Read Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon) Online
Authors: Sibelle Stone
Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon)
Whistle Down the Wind
by
Sibelle Stone
Whistle Down the Wind
Book One of the Mystic Moon Series
by
Sibelle Stone
Published by Moon Valley Publishing
Copyright © 2012 Deborah Schneider
All rights
reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of
this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior
written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made
to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations are
from the author’s imagination and any similarity to actual living or dead
persons, businesses, or events is coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
Moon Valley Publishing, P.O. Box 1357, North Bend, WA 98045
Editor: Helen Hardt
For Dave, my handsome hero.
Twilight
shadows chased Catlin Glyndwr down the cobblestoned streets of Shrewsbury. The
mist reached out to snatch at her, like skeletal hands creeping across the
graveyard when the moon is dark.
I'll
never reach home before dark
. Catlin pulled the velvet cape tightly around her shoulders
and quickened her step. Her heart thumped like a bodhrán drum.
Danger
lurked in the darkness of Shrewsbury. Hunters searched for those who dared
leave the safe confines of their homes to wander at night. These hunters were
especially interested in any woman bold enough to walk the streets after dusk.
Such women quickly came under suspicion.
Catlin had
planned to make her visit to the tiny, shabby hut brief. But the Widow Holton was
too feverish to rise from her bed. After glancing around the dingy one-room
hovel with no fire to keep the Widow and her three children warm or to cook,
Catlin couldn’t turn her back on the impoverished family.
She’d
prepared a stew from the foodstuffs she carried in the basket with her herbs
and tonics. She even took the time to stir up a pot of porridge for the next
day. Then she promised the Widow she’d return soon.
Catlin
stumbled on the rough cobblestones. She adjusted the basket on her arm just as
a glimmer of light diverted her attention.
A warning?
She didn’t
have time to respond as a thick arm shot out from the darkness, grasped her
around the waist, and pulled her into the shadows.
A
leather-gloved hand covered her mouth, smothering her scream. Her stomach
heaved, in danger of purging her hastily eaten meal.
Not that screaming
would do any good. Lately, the good people of Shrewsbury kept their doors
barred and their shutters fastened after the sun set. They’d grown accustomed
to hearing screams in the night and accepted that sometimes women simply
disappeared without a trace.
Fear made
them silent allies in the sick drama being played out in the lanes surrounding
their homes and businesses. Too many living in the village of Shrewsbury chose
to look the other way, or to pretend that whatever happened ’twas God’s will.
“Stay
silent,” a voice warned from behind her as the sharp prick of a knife blade
pierced the skin at the side of her throat. She felt a trickle of blood slide
down to wet her collar.
The arm
dragged her farther back into the alley. Catlin knew any effort to resist the
man holding her captive could easily result in her death. She fought the
tremors making her so weak, if she wasn't held so tightly she'd collapse.
As a candle
passed before her face, Catlin tried to shrink back from the stinking hulk
holding it. He leered at her with a toothless grin.
“One of dem
Glyndwr sisters, Bodwell.”
A muffled
laugh echoed behind her. “Then ’tis a good night of hunting indeed, Scapes.”
Symon
Bodwell, the witch hunter, was not known for his compassion or fine manners. He
was probably the most despised man in Shrewsbury, yet the license dispensed
from the Bishop had given him power and authority over almost everyone in the
village.
The iron
grip holding her prisoner slackened. Huge hands shoved her roughly against a
wall. She crumbled to her knees, and tears washed the back of her eyelids.
I must not
be afraid, for fear is the thing that feeds creatures like Bodwell, she
silently reminded herself.
“Leave me
alone,” she finally gasped. Her arm ached from the assailants grip and her ears
still rang from her collision with the wall.
Symon
Bodwell, his thin lips formed into a sneer, glared down at her with a hatred so
fierce, if she wasn't already forced against the wall, she'd have clamored away
from him.
“You are not
in a position to give me orders, witch.”
Catlin tried
to swallow her fear. The man couldn’t possibly have proof of his accusation.
She and her sisters were careful about practicing the craft. Their celebration
of Imbolc, in the quiet of her sister's home, had been modest compared to their
rites back home in Cymru.
“You’ve
attacked an innocent woman, Bodwell, and I can assure you I shall complain to
the Justice of the Peace about this treatment.” Her voice echoed high and thin
with fear.
