Crescent (Book 1)

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Moira sweeps her dark hair up and clips it at her skull, her eyes flickering back through the last of the invitations.

Each is sealed with a wax stamp, the crest of a stag's head with a cardinal flying overhead, a flower in its claws. Three letters, I notice, are pressed with a poppy's petals on the envelope. Moira keeps them apart and when she deems everything finished, a wave of magic sends them fluttering out towards their designated owners.

"What next?" I ask her, stretching my arms overhead. My chest is still tender enough that hours of melting wax over stumpy candles, pouring, sealing, and stamping, has made me quite sore. We'd browsed through options for table pieces in between mouthfuls of sandwiches at lunch, and we'd chosen a number of different flowers and finally decided on the overall theme.

The color returns to her eyes as she snaps out of thought, shaking her head. "Now, we wait for the rest of the supplies. Then maybe we can start with the menu..." She taps her lip in thought.

"Do you plan these kinds of things often?"

Her blithe laugh is cut off only as she stands and brushes crumbs from her skirt. "As the head of house, yes. If there's an event, I take care of it."

I'd much rather spend the rest of the day reading one of the numerous novels nearby, but I stand with her, stretching my legs. "What exactly does Ceth do then?"

She shrugs and sips from a crystal glass from lunch. "He has the realm to look after. Scouts patrol the borders, guardians carry out the menial tasks near the cities. Others control commerce, tithing..."

"People tithe here?"

Her brows knit together, confusion marring her features. "Taxes, yes. Some things are very similar to the mortal realms, you know."

My eyes wander toward the window, out across the mountainous terrain. I know Bayport is out there beyond the mountains. I long to be there, somewhere familiar. But my home is probably buried in ashes and snow. I glance at Moira again. "Where is Ceth now? Is he usually gone for long?"

She shrugs again. "Sometimes, he goes out on patrols. That's probably where he is now. Vervale is massive- Ceth often accompanies Ajax scouting. He'll probably be back Friday."

"And, we'll just... plan until he gets back?"

"Until he says otherwise." Moira smiles, knowing my interest had waned hours ago. My mind constantly wandered back to what Jackaby asked me in his office: "Dizziness? Any hallucinations?"

I rub my temples, wanting to roll my eyes. "What about Nic? I saw him earlier. He looked ready to go into battle."

A guffaw of laughter came out of her suddenly. "Battle?? No... His father keeps his schedule full. Lessons everyday from dawn until dark."

"Lessons?"

"All your questions will be answered," she gives me a teasing look as she recites the words- the same words she'd told me when I'd first gotten here. She glances at the horizon outside suddenly, the sun nowhere in sight. "I've got to meet Janice in the kitchen in a few. If you'd like to come, we're trying out recipes for the party."

I'm not in the mood for much more chatter, but it's not like I have much else to do. I follow her toward the smell of buttery baked goods wafting from the kitchen, but my mind can't help but wander back to Jackaby.

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Music was always Rosie's first language. She learned to play the piano before she'd even said her first words. I used to watch my mother play scales in the study while Rosie sat on her lap. Mom's voice was beautiful, whimsical and loud. When she sang, the sound filled the entire house.

Rosie learned to play her favorite songs, and they'd sing and play side-by-side after dinner most nights. Dad would sit on the sofa watching them, tapping his foot, humming as he watched his wife sing and clap and dance while Rosie read songs from her music book.

I tried to sing like Mom. I tried to learn the scales like Rosie. But music was a language I never learned- not for lack of trying. I just knew I yearned for different things. Even if I didn't know what. At one point, it was drawing. Mom and Dad kept some of my pictures hanging on the fridge for a while. But I grew out of art- or more, I quit trying so hard to be artistic or musical when it didn't come naturally.

I never felt more confident than I did when my father first put a gun in my hand.

The first thing he'd shown me how to do was clean it. I spent a week learning how to take the metal contraption apart, how to put it back together. How to lubricate the inner mechanisms. How to load it with silver bullets. How to aim it and never miss.

We sat together at the dinner table one night. He was showing me a rifle that he usually kept locked away in a safe when there was a knock at the front door. Dad glanced at the door. My parents didn't tend to keep friends, I sure as hell didn't have any, and the postman never came by this late. My eyes went wide as my dad stood, carefully hiding the components of the gun beneath a hatch built into the dining table. He crept toward the door.

"Stay back, kid," he ordered, and I remained in my seat as he looked through the peephole in the door. He opened the door a crack. "Can I help you officer?"

A woman's voice replied, and from the dark outside on our porch, I saw a flashlight shine inside: "Evenin'. We got a call about an animal attack down the street. We're checking houses on the block to see if anyone's seen or heard anything."

No one else seemed to notice when my dad was nervous. But, I knew from the way his back stiffened and the way he shouldered the door closed just an inch that he was irked. "Animal attack? No, we haven't seen anything. Is everyone alright?"

"Everyone's- fine. We're just doing our part and checking in. You guys have a good night." Footsteps retreat down the front steps.

"You too." The door clicked shut. Dad slid the lock into place and turned back toward me.

"What is it?" I asked.

He closed the hatch in the table completely and motioned for me to go upstairs. "Go get your mom, and then you go to bed."

"But, Dad-"

"Now, Brenna." I did as he said, dragging my feet as he pushed the curtains aside and peered through the front window. Mom had just put Rosie in her crib, and with one last look at him, I went upstairs to get her. When they both disappeared into the kitchen, I listened from my usual spot at the top of the stairs. I could barely hear their whispers on the other side of the wall. "The police just came by. Asking about an animal attack down the street. There was a scout in town today too. He was wearing court-colors," my father murmured.

"You think it was a scout? The attack too? So close?" Mom whispered back.

"I've heard rumors. A family went missing across town. Just last week. Nothing on the news."

I'd heard the rumors too: groups of wolves going missing- families stolen in the dead of night. My parents blamed it on humans- people who found out about us and wanted to extinguish every unnatural thing about us.

"You think they know we're here?" I knew her tranquil voice well enough to hear the fear bleeding into it. He hushed her quietly, and I knew he was probably holding her now, soothing circles into her back. I crept back up to my room, and stared at the ceiling for a long time before I went to sleep that night.

My parents warned me about humans before. Maybe humans had never been the danger at all.