By Moon Read online

  By Moon

  The Witches of Portland, Book 5

  T. Thorn Coyle

  Copyright © 2018

  T. Thorn Coyle

  PF Publishing

  Cover Art and Design © 2018

  Lou Harper

  Editing:

  Dayle Dermatis

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946476-10-4

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.

  By Moon

  In the light of the moon, secrets are revealed.

  Darkness was good for a lot of the magic Selene was best at. Bindings. Uncrossings. Banishings. Oh, they could work the mechanics of prosperity or love spells, and of course collaborated with their coven on spells for justice, but…they were just more comfortable with working magic on the dark side of the moon.

  That’s a good thing, because poisonous magic is snaking through Selene’s community, and things just got personal.

  This is a standalone book in a linked series.

  1

  Selene

  The scent of oil paint, turpentine, and linseed made Selene feel at home, chasing away the sense of unease they’d carried into the studio. The lights from the Morrison Bridge winked outside the chipped frames of the warehouse windows, lighting up the span and casting bright globes that sparkled on the waters of the Willamette.

  The moon was almost full, and cast its own light across the dark ribbon of river.

  The large studio space was quiet, the only sounds being the soft whoosh of cars heading toward the bridge, some laughter from the bar on the corner, and the tinny sound of music played too loud in someone’s earbuds.

  Only two other people were in the whole shared arts complex. People had better things to do at ten o’clock on a Friday night in June. It had been a hot day at the tail end of a scorching week, which meant the patio bars and outdoor cafés would be doing brisk business. Considering the sun didn’t set until 9 p.m. at this time of year, and light faded later still, only a fool would be inside by choice.

  Well, Selene was one of those fools. Happy to have found a studio they could afford, and driven inside by the will to paint. And the need to escape that sinking feeling in the pit of their gut they’d been carrying around for the past few weeks.

  Something was wrong, and Selene hadn’t been able to pinpoint what. Oh, there was the backwash from the coven fighting off white supremacists the month before. The fallout from that was going to take time to settle, both in the coven and in the city itself. They’d won that battle but were under no illusions that they’d won the war.

  And then Selene had to defend their thesis in order to graduate, which had been frankly harrowing. Because of a disagreement with their advisor, Selene almost didn’t make it through.

  After that, a person would think that Selene would take a break, but the opposite was true. Selene needed to prove to themself and their muse that art was paramount, grades and degrees or not.

  Besides, art sometimes felt as if it was the only thing keeping Selene alive.

  There had been way too much despair lately. Trans friends resorting to suicide to stop the hurting inflicted on them by a world that could not comprehend their beauty. Black boys murdered. Indigenous women missing. Hate crimes of all types on the rise. And Selene?

  Selene was just a non-binary Goth femme, longing for love and not knowing where to find it. Or if they could even take the risk.

  Love required too much exposure. Body and soul. That was the hardest thing about completing their thesis. Their advisor kept pushing Selene to dig deeper. To show more of themself.

  That was how great art was made, Ms. Monroe said. “You bare your soul to the canvas and paint it with your spit and blood.”

  Those stirring words sounded great in theory. But then Selene had to put them into practice and it really had about killed them. Exposing the inner landscape required vulnerability. And for an empath, vulnerability was always followed by the intrusion of other people’s emotions. After the final thesis show and graduation ceremony they needed space. Selene only crawled out from the aerie of their attic home a week ago, anxious to get brush in hand again.

  Luckily, Art Commons Collective had studio space available for non-members on a drop-in basis. Selene was trying it out, figuring they could always join in a month or two if they liked it. So far, they did.

  The space was good, and the people seemed nice and left Selene alone, which was a good thing. Selene needed to ease into new social situations slowly.

  Selene realized they’d been staring at the canvas, unseeing, for who knew how long. They sighed, then refocused on the still life taking shape. It was such a relief to paint something that, while it revealed something of the artist, didn’t feel as if it were flaying them alive in the process.

  So here Selene was, just post-graduation, with a fresh degree in graphic design, minor in fine art. Graphic design was interesting and paid the bills, and painting filled their soul.

  The best paintings always drew them inside, working Selene like a perfectly executed magic spell, or a favorite song, thrumming through their body on a crowded dance floor.

  But that was neither here nor there. Selene had this painting to complete. It was a challenging enough piece, an occult still life that attempted to convey the deeper mystery behind the objects gathered on the scarred walnut table. The deer skull. A black-handled knife. A spray of foxglove. And a chalice, painted as if it reflected a rising moon.

  Limning a bright line along the edge of the deer’s skull, Selene tried to tune in to the painting again. The moon was almost full. Selene could feel it. They had always been attuned to the moon. Their childhood fascination with the glowing orb was what led Selene to witchcraft, and, of course, to their name.

  Selene, Goddess of the moon. Daughter of Titans, sister of the sun.

