Crescent Calling: The Crescent Witch Chronicles - Book One by R Nicole (essential reading TXT) 📗

glistened on the grass as I wandered, and the sound of water gurgling in the creek followed my footsteps. The air was cold for the turning of the seasons. Summer was only a handful of weeks away, but I was still layering on a jacket before I left the house.

Walking on autopilot, I wandered up the hill, following the path, my thoughts taking on the same rambling pattern. What was I going to do? How long was I going to stay? Did I actually want to know more about Aileen, or was it a perverse sense of duty that was forcing me to hesitate? Nevertheless, there was a deeper question I was avoiding in the shadow of the bad luck of the past month. What did I want to do with my life? The million-dollar question.

Realizing I’d reached the pinnacle of the hill, I glanced up at the ruins as I approached. A sign sat in front of the structure where the path opened up into a little cul-de-sac, bordered with some old railway sleepers that made the whole thing look neat and tidy. The ground was worn, which meant tourists from the buses that stopped in the village came up here to take a photo of yet another ruin that dotted the Irish landscape.

Stopping by the sign, I read the inscription, which had been embellished with an artist’s representation of what the ruins would’ve looked like when it was intact.

The White Tower. 1635–1756.

The legend of Mary Byrne is one of the lesser-known tales of witchcraft from the period but nonetheless, one of the most intriguing. She lived in this very tower house, having married Joseph Byrne, the Lord of Diore Dún. Their lands comprised of the village proper and several square miles of wild forest, which still stands today.

To the locals, Mary was known as a healer, using herbs and natural remedies to aid the sick and less fortunate. Though, through her kindness, she also found her end.

She was tried for witchcraft in 1756, found guilty, and burned at the stake. In the days after her death, the tower house was said to have mysteriously caught on fire. It may very well be true. Damage to the structure is consistent with high temperatures, and it leaves historians to wonder, was it purely a tragic accident? Or was it retribution from beyond the grave?

Snorting, I looked up at the ruins and attempted to pick out the marks the fire had left behind, but there was nothing there. Either I didn’t know what I was looking for or time and weather had worn them away.

At some stage, someone had set a modern iron gate in the entrance to keep trespassers out of the site. Crossing the grass, the toes of my boots dampening with dew, I studied the exterior of the tower house. The crumbling facade was covered with yellow and gray lichens, and rich emerald moss clung between each slab. There was a wild and romantic feeling about this place that would look great on a postcard.

Curling my hands around the bars, I peered into the darkness that used to be someone’s home. The earthen floor, the bare walls…I just couldn’t picture it.

Nothing stirred. Not even the rustling of leaves overhead penetrated the bubble around the ruins. There was just…nothing. No sound and no movement, just the scent of wet earth and a strange tickling sensation on the back of my neck.

Shivering, I let go of the bars and retreated across the grass, my feet arriving back onto the path. Suddenly, I felt really exposed and shrank into my jacket.

Hurrying back down the hill, the ruins at my back, I stopped for a moment to take in the view of Derrydun. From up here, I could almost see the whole village. There was Molly McCreedy’s and Mrs. Boyle’s house. The pink cottage with the thatched roof was Mary’s Teahouse. To the left was the Topaz service station with its little convenience store. The one set of traffic lights was shining green on the side I could see, and while I was standing there, I watched as a car came hurtling up to the intersection with the red light, gave way for a moment, then peeled through. What was with the drivers here? They were just as mad as the inhabitants of Derrydun.

Despite the circumstances that brought me here, I was beginning to see the charm everyone talked about when they spoke of Ireland. The green rolling hills, the local flavor, the good food and drink, the stories, and the carefreeness of it all. Here, in this place, life seemed simple.

To my left, I spotted a red and black checked shirt lying over the stone fence. I found myself lingering when I recognized who it belonged to. Looking out over the field, I saw Boone forging his way through a flock of sheep, wearing a tight black T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans that were torn and dirty on the knees.

When he saw me, he raised his hand in a wave. I did the same, though more hesitantly.

Boone had been nice to me, regardless of his relationship with Aileen, which, by this stage, I was realizing was totally innocent. I doubt he was trying to go after my inheritance and undercut me. He didn’t seem the type. Approaching the fence, I decided to drop my bristly exterior and give him a break.

“Is it always this cold in the mornings?” I asked, burying my hands deeper into my pockets.

He closed the space between us. “Aye, it can get chilly in these parts. Best you get used to it.”

“I never thought I would miss the Australian summer,” I replied.

“You feelin’ better today?” he asked, leaning against the fence.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re not at Irish Moon today?”

I shook my head. “I gave the helm to Mairead.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “That’s brave of you.”

“She needs the money for University or College or whatever you call it here.” I waved him off. “She seems to know how it