Wiccan Moonlight

By Lori J. Schiele

A fiendish crone is plotting against Alex and her werewolf lover . . . and that's just the beginning.

Things have settled down for practicing witch, Alex Grisham. It has been two years since evil touched her life and that of her Sisters in the Laurel Tree Coven. And her love life is incredible--her partner Dan is everything she ever wanted in a man, even if he is a werewolf. All is well.

If it weren't for the dreams . . .

Alex has been plagued by menacing nightmares, centering on a malevolent old woman working some sort of dark magic. The dreams leave her on edge, waiting for the worst. Still, she tries to discount them as only her imagination.

Until the murders start.

Someone is committing ritualistic killings in Alex's community. Alex and her Sisters get involved in the case, but any answers they find only lead to more questions. Meanwhile, trouble is brewing for Alex at home. Dan is fighting his inner wolf . . . and the wolf seems to be winning.

Then Alex discovers the chilling truth. The crone in her nightmares is very, very real . . . and she's been controlling Dan's wolf. But Dan is just a part of a much bigger plan. The old woman is creating the ultimate ritual, one that will unleash an ancient, unholy evil on the world.

Alex has to find a way to stop her--even if it costs her the life of the man she loves . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611945348

Lori J. Schiele

Born and raised just outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Lori J. Schiele is an eclectic Wiccan with a deep and devoted love for animals, especially cats and wolves. She currently lives in Philadelphia with her boyfriend, nine "special needs" cats and a tankful of fish. Wiccan Shadows, Book One of the Wiccan Sisterhood is her first published novel.

Book preview

Wiccan Moonlight

We humans fear the beast within the wolf because we do not understand the beast within ourselves.

—Gerald Hausman from Turtle Island Alphabet

... I am the beauty of the green Earth and the white Moon among the stars...

—Excerpt from Charge of the Goddess

Now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon.

—Shakespeare

They say the wolf bestows its... spirit to help people. Women who obtain this spirit become skilled in creative endeavors and experience a strengthening of the senses. I would like to think there is some truth to this in my own life.

—Judi Rideout, Alaskan wildlife artist

Also by Lori J. Schiele

from ImaJinn Books

Wiccan Shadows

Wiccan Moonlight

The Wiccan Sisterhood Book Two

by

Lori J. Schiele

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-534-8

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-549-2

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2014 by Lori J. Schiele

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

ImaJinnBooks.com

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Wolf eyes (manipulated) © Cynoclub | Dreamstime.com

Couple (manipulated) © Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

Forest (manipulated) © Merydolla | Dreamstime.com

:Amwd:01:

Dedications

To Linda Jo Kichline, my late editor at ImaJinn Publishing who helped me to make Wiccan Shadows the best it could be. And to my new editor, Brenda Chin, for stepping in to help Wiccan Moonlight come to life.

To my mom and dad, for always loving and supporting me. To my older sister for assisting in accurate information about children and local geography.

As always, to my family of feline fourleggers who help make my life worthwhile: Jubilee, Piper, Julie, Pigeon, Merlin, Blackbird, Cooper, Bug, and Brenin (and to Clovis, Harley, Gambit, Scotty, and Logan who have passed onto Summerland). And especially to my beloved familiar, Bamf, who was nearly twenty when she left me to join them there. You are always in my heart.

Last but not least, to all of you, dear readers, for helping make Wiccan Shadows a bigger hit than I ever could’ve imagined. Many hugs and howls to you all.

Blessed be.

Prologue

YELLOW-GRAY SMOKE belched from the black cauldron, thick and noxious, the color of rancid pus. Bubbles formed on the opaque and purulent surface. The old woman hunched over the cauldron in anticipation, cackling with insane glee, a rapacious sound that sent even her aged and arthritic black hound slinking off to safety.

Hobbling back to her altar, its wooden surface battered and scarred, she raised her bone-handled knife and continued to dice up her offering. Blood coated the blade and her gnarled fingers and seeped into the cracks of the altar’s splintered surface.

She knew that witches, the ones who called themselves Wiccans, would never approve of her offerings, nor would their pansy gods. But the gods she dealt with—had worshipped for centuries—expected offerings of tender flesh, of raw meat stripped from the bones of the young and innocent, preferably human, although prey animals would do.

The tiny, cluttered room, lit only by candlelight and the fire beneath the cauldron, was thick with smoke and shadows, some escaping through a small opening in the bowed, wooden ceiling. She dropped the meat one bloody, sinewy chunk at a time into the bubbling cauldron, the fat producing large, round globules that floated to the surface. A thick, putrid stench rose up as entrails burst in the heat. The liquid hissed and squealed, a sound not unlike that of a dying animal. Again, the woman laughed, cackling with insane mirth.