Bodwell’s
mouth twisted into a cruel smile at her words.
“Save your
ink and paper, for Lord Cranbourne is soon headed to the grave from what I
hear,” he snarled. The tone of his voice was as harsh and cold as the winter
winds that blew in from the ocean near her ancestral home. “He’ll not help any
such as you, witch.” Catlin shivered at the menace in the man’s words.
“I’ve done
nothing wrong,” she protested, hating the weak tremor that entered her voice.
Her stomach clenched again, and Catlin feared she would humiliate herself by
spewing. She couldn't help it, deep down, she was terrified. She was sure these
men could hear the staccato beat of her heart, banging in her chest.
Symon
Bodwell hovered above her like a specter for a moment, then grasped the fabric
of her cape and pulled her roughly to her feet.
“There are
ways to escape the gallows.”His other hand slipped beneath the velvet cape to
roughly grasp the fabric covering one of her breasts. He yanked her even
closer, so his face was only inches from hers. The pungent odor of onions clinging
to his breath made her gag. She swallowed to keep her stomach from spilling its
contents on his boots.
Catlin
gasped as he continued to squeeze and mangle her breast before his hand moved
lower. Ice spilled through her veins as she realized his intention.
“Lean back
against the wall and spread yer legs.” He pushed her backwards again. “If ye
please me, I might let ye live so’s I can enjoy ye again.”
Catlin tried
to scream, but the gloved hand covered her mouth again. Bodwell released his
hold on her arms to yank at her gown and petticoat, lifting them to bare her
legs.
The man
planned to ravish her, and he thought she'd meekly acquiesce to his demands.
The chill of fear quickly turned to white hot rage. Death couldn't be worse
than allowing this monster to steal her virginity. Catlin balled her hands into
fists and prepared to lash out and fight the man intent on raping her.
“Leave her,”
another man’s voice called out from the darkness. “You were told to capture her
and I’ll not have the goods sullied before you hand her off to me!”
The accent
was polished, deep enough to reverberate in the alleyway. She recognized
beneath the words lingered an ugly, evil thread of dark magic. She sensed the
greater threat came from the man hidden from view.
Bodwell
turned away from her, his gaze scanning the night surrounding them like a
funeral shroud. “I wasn’t expecting ye here tonight, milord,” he said, backing
away from Catlin. His arrogant sneer had turned to a simpering whine.
She seized
the opportunity to quickly draw a sigil in the air before closing her eyes to
gather her power. She cleared her mind of the fear and drew on the ancient and
familiar words she'd learned from her mother. Energy spiraled through her body,
making her fingertips tingle and her heartbeat slow to an easy rhythm.
She called
on her
sylphs
for help, and a quick breeze assured her they’d heard her
plea. Within moments, the breeze transformed into a whirlwind that gathered
dust and dirt to pelt her attackers with debris.
The two men
who had cornered her started to cough and hack, giving her the chance she’d
been waiting for.
Gathering
the magical power building within her, she hurled it at her captors. Bodwell
slammed backwards into the man holding the candle. They both toppled to the ground,
spitting and swearing.
Catlin
sketched a different sigil in the air and small dots of light began to flicker
around her. She pointed her finger at the two men and chanted in the ancient
language of her ancestors.
"Doethineb,
cryfder, ammddiffyn rhag!"
Wisdom,
strength, protection. An ancient spell.
Sparks of
light flew from every direction and attacked the men, making them swat at the
air around them as if warding off angry hornets.
Catlin
circled away from her attackers, working hard to keep her trembling body under
control.
“I’ll see
all ye Glyndwr sisters dancin’ at the end of a rope. Wait and see.” Bodwell’s
voice trailed behind her, his vile threats laced with swearing.
“You fools,”
the stranger howled, “she’s escaping!”
A spiral of
dark magic followed Catlin as she stumbled away from her attackers. Her
sylphs
acted as a shield, protecting her from its evil touch. Fear gripped Catlin’s
heart as she slipped through the murky ink of night, toward the safety of her
sister’s shop. Away from the immediate danger, but she sensed a terrifying
malevolence hunted her and her family. She had managed to elude arrest for now,
but she knew the Witch Finder wouldn’t give up so easily. She was now terrified
that she’d led the monster directly to her sister’s door, and she didn’t know
how to protect those she loved from the approaching horror that could reach out
and snatch them all away.