Druid's Moon

By Deniz Bevan

Beauty to his Beast...

Lyne Vanlith, an archaeologist who seeks a logical explanation to any mystery, discovers an ancient Druidic curse on her first dig. When the signs foretold by the curse descend on her, Lyne can’t find a reasonable interpretation.

And that’s even before a Beast rescues her from a monstrous sea-creature. She drops a grateful kiss on the snout of the Beast, who transforms into a man, Frederick Cunnick, Baron of Lansladron. Lyne is meant to be Beauty to his Beast—and break the curse forever.
Now both spellkeeper and monster are targeting Lyne. She must take up her legendary role, to defeat the curse and save Frederick—and herself. Instead of logic, for the first time, Lyne must trust her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dancing Lemur Press LLC
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781939844873

Deniz Bevan

A firm believer in burning the candle at both ends, Deniz Bevan is generally writing a new novel while editing another and blogging about her reading and research adventures. Other days, she tries to stay off the web altogether, as she delves into the history, mystery, and romance of her characters’ lives.

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘The Curse of the Octopus,’ Lyne read, translating the Middle English script. Octopus had to be wrong, for a start.

A sudden gust of wind across the mouth of the cave riffled the sheet in her hand. She held the paper closer, angled towards the grey afternoon light filtering through from outside, and reread the first line, this time aloud.

Octopus? Are you certain of that? Professor Meadwell, her PhD supervisor, gave her one of his trademark try-harder-lowly-student looks from over the top of his glasses.

From the moment she’d been accepted to his team on a dig at Afanc Cave in Cornwall, Lyne had secretly hoped for an exciting, mysterious find, or at least an object that might earn her a co-writing credit on the professor’s paper. But the manuscript that turned up in the first week of excavations was not quite the type of puzzle she had allowed herself to daydream about.

She’d rather not consult the dictionary—or ask the professor’s advice—so soon and moved on to the next two lines. Beast brought forth by man’s blood / the mound-keeper repays the sacrifice but shall sense the wind.

A thrill went through her at the words. There was violence inherent in their tone, even if she had no idea what the phrases meant. Images came to mind of warriors raising a cairn, robed men circling a low mound, a gleam of yellow eyes in the dark under the ground. The breeze fluttered the corners of the paper. Rain clouds gathered, and the evening light grew shadowy and dim.

Professor Meadwell slipped the sheet from her grasp and stepped across to the trestle table, lighting one of the battery-powered lamps. Lyne hurried after him, boots clomping on the uneven stone floor.

The rest of the team worked outside, tiny figures in the distance, kneeling on grass and mud. As the student with the highest qualifications in Celtic studies among the professor’s assistants that spring, Lyne had been given her choice of location on the site. After a test pit unearthed some intriguing pottery sherds and a dagger handle, she’d chosen to excavate by the northern boundary, overlooking the formal gardens of Cockerell Manor. Yesterday, she’d barely started work near the old well when she uncovered the crumbling manuscript, suspiciously close to the surface. The team had all gathered when they saw her race back to the cave to alert the professor and gather up the protective covering and other tools.

The lack of other objects in the soil around the scroll, whether directly beneath it or even a few contexts down, had baffled both her and the professor. There wasn’t so much as a lead case that might once have held the lone parchment. Lyne had discovered it unrolled, but the creases lining the page showed it had been tightly curled for a long time before someone buried it flat.

After hours of careful digging and brushwork, they’d wrapped up the manuscript and sent it for testing at the nearest conservation centre.

We’ll have to wait for the tests, of course, but I believe this manuscript predates our excavations thus far, the professor said, speaking slowly, as though reluctant to make such a claim for the mystery manuscript so early in their study of the artefact.

Lyne had taken high-resolution photos of the original vellum from every angle. That afternoon she’d received permission to put off her other assigned tasks, to remain in the makeshift office and storeroom set up in the entrance to Afanc Cave and begin work on a translation from the printout of the clearest image. If only her mind could be as nimble as her fingers.

If this is an authentic document, the professor added, we must determine how it came to be so near the surface, unprotected.

They excavated on land owned by the wealthy Cockerell family. Afanc Cave was a known Druidic site, but the Cockerell family had never permitted an excavation before. One of Lady Cockerell’s first demands had included the erection of a fence, to delineate the limits of where the professor and his team were permitted to pass. No one could get in without a pass and the alarm code. They’d even sealed the cave opening, adding a set of wooden doors.

Besides, who’d break in just to bury a fake ancient curse? If there was any chance that the manuscript was genuine, Lyne wanted to be part of the investigation from first to last. She cudgelled her brains, aiming to be the first to work out a practical theory for the manuscript’s location.

