Bune

By Mariah Thayer

Sarah Kraft has always been strong in magic, dedicating her gifts to bringing comfort to others. When her childhood friend is found murdered, however, Sarah is plunged into darkness. She soon becomes a target of the same evil, called upon to use her gifts in a battle she is woefully unprepared to fight.

Making matters worse, the only person willing to stand with her is David Fischer, heir to a centuries-old fortune that is somehow tied to the darkness hunting her. Sarah has never used her magic against such a dangerous enemy, but she is left with only one option: find a way to defeat the evil that is coming for her...

Or die trying.

Bune is a full-length urban fantasy novel. It contains some darker themes (violence, death, betrayal, grief) and adult language, but no explicit sexual content.

Previously published in 2019 as "Bune" under Mariah Garell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mariah Thayer
• Release date: Feb 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215434154

Mariah Thayer

Author of urban fantasy and the occasional paranormal romance. Inked lady, writing mama, and traveling weird girl.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sunday

H eather?

She turned at the sound of her name and the familiar voice to see Pastor Richard Taylor in the church vestibule. He waved at her as their gazes met, his expression uncomfortable as he stood in the archway, clasping his hands in front of him.

The pastor had known her mother well, though Beth Phillipps had not attended church herself for many years, not since her divorce. He’d baptized Heather as a child, in fact, and then again as a college student when she’d returned to the fold after her angsty teen years.

Yes, Pastor Taylor?

May I speak with you a moment?

Yes, sure. Absolutely. She fell in step behind him, eyes following her as they made their way toward the church foyer to his office, adjacent to the auditorium where early service had just ended.

Standing outside the office was Claire Fischer, a long-time benefactress of both the church and the museum where Heather worked. Her family had supported both establishments longer than anyone could remember. Longer than Heather had been around, certainly. Heather often felt the Fischers’ support of these two seemingly opposing institutions—of faith and knowledge—symbolized the family’s progressive views about the intertwined relationship of science and religion. The Fischers’ generosity and their regular interactions at church had fostered a positive working relationship between them, and during Heather’s time with the museum she had grown to admire them for more than their philosophy and status.

Claire Fischer’s face, familiar after years of shared church services and business meetings, was neither kind nor welcoming. Her expression was, in fact, rather disdainful.

Thank you, Pastor Taylor, Claire said, her smooth public-speaker’s voice unsettling.

Heather’s steps slowed as she neared the door. Her stomach knotted although the three of them were not alone; unsubtle gossip mongers stood within easy listening proximity. Heather felt eerily vulnerable.

Something was wrong with Claire. Normally the very picture of collected, composed and immaculate, she seemed uncomfortable… off. Her eyes were unnaturally wide, her fingers twitching as she clasped her hands together to still them. Heather’s unease grew, remembering the last time they’d met.

Let’s go in, we’ll shut the door, the pastor said and cast a slow, discerning glance around at his congregation, some of whom had the good grace to look ashamed.

Claire and Heather took seats side-by-side in the office where Pastor Richard Taylor did most of his private counseling, sermon preparation, and event plannning for the church. He did not immediately speak when he took his own seat across the desk from them.

Now –he cleared his throat– Heather. I understand—I’ve heard, recently, that you’d been to the Fischer family’s home this past week.

The hairs on the back of Heather’s neck stood on end.

Yes, Thursday afternoon. Claire and David had invited me over to assist with planning the exhibit preview for the beginning of December.

Pastor Taylor’s expression grew solemn. Heather, I’ll get to the point. Did you try to take something from their home?

Shock zipped up Heather’s spine. She jerked slightly against the back of the seat, recoiling from the insult of the accusation.

What? No!

"You did! I watched you put your hands on it!"

Claire’s voice rose shrilly, cutting through Heather’s protest.

David—

"That knife is a family heirloom, it’s belonged to the Fischers for over six generations! We trusted you, allowed—"

Pastor Taylor held up a placating hand to silence Claire’s fevered outburst, her painted dusky-rose lips twisted in an ugly snarl. Rage emanated from Claire, unnatural in its intensity, raising goosebumps on Heather’s arms. She hardly recognized the older woman.

