Witching Hour: A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 7 Read online

  Witching Hour

  A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 7

  Yasmine Galenorn

  A Nightqueen Enterprises LLC Publication

  Published by Yasmine Galenorn

  PO Box 2037, Kirkland WA 98083-2037

  WITCHING HOUR

  An Ante-Fae Adventure

  A Wild Hunt Novel

  Copyright © 2019 by Yasmine Galenorn

  First Electronic Printing: 2019 Nightqueen Enterprises LLC

  First Print Edition: 2019 Nightqueen Enterprises

  Cover Art & Design: Ravven

  Art Copyright: Yasmine Galenorn

  Editor: Elizabeth Flynn

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format, be it print or electronic or audio, without permission. Please prevent piracy by purchasing only authorized versions of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, or places is entirely coincidental and not to be construed as representative or an endorsement of any living/ existing group, person, place, or business.

  A Nightqueen Enterprises LLC Publication

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Welcome to Witching Hour

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Cast of Characters

  Playlist

  Biography

  Acknowledgments

  Welcome back into my world of the Wild Hunt. This series has taken full hold of me as the world expands in delightful and mysterious ways. I’m grateful that my readers have taken it into their hearts, especially as I begin to expand outward and open up more sides to this world.

  Thanks to my usual crew: Samwise, my husband, Andria and Jennifer—without their help, I’d be swamped. To the women who have helped me find my way in indie, you’re all great and so many thank-yous. To my wonderful cover artist, Ravven, for the beautiful work she’s done.

  Also, my love to my furbles, who keep me happy. My most reverent devotion to Mielikki, Tapio, Ukko, Rauni, and Brighid, my spiritual guardians and guides. My love and reverence to Herne, and Cernunnos, who still rule the wild places of this world. And a nod to the Wild Hunt, which runs deep in my magick, as well as in my fiction.

  If you wish to reach me, you can find me through my website at Galenorn.com and be sure to sign up for my newsletter to keep updated on all my latest releases!

  Brightest Blessings,

  ~The Painted Panther~

  ~Yasmine Galenorn~

  Welcome to Witching Hour

  When you dance with Death, you have to be willing to roll the bones…

  Raven BoneTalker, also known as the Daughter of Bones, is one of the Ante-Fae—the dangerous, unpredictable predecessors to the Fae Races. But Raven is young, and she likes interacting with mortals, so she’s opened a business—the Witching Hour—where she takes on clients with ghostly problems. Mostly she reads cards, boots out the odd poltergeist, or helps grieving families contact their loved ones for closure.

  When Lana, one of her friends, comes begging for help, things take a dark turn. Raven investigates what seems like a simple haunting on the surface. But the more she delves into the case, the more she realizes that this is no simple ghost. As Raven untangles a web of secrets and deceits kept for over fifty years, she finds herself in danger, facing not only a ghostly threat, but also a danger that is very much alive.

  Reading Order for the Wild Hunt Series:

  Book 1: The Silver Stag

  Book 2: Oak & Thorns

  Book 3: Iron Bones

  Book 4: A Shadow of Crows

  Book 5: The Hallowed Hunt

  Book 6: The Silver Mist

  Book 7: Witching Hour (takes place concurrently with The Hallowed Hunt)

  Chapter One

  The crash from the living room startled me out of the book I was reading. I tossed my tablet on the bed and raced out to the living room, praying it wasn’t what I thought it was. But sure enough, there in the center of the room stood Raj, my gargoyle, amidst the shattered remains of a lead crystal sculpture of a dolphin. Raj glanced around at the shimmering glass that covered my wood floor, then looked up at me, a guilty look on his face.

  “Oh Raj, I just bought that!” I had brought the sculpture home the day before and Raj had been absolutely fascinated with it. I’d had to tell him three times to leave it alone. He kept wanting to pick it up and play with the pretty fishie. But gargoyles’ hands are clumsy and big—it helps with their balance since they walk on their knuckles, like an orangutan or a gorilla—and the sculpture was delicate. The crystal figurine must have slipped out of his grasp.

  “I told you not to touch the dolphin.” I let out a long sigh and headed for the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan. Over my shoulder, I shouted, “You stay where you are. I don’t want you getting glass shards cutting your feet.”

  “Sorry,” came the grumbly reply. Raj didn’t have a good singing voice, that was for sure.

  In fact, few people understood that gargoyles could speak when they wanted to. Among the general populace that even knew about their existence—as anything other than as the stone caricatures on the sides of old cathedrals—it wasn’t commonly recognized that gargoyles could, and did, speak with humans, Fae, or anyone else for that matter.

  Gargoyles had their own language, of course, but I spoke English with Raj, wanting him to understand the majority of my friends who came over, even if he didn’t talk to them. But he had learned a few words of daelethi, the ancient language used among my people.

  I marched back into the living room, armed with the dustpan and broom. “Raj, I told you not to touch the statue. You do remember that, right?”

