PROLOGUE
Germany. Long ago.
Inside, death beckoned. Outside, danger threatened.
Twenty scoundrels gathered around a raging bonfire. Their stench—sweat, puke, and cheap ale—invaded the shack's walls while drunken bellows drowned the wails of the woman huddled on the floor next to her child. It wasn't safe here. Katrina figured it wouldn't be long now. One of the vile creatures would soon open the door and check on the condition of his property.
That property, a dying boy on a bed made of weeds. Waves of pain shook the six years old child’s frail body as he grasped his mother's hand one last time. One final breath.
Katrina had failed. Failed to bring him back from the edge of death. But death was better than the life forced upon him. Of that, she was sure. Right now, she needed a minute to regroup. Closing her eyes, she allowed her head and shoulders to sink. Exhaling. She had nothing left to give—the last drops of energy drained from her body. There was no more to do. She'd used every bit of her healing-witch knowledge. Dead! The child on the bed of weeds was dead, his young life stolen by idiots and fools.
The vultures outside would blame her.
Get out. She had to get out of here.
But her body refused to move.
Inhaling for strength, Katrina wiped her sweat-glazed forehead with the back of her hand. His eyes caught her gaze. The child's vacant stare taunted her—“I'm free now. Better hurry. You're next.”
“No. No… Not today,” she whispered as she brushed his eyelids closed.
It was too much for his mother. The poor woman threw herself across the child's body, her tears darkening the dirt beside his bed. The roar of the rogues increased. They did not cry for the child. They bawled for themselves.
Arranging her skirts, Katrina pushed upright. Jolting pain earned kneeling too long on the cold, damp dirt, raked her body. Oh, Great Creator, I pray for safe passage for the child's soul and for me. That done, she helped the other woman to her feet, and in her old arms wrapped his mother, holding her while the woman's body shook with wretched grief.
She should not stay one minute longer. Sooner or later, one of the men would stumble inside the shack.
With a final squeeze of his mother's hand, Katrina peered through the rag-draped window. No safe route existed.
Despite her misery, his mother understood. She pointed towards a cloth-covered hole in the back. Moonlight seeped around the edges. Would Katrina’s body fit? It must. Pain pitchforked from hip to knee as Katrina dropped again to the dirt. There was no other choice. She inched open the cloth—no one insight. The safety of the forest lay ten frightening steps away.
The men outside loathed her and her healing-sisters. More than they hated sick children too weak to work eighteen-hour days carrying wood and water and thieving for their masters. She had to escape. She had to slip through this hole and run for the woods.
Hands, head, and shoulders wriggled free and dragged the rest of her body through the flap. Borrowing energy from the earth, Katrina lifted her skirt and ran for the safety of the forest.
The sound of the shack door creaking chased her. A deep base voice growled at God.
“How could God do this to me? This child worked the hardest,” the rat said.
More voices joined.
Fifty or so steps later, a downed tree blocked the path—no sound of footsteps trailing her. Oh, Thank You, Creator. Slow, deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Rest.
Her breathing slowed towards normal.
The rough bark of the tree caught her bottom. Her head dropped into her hands. It had been no use. She used all of her healing powers. By the time they allowed his mother to come for her, the boy was too far gone. Too weak. Too sick from exhaustion, exposure, and malnutrition. The villagers waited too long to summon her. They would never understand. It was their fault. Not hers. The rogues worked that poor child to death.
Grief and defeat washed over her. She had to keep moving—the other choice, forbidden. She pulled more energy from the earth and pushed her exhausted body forward through the army of wet grass, a three-quarter moon lighting her route. A plan, she needed a plan.
She must move her community of healers before the village devils woke. Two hours after sunup, the thugs would sober and hunt her. She knew it with every fiber. Each member of her healing community would die in minutes. What to do?
“Please, Creator, tell me what to do.”
She prayed for a few minutes awaiting an answer.
She and her healing-sisters would have to pass through the unforgiving forest and slip across the countryside to the coast. The only other choice… no, it was not possible—the consequences too harsh.
Skirt lifted, she raced the two miles back to their settlement. “The child died. We must leave. Get up. Get up now. Take what you can carry. Sisters, we leave within the hour.”
Chaos and panic mixed, packing up a life in minutes, terrifying and daunting.
“We must destroy the magic books. If they are found in our possession, we will burn,” said one healer.
“These books will not burn. We cannot leave them. Should they fall into unskilled hands, chaos will rain upon the world,” Katrina insisted.
Within the hour, Katrine and her healing-sisters plunged into the forest. If they paused for only moments to rest, perhaps they would make the coast by tomorrow night. And grab a boat to somewhere safe. Anyplace safe. A place to heal the sick and perfect their cures. There had to be a safe place.
Afternoon the following day, it appeared they were free. Katrina neither saw nor sensed signs of the men. A few more hours to safety. On a boat. To somewhere.
Or so, Katrina thought.
Just after sunset, her worst fear appeared. The scoundrels from the child's village blocked the trail. Their torches held high. Rage-filled bloodshot eyes. They planned to kill all her sisters.
“Witches must burn. Witches must burn,” the drunken fools yelled as they rode in a circle enclosing her sisters in a ring.
