Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

  COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES

  BOOKS 1-3

  AN URBAN FANTASY SERIES BY MARSHA A. MOORE

  Witch’s Moonstone Locket, Book 1

  Witch’s Cursed Cabin, Book 2

  Blood Ice & Oak Moon, Book 3

  Those be the witches who draw bliss and bane from the smallest slip of nature—strong old ways.

  If you think you’re brave enough to venture deep into Coon Hollow Coven’s forest ravines, consider this—rumor has it the locals’ peculiar form of witchcraft is powered by souls of dead kin. Why else would the witches uphold a 1930s lifestyle from the time their founding families settled the southern Indiana hill country? Folks from the neighboring small town of Bentbone mostly don’t mind…or at least try their best to keep a safe distance from coven members. But for some townies, nothing will keep them from falling into those witches’ bliss and bane.

  COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES series was inspired by the neck of the woods where Marsha A. Moore spent her favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The tales are set in a fictitious community south of Bloomington, and the books are rich with a warm Hoosier, down-home feel.

  A note to readers: ALL THE COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES NOVELS CAN BE READ AS STAND ALONE BOOKS. The series is about one community—even though residents may pass in and out of various books. Each novel, however, has its own unique and special story to enjoy.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 by Marsha A. Moore

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  Cover design © 2017 by Marsha A. Moore

  Editing by Megan Patricia Orsini

  Visit Marsha A. Moore at:

  MarshaAMoore.com

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  Contents

  INSIDE COVER

  WITCH’S MOONSTONE LOCKET, BOOK 1

  WITCH’S CURSED CABIN, BOOK 2

  BLOOD ICE & OAK MOON, BOOK 3

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARSHA A. MOORE

  ***

  Witch’s Moonstone Locket

  A Coon Hollow Coven Tale

  by

  Marsha A. Moore

  ***

  Book Description

  Twenty-three-year-old Jancie Sadler was out of the room when her mother died, and her heart still longs for their lost goodbye. Aching to ease her sorrow, Aunt Starla gives Jancie a diary that changes her entire life. In entries from the 1930s, her great grandmother revealed how she coped with her own painful loss by seeking out a witch from nearby Coon Hollow Coven. The witch wore the griever’s moonstone locket, which allowed whoever could unlock its enchantment to talk with the dead.

  Determined to find that locket, Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival held in her small southern Indiana town of Bentbone. This opposes her father’s strict rule: stay away from witches. But she’s an adult now and can make her own decisions. She meets Rowe McCoy, the kind and handsome witch who wears the moonstone. He agrees to let her try to open the locket, but they’re opposed by High Priestess Adara and her jealous desire to possess him. Desperate for closure with her mother, Jancie persists and cannot turn away from a perilous path filled with magic, romance, and danger.

  Chapter One: Great Aunt Starla’s Cornbread

  Warm rain mixed with Jancie’s tears, and she rose to stand beside her mother’s grave. She bent at the waist and her fingers followed the arc of her mother’s name—Faye Sadler—in the headstone. From numerous visits, she knew the unyielding shape well. The word goodbye stuck in her throat. She’d said it aloud many times since her mother died six months ago, only to have the cemetery’s vast silence swallow her farewells. Rain beaded on the polished granite. Her hand, bearing her mother’s silver ring, slid down the stone and fell to her side.

  If only she could’ve said goodbye to her mother before she died. After years of caring for her mom while she suffered with cancer, Jancie had missed the final parting moment while getting a quick bite of dinner. The pain still cut like a knife in her gut.

  On foot, she retraced the too-familiar path toward her work at the Federal Bank. Although she’d landed a job as manager at the largest of the three banks in the small town of Bentbone, the position was a dead end. Within the first six months, she’d mastered all the necessary skills. Now, after a year, only the paycheck kept her there.

  Jancie turned onto Maple Street. As usual, wind swept up the corridor, between old shade trees protecting houses, and met her at the top of the tall hill. September rain pelted her face and battled the Indian summer noontime temperatures. She zipped the rain parka to keep her dress dry, pulled on the strings of the hood, and corralled strands of ginger-colored hair that whipped into her eyes. She gazed farther into the valley, where the view spanned almost a mile out to the edge of town. Usually, farmers moved tractors across the road or boys raced skateboards and bikes down Maple Street’s long slope.

  Today, on the deserted acreage just east of Bentbone, people moving in and out through a gate of the tall wooden fence breathed life into the rundown carnival. Surprised, Jancie crossed the street for a better view. She’d lost track of life around her since Mom passed. The coming Labor Day weekend in Bentbone meant the valley coven’s yearly carnival. She and her girlfriends always looked forward to the cute guys, fair food, and amazing magical rides and decorations, even if her father didn’t approve of witches or magic. The residents of the sleepy town awoke to welcome a host of tourists wanting to see the spectacle created by the witches of Coon Hollow Coven.

