Nightfall

By Chris Hall and J.M. Rhineheart

Nightfall is an anthology combining gothic horror and paranormal romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iron Faerie Publishing
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223335719

Book preview

The Hand that Leads You

L.J. WYNN

THE MOON STARED DOWN as she pushed deeper into the cool sanctuary, feet hasty and heart pounding. She kept half her focus on the small game trail she followed, the other on her pursuer. Clumsy steps crashed behind her, profane exclamations following each crack of a branch. Ahead, massive stones set into the wide clearing, ancient power reverberating in the air. Suddenly, a small, blue-green light appeared, as if waiting for her.

Maeve bit her lip, weighing the wisdom of following a will o’ the wisp into an arrangement of standing stones. Echoing from childhood, her grandmother’s voice reminded her of the scared circle’s power. Closing a circle within the standing stones boosts your power. All the covens that have cast before us inject their magic into the stones. We borrow some of that power, and when we break our circle, we imbue some of our own for the next ones.

She hesitated, sneakers sinking into the soft moss. She had never shied away from a circle in her life. Maeve dug her fingers into her hair, lifting the heavy, dark strands from her neck as she thought. But those will o’ the wisps – they have a mind of their own. Her fingers tapped a quick rhythm against her thumb while she dithered. I don’t know what Sean wants with me, but he ambushed me once I was inside the woods. A particularly loud curse from behind had her vaulting between the two nearest stones. Narrowing her eyes at the mischievous light, she began to chant under her breath.

She invoked the goddess for protection against her pursuer and the wisp, then she moved to the far side of the circle. She slipped into the shadow behind the largest stone. Her fingers found the carved runes hidden in the dark, and nerves had her tracing the shallow grooves. The smooth, cool surface of the limestone sentinel leached some of the heat from her exertions. She waited for Sean to stumble into the clearing, but his continued blundering tried her patience.

Fighting the impulse to keep moving, she froze as the wisp’s light trailed into her periphery. It illuminated the pale stones with an iridescent glow as it, too, sheltered behind a stone to her left. She scowled at the orb, shooing it away. I swear to goddess, that thing is looking at me. It wavered behind the stone, then moved out toward the clumsy man-child.

Sean’s voice rose in a hoarse shout. Get away from me! You stay away. I’m not falling for your tricks. Go! Maeve clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling her chuckle. More coarse shouts erupted before she heard Sean turn tail and run back the way he’d come. Her relieved sigh pushed from her lips, and she shifted her pack from her shoulders. It would be quite a while before she would feel safe enough to head back to her car. I bet he sits out there to wait for me. She heaved a deep breath and settled down on her haunches, mentally reviewing the list of herbs, leaves, roots, and bark she’d come to gather during the full moon to replenish her supplies. Pulling her boline from the bag, she got to it.

She worked quickly, competently, as Gran had taught her. An hour later, she tucked a burlap roll into her pack, stalks of various plants and herbs tied and cushioned within an old mailing tube. Confident they would remain uncompromised, she turned her gaze skyward. Judging by the angle of the moon, she would need to spend another hour or more in the forest before she would trust that Sean had given up.

I don’t know why he can’t leave me alone, she groused. Maybe some discouragement amulets would help him leave me alone. She sighed. If it was amulets she was turning to, at least she could make good use of her time in the bright, moonlit clearing. She trekked back to the fine birch tree she’d noted earlier and quickly harvested a birch branch. Trimming the twigs away, she walked back to the sacred circle. She braced the thickest end of the branch against a stone with her palm and sliced off several wooden coins. All but one she deposited into the smallest pouch on her pack.

With the full moon lighting her work, she carved a protection sigil into the smooth birch and pierced a hole in the top. She pricked her finger and traced the glyph, letting the blood enact the spell. Satisfied, she added it to the silver chain around her neck. It clanked dully against the silver pentacle already hanging there and she grasped both in her palm.

In a low, clear voice, she chanted, By goddess’ grace, end Sean’s pursuit of me. As I will, so mote it be. The talisman warmed in her palm, and she smiled. That should help him to leave off me. Checking the moon’s progress, she decided to chance the carpark. She had to get some sleep tonight, or Mr. O’Malley would have her head tomorrow. A grumpy bookseller did not encourage sales. Stifling a yawn and shouldering her pack, she turned unerringly toward her car.

