Crone's Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation (3 page)

I stared at the screen for a moment longer
and then gave up. I knew it wasn’t important and wasting my time on
it would probably just make my headache worse. I reached up and
rubbed my palm across the lower half of my face then gently touched
my fingertips to my tongue. When I pulled my hand away and had a
look, I found blood just as I knew I would.

My tongue still felt like ground meat, and I
hadn’t yet rid myself of the metallic tang that was invading my
mouth. My head was continuing to throb with a dull ache, but other
than that, the rest of my body’s agonies seemed to have fled as
fast as they had arrived. That was both good and bad. Good, of
course, because the pain was gone. Bad, because that meant they had
been phantom pains. Oh, they had felt real enough at the time, but
that was the extent of it. They only felt real. There were no
wounds, abrasions, or bruises. There was no physical evidence to
explain why they had been there to begin with. And, unfortunately,
this lead me back to my earlier suspicion.

My stomach twisted into a knot once again,
and I felt a brief spate of nausea come over me. This was exactly
the kind of thing that happened whenever I was experiencing someone
else’s physical pain. And for them, it was real pain, not
imagined.

This had been a psychic episode, and it was
all too familiar. Sometimes they were the same, and at other times
they were vastly different. Usually they came in groups that were
so similar as to not be able to tell them apart. But, no matter
what, they maintained the common thread of blackouts and
migraine-like headaches that seemed to linger forever. The types of
phantom pains, odd tastes, auditory anomalies, or anything else
always depended upon exactly what was being experienced by the
other person.

The last episode I’d had like this one had
actually been a series of them, but that had been something like
four or five months ago. As abruptly as they had started, they had
ended. I’d tried to forget about them, but I couldn’t. I knew then
that it was only a matter of time before they would return.

The sickening part was that every time this
sort of thing happened to me, somebody died. Worse yet, it was
usually more than one somebody.

I guess that’s what I get for being a
Witch.

I
was rinsing my mouth out
with warm salt water when the phone rang. I gave a final swish and
spit the pink tinged liquid into the basin, then grabbed a hand
towel and blotted my bearded chin as I walked out of the bathroom.
The electronic warble issued again, making the telephone sound just
about as impatient as any inanimate device could be.

“Chill out! I’m coming, I’m coming…” I said
aloud, as if a verbal scolding would make it stop. It didn’t.

I was still wiping my chin when I rounded the
corner into the kitchen and glanced at the caller ID box on the
wall. OUT OF AREA and a row of dashes was showing on the liquid
crystal display, so I lifted the receiver then allowed it to drop
right back into the cradle. I had no interest in dealing with a
salesman who believed it was okay to ignore the no-call list, not
to mention that I still had that headache.

I continued walking over to the counter and
retrieved a mug from the cabinet, then filled it with water from
the filtered tap. I had just placed it on the turntable in the
microwave when the phone began pealing for attention again. I
slammed the door on the microwave shut, then quickly punched in
three minutes and hit start before stepping back over to the
phone.

OUT OF AREA and a row of dashes displayed yet
again, and once more I lifted the receiver then let it drop with a
heavy clunk.

The microwave was humming away behind me as I
stepped over to the multi-tiered spice and herb rack mounted on the
wall and began my search for dried willow bark. The search was
going to be a huge pain in and of itself, and that just made my
head ache more.

Had I been in charge of the rack, the task
wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, as everything would be in
alphabetical order. My wife, Felicity, however, was the keeper of
the herbs, and she had her own way of categorizing the bottles.
Little groups of related and semi-related spices, barks, herbs, and
teas lined the rack. The organization of such simply defied any
explanation I could muster.

However, put Felicity in front of it, and she
could easily snatch up a bottle of whatever you asked for without
even looking. Unfortunately, she wasn’t here at the moment.

