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  Light Magic

  Eerie Side of the Tracks Book 2

  Ellie Ferguson

  Hunter’s Moon Press

  Contents

  Also by the Author

  Title

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Request from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Ellie Ferguson

  Written as Ellie Ferguson

  Eerie Side of the Tracks

  Slay Bells Ring

  Witchfire Burning

  Skeletons in the Closet

  Hunted by Moonlight

  Hunted

  Hunter’s Duty

  Hunter’s Home

  Wedding Bell Blues

  Written as Amanda S. Green

  Nocturnal Lives

  Nocturnal Origins

  Nocturnal Serenade

  Nocturnal Interlude

  Nocturnal Challenge

  Nocturnal Haunts

  Nocturnal Rebellion

  Sword of the Gods

  Sword of Arelion

  Dagger of Elanna

  Written as Sam Schall

  Vengeance from Ashes

  Duty from Ashes

  Honor from Ashes

  Taking Flight

  Battle Bound

  Battle Wounds

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Amanda S. Green (writing as Ellie Ferguson).

  Print ISBN: 9781980349983

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Hunter’s Moon Press

  Cover design by Sarah A. Hoyt

  If you enjoyed this novel, please check out http://nocturnal-lives.com for more titles.

  Thank you for your support.

  For Uncle Lar, who kept telling me he wanted more stories from Mossy Creek.

  LIGHT MAGIC

  EERIE SIDE OF THE TRACKS BOOK 2

  ELLIE FERGUSON

  Hunter’s Moon Press

  It’s not what you have. It’s what you do with it.

  Chapter 1

  If anything happens to me, go home to Mossy Creek. I mean it, Meggie. Go there and find Serena Duchamp. She’ll know what to do. Promise me, Meggie. Please. Do this for me and for you.

  I first read those words two weeks ago when my mother’s attorney handed me a file of paperwork. Mr. Chandler’s expression was appropriately serious. There might have been a hint of compassion in his rheumy blue eyes, but I hadn’t noticed. All I’d wanted was to get out of there. I’d had more than my share of people offering their hollow condolences and well-wishes over the last few days. They no more fooled me than they had my mother.

  Damn them. If they cared so much, why hadn’t they been there for her when she’d needed them?

  Why hadn’t I?

  The latter was easier to answer than the former. I hadn’t been there because she didn’t tell me she was sick. I would have gone AWOL if necessary to get to her in time. Not that it would have been necessary. I hadn’t been active duty in almost five years. I wasn’t even a member of the Reserves any longer. Despite everything I’d seen and done, I’d hated giving the Army up. But it had been the Reserves or my job and I needed my job. That job allowed me to not only keep a roof over my head but to help supplement Mom’s expenses as well.

  Maybe I should have realized something was wrong when she quit protesting the money I sent at the beginning of each month. I thought she’d given up because she knew I would keep sending it, whether she wanted me to or not. It was my way of repaying her for all the sacrifices she’d made for me when I was younger.

  Damn it, I should have listened to the doubts and asked her straight out what was going on. Now it was too late. She was gone, leaving me with more questions than I had answers, not the least of which was why she wanted me to go “home” to some hole-in-the-wall town in Texas named Mossy Creek. The only problem was I didn’t remember ever being in Mossy Creek. So how could I go home to it?

  If that wasn’t enough, who was Serena Duchamp and how was she supposed to help me?

  God, Mom, why didn’t I know you were sick?

  Instead of Mom telling me she was sick, I’d been blindsided by a call from her minister. I’d listened in disbelief as he told me Mom “was no longer with us.” Yep, that’s exactly how he put it and it took me several moments to realize what he meant. I’m sure he thought I must have been in denial when I asked why he was calling to tell me she’d changed churches. It never occurred to me that she might actually be dead. Mom had always been bigger than life, even if she stood just under five-feet tall. She’d been a force of nature – in more ways than one. She had to be to survive life in Maxon’s Mill, Kansas. Despite having lived there since I was a toddler, Mom and I were outsiders. Even so, those living there had no problem coming to her when they needed something. But they never accepted her – or me.