Had the world seen her and thought her to be a witch, the Burning Times would surely have begun again in a panic. But that had been centuries ago, and she was nowhere she could be overseen by mortal eyes.

Not yet.

Chapter One

A dim candlelit space, a disturbing smoky smell, the fading sound of cackling laughter...

I CAUGHT MYSELF gazing, unseeingly, into the bedroom mirror, hairbrush frozen mid-stroke through my dark chestnut hair. Whatever images had initially distracted me were there and then gone, like a whisper in a windstorm. I drew a deep breath to clear my mind. It was important to finish preparing for the evening ritual. Robyn was counting on me.

At nineteen, Robyn was the youngest member of our tiny coven. She’d just been initiated from dedicant to a full member of the Laurel Tree Coven. Tonight she was hosting her first esbat—our monthly full moon ritual—and she would most definitely be nervous. Robyn didn’t do nervous well.

Through the mirror’s reflection, I saw Angel slink from under the bed behind me, a small, purple sachet in her jaws. She was a beautiful long-haired kitten, mostly black with white paws, chest and muzzle, and a small black spot under her nose like a mustache. Almost a year old, she still overflowed with kitten vigor and curiosity. The world was her playground and everything a potential toy.

What do you have? I scolded, recognizing the sachet of lavender from under my pillow.

Angel glanced over her shoulder and fixed me with her striking celery-green eyes. The sachet hung from her jaws like dead prey, the drawstrings dangling like a rodent’s tail.

I had found Angel as a few-weeks-old feral kitten—or rather, she found me—and she had assumed the place as my familiar. My last familiar, an irreplaceable Abyssinian named Rune, had died protecting me. Even a year later, my heart still suffered the loss like a gaping wound. Like a piece wrenched from my very soul. A painful, stabbing ache in my chest nearly stole my breath at the very thought of him.

Determined, I shoved the thoughts away in order to regain the positive energy achieved from my earlier meditation and ceremonial bath. After all, Robyn was relying on me, and I didn’t want to let her down.

However, it wasn’t only Robyn and Rune that distracted me. There was also my boyfriend, Dan.

Every full moon while I joined the coven for ritual, Dan went out alone. He didn’t spend the night at the local bar, playing poker with friends, or going to strip clubs. Instead, while I was honoring the Goddess, he was out hunting.

It was impossible to leave my concerns for him completely behind. I worried about where he was and what he was doing. It wasn’t drugs or infidelity that concerned me. It was murder. After all, Dan was a werewolf.

I slipped a T-shirt over my head as goose bumps peppered my skin. The hair on the back of my neck rose and my body shuddered with anticipation. Glancing in the mirror, I met Dan’s reflection. He leaned casually against the door jamb, all 6›2» of pure magnificence.

My gaze traced over his nearly perfect form: naturally tanned skin, broad shoulders, firm and hair-dappled chest, narrow waist, powerful sinewy arms, and incredibly strong and skillful hands. The five o’clock shadow on his unshaven cheeks and firm jaw, and his oh-so-kissable lips. He’d recently begun to let his dark hair grow and it rested just short of his shoulders.

I saved his eyes for last, knowing I could become hopelessly lost within the depths of his mesmerizing gaze. Yet, once I’d finished my physical scrutiny, I saw that his eyes weren’t their usual hypnotic blue but were, instead, ringed with the emerald-green of his wolf.

He wore only paint-spattered sweatpants, a dark T-shirt tossed over one bare shoulder. The early June evening was clear and warm and he was barefoot.

Dan had been bitten about six years earlier by what had reportedly been a very large stray dog—but had obviously been some sort of lycanthrope—and a part of him had gone dormant, if not actually died, leaving room for the wolf to reside within him. It seemed as though my ability to commune with the dead also permitted me to sense the wolf, or at least that was one theory.

We also had a solid connection linked by his pheromones—sexual hormones that animals emitted during mating season, and that shapeshifters could emit at will. Besides that, we were—very humanly—in love.

About ready, Alex? Although slightly huskier than usual, Dan’s voice still managed to caress my soul like fingers buried deep within thick, velvety fur.

Just about. You? I didn’t need to ask. Although trying to appear calm, his body overflowed with excess energy. The wolf peered out at me through Dan’s blue-going-green eyes, impatient, straining to run free.