The closest I had been able to come in the
minute or so I had been looking was in fact bark, but it was
cinnamon and not willow. Even though it would have tasted quite a
bit better, I desperately needed the salicylic acid, not the
flavor. I was dragging my finger slowly across the labeled tops of
the myriad of bottles, wondering if I should just give up and take
some aspirin, when the phone began ringing once again.

I tried to ignore it, but it wasn’t helping
me concentrate, so I threw my hands up in a dismissive gesture and
let out a heavy sigh. I took the few steps over to the phone and
saw the same message as before blinking on the display of the
caller ID. Now I was annoyed.

I snatched the phone up from the wall cradle
and stuck it to my ear, then barked, “I don’t want any!”

I was just getting ready to slam the phone
back down when I heard my wife’s stern voice issue from the
earpiece in a quick stream, “Rowan Linden Gant, don’t you hang up
on me again!”

I tucked the handset back up to my ear,
“Felicity?”

“You don’t want any of what?” she
demanded.

“Sorry, I thought you were a salesperson,” I
apologized. “The caller ID is coming up with ‘out of area’ and no
number.”

“Ahh,” she replied. I could almost see her
nodding at the other end. “I forgot to charge my cell battery, so
I’m using someone else’s. It’s an out of state number.”

“Oh, okay, makes sense,” I replied, then
sighed and didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. “So what’s
up?”

“That’s why I’m calling YOU.”

“Come again?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” I told her.

“Don’t lie to me, Rowan,” she pressed.

I tried to circumvent answering the question
by placing the burden back on her. “So what makes you think
something is wrong?”

“Give me a break, Rowan. You aren’t the only
Witch living under that roof.”

At times I forgot that my wife was prone to
psuedo-empathic episodes where I was concerned. Much like I would
experience someone else’s pain via an ethereal bond, she would see
flashes of my torment within her mind’s eye. Due to the shifting
and uncertain nature of the psychic realm, these images would at
times be symbolic or incomplete. The first time it had happened to
her, she thought that I was dead.

Thankfully, they didn’t happen to her all of
the time, and she didn’t have to endure the same physical torture
as I. If she did, I don’t think I would have been able to handle
it. The fact that she faced mental pain because of me was enough to
make me nauseous just by itself.

Realizing that she was going to get it out of
me one way or another, I let out a resigned sigh.

“Remember those seizures I had back in
January?” I asked.

There was a brief moment of silence at the
other end, and then she spoke quietly, “Not again.”

Her comment had been couched as a statement
rather than a question, but I answered it anyway, “Afraid so.”

“Why, Rowan?” There was almost a pleading
tone in her voice. “Why you? Why does this keep happening to
you?”

“I wish I knew, honey,” I said, reaching up
with my free hand to rub my temple. “Seems like we both ask that
question a lot every time this kind of thing happens.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Headache,” I grunted, then added, “Did a
number on my tongue again. Broke my favorite coffee mug. But other
than that, okay I guess.”

“I’m only half an hour away,” she informed
me. “And we haven’t even set up yet. Let me see if we can
re-schedule the shoot, and I’ll be home within an hour.”

“What for?” I returned. “I told you, I’m
fine.”

“But, Rowan…”

“Really, Felicity, I’m fine,” I cut her off.
“I’m a big boy, and I can take care of myself. I was just making
some willow bark tea when you called.”

“You’re sure, then?”

“Absolutely. We can talk about it later,” I
assured her. “Besides, they need you there to make pretty pictures
for them.”

“I don’t know about pretty,” she replied.
“I’m shooting automotive parts today.”

“What, no swimsuit models?” I asked her with
a hint of good-natured sarcasm.

“No, but I’m doing a lingerie shoot for the
Kathy’s Closet chain next week,” she answered and then added her
own query. “You want to help set up and tear down the backdrops and
lights?”

“Yeah, right,” I returned with a chuckle to
what I thought was a facetious question.

“Actually, I’m serious,” she returned. “It’s
going to be an all day shoot, so I could use the help.”