Perhaps I should speak with Heather alone for now, and we can resume this discussion together another time when everyone is calmer. Claire, I believe the eleven o’clock service is starting shortly. Preston is outside, he will escort you to a seat. Is that all right? I’d hate for you to miss it.

Claire’s lips quivered with emotion as she leaned back in her seat, clenched fists relaxing. She nodded and stood, straightening her pale gray sweater. Smoothing her hands, tremor visible, over her pants legs, she shot an unreadable look at Heather and strode to the door.

As she opened it, Heather could see the faces of the peanut gallery outside.

Pastor Taylor waited silently for Claire to exit, watching grimly as Preston—a younger deacon—exchanged a few short words with her, gently taking Claire by the elbow to steer her towards the crowd filing into the pews.

He waited another moment after the door latch clicked closed to speak.

Heather.

She hesitantly met his gaze, sincere in its sorrow. Anger seated itself in her belly.

Richard. Inappropriate, perhaps, to revert to his given name, even in private—but the sting of her tone matched the stinging hurt inside.

I’ve known you since you were a teenager, and I—

You baptized me. I’ve been worshiping at this church for almost ten years.

He frowned, pained. Yes. That’s why we’re having this talk, Heather, why I’m giving you this chance to talk about it. Claire has agreed not to involve the police if—I’d like t—

If you believe that I could do something like this, then there isn’t anything for us to talk about. As it is, I think everyone has heard enough from Claire, so your discretion doesn’t amount to much. Heather stood. Right now, I’m not sure that my being here is a good thing for anyone. I don’t—maybe you should talk to David. He was there. Maybe he has answers for you. You might believe him.

She despised the note of panic that had worked its way into her voice. Her heart vibrated with that empty feeling she sometimes got after missing a step on a staircase, her feet finding empty air where she had expected solid ground. Angry tears pricked her eyes.

Heather, Pastor Taylor began again, what else am I supposed to believe?

Whatever you want to. I’ve said everything I have to say. Excuse me.

He said nothing else as she stepped around her chair to the door. What had made him think she was capable of this? How could he believe it? Her fingers wrapped around the metal doorknob.

You’ll be here next week?

Heather shook her head without turning and left the office, closing the door gently behind her.

A week flew by, and while her name was not precisely on every tongue, she was not forgotten. When Sunday morning came again, and her face was not amongst those in the nine o’clock service, select voices buzzed in her absence.

Well, I wouldn’t come.

She had best not.

Of course she won’t come back. I wouldn’t show my face here.

Never would have believed it, if I hadn’t heard it from Claire myself.

She couldn’t even admit it when Pastor Taylor asked. That’s what I heard.

The sermon that week flew over the heads of many, select scripture such as Proverbs 18:8, James 3:6, and Psalms 109:3 raising intent head-nods and ‘amens’ but little self-awareness. Biblical admonishment often fell flat. God warned against the corruption of a wagging tongue; no one among his congregation was willing to assign that label to themselves.

As Pastor Taylor spoke to the parishioners, he was stewing in regret. Sorrow. Could he have handled the situation better? Heather’s absence was not a confirmation of her guilt—it was a sign of his failure.

Still.

Monday passed without a word from Heather and with no respite from his turbulent emotions. The image of her face as she’d been accused had filled his mind throughout the day. Her expression of shocked betrayal and the hurt in her eyes had followed him.

On Tuesday, he called David Fischer, hoping for clarity. No answer. He left a voicemail.

Wednesday morning, Richard S. Taylor felt a nagging sense of unease. Wednesday night’s services were typically hit-or-miss for Heather with her work schedule, but he had hoped that maybe—maybe he could convince her to attend.

Shame had eaten at him from the moment she walked out the door. He regretted not sharing with her his doubts. Not telling her that, in his soul, he could not believe that she would ever have done such a thing. Guilt nibbled on the edges of his heart.

Heather’s apartment wasn’t far from the church and its new administrative building under construction next door. She had lived down the street for years, opting to move closer when she’d found her own place after college. Seeking community.