She climbed onto a stool and pushed aside laptops and cameras, sample boxes and contact charts, clearing space on the table for the printout. The rising wind rattled the sheet, and she slapped a hand over it to keep it from blowing away. Professor Meadwell cast a scowl at the half-open doors. But Lyne glanced back, towards the narrower opening that led deeper into the caverns. The wind seemed to have come from there.

Blasted weather. The professor slammed the doors shut and returned to stand beside her. There seems to be a mark here, he said, his finger creating a shadow on the page. If we take it as the letter ‘e’, then it changes the meaning.

Instead of ‘wind’, then— She stopped, but the professor didn’t offer an alternate translation. He could easily read the Middle English without her. Despite the high-resolution image, the faded ink was hard to make out, especially with the professor hovering, questioning her every interpretation with a raised brow. Perhaps it’s ‘wave’, she offered. This cave is on the coast, after all.

Read on, Professor Meadwell commanded.

Slowly, tracing each line with a hovering finger, she read the rest of the inscription aloud, trying to remember everything she’d ever studied about Celtic legends and Norman tales at McGill University and in her online extra credit courses. The last line was the hardest to decipher and the nearest she got was unless Beast be freed and Octopus fall / Yet no-hope rules lest Beauty calls.

What does that mean? She’d promised herself never to act uncertain in front of the professor—the highest authority on Celtic scholarship in Europe—and hurried on with a suggestion. If it refers to a woman who falls in love with the beast and—

I hardly think it’s as fanciful as that, the professor snapped. We’re dealing with Druids, Miss Vanlith. The educated class. Not old wives’ and fireside tales.

A damp breeze came up from the caverns and, thwarted by the closed doors, wafted round to them. Lyne’s shoulders shivered, but she held herself still at once.

Yes, sir. Professor Meadwell was right. No point in inventing stories. Once they had a solid date for the original vellum, she could work out the real meaning of the curse—or whatever it was—and what connection, if any, it might contain to older Celtic lore. Then she could impress him with her deductions. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.

Yet her mind continued to dwell on the image of the glowing eyes of a creature trapped under the earth.

Chapter 2

Lyne drew her head down as far as she could into the collar of her raincoat and shifted her grocery bag to hang on her wrist, leaving both hands free to wrestle with her umbrella. A gust of wind pushed at her shoulders. Swirling upwards, it ripped out one of the prongs of the umbrella, and the whole thing turned inside out. She clutched at the wet and slippery handle with both hands, even as the wind tugged her down to the street corner.

She tossed the broken umbrella in the nearest bin and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her raincoat, looking ahead to home and a hot bath.

The grey skies had lowered on her the minute she’d stepped out her door that morning. They’d reached the last week of the wettest April England had seen in over a century; it had been even wetter here in the town of Trewissick-on-Sea in Cornwall.

All day she and the latest intern, Peter, a master’s student, had huddled with the professor in the cave, cleaning and labelling potsherds until their hands grew numb. No one else had even shown up for work. Despite the solid rock surrounding them, and even with the newly erected doors in place, the damp still fingered its way in. The rock walls had been as slippery as if the sea itself seeped upwards through the cliffs.

All around Cornwall, flood warnings had been issued, and every morning the papers reported the same story: all the rain in the last month still hadn’t filled the reservoirs emptied by a long drought. The ground was too hard and the water simply washed away, swelling the rivers and leading to—

Floods.

She’d stepped into one directly outside her flat, where the road curved sharply along the harbour wall. She made a face as she edged forward, careful not to slosh the dirty water that rose right up to the rim of her wellies. The puddle covered the lower half of the street, as grey and forbidding as the Moria lake in The Lord of the Rings.

She made it to the front door and jammed her key in the lock, scrambling over the threshold as if a hungry creature waited to snatch her in its tentacles and drag her down into the depths of the dark waters.

She shrugged off her wet coat in the dim hallway and unlocked the door of her ground-floor flat, only to be greeted by an inch of water all around.

So much for a hot bath. She slumped against the doorjamb with a groan. Her hair lay plastered to her cheeks in cold clumps. She’d be lucky if she could find even one sweater in her closet that wasn’t damp right through.

The whole street’s hilla-ridden, Mrs. Glick said from behind in her thick Cornish accent. She peered over Lyne’s shoulder and clucked her tongue. We’ll have to move ’ee to th’ upstairs room.

Left a childless widow some years before, Mrs. Glick had taken the eminently sensible step of converting her rambling old house into flats. She lived in the other downstairs apartment and came out to investigate every time the front door opened and closed.

Lyne made a vague sound of agreement. Wading across the room, she dumped her groceries on the coffee table, flexing her wrist and fingers at the relief of finally letting go of the soggy plastic.

