Blame the Moonlight (Bound by series Book 2) Read online

  Blame the Moonlight

  Donna MacMeans

  Contents

  Thank you for your purchase!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Bound by Moonlight

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Donna MacMeans

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Donna MacMeans

  All rights reserved.

  This novella first appeared October 2016 in the Welcome to Haven Harbor Anthology.

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The town named Haven Harbor, and its existence as a town of witches, is the creation of Jeanne Adams, author. You can read more about the town in her Witches Walk series.

  Cover designer: Lyndsey Lewellen

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Thank you for your purchase!

  Thank you for purchasing Blame the Moonlight. Your patronage is very, very important to me. After you’ve read the story, I hope you’ll take the time to give it a quick, honest review. Reviews, good or bad, are incredibly important to an author in terms of available promotion opportunities.

  If you’d like to stay informed of my future releases, please consider joining my newsletter list by visiting:

  http://www.donnamacmeans.com

  I frequently give away free books to subscribers as well as give advance peeks and insights into my books. Everyone who signs up for a newsletter receives a free short story (Smoke and Mirrors) for their effort.

  See about the author at the end of the book for other connection opportunities.

  Thank you again!

  Donna MacMeans

  Chapter 1

  “I see this film as an epic adventure”—the film director raised his wine glass—“illuminating the struggles of ancient cultures to work together for a peaceful solution. A civil rights movie, essentially.”

  While he charmed the patrons seated around a dining room table more suitable for an embassy than a society matron’s residence, Chelsea Davenport, in charge of FX and makeup for the film, leaned toward the film’s star, her best friend. “In other words, a witch and werewolf slasher.”

  “Don’t forget the vampires,” Darcy murmured, while maintaining a beatific smile.

  Now that was acting.

  “I’ll have my work cut out for me in fake blood alone.” Chelsea smiled, then sipped from her wine glass. She cast a worried glance to the atrium ceiling above. She hadn’t been prepared for that. When she learned of the invitation to the Birkland’s residence in Haven Harbor, she had assumed the dinner would be served in a normal room with a solid ceiling that blocked the night sky. This room, however, appeared to have been designed for other purposes. Though what those purposes might be, she couldn’t fathom.

  “Miss Davenport is responsible for our selecting Massachusetts as a potential site for our film. I believe she was born here,” Anton Stammer, the director, lifted his glass in salute.

  “Really?” The white brows of their hostess rose in question.

  “I’m not from Haven Harbor,” Chelsea quickly explained. “Before my parents moved to Iowa, I lived west of here, much closer to Worcester. Now, I’m in Los Angeles to be close to the movie industry.”

  “Were you in Massachusetts very long?”

  “Long enough,” Chelsea said with a sad smile. “I was sixteen when we left.”

  Which meant she was ripped away from her childhood friends, from the comfort of familiar spaces and from her first true love, Brandon Parker, the high school football quarterback with dreamy eyes and firm, yet gentle lips that met hers with shy respect but promised passion in a first kiss. Her jaw slackened and her heart squeezed with the poignant memory.

  “Miss Davenport.” The matron’s voice snapped her from her reverie. “I’d like to thank you for agreeing to counsel the young women of Haven Harbor on the proper application of cosmetics tomorrow. You’ll be transforming our beloved adolescents into beautiful butterflies.” The others at the table nodded in agreement. “I’m certain as word of your well-documented expertise spreads, you will be quite busy with the response.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” Chelsea returned those earlier unbidden memories to the locked vault in her heart. She wasn’t normal. She couldn’t dally with charming boys or handsome men in any meaningful way. She knew that now. Those sweet memories were all she’d ever have. While her parents were wise to remove her from all she once knew, that didn’t ease the pain of first love. Her lips turned in a poignant smile. “I’m looking forward to working with the teens, especially as charity will benefit.”

  Mrs. Birkland’s smile slowly dissolved into concern. “Miss Davenport, are you feeling all right? You’ve grown quite pale.”

  Crap!

  Chelsea glanced up to see a full moon visible through the glass panels above. The tingling in her fingers and toes warned that she was quickly fading and soon would be completely invisible.

  “I have to go.” She stood so quickly that if her innately carved wooden chair hadn’t been so solid, it would have tipped over. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, but”—she snagged her tiny party purse draped over the ear of the chair—“I have to go.”

  She half-walked, half-ran from the dining room toward the bedroom where the production company’s coats had been placed. Already her hands turned translucent. She crossed them in front of her so no one would notice, and counted her blessings that her long skirt hid her invisible legs.

  “Are you ill, child?” The matron called after her. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “No. She’ll be fine,” Darcy interceded. “This has happened before.”

  Thank heavens for Darcy. She was the only one that knew of her affliction, of her curse, really. It was the sharing of mutual private secrets that had sealed their trust and made them best friends.

  “It’s some sort of allergy.” Darcy explained. “She’ll be fine, really.”