The hotness of their torches radiated anger. Jagged flames hissed at the night. She and her healing-sisters gathered back-to-back in a circle. They may burn, but they would not beg. How dare these idiots judge them? Did they not understand how powerful Katrina and her healing-sisters were? At that moment, Katrina's body surged with bone-chilling hate, the depth scaring her.
As the men tightened the ring, the women began to chant, a death chant. They had one chance. Use their combined pitch to interrupt the natural beating of their captor's hearts.
They'd never used the dark side of their magic. Their faith forbade it. But the men offered no other choice. It was die or dark magic.
Evil would consume Germany soon enough. Add their magic books to the mix. Never!
The situation, dire.
The chant's pitch and intensity grew. Their captor's horses bucked and spooked. With one final curse, she and her sisters invoked.
“Ye each shall die a horrible death within an hour, and ye families suffer for generations.” Her sisters fired the curse. In a puff of smoke, the women disappeared.
CHAPTER 1: Wednesday
Moon Lake, Indiana. Modern Day.
“Stop being a wimp. Just get it over. It is just an oil.” Forty-nine-year-old artist and gallery owner Carrie Caser braced for the bizarre sensation to attack. She knew it would. It happened every time she touched “SuperMoon Witch.” The oil painting had to be dusted. Her customers expected a spotless environment. And so did she, Carrie Caser, lifelong perfectionist and artist. The two traits didn't like each other much. Their war fueled her high blood pressure. Painting since she was two and obsessing since age three, she'd known one bliss-filled year of peace.
“Better get this over.”
With each encounter, the sensation had grown stronger. Last time it was almost unbearable. Had the painting sensed Carrie intended to throw it in the trash? Was that the reason it had reacted so aggressively?
“SuperMoon Witch” was by far the best work she'd ever done—there was a time her work hung in the most prestigious galleries in New York and London—but she couldn't have a piece of art wounding her customers and employees. That last encounter knocked her off her feet and sent her on a fifteen-minute hallucinogenic trip.
“Nice painting. I bought a special feather duster just for you. This is going to feel sooooo good. You are going to like it.” She grabbed the duster off the table. “Okay, Madame Witch, you need a bath.” The voice worked on Mr. VanGo. If it worked on a horse, why not a painting?
Drawing a deep breath, she inched the tip of the rubber-handled feather duster towards the oil. So far, so good. Another inch. Three feathers tapped the oil. A mild tremor invaded her fingers and moved upwards.
“Okay, I can handle this.”
Slowly, gently, she dusted the bottom right frame. Warmth traveled into her elbow.
“Whoa painting, good painting. I promise I won't hurt you. Just a little more, and we’ll be done.”
She leveled the wand so that all the feathers contacted the canvas. Warmth burst into her shoulder.
“I can handle this. It doesn't hurt. It's just warm.” Maybe this was going to work.
“Okay, painting, I'm going to pet you a little faster with the feathers. This may tickle a bit, but it will be over soon. Just hold on. Good painting.” She hurried her hand across the lower section.
Big mistake.
“OMG!” The witch featured in the art leaped from the canvas and into her mind. Carrie's mind ballooned. “Ouch,” her leg caught the edge of a mosaic coffee table. The chair. Had to get to the chair. Head will explode. Her fingers found the wooden arm of the chair. She dropped into position and threw her head against the floral back. Scenes raced through her mind. A boat. Water. Waves. More waves. Lots of waves. Seasick. Native American Indians. Fire. Finally, the night she conceived the painting.
January 30th. That night the moon was massive. So huge her artistic juices refused to quiet. Something called her, egging her on. At midnight, she succumbed to whatever it was, grabbed her camera, and left her condo in South Bend, driving fifteen minutes south through rural St. Joseph County to Moon Lake.
Just to view the Supermoon over the lake.
As she approached the beach, an eerie purplish glow grew through the sky, reflecting off the water. It transformed the shape, color, and transparency of the vegetation and wildlife. Like something out of a fantasy movie. Close-ups, wide-shots, long-angles. She couldn't stop exploring and snapping. Dozens of pictures later, she realized she'd been prowling the water's edge for five hours.
The next day the pictures weren't necessary. The images were etched or burned into some primitive part of her brain. She painted from her heart in a trance.
At some point, an enchanting blond witch with hazel eyes brushed herself into the moon's glow. Carrie didn't remember painting her, but somehow she appeared. Sometimes art did that. It took over and created itself, difficult to explain. The creation happened as if some other entity controlled the brush.
The witch danced in the moonlight, surrounded by heaps of herbs on the ground. She was trying to tell Carrie something. What was that message?
The clock on the red wall chimed 9 AM. Scenes stopped. Madame Witch whispered.
“Time to unlock your doors,” and hopped back into the painting.
Carrie shook her head and opened her eyes. She lifted her right heel. It worked. Left heel. It worked. “Okay, Care, unlock the doors and check your appearance.”
Less than a minute after opening, the first three bars of “Mona Lisa” by Nat King Cole seeped through the bathroom door. That meant someone had entered the gallery.
“Get yourself together!” She plastered a smile on her face and left the ladies' room.
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