  He gave me an unhappy nod. “Raj remembers.”

  “Then why did you do it?” I asked, crouching as I began to sweep the pieces of crystal into the pan.

  “It was so pretty. Raj wanted to touch it. It looked like water.” Raj let out a whimper. “Raj is sorry.”

  I let out another sigh. I found it impossible to stay angry at him.

  “All right. From now on, though, please obey me when I ask you to leave things alone. I tell you what. I’m going to buy another sculpture just like this one, and you leave it alone. And I’ll buy you a fishie toy that you can hold and touch, something you can’t break. Deal?”

  I was pretty sure I could find a sparkly acrylic fish somewhere. I held out my hand. Raj was sensitive. His background had been so fucked up that I couldn’t stand to think of hurting his feelings.

  Raj’s frown turned into a smile as he reached out and took my hand, swinging it back and forth in his clumsy grasp. “Raven is good to Raj. Even when Raj is naughty.” The gargoyle gave me a winsome look, and I melted, leaning down to hug him.

  The first time I had seen him, he had been curled in a ball under the table next to his owner, Karjan. Karjan was a demon who I occasionally played poker with, and I could usually scam him out of a nice pile of coins. The demon was stupid, obnoxious as hell, and a mean sucker, but I could always count on him for a game, and he always paid up. When I realized he cut the wings off of his gargoyle, I made up my mind right then and there to win Raj away from him. And when I set my sights on something, I almost
always got it.

  “Oh Raj, you’re not really naughty,” I said, turning back to clean up the last of the broken crystal. “You just need to understand that sometimes, you’re just a little clumsy. And that’s okay. I’m not mad. Raven’s not mad at Raj, Raven loves Raj.”

  I cautiously placed the glass-laden dustpan on the coffee table, then settled myself on the floor. I opened my arms and Raj lumbered over, curling up in my lap. Having an eighty-pound gargoyle sitting on top of me was like holding a sack of rocks, but I didn’t mind. Raj was a good boy and I loved him. I had the feeling he wouldn’t have survived if the demon had freed him—gargoyles were generally rough, and stoic, which Raj wasn’t, and he wouldn’t have made it long among his own people. I patted his back, and rocked him gently for a moment.

  “Raven sing to Raj?” Raj asked in a voice that sounded about two sizes too small for his body.

  “Sure. I’ll sing a song for Raj. Let me get situated.” And so, I emptied the dustpan, curled up on the sofa with my handpan, and began to tap out a melody that my father had sung to me when I was little.

  Where the sunset meets the mountain, on the craggy hills of Lyre,

  There’s a stream that rolls through the land, ever crystal clear,

  And there, in a ring of stones, under moonlight’s beam,

  Sits a mournful woman, a-singing to the stream.

  * * *

  She sings of a fallen warrior, of a love long gone away,

  She sings of the faerie dancer, who led him astray.

  She sings out her pain and loss, in the night wind’s gale,

  She sings until the morning light, until the stars do pale.

  * * *

  So, if you hike upon that hill, do so in the light,

  For the ghostly singer, she only sings at night.

  She will lure you to her pale breast, this lonely forlorn wife,

  But once you taste her sweet, sad tears, you’ll forfeit your life.

  * * *

  So, wander all you like, you handsome roguish man,

  But beware the misty songstress who bewitches and enchants,

  Her loss and pain have chained her to the hills of Lyre,

  She’s bound herself to the land, with her never-ending tears.

  As my words faded away, I looked down. Raj was snuggled up by my feet, asleep with a contented look on his face.

  I had just finished making dinner—fettuccine Alfredo—when the doorbell rang. Frowning, I turned down the burner and headed for the door. I didn’t get a lot of visitors. Mostly just a few friends who only came over when they were invited. I glanced at Raj, but he seemed unconcerned, so I knew it wasn’t a stranger. He could sense when it was someone who had been over to the house before.

  Sure enough, when I opened the door, I recognized the woman leaning against the doorframe.

  “Lana? What are you doing here?” I had a tendency to blurt out things without thinking about whether it would sound rude. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. I just wasn’t expecting anybody.”

  Lana Frost was tall, with hair that color of faded wheat. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a denim jacket over a blue blouse. We had met at a wine tasting a couple months before and we had met a few times for dinner. I wouldn’t call her a good friend because we honestly didn’t mesh that well, but she was friendly enough and I enjoyed hanging out with her on occasion.

  I opened the door. “Come in, I’ve got dinner on the stove and need to get back to the kitchen. What’s up?”

  She entered the foyer and followed me into the kitchen, a deep furrow on her brow. “Hey, Raven. I hope you don’t mind me just dropping over like this, but I think I need your help. Professionally.”

  I paused. Lana knew what I was. That she needed my help sparked off alarm bells. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not really sure, but…something’s wrong.”

