Scott Tracey - Moonset

Then the door opened and closed again. Jenna went after him. At least there was that. If anyone could wrangle Cole, it was Jenna. It was just that Jenna usually was wrangling him for nefarious purposes like school riots. Cole’s exuberance only braked for mischief.

“Yeah, we’re going,” Kevin said, grinning. “Think about what I said about the team, man,” he added to Malcolm.

Mal shrugged easily. “We probably won’t be here in the fall, and I’m not much for team sports anyway.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he responded. “Easier to pick up and move when no one else is relying on you.”

“Something like that,” Mal deferred.

“Look, I get that it can’t be easy for you guys. Being here,” Kevin said as the four of us approached the door, Mal and me in the rear. “Especially for you guys. With both of your dads being here and everything. But maybe it’s the smart choice. Where better to start over than where it all started in the first place?”

Luca looked startled, maybe at the reminder that he, too, was related to a terrorist. But I was caught up in thinking about our fathers: Mal’s and mine. Sherrod and Cyrus had reportedly been the best of friends all their lives. We knew they’d grown up here. But no one had really talked to us about them before.

Well, one person had. The old man at the curio shop. He’d taken one look at me and recognized my father. Maybe there was more of an opportunity here than I’d thought. But

Kevin’s suggestion also brought up another thought. Why would the warlock want us here, exactly? Why Carrow Mill? Because that was where Moonset had started?

A chill settled in as I wondered. Was he hoping that lightning would strike twice?

“You have to understand. One day, everything was fine. People were recovering and we were trying to heal. The next, we were at war.

(Moonset) had mobilized a cult under everyone’s noses. They struck at every faction of power that remained, and eliminated anyone that could have challenged them.”

Adele Roman

Moonset Historian: From a college lecture series about Moonset

The next morning, the first of my suspension, started with a lot of rampaging downstairs. I think

Jenna wore her loudest heels just so the sound they made against the hardwood floors would pierce through any attempts I made at sleeping in.

By the time I finally made my way downstairs, the house was empty except for Quinn. He glared at the coffee maker like it was about to come to life and begin the cyborg apocalypse. “I have to head downtown to take care of some errands. And get some coffee,” he added under his breath.

“Coffee sounds good,” I said, suddenly perking up at even the mention of caffeine.

“Pretty sure the common punishment for getting suspended is grounded. I mean, it’s been awhile, and I of course was a model teenager.”

“Of course you were,” I muttered.

“But if I take you out for coffee, that’s almost like a reward.”

“I’m just asking to tag along when you go downtown. All I want is some coffee. Supervised coffee, even! It’s like a field trip!” I said, suddenly inspired. “Schools have field trips all the time!”

“Fine,” he said after a long pause. He threw on a leather jacket and grabbed his keys. “Get your coat.”

I looked towards the ceiling and thanked the invisible heavens. Getting out of the house, even if it was only for a few minutes, was like some sort of reprieve. I grabbed my jacket and met him at the car, shivering in the January air. New York was cold. Every time I thought I understood just how cold, the weather made a point of showing me something colder. Once we got in the car, Quinn turned on the radio, clicking through the presets until he found a classic rock station.

The ride through town was short. He took the most direct way to the coffee shop—the same route I’d walked only a couple of days ago when I’d met up with Ash. Other than a brief encounter in the hallway yesterday, I hadn’t talked to her since that night. I wondered what the story going around school was. Was I the emotionally disturbed jackass who’d picked a fight?

Had anyone heard me making threats? The witches all knew what had really happened, but what about the regular kids? I was nervous about what they were saying. The fact that I was nervous even caught me by surprise. When was the last time I’d cared what anyone else thought about us?

By the time Quinn found a parking spot on the street, the car was only fractionally warmer.

The only open spot had been equidistant between the coffee and curio shops.

“I’ve got to run to the bank and then drop something off,” Quinn said, cutting the ignition.

“Shouldn’t take me longer than fifteen minutes. Don’t wander off. And holler if anything happens.”

“Like what?”

Quinn stared at me impassively. “Just yell if something happens.”

I peered across the street, shielding my eyes with my hand. The sun was out and shining off of all the storefront windows, making it almost impossible to see. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust and for the traffic to break up so that I could cross the street without getting hit by a car. I was pretty sure that wasn’t the kind of “anything” that Quinn was referring to. While I was waiting, I saw the curio shop owner leaving the coffee shop with a cup in hand. Ethan, I remembered, more because I could still hear the gruff rasp of his father shouting throughout the store.

I looked between the coffee and curio shops, debating. His dad talked about Sherrod. He’s the only one who has since we came here. It was like the thoughts were sparks and my brain the tinder—as soon as I started wondering about Sherrod before Moonset, I couldn’t shake it. I squirmed in place.