  Allergy. Hah! That might be one way to explain her propensity to turn invisible in moonlight. But there was no pill or salve that would counteract her reaction to the moon. Chelsea knew as she had spent many, many years looking to discover or possibly invent something to do just that. She dashed into the bedroom to retrieve her short jacket from the pile of warm wools and furs. She’d forgotten how cold it got in October in Massachusetts, practically freezing by Los Angeles standards.

  “You need to go,” Darcy said, slipping into the room after her. “That Birkland woman is asking for volunteers to drive you to the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry, Darcy. I hadn’t planned on a glass ceiling, who does that?” Chelsea held up her jacket. “This thing would have gotten me from the house to a car, but now…” To a normal observer, her body would be gone. Her clothes would appear to be worn by a non-existent mannequin. She glanced at a window. It was too cold outside to go naked, the only true way to be completely invisible.

  “No need to apologize. I’m jealous that you get to leave early.” Darcy rummaged through a closet and withdrew a hanger holding
a floor-length black woolen cape with a deep hood that hung down the back. “Take this but hurry before one of the helpful patrons comes to see what’s happening.”

  “I can’t just take someone else’s cape,” Chelsea protested, taking care to keep her voice down. “It’s not mine.”

  “You have a better idea?” Darcy asked. “Look, you can always return the coat later, but you need to get out of here.”

  She had to admit, the cape would be perfect for concealing her non-existent limbs. Chelsea reluctantly tried it on. She pulled the hood over her invisible head and slipped the gold chain of her purse over her shoulder. She couldn’t resist a giggle. “If this thing was red, I’d be little red riding hood.”

  Footsteps approached on the wooden hallway.

  “Go out the window.” Darcy lifted the sash, creating an exit in the back wall. “Head for the woods. The Old Haven Mill Hotel is to the west. You’ve got your phone?” Chelsea held up the tiny purse. “Good. I’ll make excuses. Now go!”

  “Thanks for covering.” Chelsea lifted her leg over the sash, ducked her head beneath the window pane, then fell to the leaf strewn ground.

  Double Crap! A sharp pain shot up her leg.

  Darcy’s head appeared above through the open window. “You okay?”

  Chelsea gritted her teeth while huddled on the ground below. Using the house for support, she pulled herself up to stand. “I’m all right,” she replied. “I think I twisted my ankle. I don’t think it’s broken.” It sure hurt like hell, though.

  “Good. Don’t forget, go west.” The window slammed shut.

  Chelsea hunched over and limped to the safety and comfort of the nearby concealing woods.

  She remembered these trees. She slid her hand down the rough bark. Not these specific trees, of course, given that she’d never walked in this particular wood before. She smiled saintly at the absurdity. Yet she remembered the sight, touch, and reassuring scent of the tall stately elms with their saw-toothed leaves, the welcoming oaks, and vibrantly colored maples. Much of her time in those early years was spent in a wood much like this. She’d forgotten what pleasant company the trees provided. She leaned against a bare trunk. Now they offered support as she limped along what appeared to be a well-traveled trail.

  She’d received her first kiss with her back against a tall noble beech tree. Her checks warmed with the memory, but those were experiences from a time long gone. In Los Angeles she was surrounded by beautiful flowering specimen trees and stately palms with high dry fronds, nothing like this dark wood with the wind whispering through the dried autumn leaves. Favoring her left foot, she continued her awkward gait, hoping the dark wood would protect her till she reached the hotel.

  It was a curse, this moon affliction. A curse passed down through generations, a gift from her Russian ancestors, the Nevidimi. To her knowledge, there weren’t many, if any at all, of the Nevidimi left. She was totally alone, isolated by her unwanted uniqueness. Planning her life around the moon’s phases so as not to be caught, either in fade—like tonight when she was transitioning—or full phase when she was totally invisible, proved tiresome. Thank heavens for Darcy. She couldn’t have endured the loneliness and isolation without her. With Darcy, she had an outlet for her frustrations, and someone to cover for her when she was careless—like tonight.

  She checked the compass app on her phone to ensure she was still headed in the right direction. It would be easy to get lost. Some day she’d like to maybe live in a place like this. A place with a dark wood where she might be free to fade as nature demanded without concern for discovery.

  Her nose caught a whiff of smoke. Someone must have a bonfire on this crisp October evening, or maybe—she noted a few lights shining though the trees—the scent came from a restaurant grill. Now that she looked, many establishments seemed to back up to this wood.

  A gusty wind kicked at the cape’s front opening. She pulled the woolen folds more securely around her. In a way it was ironic that she’d be in a New England woods so close to Halloween. Her ancestor, the headless horseman, was known to terrify a similarly situated village at this time of year. Fully dressed under a full moon, he used a jack-o-lantern to pass as his head and scare the townspeople. No jack-o-lanterns to light her way tonight. All she had was this smartphone to navigate her home.