  She dropped her purse on the counter as I checked the pasta, and sat on one of the high kitchen stools on the other side of the island. Before I moved into the house, I’d had the kitchen and the bathrooms remodeled. The kitchen was still a galley kitchen, but it was spacious, and I’d had the cupboards stained a rich walnut with brushed nickel handles. The counter was white quartz, veined with pale gray sparkles. The island overlooked the dining room, and when the shutters were opened, it acted as a bar.

  “You want something to eat? The fettuccine is ready.” I licked the sauce off my fingers, the taste of cheese and cream rich on my tongue. I didn’t like eating in front of people, so I always made enough for company. Most often, the leftovers ended up as my lunch the next day, but one way or the other, I was always prepared.

  She shrugged. “Sure. Can I help?”

  I motioned to the cupboard. “Why don’t you get out our plates. I’ll feed Raj. I baked him some stew meat and carrots.”

  After I removed Raj’s dinner from the oven to the counter and scooped it into his bowl, allowing it to cool before I set it down for him, Lana handed me the plates. Black and white, the square china plates fit my minimalist style.

  I loaded noodles and sauce onto them, and we carried them to the table. I returned to the kitchen for a bottle of wine, goblets, and the French bread I’d tucked in the oven to allow the butter and Parmesan to melt.

  As I poured the wine, Lana let out a deep sigh and leaned back in her chair. “I swear, Raven, sometimes I think I’m going nuts.”

  Taking a bite of my noodles, I savored the taste before asking, “All right. What’s happening?”

  “You know that Tag asked me to move in a few months ago?” She took a sip of the wine, closing her eyes as she tipped her head back. Tag was her boyfriend. He didn’t like me all that much, and the feeling was mutual.

  “Right. I seem to recall you moved into his house?”

  She nodded. “Well, the house he’s renting.” Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the table, staring at her plate. “Here’s the problem. I think Tag’s house is haunted. And I think the ghost is targeting me. Can you help?”

  I slowly wound the fettuccine around my fork. I wasn’t really looking for new clients right this minute, but she was a friend—of sorts—and she sounded frightened. After a moment, I set down my fork. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. First, though, you need to tell me what’s going on, and why you think the ghost is targeting you.”

  As she began to explain, a shiver raced down my spine—a shiver I both recognized and dreaded. It always happened when clients came to me with a serious problem. And it always meant there was something nasty going down.

  My name is Raven BoneTalker and I’m one of the Ante-Fae. I’m also known as the Daughter of Bones, and I’m a bone witch. Technically, I suppose you could call me a necromancer, but that term is usually reserved for those who are of the magic-born.

  I live with Raj, my gargoyle, and three ferrets. At least, I tell people they’re ferrets because they look just like them, and act just like them as well. Templeton has plush black fur, and he’s a mischievous little goon. Elise is sable brown and a socialite. And Gordon has shockingly white fur, and he’s the angst-ridden one of the group. They’re my buddies, and I love them all, but I’m cautious with their secrets because I know what people can be like.

  I was engaged to one of the Dark Fae. Ulstair and I had been together a long time, and he was the only serious romance I’ve had in my life. Everything was golden between us. That is, everything was wonderful until he was murdered. I turned to the Wild Hunt Agency for help. We—or rather, they—found the murderer, but he was about to get away so I did what was necessary to put a stop to him.

  I always warn people up front: I’ll play by the rules if they work. If not, I make my own. Not enough people believe me, and they really should.

  So yeah, I live in the city—on the Eastside of Seattle in the UnderLake District, in a simple but comfortable house, where I run my business—the Witching Hour. You know, as in “the long dark night of the soul,” “th
e midnight hour,” and all those deep, dark, thoughts that haunt people before the first streaks of dawn hit the sky.

  As a bone witch, I offer my services to people of all walks of life. I communicate with the dead to find out what’s going on with them, I exorcise stray spirits, clean out nasty astral entities, boot out annoying poltergeists, and so forth. I also read tarot cards, and I read the bones.

  I don’t have a lot of close friends, though I cherish those I do have. Mostly, I’m a bit of a loner, and at least until lately, that’s suited me just fine.

  “What do you mean, the ghost is targeting you?” I frowned. “Has it actually attacked you?” Spirits that physically attacked the living were uncommon, but not unheard of. They were harder to banish and usually a lot more unreasonable than simple haunts and ghosts.

  Lana paused, then shrugged. “I’m not sure what I mean. I feel like I’m being constantly watched. It’s worse in some parts of the house than in others. There are places in the house where I won’t go, because I feel constantly under scrutiny, but now it’s beginning to spread. I hear noises in the basement when nobody else is there. I see shadows moving on the walls. Sometimes things seem to move on their own. I’ll set my purse down in the living room and when I return, it will be in the kitchen.” She met my gaze and I could see the worry in her eyes. “I’m afraid, Raven.”

  “First things first: could there be anybody in the house making those noises? Have you checked out the basement when you’ve heard someone there?”