Crone's Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation

A Rowan Gant Investigation

A Novel of Suspense and Magick

By

E.M.A. Mysteries

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The
“Don’t Be
Brothers”
Irish Band and the persona of Dorothy
Morrison

are used with permission.

CRONE’S MOON
: A
Rowan Gant Investigation

A WillowTree Press Book

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2004 by M. R. Sellars

Cover design Copyright © 2004 Johnathan
Minton

This e-book edition is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition 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
person

This book may not be reproduced in whole or
in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without
permission.

For information contact: WillowTree
Press on the World Wide Web
http://www.willowtreepress.com

Smashwords Edition – 2010

With every book I write, the list of people I
feel compelled to thank grows. If I keep at this long enough, the
roll call will take an entire volume in and of itself, but I don’t
mind. True friends are a rare commodity, and those who stick by you
are worth more than their weight in gold. The fact that my list
keeps growing warms my heart, and thanking those people here is the
least I can do. So, without further babbling on my part, (yeah,
right. Like I’ll ever stop) here are the ‘usual suspects’ along
with a few new additions—

Dorothy Morrison: Gods, what can I say about
you my dear friend? You are not only like a sister to me; you are
an inspiration—each and every day.

Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD: The Scotch,
Cigars, and back deck are here for you any time my friend.

Roy Osbourn: A character, an invaluable
source of information, and hell of a guy. I’m glad to be able to
call you friend.

Tammi Nesser: Thanks for letting me borrow
your neuroses and phobias—again. Sorry about the whole getting
killed off thing.

Trish Telesco: Good friend and author
extraordinaire.

A.J Drew: What can you say about the Yeti.
He’s big, fuzzy, and a great guy. Oh yeah, AJ, be careful what you
ask for.

As always, my ever-expanding, long distance
family: Mystic Moon Coven.

Duane & Chell: Words cannot express my
love for you two.

Angel & Randal: Ditto.

Scott & Andrea: Love you guys too.

All of my good friends from the various
acronyms: C.A.S.T., F.O.C.A.S.M.I., H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A., and
S.P.I.R.A.L.

Patrick Owen: Friend and unofficially adopted
brother. We’ve seen some serious sh*t my brother. Good and bad. I
couldn’t have picked a better person to weather it with.

Tish Owen: Love ya’ hon!

Lori, Beth, Jim, Dave, Rachel, Doug, Duncan,
Kitti, Edain, Boom-Boom, Kevin, David, Bella, Shannon, Denessa,
Boudica, Imajicka, Owl, and probably twenty or thirty more…

My parents: I will never be able to thank you
enough for introducing me to the written word. I wish you both were
here.

“Chunkee”: The man behind the author. You
keep saying you have a poor memory, but why is it you know the
stories I’ve written better than I do? Thanks for being there.

Johnathan Minton: The guy who creates the art
you buy when you pick up one of my books. All I do is throw some
words at the pages in between.

My daughter: For making life an adventure and
allowing me to see the world through a fresh set of eyes. Thank you
for constantly amazing me.

My wife Kat: Editor, friend, soul mate,
keeper of the household, and the one person on earth I cannot live
without.

Jim Sellars: My uncle—I am thankful I got to
know you again before you had to leave for good.

Styx, Ozzy Osbourne, Loreena McKennitt, Enya,
and a host of other artists, that tirelessly (by the magick of the
CD player) and unknowingly provide the ambient sound for my office
whenever I am writing.

James Young and Tommy Shaw for the
song
These Are The Times.
I
realize it was written about something wholly unrelated, however
each time I hear it I cannot help but think of the relationship
between Ben Storm and Rowan Gant.

Firestorm Publicity Services and all that
they do to keep me going.

The person who discovered coffee and then
decided to turn it into a drink.

The “Don’t Be Brothers.”

The gang at CAO for producing some of the
best cigars a man could ever smoke. Thanks for the tour.

Bucky
Katt
,
Satchel
,
Wendi, ‘The Penguin Mafia’, and flying monkeys.

And, as always, everyone who takes the time
to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommend it to a
friend.

For my father,

M. R. Sellars,
Senior

If, in my lifetime, I am able to be

even half the man you were in yours,

I will truly have accomplished something.

While the city of St. Louis and its various
notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed
and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are
fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create
an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.

In short, I made them up because it helped me
make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I
wanted to.

Note also that this book is a first-person
narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan
Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person
writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character
telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for
that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English
throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his
narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical
anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order
to support this illusion of reality.

Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE.
Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude
thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable
time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors
miss a few now and then.

