Witch's Nocturne: Moonsongs, #2

By E.J. Wesley

After receiving an ancient tribal journal from her grandfather, Jenny is sent on a mission of discovery in an attempt to unravel clues to her family's monster hunting past. The journey becomes more than academic when she is asked to confront a coven of dangerous witches who plan to cast an insidious spell on the plains of West Texas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.J. Wesley
• Release date: Mar 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524209865

Book preview

Witch’s Nocturne

Despite being cocooned inside a warm vehicle, my arms prickled. Outside, a gray November sky churned, spitting moisture on a small, tidy graveyard below. A distant willow tree, limbs only dotted with leaves this late in the season, whipped about wildly in a gusting breeze. Beneath the tree were three graves, but only two of them were filled. I smiled.

There wasn’t much fond recollection in the gesture. Truthfully, I’d barely known any of the names on the headstones. However, I did owe the man who belonged in the empty grave some credit for my excited mood. Thanks to him, my life had been transformed, a revolution twenty-two years in the making.

A glance at my mother’s headstone, the one furthest to the left in the trio, sent my foot stretching toward the accelerator in the floorboard. My hand paused on the gearshift.

I should get out and pay my respects…

That’s why I’d come out here, wasn’t it? I’d only visited Mom’s grave twice since she’d died. One of those times had been at Granny’s funeral, a little over a year ago. I wasn’t even sure if that counted.

A familiar cauldron of anger and regret bubbled over in my gut.

Wasn’t their fault I had no relationship with them…

But was it mine? After Mom died, my alcoholic father had kept me away from my only living grandparents. Dad was dead and gone by the age of sixteen. I’d thought Grandpa had died somewhere in between. That left just Granny and me. We were reluctant housemates until cancer drew a line through her name. Suddenly, I was alone, twisting in the breeze like the last leaf on a barren and dying family tree.

Then Grandpa showed back up.

I revved the engine of the pickup to an angry roar and banged my fist on the steering wheel. A couple of skinny blackbirds perched on a granite cross nearby took to the air. Their muted, laughing squawks filtered through the windows as the engine idled down.

Even they think I’m a chicken shit, I muttered.

I sighed, and put the truck into drive. Seeing Mom’s and Granny’s expiration dates plastered on a rock—like some kind of fucking geological milk carton—was more than I cared to bite off for one day.

I’d made the trip.

Next time, I’ll actually get out of the car, Mom.

By the time I’d driven home, the giddy optimism had been beaten out of me, not knowing why I’d even gone to the graveyard. It’s wasn’t like my ghost family would be hanging out, waiting to give me props for finally beginning to figure my life out. Even if they had been there, I had news for them: their little caterpillar was more of an ugly, floundering moth than dazzling butterfly.

A visit to the rusted mailbox at the curb confirmed just how little I’d grown. Another cutoff notice on my water bill waited for me. I owed thirty dollars. I spent more on my weekly energy drink habit for Christ’s sake. Even at twenty-two, I could still find creative ways to epically suck at being a responsible adult.

Honestly, other than not being able to flush a toilet, I couldn’t say I'd have missed the water much. Any old Western movie was all the proof I needed to know only dying men and animals would drink anything but whiskey out here on the Texas plains. God only knew the last time they ran tests on the stuff they were passing off as tap water.

Most of the H2O came from Lake Hollow, a modest-sized reservoir, located outside of town near the cemetery. The lake was a cool place to throw a keg party—and an algae lover’s paradise—but our little watering hole wasn't of much use to anyone in need of more than a brown shower.

After shipping a chunk of money off to the bloodsuckers at city hall, I checked my Craigslist accounts. I’d need to replace the thirty bucks soon, or go into caffeine withdrawal.

My computer and video game repair listing, the day job, didn’t have any hits. Strangely, I felt relieved.

Not like I didn’t need the work. Cutoff notices don’t go to the paying customers, after all. Plus, my landlord—and best friend—had been on my ass about the rent again. For reasons only the old and death-bound understood, Granny had decided I didn’t need to own the house. She left the home to her dedicated hospice nurse, with the proviso he allowed me to live there and pay rent.

Marshal had been hassling me ever since. No jobs meant no money, and I’d have to listen to his you need to grow up speech yet again. But, it also meant I wouldn’t have anything to distract me from digging around in my past. And my past had gotten pretty compelling of late.

Before Grandpa died—the second time—I learned he had been a dedicated Apache Indian, and a great hunter. I hadn’t realized he hunted monsters until he pulled the classic werewolf bait-and-switch, with me as the bait. That’s also when I learned I was to follow in his freaky footsteps. Which was cool for someone who’d never had much of an identity, but scary for a monster killing newbie. And I was both.

He’d also given me an ancient tribal journal—sort of a Cliff’s Notes, D.I.Y. for Apache monster hunters. The journal had been passed down by my mother’s ancestors to one person in each generation, the hunter. Grandpa said the journal would give me answers.

Simple.

Figured I’d skim through it on my potty breaks. Except this was no goddamn cookbook. Most of the notes had been written over the course of a few hundred years, in languages so forgotten a hieroglyph would call them dusty. Basically, I couldn’t make a bit of sense out of it.

I was thinking about the journal, and the hidden answers within, when I scanned my newly established Moonsong PI account. The PI stood for Paranormal Investigator. I thought the name was pretty clever, until Marshal said it made me sound like a Ghostbuster.

Whatever.

I’d set up the special listing the day after I put a silver bullet, or three, in Grandpa—which didn’t make me a murderer. He’d tricked me into visiting him so I’d be forced to kill him, and the creature he’d become, or die trying. In the end, I survived.

Anyway, advertising made some sense. If the old man had been right, there was a lot of twisted stuff going down out there.