, to her
closet-sized guest room, and back. The space was too small to work answers out
of her tangled mind. On the second pass, she sank onto the goose down comforter
of Gram’s iron bed. Billowing fluff sheltered her from the problems. Gram’s
linens, scented with homegrown lavender and rose sleep liniment, comforted Esme
and tugged on her eyelids.
She forced her eyes
open and pushed herself up and off the bed. Hiding wasn’t the way to begin this
fresh start in life. She’d done enough kowtowing to stronger wills, letting
Doug and her mother run over her. At the back door, she paused long enough to
grab a rain parka and pulled it on as she strode outside.
Gram’s cat, Dove,
zipped alongside with a sharp meow, slipping out before the door closed. Esme
smiled, grateful the tomcat kept Gram company during her illness. She’ doted on
the smoky blue stray that happened into her garden one early fall afternoon and
never left. Gram swore he was an omen and chose his name ‘cause of his
white-winged breast patch. She used to say, “One day soon my spirit will fly on
those outspread wings, and together Dove and me we’ll roam the wooded hills.”
Gram loved those hills. Thinking about the hills drew Esme to gather Dove and
head outside.
Ice still peppered
down, adding more layers to the spiky crystalline grass blades. A breeze blew
at Esme’s back. She allowed the wind to guide her toward the woods behind the
cabin. At the trailhead, ice coating the bittersweet vine berries glistened the
same shade of blue she’d rubbed from Dove’s coat. Alert to the strange color,
she followed a line of branches dangling sky blue icicles, each one more
fanciful and richer in hue than the last. A beautiful play of light, ranging
from cerulean to ultramarine. Even worth the chill at her ankles, which were
bare in her cropped jeans.
Whenever Esme paused
to marvel at the colored icicles, Dove pawed them and then dodged when they
dropped.
Minutes later and
deeper in the forest, the ice pelted heavier, and Esme reached for the hood of
her raincoat. Strands of hair fell forward, woven with frozen ultramarine
threads. The same purplish tint coated twigs along the path. Light from the sky
reached this far into the woods since all but the oak trees had lost their
leaves. The unusual color couldn’t be caused by light refraction. She’d never
seen any rain, sleet, or snow like this, not even in the Hollow. Grammy had
taught her a little about omens. Was this a sign?
Esme scurried along
the trail, sliding at times and spotting richer and deeper shades of purple and
red-violets. At the far side of the woodlot, iris-hued spider webs clung to
berry brambles. She gasped at the beauty. Tempted to touch, she extended a hand
but at the last instant resisted.
A deep groan echoed
from the adjoining property ahead.
She snatched her hand
back and scanned for some god of nature angry at her ruinous attempt. Grappling
for Dove, Esme crouched behind a thicket.
The cat gave a single
hiss, then clung to her leg.
In the distance, a
big middle-aged man, both tall and wide, staggered behind a shed, dragging a
long, clumsy load wrapped and tied into a blanket. His balding head snapped in
her direction, eyes wide and face blanched gray-white. “Who’s there?” His
booming voice sliced the delicate webs from their branches. Crimson freezing
rain assaulted both trail and yard.
Esme froze, afraid to
move and attract his attention. Her heart, drumming against her ribs,
threatened to give her away. She wanted to run home. But if the colored ice
omen was meant for her, she needed to stay and learn its meaning. Could the man
see the omen?
Thankfully, her cover
must’ve fooled Baldy. He resumed lugging the limp bundle, and didn’t seem
affected by the magical ice.
From between the
tangle of branches, Esme studied him.
His wet, black shirt
clung to his round belly. Blood-red ice coated his load, tracing the outline of
a human body. Smaller than his, probably a female. Was she dead? Of natural
causes? Or had he murdered her? The thought wrapped around Esme’s breath and
trapped it deep in her lungs. Her legs twitched. Gaze riveted on Baldy, she
positioned to bolt from potential danger.
He rolled the body
into a depression Esme couldn’t see.
She leaned to one
side, bracing herself with a hand on the ground.
Over what looked like
a freshly dug grave, Baldy grunted as he shoveled and kicked dirt and large
rocks. Clumps of red clung to long strands of his comb-over, now hanging along
one ear. Was it ice or real blood?
Dove huddled closer,
and Gram’s voice from years ago spoke in Esme’s mind. “Blood ice is stained
with revenge.”
Crimson liquid
dripped from the man’s eyes and fell from grimacing jowls. The face of a demon
©
Copyright 2016 Marsha A. Moore. All rights reserved.
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Tea Leaf Tales: Which Yule Tree Will Pick Me?
Fantasy Flash Fiction by Marsha A. Moore
I suck in a gulp of thick, pine-scented air, faced with the
difficult question—which one. I tick through the usual criteria—fullness,
tightly attached needles, correct height. Beyond that the trouble begins for me
when I consider needle length, color, tightness of branches.
Needles crunch under the soles of my shoes as I slowly pass down
the row, hoping one tree chooses me. Those I don’t give a full inspection slyly
begin to stretch their postures more erect before I turn completely away. If I
pause to admire one, branches brush past the backs of my legs until I turn
around and give that tree a careful look.
Ahead in the center of the display, I hear voices in foreign
languages—hurried bits of anxious dialog that quiet as I grow near.
One small blue spruce tries his best to stretch taller but cannot
reach up to his neighbors, so I lean in and whisper, “If you talk to me, I’ll
take you home.”
I wait, determined, and the nearby treetops bend over the tiny
spruce until finally a gentle tinkling begins deep inside at its trunk,
radiating to the tips of the boughs at my side. I caress the singing branch,
then wave an arm to the shop owner.
Tea Leaf Tales is a series of original ten-sentence short
stories by Marsha A. Moore, relating to photos/scenes that resonate with her.
Read more Tea Leaf Tales archived in Marsha’s Mercantile of Tea Leaf
Tales.
Author Info
Marsha A. Moore loves to write fantasy and
paranormal romance. Much of her life feeds the creative flow she uses to weave
highly imaginative tales.
The magic of art and nature spark life into
her writing, as well as other pursuits of watercolor painting and drawing.
She’s been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and is a registered yoga
teacher. Her practice helps weave the mystical into her writing. After a move
from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transformed into a Floridian, in
love with the outdoors where she’s always on the lookout for portals to other
worlds. Marsha is crazy about cycling. She lives with her husband on a large
saltwater lagoon, where taking her kayak out is a real treat. She never has
enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at stories with toes
wiggling in the sand. Every day at the beach is magical!
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