Her landlady surveyed the damage from the doorway, one hand twisting and untwisting the string of beads around her neck. If ’tidn’ one thing, ’tis another. She shook her head ruefully at the damage to her furniture. I dessay ’n will cost a pretty penny to put ’n right.

I’m sorry, Lyne said, and Mrs. Glick’s wrinkles creased in laughter.

Not ’ee’s fault, midear. Now come along. Suddenly brisk, she let go of her beads and headed up the stairs. I’ll show you ’ee’s new room, and then ’ee might pop into mine for a bit. Time enough to deal with the insurance men once the waters’ve gone down. I’ll make some good strong tea. She chuckled again. Fancy taking the blame for the weather!

* * *

Mrs. Glick had insisted on cooking for her, so Lyne offered to do the washing up afterwards, but her landlady waved her off. I’ve a girl comes in for that. No need to wear ourselves out. With another laugh, she added, ’Ee’s too learnt and I’m too old.

Mrs. Glick’s accent became easier to understand, Lyne discovered, once you’d spent a couple of hours in her company.

Mrs. Glick, do you know any local legends? she asked, accepting a mug of dark, sweet tea, and following her landlady out into the floral-patterned sitting room. This side of the house was set further back from the road and had escaped the floodwaters that lapped across the floor of her own erstwhile flat.

Mrs. Glick took the question as an excuse to launch into a winding folktale, complete with twists and turns and a slew of characters all with the same name. The story became harder to follow than ever, but Lyne put on an awe-filled expression and laughed in what she hoped were the right places.

As the tale wound down, Lyne ventured to ask what was really on her mind. Are there any tales about an octopus?

A what? Mrs. Glick looked like she was about to let off another cackle of laughter, then stopped short. The change that came over her features was frighteningly quick. Why does ’ee ask? she whispered, brows lowering over her eyes as her gaze darted to the window. Through a crack in the dark drapes, Lyne could see the light of the streetlamp, flickering as if reflecting off the puddle outside. A wooden carriage clock on the mantelpiece bonged an off-key count of seven.

Mrs. Glick obviously knew an intriguing story, but something kept her from telling it.

She’d have to tread carefully, start with the manuscript; no one could be concerned about something that ancient. A couple of weeks ago, I found—

You’m meddling far too much. Mrs. Glick grabbed Lyne’s arms so quickly, tea sloshed over the rim of the cup. The Council will have to hear about this.

But we’ve already got the permits—

Not that Council.

A drop of tea rolled down towards her charm bracelet, and Lyne itched with the urge to wipe it away, but Mrs. Glick tightened her grip and pushed her face up close.

Listen, she hissed. Keep on with the old coins and the bits of pottery. She’d lost her accent entirely. Her pupils were wide in her milky green eyes, like a cat’s in darkness. Forget about legends—and don’t disturb any old bones. The waters are rising.

Do you mean the flood outside? The old woman’s bony hands were warm, hot even, on Lyne’s skin. She thought of the third line of the manuscript: Three prongs bear proof of Beauty, three signs of anger at her coming: the tide that rises across her feet...

Do I— Mrs. Glick’s voice resumed its normal pitch and she sat back. Yes, I reckon so. ’Ee’s goin’ to think me daft. All this tale-telling. She gave Lyne a wobbly smile and patted her hand without seeming to notice it was wet. Finished, ’ave ’ee? She took the cup from Lyne and hoisted herself off the sofa with a groan.

As Mrs. Glick bustled off to the kitchen, Lyne stepped quietly over to the window and peered out through the gap in the curtains. The lamp outside cast a yellow gleam on the pool of water.

She pressed her nose to the pane, looking down the garden path to where the water still lapped at the foot of the front steps. In the dark, the house seemed marooned on an island in the middle of a lake, though she knew the other side of the street was dry. It was only a shallow puddle that barely covered half the road. Nothing moved in the darkness outside, not even a breeze to ripple the surface of the water.

What was Mrs. Glick frightened of?

Chapter 3

The Beast stirred from a long sleep.

Hunger and thirst ruled his waking. He snuffled round the rocks surrounding his bed. A leftover bone from last night’s sheep poked out from the matted grass and hay. He crunched it with his back teeth and rose up on all fours. A shivering stretch of each back leg, and all trace of sleep slipped away.

He bounded down the corridor, then slid to a halt at the first corner. Snout lifted to catch each breeze that drifted around the caverns, he scented for movement, for news.

The new smells—ink and metal—were still there. Faint and far above, but unmistakeable.

The Man part of him, suppressed while hunting and lost during sleep, flickered awake at the back of his mind. It had been over a month since he’d first isolated the scents, when the archaeologists arrived on the cliffside and cleared