Finally, this book is not intended as a
primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please
note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these
religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations
may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that
your explanations might not fit mine either.

And, yes, some of the magick is “over the
top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…

When the moon is high and new,

kiss your hand to her times two.

When the moon rides at her peak,

then your hearts desire seek.

When the moon turns to the Crone,

in Saint Louis, don’t walk alone…

Couplets #5-6

The Wiccan Rede

Lady Gwen Thompson, First Printing, Green Egg
#69, Circa 1975

Couplet # 7 as written by Rev. Duane
Marshall, 2004

Thursday, January 10

Three days prior to the new moon

10:00 A.M.

North of Granite City, Illinois

H
er jaw is
hurting.

It isn’t the only part of her body that is
aching by far, but at the moment, it is in the forefront of her
mind. She can tell she has been grinding her teeth. There is no
doubt about it, because she always does when she sleeps.

Bruxism, that’s what her dentist calls it.
Pain, that’s what she calls it; especially right now. She has a
plastic mouth guard she sleeps with that is specially designed just
for the affliction, and it helps; but, she knows that considering
the amount of pain she is experiencing and the fact that she can’t
feel it in her mouth that the appliance must not be here.

Thinking about it doesn’t help much.

She is beginning to take notice of the
laundry list of aches plaguing her body. Her head, her chest, her
wrists, her ankles… hell, there isn’t an inch of her that doesn’t
hurt. There are just some parts that are screaming louder than the
others.

She starts to move, then flashes on a distant
memory. She’s not supposed to move? She shouldn’t move? She can’t
move? She tries anyway and finds that option three is apparently
the winner. She doesn’t know why she can’t move, but she decides
not to think about it. It just seems easier not too.

It is odd to her that she can remember the
word bruxism, but for some unknown reason she can’t recall much
else. She has no idea how long she has been here. A day? A week? A
month? No clue. But what does it matter? She doesn’t know where
‘here’ is.

Come to think of it, she doesn’t even know
WHO she is. Confusion seems to be the order of business, and she
has absolutely no idea why. The only thing she knows for certain is
that it is dark, cold, smells odd, and she is hurting.

She lets out a sudden whimper as a glut of
visceral fear gives her stomach a hard twist. She has no idea where
it is coming from, but it blindsides her. The terror starts winding
its way up from her gut, driving along her spine, and rushes into
her brain. She catches her breath as the flush of warmth spreads
over her face. She thinks she is going to vomit and swallows hard.
She feels a wet tear streaming across her cheek.

A moment later, the fear passes with the same
urgency and no more warning than when it had attacked. Again, it
seems easier to just forget than to try analyzing it. The question
‘why’ seems so moot.

She decides to move.

“Oh, that’s right,” she thinks to herself. “I
can’t move.”

She wriggles her hands, but that only serves
to make her wrists hurt more. She tries to move her feet and they
hurt too, but there is something more.

She moves her feet again and hears the
splashing sound of water. She can feel it against her skin, but it
isn’t the soothing sensation one would expect. It actually feels as
if her feet have been soaking for days.

“Why are my feet in water?” she wonders to
herself and then answers the query within the same stream of
thought. “Good question. Where am I again?”

She moves her feet and listens closely. Other
than the sound of the water, it is quiet.

It’s almost too quiet.

She doesn’t like that at all. She wishes it
wasn’t so still. It can’t be this quiet.

She stops moving and listens.

Distant footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate.

She’s not so sure she likes that sound any
more than the quiet. But she keeps listening.

She feels the fear welling in the pit of her
stomach once again and tries to focus on something else.

“Who am I?” she wonders aloud in a barely
audible whisper.

Her brain feels scrambled, and even the past
few moments seem like a washed out memory from another lifetime.
She forces herself to concentrate and begins whispering whatever
she can grasp from the disjointed thoughts.

“T…”

“Tee?”

“Tuh?”

“Tay?”

“Two?”

“Two, what?” she wonders.

“Two. Two times one is two. Two times two is
four. Two times three is six. Two times four is twelve… Twelve?
That’s right isn’t it? Of course it is. Two times four is twelve.
Two times twelve is sixteen… Wait… Sixteen? No… Wait… I’ll start
over. Two times two is eleven… No, that’s not right… What was it I
was trying to remember again?”

She gives up. It doesn’t seem worth it.

She notices that her mouth tastes funny—
strangely metallic.

“That’s weird,” she murmurs. “Hmph. I can
remember what metal is, so why can’t I remember what time it is? It
sure is dark. Maybe that’s why. There’s that sound again. Like a
motor or something. I wonder what it is?”