He’d helped her move in.

It wasn’t cold enough for the shivers wracking him; the past couple of years had been unusually sunny and warm, and yet he felt chilled as he approached the door to her complex. The ache in his bones did not ease once inside the warmer space.

At her door, Richard paused. Inhaling deeply, he pressed the doorbell.

Silence responded to the chime.

He hovered for fifteen minutes outside her door. Nothing.

Knocking once more, he called her name, and then finally, he left.

Was she so angry? She had the right to be, surely.

But no, this wasn’t like her. Heather had a temper, but she was forgiving. Lord knew she’d had plenty of occasion over the years to hold grudges that never came to be.

The dull ache in his bones persisted through the rest of the day, following him back to the church. A hollow pit of discomfort plagued his gut. He fidgeted, unable to ease it.

At four-sixteen in the afternoon, two hours and forty-four minutes before the evening service, his cell phone rang. The number made his heart drop from his ribcage to the vicinity of his feet.

When the call ended, he set the phone carefully in front of him, on top of the red-inked sermon notes.

Bethany, Heather Phillipps’ mother—formerly a member of his congregation.

Heather had not been to work since the previous Thursday, and Beth had not been able to reach her.

Had he heard from her?

Could he just take a few minutes, and possibly check on her?

Richard pressed steepled hands to the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut.

Chapter one

Body Found in Eatonville

January 6, 2016

Thomas Egan -

[e-mail]

The body of a Bellevue woman was found Saturday morning near a recreational trail outside Eatonville. A couple using the trail spotted the body in a creek and dialed 911.

Authorities have identified the woman as Heather Phillipps, 32, an employee of the Bellevue Science Museum. She had not been seen at work since last Thursday, according to an acquaintance. Her absence followed unverified allegations of theft by a sponsor of the museum, although no charges were ever filed, and no disciplinary action was taken by the museum.

Phillipps’ family reported her missing last week.

Bellevue Police, the agency investigating Phillipps’ disappearance, were notified and charged with informing her family about the development.

The body was located approximately two miles outside Eatonville, caught on rocks in a nearby creek amid unseasonably high water levels. Authorities are tracing the creek back to the source to determine where the body was originally dumped into the water.

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SARAH

Sarah glanced up from her Styrofoam cup at the individual clad in purple scrubs before her. Franci’s lips were pressed in a tight line, strained. There was an apology in her eyes and a folded newspaper in the hand she extended.

Have you seen this?

Sarah frowned and took the offering. Her eyes jumped from the bolded headline and fervently scanned the article after the opening sentence.

Body found.

Bellevue woman.

At the last line, she dragged her gaze away. The condemning, final word. Franci’s face was full of empathy. They were all acquainted; she, Sarah, and Heather had gone to the same high school. Sarah and Heather had been close.

They had been roommates in college, for the brief time Sarah had attended. Friends since childhood, separated only by adult ambitions.

And a few secrets.

Sarah swallowed back tears that threatened her composure. She still had six hours left on this shift and a breakdown would do her no favors.

I’m sorry, Franci said, her shoulders lifted helplessly.

What else was there to say?

Sarah smiled weakly. Thanks for letting me know.

It was unnecessary, as it turned out. Hours later, when her shift had ended, Sarah turned on her phone for the first time in thirteen hours and found a voicemail waiting. A dull parody of Beth Phillipp’s voice asked for a return call. Sarah obliged with a knot in her gut.

The funeral would be Friday morning at the church Heather had attended off and on for much of her life. Closed casket. Of course, Nina, Sarah’s mother, was welcome.

They’d been neighbors for over a decade, hadn’t they?

She lived the rest of the week in a haze. Two more fourteen-hour shifts at the hospital, recovery, a visit to her grandmother, breaking the news to her mom. Finding something appropriate to wear—she didn’t own a lot of black.

Sarah hadn’t been especially close to Heather in some years, but they’d been the very best of friends for a good portion of their early lives. Heather was a patient person, a professional with a talent for design and organization that had made her highly successful. She had loved food, theater, history, and dogs to the point of laughable obsession.