  Selene had been raised by ordinary, flawed humans, and was an only child, but they felt as if they could be sibling to the sun. Maybe. Mostly, though, even though the full moon was gorgeous, Selene tucked themself away like the moon did behind the perpetually cloudy Portland skies.

  Besides, darkness was good for a lot of the magic it turned out Selene was best at. Bindings. Uncrossings. Banishings. Oh, they could work the mechanics of prosperity or love spells, and of course collaborated with their coven on spells for justice, but…they were just more comfortable with working magic on the dark side of the moon.

  Cassiel would give Selene shit if she knew her coven mate wasn’t comfortable doing magic for themself. Not after Selene had given Cassie a hard time for not asking the Gods for help with her own little situation last winter.

  They rubbed a long hand across their forehead, careful not to smudge any paint on their skin. Selene spent too much time on their makeup to mar it with the thick paint that slicked the horsehair brush.

  Arrow and Crescent coven was a good fit for a witch dedicated to the moon. Coven members all had different deity affiliations, but the coven itself was dedicated to Diana, another Goddess with ties to the moon.

  It was funny—gazing at the moon always grounded Selene more firmly on earth. It reminded them that they were on a rock in the middle of space, and that the rock was home. Just like Portland was, and likely always would be, home.

  They stepped back from the painting a moment, trying to see the whole. The bright edge of the skull reflected the moon in the water. The blade edge needed drawing out to form a magic triangle created by the lines of light. A triangle of edges.

  Just l
ike Selene.

  Sometimes it really felt as if they were nothing but edge. No center. No core. No soft, beating heart. No warm lips. No laughter.

  It was as if Selene had been built to be a weapon. A sharp sword to be wielded against those who intended harm.

  It wasn’t a good feeling. Never had been.

  Selene was a sharp sickle, not the lush fullness of the moon that practically set their long, dark hair afloat around their head.

  “Fuck. May as well pack it in for the night,” they murmured. Once this mood hit, there was nothing to do but drink or dance, have sex or sleep. No way were they ready for bed, and sex? Yeah, unless it was with Selene’s own hand, that wasn’t happening. It had been too long since they’d found someone interesting enough who was also interested in them.

  “Drink and dance it is, then,” Selene said. Setting the brush in the soaking jar, they began to scrape the paint off their palette. “I just hope you know what you’re up to, moon.”

  Selene felt the small hairs on their arms stand up, as if something had just walked over their grave. They whipped their head around, looking for danger. Nothing. Selene’s dark eyes rested on the still life. The water in the chalice on the table moved, rippling for a moment, as though a form attempted to take shape.

  A trick of the eye? Or a message to pay attention? All Selene knew was, the studio didn’t feel so homey anymore.

  “Okay, Goddess. I’m listening. Just let me know what to do.”

  But please, don’t make me be a knife right now. And don’t expose me too much. I really need a break.

  2

  Joshua

  Gods, the day had sucked. The Road Home was usually a haven, but the heat had made everyone fractious. One customer had been actually rude. Joshua had finally called it quits, closed the store early, and gone home to take a cool shower.

  Now he was in his other home-away-from-home, sipping a mediocre cabernet, willing the wine to do its work. He really needed to relax, and usually Talisman was just the place to do it. Bass shook his legs in rhythm. Untz, untz, untz… The dark walls of the nightclub practically vibrated with it. The song was by some German Industrial band popular a decade ago. Joshua couldn’t recall the name.

  The club was filling up, finally. Joshua faced the door, which swung open with greater frequency, bringing in Rivetheads and Goths and the usual underdressed Portlanders who thought black T-shirts and jeans were sufficient for an evening out. Joshua, ever the dandy, wished people put in more effort, strictly for his own enjoyment.

  He and Legis, a strapping brute of a redheaded Thelemite, were ensconced in one of the padded booths on the edge of the dance floor, enjoying the view. There were a few particularly well-turned-out boys and girls in corsets, leather, and full makeup. All were easy on the eyes.

  “When are you going to ditch the goatee, man?” Legis said.

  “The day you decide to start wearing backward ball caps.”

  Legis snorted and drank more beer.

  Usually, Joshua would be prowling, striking up flirtations with one of the many women he’d already dallied with, or one of those he hadn’t done that particular dance with yet. On occasion, there was even a man that caught his fancy.

  Tonight? The thought of it just made him tired. He was off his game, and not sure why. Fuck it. Might as well drink and talk magic with his friend.

  Magical sigils glowed from the ceiling and walls. Nothing to summon any real angels or demons, or any of the ancient powers, thank every God and Goddess. No, these sigils were strictly out of someone’s dark fantasy of what talismanic sigils should look like.

  Club goers summoned enough with their drinking and dancing, flirting and fighting, without having actual symbols bringing who knew what into being.

  Although, come to think of it…

  “You ever think these fake sigils are actually summoning something?” he asked.