  Somehow, Jancie had forgotten the big event this year. Last year, she didn’t go since Mom was so sick and couldn’t be left. Jancie sighed and turned onto the main street toward the bank. She’d lost so much since her mother passed. Really, since the diagnosis of cancer.

  At that time, four years ago, Jancie withdrew as a sophomore from Hanover College, a select, private school in southern Indiana near the Kentucky border—too far away. Instead, she returned to stay with her mother and commuted to Indiana University. Balancing hours with the home health care nurse, Jancie had few choices of career paths. Not that it mattered, since her remarried father expected her to find a job in Bentbone and continue taking care of her mother. Despite the sacrifices, Jancie loved her mother, who’d always managed money for a few special things for Jancie—a new bike, birthday parties, prom dresses—even though their income was tight. Mom had paid for her tuition and listened to every new and exciting college experience.

  Jancie smiled at the memory of Mom’s twinkling brown eyes, that mirrored her own, when she asked about what happened during the day’s classes: if Jancie liked the professor; if she’d made new friends.

  When she rounded the last corner, she returned to her work day. At the bleak, limestone bank building, reality hit. Jancie pulled against the heavy glass door, and a
gust swept her inside. She peeled off the drenched jacket and hung it on the coat rack of her small, plain office.

  Through the afternoon’s doldrums, punctuated by only a handful of customers, her mind wandered to the carnival. She’d gone dozens of times before and loved it. But since Mom passed, nothing seemed fun anymore, like she couldn’t connect with herself and had forgotten how to have a good time. She organized a stack of notes, anything to put the concern out of her mind.

  ***

  After work, Jancie drove her old blue Camry the five miles to the other end of town where she lived in her mother’s white frame house, the home where she grew up, now hers. Glad to own her own place, unlike her friends who rented, she’d made a few easy changes. In the living room, a new brown leather couch with a matching chair and ottoman. She replaced the bedroom furniture with a new oak suite for herself in what used to be her mother’s room. With pay saved from the bank, Jancie could remodel or build on, but she didn’t know what she wanted yet. Her great aunt Starla had told her to just wait and hold onto her money; she’d know soon enough.

  Pouring rain soaked the hem of her dress as she darted between the garage shed and back stoop of the small ranch house.

  Glad she’d chosen to get her run in this morning before work, she changed into cozy sweats, pulled the long part of her tapered hair into a ponytail, and headed for the kitchen.

  Her phone alerted her of a text, and she read the message from her friend Rachelle, always the social director of their group: R we going to the carnival?

  Jancie typed a response. I guess. R Lizbeth and Willow going?

  Yep whole gang. What day?

  Don’t know yet. Get back to u. Jancie worried she’d spoil their fun. Even though they’d all been her best friends since high school and would understand her moodiness, she didn’t want to ruin one of the best times of the year for them. Since Mom passed, they’d taken her out to movies and shopping in Bloomington, but this was different. Could it ever match up to the fun of all the times before? “I don’t know if I’m up to that,” she said into open door of the old Kenmore refrigerator while rummaging for leftovers of fried chicken and corn.

  The meal satisfied and made her thankful she’d learned how to cook during those years with Mom. Not enough dishes to bother with the dishwasher, one of the modern upgrades to the original kitchen, Jancie washed the dishes by hand and then called Starla. When she answered, Jancie asked, “Can I come over tonight? There’s something I’m needing your opinion on.”

  “Why sure, Jancie. C’mon over,” the eighty-five-year-old replied with her usual warm drawl. “Are you wantin’ dinner? I made me some soup beans with a big hambone just butchered from Bob’s hog. My neighbor Ellie came over and had some. She said they were the best she’s eaten.”

  Jancie glanced at the soggy rain parka and opted for an umbrella instead. “No, I just ate. Be right over.” Keys and purse in hand, she hung up and darted for the shed.

  Five minutes later, she turned onto the drive of the eldercare apartments and parked under the steel awning where Starla gave her a whole arm wave from her picture window. Jancie made her way to number twelve on the first floor.

  The door opened, and Starla engulfed Jancie in a bear hug, pulling her into the pillow of a large, sagging bosom. Starla smelled of her signature scent—rosewater and liniment.

  Jancie had loved her great aunt’s hugs as long as she could remember. Stress and worry melted away, and she hugged back. Her arm grazed Starla’s white curls along the collar of her blue knit top embroidered with white stars—her great aunt’s favorite emblem.

  “It’s so good to see you. Come sit a spell, while I get us some iced tea.” Starla pulled away and gestured to the microsuede couch decorated with three crocheted afghans in a rainbow of colors. “I thought we were done with this hot weather, but not quite yet. That rain today’s been a gully washer but didn’t cool things off much.” The large-boned woman scuffed her pink-house-slippered feet toward the kitchen. “Would you rather have pound cake from the IGA or homemade cornbread?”

  Jancie laughed and followed her into the kitchen. She wouldn’t get through the visit without eating. “You’re just fishin’ for a compliment. You know your homemade cornbread is better.”