They drove together to the church on Friday, and the haze cleared. Upon arriving, Sarah and Nina felt the atmosphere bear down on them as a heavy load. Chalking it up to the somber occasion and the moods of the attendees, they approached Beth with a tight embrace and soft words. Beth teared up, and Sarah left her mother to handle the display of emotion which she was ill-equipped to deal with.

The hairs on Sarah’s arm stood on end. Frowning, she realized that she was alone, most of the attendees clustered very noticeably—away from the casket. From inside the closed box, something subtle and nauseating permeated the room.

Not a scent, exactly. Moving closer, edging her way toward the front of the church, Sarah marked the signs. Goosebumps. Her hands began to tremble. A weakness washed over her, nearly taking her out at the knees. Slowly, she reached towards the smooth wood of the coffin lid. The faintest touch constricted her chest, and her throat began to close.

Sarah withdrew her hand in a hurry. She willed her lungs to take in air. The thick aura beat at her in earnest now—the clear sensation of despair rolling in waves emanated from inside the wooden box. Dark thoughts, morbid thoughts, assaulted her; an ugliness nibbled away at the edges of her mind. She couldn’t breathe. This was undiluted evil.

Sarah coughed into her elbow as an oily, burning sensation began to fill her lungs at each inhale. Every attempt felt like breathing smoke. The room reeked.

A hand squeezed her shoulder and she whipped around, startled. A man, grey hair just thinning at the top of his head, gently took her elbow and tugged.

Are you alright? Here, come with me. Let’s find a seat away from here.

Sarah’s eyes darted around, finding her mother with Beth, a firm arm around the woman who seemed to have shrunk inside herself. Nina met Sarah’s gaze and regarded the man holding Sarah’s elbow, giving a slight nod.

Go ahead.

Sarah allowed herself to be led to a row of pews away from the casket, behind the wall of other mourners, separating her from the noxious energy.

My name is Pastor Richard Taylor. Heather is—she was—a part of the congregation here.

Meeting his eyes levelly, struggling not to show signs of her earlier respiratory distress, Sarah smiled pleasantly and nodded.

I’m Sarah Kraft. I’ve known Heather since kindergarten. Our moms were friends.

Pastor Taylor returned her nod thoughtfully.

We are very sorry to have lost her.

So am I.

The pastor conveyed a pretense of calm, but Sarah noted the way his gaze flicked back to eye the coffin. He seemed at a loss, struggling with himself. Although his pastoral duties included guiding his congregation during times of grief, Richard appeared himself quite lost.

Strain lines creased the corners of his eyes, brown irises faded with age, showing green striations. Bags weighed prominently on his cheeks. Hands twitched against his knees where he picked at his black slacks. Tension radiated from this man. Guilt.

Pastor Richard, she said softly, are you alright?

I… am not. I apologize, I haven’t slept. These last two weeks…

Have been difficult, she finished for him, touching his arm briefly, before settling her hands in her lap.

The kindness seemed to relax him, and the contact provided her a window. She encouraged the crack she saw growing in the dam of his emotions, felt that vulnerability deepen until it was a flaw that she could connect them with.

Tell me what’s on your mind, Richard Taylor? You carry a heavy burden.

He frowned, as though he’d heard her unspoken words. Her will worked on him, tugging at the exposed flash of secrets she saw in the tension of his shoulders.

Yes. It’s foolish, but… I wonder if I could have… done something. About this. If I had known.

Done something?

Well –he shifted uncomfortably as words began to break free, much against his will– you know that she went missing on Thursday. But I hadn’t seen her since the previous Sunday. And the last time she came to church, there was an… incident. I wonder if I was responsible for driving her away.

The alleged theft.

Sarah recalled the newspaper article—the single sentence thrown in to add spice to the story of a woman’s grisly death.

I doubt that very much. Everything happens the way that it’s meant to. What could you have done?

The words hit their mark. Pain flashed in his eyes. Something welled up in his soul where she’d struck him, bleeding unseen remorse.