  Now they could all rot in Hell. I was no longer tied to Maxon’s Mill. Once old man Chandler filed the probate papers, I packed up Mom’s things, sold what furniture I didn’t want and put everything else into storage in Wichita. I didn’t trust the locals enough to leave it there. Her house was on the market, the attorney taking care of the legalities. And I had no reason to ever return to the town that never made any attempt to make us feel welcome.

  Now I was on my way to a town I’d never heard of until reading Mom’s letter, one she’d known wouldn’t be delivered until after her death. But what did it mean?

  And why had she never mentioned Mossy Creek or this Serena Duchamp before if they were so important?

  I rode past the green and white sign proclaiming “Welcome to Beautiful Mossy Creek” and almost instantly wondered if I’d somehow managed to step back in time. Downtown could have been lifted straight out of the 1950’s – heck, even earlier for all I knew. Small shops with colorful awnings and sandwich board signs on the sidewalks lined Main Street. More than a few of the shop windows contained signs supporting the high school baseball team in its quest to become the regional champion. Parked along the street and in the surface lot across from the courthouse were everything from battered farm trucks to, I kid you not, a Lamborghini.

  Next to the courthouse stood Peggy’s Café. I slowed, looking for a parking spot. I’d been on the road since well before dawn. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten. If that wasn’t reason enough to try the café, the fact I needed more coffee was. Besides, if the café was like those in other small towns I’d visited over the years, someone would know where I could find this Serena Duchamp. Who knows, they might even tell me something about the woman and why my mother thought it so important I make the trip to see her.

  Or, more likely, they’d clam up and not say a word. Past experience taught me small towns tended not to welcome strangers, especially not if they looked like me. Maybe ridi
ng in on my Harley SuperLow and dressed in black leathers hadn’t been the smartest thing I could do. Not that I cared. I was here only because Mo told me to come. It was, in a way, an attempt to fulfill her dying wish. I didn’t have to understand it or like it. I’d do it and, hopefully, be able to leave without delay.

  I found a spot not far from the café and backed in. As I did, I glanced around. Early as it was, people hurried up and down the sidewalk, some to work and others in the direction of the café. Some even glanced my way and nodded in greeting. Others wished me a good morning. That was certainly more than I’d ever gotten in Maxon’s Mill, not that it meant anything.

  Or did it?

  I switched off the engine and reached up to remove my helmet. For a moment, I squinted against the morning sun. Then, as a light breeze kissed my cheeks, I lifted my face and inhaled. A moan escaped my lips as the tantalizing aromas of freshly brewed coffee, frying bacon and fresh pastries wafted toward me. With my mouth watering and my stomach growling, I climbed off the Harley and secured my helmet to the back of the seat. I might not get any answers inside the café, but it at least smelled like I’d get something much better to eat than the fast food I usually survived on.

  That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Those enticing odors drew me ever closer to the café’s door. A moment later, I reached out and the door opened with the tinkling of a bell as I stepped inside. Instantly, I braced for the silence that always greeted me whenever I went anywhere in Maxon’s Mill. Instead, those present looked up to see who had entered and, as with those I’d seen on the street, they nodded in greeting before going back to their conversations. Surprised and even more relieved, I made my way to the counter and an empty seat near the far wall.

  “Mornin’, hon. What can I get you?”

  The cheery voice belonged to a woman I guessed to be in her forties or early fifties. In one hand, she held a coffee pot. When she lifted it in question, I nodded and watched her expertly fill the white mug that had somehow appeared on the counter in front of me. As she turned to place the pot back on its burner, I lifted the mug and inhaled the rich aroma.

  “If you think that’s good, you should try the Irish coffee,” she said with a grin as I moaned in pleasure after my first tentative sip.

  “A bit early for that, I’m afraid.” Which really was too bad if it that first sip was any indication.

  “It’s never too early for a good mug of Irish coffee,” someone said from behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder and a grey-haired man sitting at one of the four tops lifted his mug in greeting. Seated next to him was a young boy of maybe six I guessed to be his grandson. Across from him were a man and woman I figured were the boy’s parents. They smiled in greeting and the young woman, who looked to be about my age, shook her head, a smile of affection on her lips.

  “You’ll have to excuse him,” the redhead said. “But he is right. It’s never too early for one of Miss Peggy’s Irish coffees. They are one of the things I miss most right now.” She lightly patted her swollen belly.