I rose and crossed the room, pausing to snatch the sachet of herbs from Angel on my way. Ignoring her childlike psychic complaints, I met Dan in the doorway.

His gaze swept over my body like a warm current and a light smile of approval curved his heavenly lips. He slid one firm, well-toned arm around my waist and guided me against him. Heat radiated off his skin like a furnace, the wolf’s metabolism much faster than a human’s. Dan’s scent enveloped me, not soap or cologne, but his own unique woodsy scent: natural and comforting, like fresh-mown grass, wood chips, or pine needles. Tonight, there was also the now familiar spicy tang of musk—an animal scent—the wolf prowling inside him like a caged beast.

With one hand against my back, Dan used the other to shift my hair aside so he could brush his lips against the side of my neck, just below the ear. It was one of my erogenous zones, as he well knew. His pheromones flowed around me, consuming me, filling me with an intense and lascivious hunger that made my mouth go dry and my knees grow weak. His fingertips nimbly stroked my back, my shoulders, my arms, causing my blood to churn with a need that roared through my body with the weight and speed of a freight train.

A shuddered sigh escaped my lips as I leaned into him and his lips brushed against mine. My hands rose of their own accord to touch his bare chest, to stroke the muscles rippling beneath his heated skin. I opened myself to him and the kiss deepened, lingered, his tongue slipping between my lips.

Before I was ready, he gently pulled away, leaving me hungry for more. But as I looked up, I saw his wolf eyes gleam. And when he spoke, his canine teeth—top and bottom—had begun to elongate. His voice rumbled. I’d better go. It’s getting late.

I nodded, momentarily unable to speak. After all this time, I was still helpless before the power of his pheromones. Usually, Dan had them under conscious control, but when the moon rose full and bright in the sky, his inhibitions were lowered, as was his restraint.

Be careful, I said, my fingers continually stroking his arms, his chest, as if unable to stop touching him.

You, too. Our eyes met and lingered a moment more. Just his gaze, now more green than blue, sent another rush of carnal need coursing through me, but ripping off what little clothing he wore and ravaging him, although extremely tempting, would make us both late and that was something we couldn’t afford. Not tonight. He needed to get somewhere safe, and I had a ritual to attend. I forced myself to step out of reach, although the desire still lingered.

It’ll be a long night, he told me. I’m going up to Lake Nockamixin.

All the way up there? The drive to Lake Nockamixin, a state park, was on a stretch of mostly open highways west of our home—a rather scenic drive actually—but was also close to forty-five minutes to an hour away.

I heard they have a deer over-population problem. He grinned, showing off his perfect teeth and pointed canines. Thought I’d help out.

I glanced at the bedside clock. Do you have time?

Although his eyes and teeth had begun the Shift, Dan was still early in the transformation, but I always worried. There’s time as long as I leave soon, he replied.

Be careful, I told him yet again.

I will.

Dan often tried to make light of his situation, but I knew he resented the wolf. As a boy, he never believed in monsters. No boogeyman had ever haunted his bedroom closet or crouched in waiting beneath his bed. Werewolves—like vampires, ghosts, and zombies—had been mere fantasy. Fairy tales that made good movies and stalked the nighttime shadows of young, naïve minds. Growing up, he’d had no use for the paranormal, and never did until he became a part of it himself.

Dan’s human side—an Animal Control officer for Bucks County, Pennsylvania—resented his wolf chasing down and killing the very animals he’d sworn to protect. But the wolf inside him had its own agenda, and the tremendous energy required to Shift left him irrepressibly ravenous, no matter how much he ate beforehand. And with his metabolism soaring at an incredible rate, his wolf—freed and eager—demanded the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the hunt, and a satisfying meal of fresh, hot and bloody meat, no matter what kind.

Unable to control, or even communicate or compromise with, his uninvited and unwanted lupine counterpart, Dan sought the only solution he could. Each month when the moon grew full, he headed for unpopulated wooded areas where neighborhood pets—and neighbors—were a safe distance from his chosen hunting ground. His wolf, instead, sated itself on wild, crepuscular prey: deer, rabbit, possum, or raccoon. So far, it had worked well for both of them. Except for a single incident involving a poodle and its panicked and, fortunately uninjured, owner that still haunted his conscience.

Dan had a faded scar on his left shoulder from the woman’s vain attempt to save her already dead dog. She had managed to drive the sharp kitchen knife completely through Dan’s wolf shoulder and—although not silver—it had left a puckered scar on both his chest and back, as if a reminder of that single mistake. It was one he swore would never be repeated.