A WEEK LATER FOUND Maeve locking the bookstore. The night felt especially desolate with a sudden cold front and low cloud ceiling. Maeve fingered her amulet as she walked to her car. A chill skated down her spine as though a grave-cold finger had traced the back of her neck. She picked up her pace.

The fingertip-caress repeated itself, and she froze. Straining her ears, she listened hard, but caught no sound in the clear, cold night. For a third time, a finger traced down her neck. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart began to pound. She swallowed hard and mouthed an incantation for protection. Looking over her shoulder and seeing nothing, she continued toward her car, parked under a security lamp. After Sean had accosted her in the forest last week, she didn’t chance her safety: no distractions while walking to her car, well-lit parking space, and wand holstered on her thigh.

Spells and sigils made for powerful magic, but they took time and preparation. Maeve’s preferred conduit for combative magic was her wand. Intricate Celtic knotwork designs inscribed in the handle of the hawthorn length provided additional protection, repelling counter spells, hexes, curses. Trapped within the carvings, a powerful curse would cause the wand to ignite, immolating both itself and the dark spell. A sound choice for a wand, the hawthorn enhanced enchantment, aided protection, and blocked unwanted forces.

When the subtle scrape of a sneaker on concrete exploded into the night, Maeve whirled to face the threat. Her hand pressed against her thigh, and she thumbed open the holster clasp, drawing her wand. Nox, she breathed on a soft exhale. The light around her dimmed, shielding her from sight. Her car was too far away, so she shifted to the balls of her feet and glided into the deeper shadows of the overhanging trees. The obfuscation spell concealed her against the tree trunks. Her blood heated, and her eyes sharpened as she waited to see who, or what, was tailing her.

She crouched low as Sean skulked past her. His head swiveled, eyes scanning. Where’d she go, he muttered in a low voice.

Why is he sneaking after me? Her fingers stroked over her wooden pendant, its answering warmth proving that the charm was still active and strong. The fiery hue of his hair blazed in the dark. Her wand-hand twitched with the desire to send him a message he wouldn’t forget.

A wicked smirk curved her lips as she raised her wand, aiming at the middle of his back. Before she could decide which hex to hit him with, she felt the same firm caress of a fingertip down the side of her neck. She flinched to the side, avoiding the low-hanging branches. Fully distracted now, she scanned the foliage around her, but she couldn’t see a thing. Frustrated, she turned her attention back to the street.

Sean stood next to her car, jostling the door. As she watched, he opened the door and folded his tall, lanky frame into the passenger seat. Opening the glove box, he rifled through the contents before removing a small object. What is that?! Shock froze her to the spot. Rage poured through her as she watched him plug his phone into whatever it was. The phone’s screen lit up, a progress bar filling. Forgetting all caution, she took a careless step forward, snapping a branch in her haste. Sean’s head snapped up. He looked right through her, and she thanked the goddess that she had enacted the cloaking spell.

She froze, watching him unplug his phone, pull the back off the device, change the batteries, and put everything back as it had been. He stood and eased the door shut. Eyes narrowed and jaw clenched tight, she palmed her car keys and pressed the emergency alarm button.

Sean jolted and took off down the street. Vibrating with anger, she made to step back onto the sidewalk, but a hand closed around her fist, pressing against her fingers to silence the alarm. She tried to pull away, but the phantom hand’s grip remained strong. Ostendo, she gritted out, revealing a scarred hand and blunt fingers covering hers. Tired of playing tug of war for her own hand, she pushed instead. She felt the hard give of a torso, her knuckles scraping against layers of fabric.

She jumped back in surprise, barely restraining a shout. This time, when she pulled on her hand, she encountered no resistance. She walked backward, studying the night scene under the trees, but she could detect nothing. Spooked despite her intense familiarity with the cloak of night and all its mantle concealed, she darted to her car.

MAEVE SCOWLED AT THE tracking device she’d pulled from her glove compartment last night. It sat, innocently, on her kitchen table, the black case in stark contrast to the white marble tabletop. She resolved to put it back and set a notification ward on it. Gran would be by any minute now to discuss it, as well as the most unnerving part of the Nighttime Incident (as she had taken to calling it): the phantom hand.

A key scraped in the lock, and Maeve called out a greeting as she brought the teapot to the table. Maeve might be as modern as witches come, but she knew better than to provide a poor service when Gran came to call. The spry, petite woman bounded through the door and grabbed Maeve up in a great bear hug.

Gran’s clear voice rang in the small kitchen. Mopsie!