  Starla arranged plates with thick slices of warm cornbread and big pats of butter on top, while Jancie transferred the refreshments to the aluminum dinette table.

  “With your hair pulled back like that, you’re a dead ringer for your Ma. So pretty with that same sweetheart-shaped face.” Starla folded herself onto a chair beside Jancie. “You look to be getting on well…considering what all you’ve been through.”

  “I’m doing okay,” Jancie said through a mouthful of the moist cornbread. She washed it down with a swallow of brisk tea that tasted fresh-brewed. “But sometimes, lots of times, I feel lost, like I can’t move on.” She ran a hand across her forehead. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I spent time with her through all those years, and it shouldn’t matter, but it does every time I visit her grave and most every night in my dreams.”

  “Oh, honey. I know it hurts.” Starla smoothed Jancie’s ponytail down the middle of her back and spoke with a voice so slow and warm, it felt like a handmade quilt wrapping around her. “You spent all that time and gave so much. Just like when I cared for my husband some twenty years back. I know. I never got the chance to tell Harry goodbye either. Time will heal all hurts.”

  Jancie looked down at the marbleized tabletop to hide her teary eyes. “I don’t think I’m ever going to heal, Aunt Starla. I don’t know if I can ever move on.”

  “There is one thing you can try. I’d have done it, if I’d have known before decades softened my aching heart. Way back, I was desperate like you.”

  Jancie looked into Starla’s blue-gray eyes, set deep inside wrinkled lids.

  Her aunt leaned closer. “Not many know about this,” she whispered as if someone outside the apartment door might hear. “There’s an old story about how a member of the Coon Hollow Coven, one who’s recently lost a loved one, is made the teller of the moonstone tale.”

  Jancie rolled her eyes. “That’s just a silly story, one of lots that Mom and Dad told to scare me when I was little, so I’d stay away from the coven. When the moonstone locket opens at the end of the tale, you’ll get your wish but also be cursed.”

  “Oh no.” Starla shook her head and pushed away from the table. “Let me get Aunt Maggie’s old diary. I got this in a box of old family things when Cousin Dorothy passed.” She lumbered to her spare bedroom and returned with a worn, black-leather volume only a little larger than her wide palm. Once seated, she thumbed through the yellowed pages. “Here.” She pointed a finger and placed the book between them. “Aunt Maggie lost her husband to a heart attack at a young age, not but two years after they married. She pined for him so bad, cried for months, and eventually turned to the coven’s psychics. They tried and tried but couldn’t reconnect her with his spirit. One of them felt for the young woman with a baby not even knowing her daddy. The psychic took Maggie to the moonstone story teller. Read here about what happened.”

  Jancie silently read the flowery cursive with difficulty and slowed at the part about the story teller.

  When I dared to gather my courage and tell the widower warlock that I wanted my Marvin to meet our daughter Dorothy, the man’s dark eyes softened wide over me and my little one. He held out a locket set with a large moonstone. He said if the locket were to open for me, which it hadn’t ever before in his recollection, there’d be a price to pay for the gift I’d get. I didn’t care what price. I wanted Marvin to see our baby.

  The widower went on and told the sad tale about how the locket came to be, all the while tears leaked from his eyes. Straight away after he finished, the moonstone sparked blue, and the locket opened a crack. In the air above the locket, I saw the face of my Marvin smiling at Dorothy, and she cooed back at him. It was a miracle! But just for an instant. His face faded, and
the locket clicked shut.

  The warlock smiled, but his eyes looked sadder than before. He told me I was lucky, that most see nothing, or a few see just a flash of light. He bowed his head, hung the locket around his neck, and used the table we sat at to push up straight, like the necklace weighed him down. The psychic witch patted the warlock on the shoulder and walked me to the edge of their village. I don’t know if I dare to tell anyone what happened. But it’s enough that Dorothy and me saw her daddy.

  When Jancie looked up, Starla said, “So there. She got what she wanted and didn’t have any problems. Maybe that’s worth a try. Could be since you’re related to Maggie, you’ll be able to see your Ma.”

  Jancie skimmed the following diary entries for keywords—moonstone, locket, warlock, and coven—but the cursive made it difficult. “Can I take this for a while to read?”

  “Sure can.” Starla bit into a wedge of cornbread. “I’ve read the whole thing, and nothing odd came from that visit, near as I can tell. This weekend at the carnival, you could find the coven member who’s the moonstone story teller. That way, you don’t have to go to their village, if you’re worried about that.”

  “Well. I am, sort of. Dad always seemed strong against those witches. He wouldn’t let me go to the carnival for years after all my friends were allowed. It didn’t matter how much I begged.”

  “I remember that now.” The old woman took a sip of tea. “I used to try to tell your pa how the carnival’s safe for tourists and townies. That’s one of the coven’s biggest money-makers. They don’t aim to hurt people there. That’d only hurt themselves. I never figured out what your pa had against them.”