Page 48 of Bad Moon Rising
For long minutes, she sang the Candle Gate phrase on rapid repeat while her entire body trembled. Suddenly, she stopped and stood. In a clear tone, she sang,“Who comes so late to Candle Gate? Who comes so late, by raining bent and roaring spate? Who knocks so late at Candle Gate? Who knocks so low, yet will not wait?”
She collapsed to a sit.
When he bent to check on her, the gate unclicked and swung open on its own with an eerie squeak.
He moved forward to step through the gate.
“Stop!” she ordered reaching for his leg but missing. “That’s not all.” She looked at the fence and sang,“Who rides in state from Candle Gate? Who rides in state, by rainy bent and roaring spate? Who rides so slow, yet will not wait? Nor bide at all for love or hate?”
Roman held up his coin. All the wards were gone. “You did it. Spell is gone.”
In silence, they stared at each other.
“Guess I’ve been here before. I’m a little freaked out,” she whispered. Questions about her pretending amnesia resurfaced, but the frank shock on her face seemed too genuine to be faked. “Who is supposed to live here? Who are these people that they’d put some sort of magical lock on this gate?”
“This estate is owned by an old lycan family by the surname Kinley. They practiced some sort of magic. All I could find out is that both parents were executed by the Council for practicing magic, and their daughters disappeared many years ago.”
She moistened her lips and swallowed several times. She stared up the drive. “You think?” She cleared her throat. “You think they might be my family? That I’m one of the girls or their mother, if she managed to escape?”
He hadn’t considered she could be the girls’ mother. That meant there might be a male out there with a legitimate claim to her. His mind rejected the notion.
She stumbled to the car door and wretched it open to slide into the passenger seat. “To the house we go.”
…
The dirt road screamed to be repaired. Its pothole-rich, washboard pattern rattled her teeth as he drove. It wound for over a quarter mile up a hilly, mostly woodland area until arriving at a circular drive in front of a horseshoe-shaped house constructed of classic harled white stone.
After he parked, he ordered, “Wait.”
He held up the coin again. Then he did something with a crystal on a chain that came from one of his pockets. “It’s clear of more spells, at least ones that are detectable. Watch out for other things.”
“Other things?”
“Who knows what people like this use to guard their property? Gnomes, fairies, or maybe a nasty goblin.”
“Those are real?”
“Yes. Let’s pray it’s not a goblin.”
Together, they walked up the stone path, which was overgrown with weeds. He knocked. She was tempted to move closer to him.
No answer.
He knocked again.
She fidgeted. “No one’s home.”
“Seems that way.” He tried the knob without success, then scooted to the window beside the door, cupped his hands around his eyes and looked inside. “No movement. I don’t hear or smell anyone, not that it means much when dealing with magic.”
She touched the front doorknob. It turned. “Not locked.”
“I just tried it.” His lips compressed into a thin line. “The house likes you.”
“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.”
“Maybe.” Skepticism tinged the word.
The air inside smelled stale.