Dan slipped his shirt over his head while my gaze eagerly followed his movements. I yearned to touch him again. His eyes met mine, the emerald green beginning to shimmer, his wolf impatient and eager to run free.

I love you, he said, his voice almost a guttural growl, the enunciation slightly hampered by his elongated teeth.

I love you too, I replied. Be careful, I said one last time.

See you... morning, he managed to say, then turned and stalked from the room, a hunter on two legs, but not for much longer.

His heat and scent lingered after he was gone, finally replaced by my own scent of jasmine, lavender and rose petals. Angel watched me with childlike regret as I tucked the lavender sachet back under my pillow.

Once my body and mind were clear of Dan’s pheromonal effects, my thoughts shifted back to Robyn. Tonight, for the first time, it would be her sole responsibility to create the sacred Circle, evoke the spirits and lead the ritual. I knew she was capable, but she was also young and still inexperienced. She would want everything to be perfect, and I wanted to get there early in case she needed help or advice with the final preparations. And, most likely, to calm her, which wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. A stressed-out Robyn could be as volatile as a Molotov cocktail just waiting for the right ignition source to cause an explosion, usually leaving an area of mass destruction in her wake.

Chapter Two

DAMN IT, DEBBIE, give it back!

I knocked on the screen door, then let myself inside, Angel draped over my shoulders like a living fur stole. Following Robyn’s slew of curses, we found her in the living room.

The television blared a hiss of static, but the young girl’s attention was on her familiar: a tiny, three-legged raccoon currently hunched in front of the unlit fireplace. Between his hind legs lay a black rectangular shape that appeared to be a remote control.

I stifled back a sympathetic, yet amused chuckle. Having a little problem, Rob?

Nothing that a tranquilizer gun won’t fix, she snapped, never taking her eyes off the raccoon. Then, drawing in a deep breath that was released as a sigh, Robyn let her voice take on a soft, pleading tone. Why tonight, Debbie? Why now?

Like a raven, Debbie—named before his gender was verified—liked to find and confiscate small and shiny objects, especially earrings and car keys. Tonight, however, for reasons known only to him, the raccoon had fixated on the black plastic TV remote and was in the midst of straddling the device, trying to conceal it with his too-tiny body.

Robyn finally looked to me, her usually pale face blazing red with frustration. If you ever hear anyone say that living with a raccoon going through social maturity is easy, tell them they’re full of shit, she cursed.

I dutifully nodded, knowing there was very little chance of ever having that conversation with anyone except Robyn. Meanwhile, I found myself envisioning a rag being shoved into a glass bottle of kerosene.

Debbie and Robyn had been nearly inseparable since the very first moment they laid eyes on each other. I had almost run the tiny raccoon over one dark, rainy night. He’d been emaciated and flea-ridden, his left front leg shriveled and nearly useless. His tail was hairless and scaly, more like a rat’s, and mostly devoid of the typical raccoon rings. He had been an utterly pathetic specimen, but with Robyn’s constant care and assistance from Jen’s husband, Mark—the head veterinarian of a local animal clinic—Debbie had steadily improved, mending his physical wounds, and working hard on his emotional ones. Debbie was certainly Robyn’s familiar, a companion more neurotic than his human Wiccan counterpart.

Now, however, social maturity had struck the raccoon like a flaming meteor, blazing a path of destruction through Robyn’s life. Like a human teenager, Debbie had become openly disobedient and constantly challenged Robyn’s authority. Neutering hadn’t prevented it, as we’d hoped, and now even routine nail trimming and deworming had become a chore. But he was her familiar, and she his witch.

With no success concealing the remote beneath his tiny, eight-pound body, Debbie attempted a new tactic. With one end clutched in his needle-sharp teeth, he began to drag the device backward across the carpet like a one-sided tug of war.

Seeing her chance, Robyn swooped down and plucked the device from his jaws. Debbie chittered in complaint, glaring at her with his black, glistening eyes surrounded by the typical raccoon mask.

Having silently watched the display, Angel hopped from my shoulders and bounded over to greet Debbie. The raccoon and kitten sniffed noses, then Angel raised a paw and, with claws sheathed, smacked Debbie across the nose—whap, whap.

I snatched Angel off the floor by the scruff of her neck. Hey, that’s no way to treat another familiar.

The over-stimulated kitten responded by chomping on my thumb.