Smile in her voice, Maeve returned the greeting. Hi, Gran.

While they waited for the tea to steep, Maeve listened as her grandmother discussed the tincture, salve, and tisane recipes she was trying from one of their new grimoires. It was known in the regional magic community that O’Malley’s Books was a landing pad for homeless or unwanted grimoires. Though Mr. O’Malley himself was a mundane, the shop itself sat on a nexus of ley lines. The grimoires were drawn to the intersection, and therefore the shop, like moths to a flame.

Mundanes couldn’t see the grimoires for what they were; to them, the books looked too old, too worn, and too damaged for any real use. Maeve had long ago convinced Mr. O’Malley that she turned the beat-up old books into décor items and other DIY crafts which she peddled online. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the internet, so he never bothered to check out her story. There weren’t too many unclaimed grimoires floating around, but whichever ones came through the shop became property of Maeve and her Gran.

Dusting powdered sugar from the Russian teacakes from her fingertips, Maeve pushed aside her teacup and saucer. Gran, I think I’ve got a problem. Her last few encounters with Sean spilled from her lips. Gran listened quietly, her face growing grimmer by the minute. When Maeve finished, she was surprised to see Gran’s hands clenched together.

Gran’s voice was steady as she asked, You drew the attention of a will o’ the wisp?

Maeve nodded her head. Gran’s more concerned about the wisp than Sean?

Gran patted her hand. You know better. Once you engage with a will, you invite its continued interference. She stopped and thought a moment. You say it was a man’s hand that stopped you? Her finger tapped her chin.

Maeve nodded. All I could see was the hand, but it looked... felt... like a man’s hand. Warmth blossomed on her cheeks. And it was a man’s torso I pushed against, she offered. Her gaze darted away from her grandmother’s raised brows.

She got a chuckle for that. And at the circle, the wisp followed Sean?

Maeve nodded her assent, her cheeks still blazing.

"Between the will and Sean, Mopsie, you have got problems. Gran rose, her spry form carrying the tea tray back to the kitchen. We need to search the grimoires," she tossed over her shoulder, nodding firmly. 

Maeve’s shoulders drooped. I knew you were going to say that, she grumbled.

Hours later, both women looked at the grimoires littering the floor around them. They pressed their hands against the tension in their lower backs and lowered their circle of protection. They cleaned up their supplies and said goodnight to each other. Maeve walked Gran to the door and watched to make sure Sean didn’t pop up to cause any trouble. She closed the door and returned to her workroom. She still had spells to cast and amulets to make. She needed to dissuade Sean from his interest in her, and she didn’t like the wisp having followed her from the standing stones. Some personal protective magic was in order.

GRAN HAD ARGUED THAT the last thing she should do is to engage the wisp, but Maeve wasn’t very patient. Letting the quarter moon light her path through the forest, she soon stood in the clearing surrounded by the sentinel stones. Her soft leather booties made no sound on the forest floor. In her periphery, the wisp glowed, and, despite herself, she smiled. It hovered near her for a minute, then circled behind her. It nudged her into the center of the stones.

She lowered her large hobo purse, casting her senses out into the darkness for any movement. Satisfied that she was alone with the wisp, she pulled out her candles and canister of salt. She deftly set the circle for protection and nodded to herself. Even if Sean were to approach her now, he couldn’t touch her. She turned, unsurprised to find the wisp inside the circle with her. She nodded at it and lowered herself to the ground. She lit one last candle and set it in front of her, then pulled her grimoire from her purse. She opened the pages to her most recent addition, her finger tracing the lines. Maeve closed her eyes and spoke the words of the spell she had crafted.

By goddess’ grace, gift me the Sight, that I may see beyond this light. Will o’ the wisp following me, allow me to both hear and see. As I will, so mote it be.

She opened her eyes. Where the will had floated before, a man now stood. She felt as though she was looking at him through a heavy layer of fog, able to see his features, though not as clearly as she would have liked. He stood taller than her, easily clearing six feet. Dark, wavy hair sat thick and unruly on his head, shining in the moonlight. It curled over the tops of his ears. A dark button-down shirt hinted at a muscled torso. Her gaze dropped to his hands, and she saw the scarred hand that had covered hers two nights ago. Her brows rose at his jeans-clad legs and the recognizable brand-name sneakers with the white, rubber toe box in a bright scarlet hue.

Finally meeting his emerald gaze, she