“Yeah, okay, if I don’t have a rush job or
something for a client, sure,” I told her. Then I joked, “But are
you sure you really want to get me around all those young
models?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I trust you.
Besides, you’ll be working for me and you’ll have to do everything
I say.”

“Everything?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” she purred and then repeated the
word with somewhat exaggerated pronunciation. “Ev-er-y-thing.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“And, of course, if you don’t, then I just
might have to take some disciplinary action.”

“Again, sounds interesting.”

“You never know,” she answered with an amused
giggle. “By the way, they also offered me a nice discount at their
stores.”

“No kidding?”

“Uh-huh, so if you do a good job maybe I’ll
let you take me shopping after we wrap it up.”

“That could be fun,” I said.

There was a period of silence following my
comment and soon there was a palpable sense of seriousness creeping
into the void between us. Our momentary lightheartedness
disappeared in the wake of the recent verbal distraction.

“You’re certain you don’t want me to come
home, then?” Felicity finally asked, the concern edging her voice
once again.

“Positive sweetheart,” I told her. “We’ll
talk when you get home.”

“Okay. If you’re sure,” she said.

“Go make some sexy pictures of carburetors,”
I told her. “Gear heads need pinups too.”

I heard her laugh at the other end of the
line, once again breaking through the mantle of seriousness that
originally cloaked her.

“And, honey?” I added.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“For what? Inviting you to a lingerie
shoot?”

“No,” I returned. “For everything else.”

I could almost feel her smiling when I hung
up the phone.

* * * * *

I absently took a sip from the coffee mug and
screwed up my face in disgust. Willow bark tea was not the most
pleasant drink one could ingest to begin with and being an hour
cold didn’t help it at all. I suppose that would teach me to look
first and then drink. I glared at the cup as if it were at fault,
then set it aside and hooked my finger into the handle of the cup
I’d been reaching for to begin with— the fresh cup of coffee I had
just put on the corner of my desk a few minutes ago.

I took a sip from the new mug and found it to
be only slightly less cold. I cocked an eyebrow and shot a glance
at the clock in the corner of my computer screen. 10:47 A.M. was
staring back at me. The few minutes had somehow expanded into
forty-five. I guess I had been a little more preoccupied with my
work than I’d originally thought.

I leaned back in my chair. The springs
underneath the piece of furniture creaked as it tilted, then I was
almost certain that I heard my joints creak as I stretched. I drew
in a deep breath then pushed my eyeglasses back up onto the bridge
of my nose. As of late, I’d been finding myself allowing them to
slip down so I could look at the monitor over the top of the
rim.

I knew that meant it was time for a trip to
the optometrist. Actually, I’d known it for a while, but I’d been
avoiding it. I fully suspected I was going to need bi-focals, and
that just meant I was getting old. No one ever wants to admit to
aging, and I suppose I was no different.

I looked at the coffee cup in my hand then
back at the clock. I mulled it over for a minute and then decided I
would go ahead and get one more fresh cup—if there was any left. I
was just pushing my chair back from the desk when the phone rang.
This time it was my business line, so I didn’t bother with caller
ID. I simply rolled the chair back in and took the receiver in
hand, cutting the device off mid-peal.

“Gant Consulting,” I answered.

“Yeah, kin you fix my com-pooter? It’s
broke.” A poorly disguised and all too familiar voice grated from
the earpiece.

“No, Ben,” I returned without missing a beat.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I do custom software and
networks, not computer repair.”

My cop friend guffawed at what he perceived
to be an amusing prank call, and I had no choice but to break into
a grin myself. His good humor had a tendency to be contagious, as
did his sullen moods; and I’d been on the receiving end of enough
of that type of phone call from him to know, so this was a pleasant
change.

To be honest, considering what I’d
experienced earlier I was surprised to find his tone so jovial. I
had been expecting that I would hear from him but figured it would
be something I didn’t want to hear. That was what always seemed to
happen whenever I had one of my episodes.