Although Angel was only being high-strung and playful, her teeth were sharp, and I bit back a curse as I dislodged my thumb from her mouth. With a telepathic reprimand, I set her on the floor then checked my thumb for damage. Fortunately, there was no blood, just tiny, stinging indentations in the skin.

Meanwhile, forgetting Robyn’s earlier tirade or his own bad behavior, Debbie, startled by Angel’s playful aggression, scrambled for the safety of Robyn’s shoulders. His claws dug through fabric into skin, causing Robyn to gasp in pain, but she didn’t attempt to remove the frightened familiar from her shoulder.

Before Debbie had entered her life, Robyn had favored miniskirts and off-the-shoulder blouses. Now that her easily spooked and neurotic raccoon spent a good portion of time on her shoulders or scaling her leg, Robyn had been forced to alter her wardrobe to minimize scars inadvertently made by his claws. She now wore mostly T-shirts and jeans; however, little else about her had changed.

Tonight, the top of her hair stood tall and spiked, the remainder hanging midway down her back. All of it had been newly dyed a shiny black. Her lips and fingernails were painted crimson, and large silver crescent moons dangled from her earlobes. Regardless of Debbie, Robyn still insisted on an excess of jewelry: a ring for each finger, a dozen bangle bracelets, multiple ear piercings, as well as the protective bloodstone amulet worn on a silver chain around her neck. In a celebratory rebellion after moving out of her parents’ house, she also now had one eyebrow, and her left nostril, pierced.

One benefit of moving into her own place was that she no longer had to hide her Wiccan practices from her parents and could maintain a permanent altar of her own.

Can I see the altar? I asked as Angel darted away without remorse for biting me.

With the raccoon still clinging to her shoulders, Robyn led the way upstairs to the altar room.

Although just barely out of her teens, Robyn owned the old Victorian in Horsham Township mortgage-free. Celia, our once high priestess who’d been killed around the same time that I’d lost Rune, had left the entire house and property to Robyn.

Over a year had passed since Celia’s death, but Robyn had done little to change the house, as if perhaps expecting Celia to somehow magickally return. The altar room was no exception.

Acting as a spare bedroom on the second floor, the room contained a fourposter bed with Celia’s homemade, pink-flowered quilt that matched the faded, pink-flowered wallpaper. A cedar chest rested at the foot of the bed. The single window stood open, but there was no breeze to shift the lacy curtains. The air held the sweet odor of incense and scented candles.

An antique wooden vanity stood near the north-facing wall. There was no altar cloth since Celia had long ago intricately carved a pentacle—an upright five-pointed star within a circle—into the smooth, wooden surface. On the left side stood a black candle, on the right, a white one. Two small chalices rested on the altar, one of consecrated water and the other of sea salt, along with a thin, eight-inch long pine branch and an incense burner. Robyn’s athame—a black-handled, double-edged, ceremonial dagger—also adorned the surface, as well as her own personal power items placed toward the very back of the vanity’s surface: a chunk of unpolished amethyst and a small pewter faerie figurine clasping a glass vial of glittery, sky blue faerie dust. To honor the Goddess, a moonstone and a silver crescent moon pendant rested beside the white candle.

Tonight, for the first time, it was Robyn’s duty to lead the ritual, to create the sacred Circle, as well as to summon the elements—earth, air, fire and water—and to invite the Lord and Lady to join us. Robyn had seen it done numerous times, but never before had all responsibility rested on her. It was an honor, but a duty not to be taken lightly.

I gestured toward the incense burner placed to the east side of the altar.

Sandalwood and frankincense, Robyn said, as if responding to a test question. She pointed to the four colored candles placed on the hardwood floor where the Circle’s boundary would be created, asking silently for my approval. She chewed her bottom lip, a nervous gesture that made her appear years younger.

I glanced over the candles and their positions. Each had been set in a specific location, symbolizing both a direction and an element.

Everything looks good, I said and Robyn released a held breath. The dedication is ready?

She nodded, fumbling a wrinkled piece of paper from her pocket. The floor has already been swept, too, she told me as her lip chewing resumed.

Prior to casting a Circle, it was common practice to use a specific broom—sometimes called a besom—to clear the area of both physical and psychic debris.

You’ll do fine, I assured her.

She looked like she might be sick.

JEN AND HER familiar, an antisocial tomcat named Julius, arrived shortly after nine. As the time neared, Robyn’s self-confidence began to disintegrate even further and I feared she might actually chew her bottom lip completely off. She clung to Debbie, stroking his gray-brown fur, and fingering his sparsely furred tail.