I was in and out of the coffee shop—with a turtle mocha—faster than I think was humanly possible. That still gave me at least ten minutes before Quinn would be back to the car and looking for me. I charged across the street during a lull in traffic, nearly bumping into a minivan, and jogged the half block to my destination.

“Sorry, sorry, give me a minute,” the man’s voice called out as I opened the door and a chime went off. There was a ladder propped up against one wall near the back of the store, and he was pulling pictures down. I waited until he’d climbed down and moved back to the counter.

“How can I help you?” he asked as he turned, wiping his hands on the legs of his pants.

“Hey … I was in here the other day?”

There was no recognition in the man’s eyes. “Oh? See something you liked?”

“Not exactly.” This was going to be awkward. “I was in here when your dad … ”

“Oh!” The man’s eyes suddenly seemed to find mine, like he’d come out of some sort of fugue state. “Of course I remember you. I was thinking about you and your brother just the other day.”

“Really?”

He hurried behind the counter, favoring one knee as he moved. Maybe bad legs ran in the family. “Well, I mean I’m sorry my dad went and frightened you boys off, but he’s harmless most of the time. Just has his moments, y’know?”

“Well, it’s nice that you’re still taking care of him,” I replied, unsure of what to say in a situation like this.

“Oh, right, right. Can’t go turning our backs on our parents,” the man said. “It’s just unconscionable.”

I shifted in place, turning my attention to the things he was pulling off the wall. “Dusting everything? Or just putting different things up?”

“A little of both,” the man admitted. “Making some room for a new collection I picked up in an estate sale—the rest we’ll try and sell at the flea market. People around here will pay a nice bit of change for antiques.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “But that’s not why I was thinking of you boys. Well, you remember my dad was rambling on about some boogeyman?”

I nodded, feeling my heart trying to bust its way out of my rib cage. Any minute Quinn was going to throw open the door and lay into me for being here. Any second.

“I found that old book he was talking about,” he confided, leaning over the counter. “It’s a whole bunch of gibberish, but you can see that name he mentioned right inside the cover.”

“Really?” My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and an electric sort of panic was screaming up my spine. Go now. Leave now. You know this isn’t going to end well. How could I have been cold earlier? The room was an inferno and I was sweating through my clothes.

He rummaged around on the desk tucked in the corner, finally pulling out a small journal. It was ordinary enough—the kind of journal mass-produced and sold in chain stores. I expected something … more. The kind of book that implied danger by its very design. Or something hauntingly familiar, calling me to it. But it was just a notebook. It could have belonged to anyone.

“See?” He flipped the cover open, turning to a random page. Each one was lined with painstaking rows of chicken scratch. Magic was a language, and most languages had a written equivalent, but written spells were still spells. Great care had to be taken that the words were so evenly divided up that the spell was still readable, but it took some work.

It was like the drawing guides in school when kids first learn how to write their letters. Each line is taken separately, one at a time. Spellbooks did the same. The added bonus was that normal people never realized what, exactly, they held in their hands.

Right in front of me, the curio shop guy was showing me a spellbook filled with what looked like dozens of new spells. I didn’t trust myself to hold it, but I stared at the words, translating in my head.

“Crazy looking, right? But I guess I can see how Dad saw something in this book, y’know?

It’s just a bunch of doodles, but it almost looks like a real language. See? There’s spaces between the words.” He pointed to a particular page where there were indeed spaces, but I didn’t feel like explaining that those weren’t separate words, but simply beats between syllables.

“Yeah,” I said, only half-convincingly. I forced myself to look away—there was something that looked like a beacon spell—to find your way to something that wasn’t there anymore. “That’s crazy.” I turned away, forcing myself to stare at one of the paintings—one of a woman seated primly on a bench surrounded by a garden exploding into spring.

Sherrod Daggett’s spellbook. Just the idea of it was crazy. If the Congress had known something like this existed, they would have snatched it up and destroyed it in a heartbeat. If they knew I had seen it—and hadn’t reported it—there was no telling what they’d do. If they found me with it, that might be enough to force their hands. A fatal move to be sure.

He was a traitor—a warlock and a terrorist. All true. Sherrod Daggett was everything the books said and worse. But people who met him—even those who hated him with a passion—

still spoke of him with reverence. Like even in Hell, he still knew who was talking behind his back.

But was he evil in high school? Or was he like me? The thought soothed as much as it terrified. I remembered that night in the hotel room on our way to Carrow Mill, telling Jenna with certainty, “We could never be like them.”

If it was just a normal grimoire, it wasn’t illegal to have. But it was where the spellbook came from that was the problem. Just because they wouldn’t teach us anything but the most basic magic didn’t mean we weren’t allowed to learn it. They got to decide what scraps to teach us, because we didn’t have any other alternative.