  Legis looked around, running a hand through his short red hair. As magicians went, he was a good guy. He had started following the works of Aleister Crowley when he was a teen, attracted by the whole “wickedest man in the world” hype. Fifteen years later, he was still a member of the OTO—the Ordo Templi Orientis, Crowley’s magical lodge—having stayed for the deep spiritual practice.

  Joshua hung out with Legis because not only was he smart, and a good magician, he was one of the Thelemites that did not act as if working his will in the world gave him license to be an asshole.

  “I don’t know, man,” Legis replied. “There’s certainly enough juice raised in here on a regular basis to summon any damn thing. It’s why I always bring extra protection out clubbing.”

  Legis gestured to a chunk of obsidian bounded in silver. The amulet rested just under his unicursal hexagram, the angular knot that revealed a six-pointed star for those who knew what they were looking at.

  “I hope you’ve got some condoms to back up that obsidian,” Joshua quipped.

  “Asshole,” Legis replied, a rakish grin slicing across his broad features. He took a deep swallow of his lager. “As if you’re one to talk. But seriously, I’ve seen people summon all sorts of shit without meaning to. It happens all the time. I swear that half of the drug casualties we see in the clinic are compounded by hallucinations of things that sometimes feel a little too real, magic-wise.”

  “Damn. You’ve never told me that. You know, I used to think that people who weren’t willing to put in the training to do magic properly had their own weird protections. You know, that they couldn’t summon anything if they tried, because they didn’t have the will.” He paused to drink more wine, stroking a hand across the stubble on his chin. “But I’ve seen enough in the past year to show me that people get caught in the crossfire, for one thing, and that other people get taken advantage of by entities tapping into their mental imbalances.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Both men retreated for a moment, seeking contemplation through fermented grape and grain. Joshua wondered what it would take to up his own magical game again. Member of no lodge or society, he’d always skirted around the edges. Oh, he knew plenty. He was a tarot and astrology master, and he’d worked his own spells, conjuring up The Road Home, for one thing. But if he was honest?

  His shop catered to folks seeking escapism as much he served people seeking themselves, or something larger than themselves.

  “What do you think about people who just seem to want to run away?” Joshua asked.

  Legis shrugged. “I don’t think about them much anymore. They used to bother me. Worry me, even. But now I figure that everyone has their own pain and damage, and we all just find out how to best deal, you know?”

  Damn it. Too close to home. Joshua’s meditation practice had slacked off over the past year, as had his studies. Oh, he still worked the small magics, and had helped out Arrow and Crescent coven when needed, but part of him knew he was skating the surface lately. And it was because of what Legis just mentioned. He was avoiding his pain and damage. Not really dealing at all.

  “What’s your regular practice?” he asked Legis. “The daily stuff, I mean.”

  Legis set his pint down on the table. “Regulated breathing. Silent meditation, which is really just more breath work, right? And I do the LBRP every day.”

  “Really?”

  The Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram was a ceremonial cleansing rite, filled with intonations of sacred letters, gestures to each direction, and required the magician to call upon angels and the ineffable name of God. Simple, right?

  “It’s the best practice I know to keep my space clear and keep myself centered. If I don’t do that every day, shit starts to creep in, you know?”

  Joshua did know. His life had felt clean and centered once upon a time. He’d let the creep happen, though, that much was clear. His shop was steadily losing sales. His sex antics had grown less and less interesting. And he’d started relying a bit too heavily on the wine.

  Shoving his wine away, he focu
sed his dark brown eyes on Legis’s green ones.

  “I need to start again, man. I…” He wished he had some water but didn’t want to break the moment by going to the cooler at the bar. His long fingers tapped at the wooden table. Legis just waited, calmly drinking his beer as though Joshua wasn’t sweating across the booth from him.

  Joshua was about to break the cardinal rule of friendship between men. You either started out sharing shit or you kept it theoretical. They’d always been theoretical. Talking magical technique. Women. Music. Catching the occasional film. Never talking about the effects of any of them.

  He took in a deep breath.

  “Things aren’t going right anymore. All the little shit is falling apart. Nothing big, but…that slow creep you were talking about.”

  “Things are out of true.”

  “Yes! That’s it…like everything’s gone a little wobbly.”

  “You have to find your core again, Joshua. Frankly, I’ve been watching it for a while, the way you’ve wandered off from yourself. Like you said, it’s nothing big, and you clearly still have juice, which is why I haven’t said anything. But…yeah.”

  “So what do I do?” he said.

  “You start back at the beginning. That’s what we all do, man. What’s your first practice?”

  The door swung open, and the most gorgeous Goth in the world stepped through. A long sweep of black hair, pressed straight. Dark liner around dark eyes. Pale, pale skin. Ruby lips. Silver jewelry winking from a black, flowing shirt. Tall. So tall. Natural height only accented by the patent leather platform buckle boots.

  Joshua half rose from the booth, then sank back down. Legis quirked an eyebrow his way, before turning to see who or what had caused Joshua’s reaction.