Everything ready? Jen asked as Julius slunk off. Even after all these years, only Jen could get near the ex-feral cat. We knew he wouldn’t reappear until it was time to cast the Circle.

All set, Robyn replied with false confidence. Her naturally pale skin had gone ghostly white, her bottom lip red and swollen. Her brown doe-like eyes were immense. I touched Robyn’s arm and she jumped.

You’ll be fine, I reminded her.

Jen must have noticed the near panic in the young girl’s face. The Goddess doesn’t care about the exact words. She cares about the emotions and the sincerity behind them. We’re here to celebrate and honor Her, not give you an aneurysm. Relax.

Although brusquely stated, Jen’s words were true, and they seemed to help as Robyn closed her eyes and drew in a slow, deep breath. Her lip chewing finally ceased.

Shall we? Jen asked and, together, we headed upstairs to the altar room and changed into our robes. Some covens practiced skyclad—naked—but we wore hoodless, dark red satin robes with quarter-length sleeves and a brown sash.

Debbie, unwillingly removed from Robyn’s shoulder, curled up in a cat bed in the corner of the room while Angel made herself comfortable in our pile of doffed clothing. Julius slunk in and disappeared beneath the bed. The familiars didn’t need to be within the Circle. Their mere presence was enough for most rituals.

The main purpose of our monthly esbat—or full moon ritual—was to offer our thanks and reinstate our faith in the Goddess and Her consort, the God. Together, the Lord and Lady oversaw everything above and below. Jen had been right when she said that emotions and sincerity were more important than any actual spoken words. However, I also remembered how nervous I had been leading my first ritual so long ago.

Jen and I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor and waited, offering silent reassurance while Robyn took several deep, cleansing breaths, drawing up courage. The aromatic incense smoke drifted throughout the room: the woodsy sweetness of sandalwood cutting the sharp, medicinal bite of frankincense as Robyn began the ritual to create the sacred Circle, an invisible boundary around, above and below us, creating a complete bubble of protective energy.

As she finished, I felt the magickal energy rise like a charged breath of fresh air, almost like the scent of ozone. The energy surrounded us, sensed—but also seen—as a glowing bluish-white light by my third eye. My skin tingled in a soothing and familiar way.

The Circle was complete. Now, the actual ritual could begin.

Chapter Three

ROBYN APPEARED slightly calmer and was obviously relieved that her energy manifestation had been successful. Still standing in the center of the now-enclosed Circle, she awkwardly pulled the piece of crumbled paper from her robe pocket. She paused, glancing over it briefly, then spoke, her voice slightly shaky.

"North is earth and east is air,

Mighty Ones, attend us here.

South is fire and west, the sea.

Lord and Lady, come to me."

She paused for breath and continued the invocation, glancing at the paper now and then. As she continued, her voice slowly lost its tremor.

"I cast this Circle round about;

Keep power in and evil out.

Time out of time and place not a place,

I now pronounce this sacred space.

East and south and west and north,

Above, below and center,

I call the elements to come forth,

And now let magick enter."

Again, there was a brief pause before she continued.

"My gracious Lord and Lady bright,

We welcome You, be here tonight.

Lend us now Your energy.

This Circle’s cast, so mote it be."

Jen and I bowed our heads and uttered, So mote it be.

Robyn joined us on the floor within the circle of lit candles. It was obvious that her success, and the positive energy created, had calmed her. I gave my young coven sister a light smile of encouragement.

Not all of our monthly rituals were used for magickal work, but when necessary, the full moon was often the most powerful time. This full moon, our magick was a healing spell directed toward a witch from the Sisters of the Red Fern, another local coven.

Although we usually only attended sabbats—the eight major holy days—with other covens, we were all still one within the eyes of the Goddess. An email, a text message, a phone call... all it took was a word that someone had a problem of some kind and all of the local covens joined together—usually spiritually, not physically—prepared to tackle the difficulty head-on through both mundane and magickal means.

For the healing spell, Jen had prepared a poppet, a small cloth doll. Within the doll had been placed a garnet stone, dried lavender, and echinacea. Four drops of sandalwood oil were added to the cotton filler. The three of us chanted, channeling the power of the Goddess, and of the full moon, to fill the doll with healing energy directed toward our failing Red Fern sister.

"Hear us as we weave this spell.

Goddess, make our sister well.

With the magick of this charm,

Her illness will no longer harm..."

We continued to repeat the chant, raising our voices and instilling our will and the appropriate healing energy into the poppet until it nearly overflowed with the glowing light