I didn’t tell her that I believed her. Claire was mistaken. I didn’t believe that Heather could have stolen a thing, much less from someone she knew personally and professionally for such a long time. I don’t believe she would have. She was an honest young woman. A good person. Always. But…. I don’t know why I didn’t say so.

Claire?

Pastor Taylor’s frown deepened then, and Sarah nearly swore. She’d screwed up. Realizing he’d said something he hadn’t intended, his emotional walls hardened, sealing away his private hurt. Shoring up his defenses against her. Sarah felt contrite then, for pushing the man. But only a little.

I don’t want to spread further rumors. It’s best to let it be. Thank you for listening to me, though. I’m certain that’s the last thing you needed, to add my problems to your grief.

Sarah’s mind was working overtime as he spoke, and she attempted to arrange her expression into something gentle and understanding.

No, it’s fine. I understand. It’s my fault—I didn’t think before I asked. It’s not a problem. It’s good to know that she had people who looked out for her.

She felt for him, but her thoughts were far from his problems.

Claire. The Claire—Claire who sponsored the museum. The Claire who attended this church. There was only one. The indomitable Claire Fischer.

The remainder of the morning, until the completion of the burial ceremony, was loaded with strain. Sarah’s mind warred between fragments of fact attempting to form a single, coherent idea, and the sickness pounding in her skull.

It wasn’t long before Nina, too, was affected, sitting in the third row of pews for the eulogy. Nauseated, she stayed in the car after as Heather’s body was being lowered into the earth, too susceptible to the toxicity of that corruption to withstand its effect any longer.

The tearstained faces of the other mourners struck Sarah as she stood among them. There was a strong atmosphere of despair, a madness that rose beyond the sorrow of loss. It was a desperate hopelessness that polluted the surroundings like a toxin, leeching from Heather’s concealed body within the casket. Despite its toxicity, though, no one else appeared to have had such a physical reaction as Sarah’s had been earlier in the church.

All the other funeral attendees had been ordinary humans. They had been reacting instinctively, avoiding the source, but they hadn’t been conscious of that preternatural wrongness. Sarah had been exposed to inhuman, unnatural phenomena all her life, but this was entirely in a class of its own.

Sarah followed the other mourners through the cemetery, throwing her handful of dirt across the lid when it was her turn. By the end of the afternoon, when she returned to Nina, she was dizzy. Her legs were barely supporting her.

The Kraft women sat still and silent for a time.

What are you going to do?

She vaguely registered her mother’s question. Couldn’t answer it. In her head, the storm coalesced into a singular knowing. Her senses told her what she feared to say aloud. What demanded to be acknowledged.

She was murdered. By something not human. The words were melodramatic and surreal in the open.

Nina’s jaw clenched. She was a beautiful woman, Sarah’s mother, though her features were now twisted with tension and a little green in the gills. Her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

No.

Are you going to pretend you didn’t feel that, Mom? Something did this. Not someone. Something happened to her. I’ve known her all my life, and she didn’t deserve this. She was a good person. She used to sleep over at our house, Mom, she was—

I know, Sarah. I know. That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m telling you is that this is—it’s evil, Sarah. This is above your head, and mine. I’m—I’m afraid of whatever did that, of whatever had that kind of power, to leave a miasma like that on her.

But that was the point. However tragic, a murder at human hands could never have caused what Sarah had felt oozing into the atmosphere in the church. Miasma, the toxic aura secreting from Heather’s body, was entirely the realm of the metaphysical. Few things had a touch that left behind something so foul.

Either she got in the way of something, or something was sicced on her. I think someone did this to her intentionally. When you can do the things we can, Mom, and you don’t—

Can we leave off the superhero references? Nina laughed weakly, I understand, Sarah. I do. I’m with you. Just… don’t be reckless.

Chapter two

Day 0

SARAH

One of the properties on the edge of the golf course in Leschi belonged to the Fischer family. Sarah’s borrowed car slunk uneasily down the private road, and she parked among a row of vehicles across the street where a youth soccer match was well underway.

From where Sarah sat, she could just see the edge of the garage doors and