  The acrid stench of urine sliced through her pleasant reminiscing. She glanced from her phone to see a wispy steam emerge from behind a tree, then heard the quick rasp of a zipper.

  She froze. She wasn’t alone.

  Music from a local tavern echoed through the trees. This could be one of their customers or a homeless man. She’d seen enough homeless in Los Angeles to recognize the attributes. If she stayed absolutely still, he might never even notice that she—

  “Are you Death?” A slurred voice eliminated her hopes of being unnoticed. The man fumbled in his pocket mumbling, “no one will believe this,” before a thud suggested something solid had struck the ground.

  Crap! Discovery. If she ignored him, he might venture closer. If she spoke to him, maybe she could convince him to go away. She checked her nonexistent arm just to verify. Yup. It wasn’t as if he could actually see her to identify later.

  She turned slowly, prepared to assure him that she was certainly not Death, but he was kneeling on the ground pushing the damp leaves about. He didn’t look homeless, in fact, he was well dressed in a casual sort of way which meant he was most likely one of the tavern patrons. She guessed he was about her age, maybe a year or two older, and had those wide shoulders that could make a woman feel protected—a sensation she’d hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

  What the heck was she doing, ogling the man when she should run? Now! While he was preoccupied. She turned.

  “Wait!” he said as if sensing her desire to flee. He rose to his feet with some effort. “I just want to talk.”

  His gaze lifted from the ground where he’d been searching in the leaves to follow her caped form from her feet to the drawn hood. The very eyes that had been haunting her memories and dreams for years and years, slowly raised to meet hers.

  “Brandon?”

  In response, his lips tilted in that familiar half smile she’d loved so long ago.

  “I never thought of Death as a woman,” he said. “But it makes sense. Women have always been the bane of my existence.”

  What was he talking about? What women? Why was he here in Haven Harbor? Crap! Did he recognize her voice as she had his?

  He pointed to her shoulder. “You know you’re in trouble when Death knows your name and comes calling with a sparkly little purse.” He swayed on his feet. “That can’t be good.”

  She glanced at her shoulder. Unfortunately, the wind that had been rattling the dried leaves overhead seized that moment to gust toward the ground and push the black hood of the cape clear to her shoulders.

  Brandon could see her as she truly was, a headless cape without even a jack o’lantern for effect.

  His eyes widened. “Damn!”

  Chapter 2

  Was he seeing this? Was it real? How could it be real, the woman had no head!

  He knew he’d had too much to drink, but as he wasn’t driving, he didn’t see the harm. He’d hoped drinking that much bourbon would make him numb to the reason he was in Haven Harbor in the first place. Covering Halloween preparations and minor movie moguls was no place for an investigative reporter, even a disgraced one. But he hadn’t planned on encountering Death in the woods, or discovering Death had no head, or that by the tone of her voice, she was a woman. Damn! If only he hadn’t lost his cell phone before he could take a picture.

  The headless cape took off in a strange run, or maybe she flew as he couldn’t see any legs. She had an awkward gait, as if injured, which should make her easier to catch—if that was his plan. His plan! His head buzzed as if filled with bees. Angry bees. One of them must have stung him in the right place as he suddenly knew what he had to do.

  She was a
story! A drop-dead, front page, gift-from-the-gods story and he was letting her escape.

  “Wait!” he yelled, starting in pursuit. “Come back.” He’d been an athlete once. He prayed those muscles would work hard for him again. “Wait! I just want to talk!”

  He ran face first into a fairly strong wind. Then something big and dark that fluttered in the air and blocked out the trees flew straight at him. He tried to duck, but it smacked his face and wrapped around his body. Wool! Damn. Her cape! His lack of sobriety hindered his efforts as he tried to claw the enveloping warmth off his face and body. Finally, he wrestled the cape to the ground. Panting from the odd confrontation, he looked ahead.

  Clothing littered the woods. Was that a blouse in the dirt ahead, and a long skirt further down in a bush? He was pretty sure those clothes weren’t there earlier. It was as if Death had performed a strip tease as she ran. Why would Death do that? Why would Death wear clothes? He glanced at the substantial black garment at his feet, remembering the headless woman. He could see the cape, he just couldn’t see her head when the wind pushed the hood back.

  In the distance, a small cloth danced in the wind, moving ever closer. Finally, it landed at his feet. He picked up soft black silk panties with a stiff flirty edge of lace.

  Damn! Death was a sexpot!

  Nothing but wind stirred the leaves on the path ahead, yet he thought he heard the muffled sound of feet running in an uneven gait. Then silence.

  His reporter radar bonged like a clanging fire alarm. This was it! This meant possible redemption from his ill-fated exposé on high school football that had landed him in Haven Harbor. A real story might get him back in the good graces of his new boss, a judgmental, irritating woman who had sent him on this mission. A real story might get him on the list to go to the World Series. But first he’d have to wrap his sluggish head around one small detail.