  “My mother’s already promised to have one ready and waiting for you as soon as you quit nursing that little one, Annie,” the woman who served me said.

  “She has to decide she wants to be born first, Janny,” the redhead grumped.

  I chuckled softly and then turned back to the counter. As I did, Janny pulled a pencil from behind her ear and produced her order pad. “Know what you want, hon?”

  Since I hadn’t looked at the menu yet, I shook my head. “What do you recommend?”

  “Miss Peggy’s pancakes are awesome!” the little boy volunteered from behind me.

  I bit back my laugh. “I guess I’d better try them then.” I turned and smiled at the boy who now shyly hid behind his grandfather. As I did, his parents smiled at him in amusement. “Thank you.” As I spoke, I could almost hear my mother telling me I was forgetting my manners. I didn’t sigh, not quite, but it was a close thing.

  “You’ll have to forgive Robbie, ma’am. He really does think the pancakes are the best,” the older man said as he got to his feet. A moment later, he stood before me, his hand extended in greeting. “Bob Caldwell.”

  I stood and grasped his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Meg Sheridan.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Sheridan. Let me introduce you to this young scamp.” He motioned for the boy to join him. “My grandson, Robbie, and his parents, Sam and Annie.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I grinned at Robbie and shook his hand. “And thank you for recommending the pancakes. They sound perfect this morning.”

  “Are you passing through or will you be staying for a while?” his grandfather asked.

  “Judge, you let her be,” a woman called from the kitchen. “She’s here to see Miss Serena.”

  The world came to a screeching halt. As I turned toward the kitchen, it was as if I moved through molasses. Suddenly, all eyes in the café were on me. I sensed rather than actually saw Judge Caldwell reach out to steady me. Someone else, maybe the redhead, asked if I was all right. Then, as a short, wiry, gray haired woman in khaki slacks, pink tee shirt and matching pink orthopedic shoes stepped into the dining room, the world sped back up.

  “Who are you and how in the hell do you know why I’m here?”

  One part of my brain registered several of the patrons shoving back their chairs and getting to their feet. Whether to flee or move to the woman’s aid, I didn’t know and, just then, didn’t care. Nothing mattered more than finding out who she was and how she knew why I’d come to Mossy Creek. I hadn’t told anyone about Mom’s letter. The attorney wouldn’t have said anything for fear of violating attorney-client privilege. There certainly wasn’t any way Mom could have said anything. Surely if she’d figured out a way to talk from beyond the grave, she’d be talking to me and not some stranger.

  “Peggy?” the judge asked.

  Instead of answering, the woman walked briskly – “walked” was putting it mildly. I knew drill sergeants who would have shed tears of joy if their recruits marched with the precision she did just then – to the door. The little bell tinkled once again as she opened it. As if understanding the signal, most everyone gathered stood. Some gulped down the last of their coffee while others took one last bite of their meals. Then they tossed money on their tables and headed out. Sam Caldwell lifted his son in his arms, kissed his wife and said he’d see them later. Then, to my surprise, he rested a hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re safe here, Meg. I promise.” With that, he reached for Robbie’s backpack and turned to leave.

  When the last of the customers stepped outside, Miss Peggy shut the door, flipped the sign over to CLOSED and turned the lock.

  Eyes narrowed, I waited, wondering what in the world I’d gotten myself into. No, what my mother had gotten me into. I was locked in a café with four people I didn’t know. At least one of them knew why I’d come to town. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

  “Someone had better explain and quickly or I’m out of here.” I ground out the words, doing my best not to let my temper get the better of me. None of us would like what happened if it did.

  “Janny, get the girl her pancakes and bring us all some coffee,” Miss Peggy said as she gently tried to steer me to the table the judge and the others had occupied moments earlier.

  Without another word, she cleared away the plates. The judge held Annie’s chair for her and probably would have for me except I shook my head. Then I positioned myself so my back was to the wall and I had a clear view of both the kitchen and the front door. I hadn’t felt this trapped in a very long time and I didn’t like it. But I needed to remember Mom sent me here for a reason. It would have been nice if she’d told me why. Unfortunately, she hadn’t and now I needed to figure it out before everything blew up in my face – again.

  “You’ve never been here before, have you?” Annie reached across the table and lightly rested her hand on mine, drawing my atten
tion back to her.

  I shook my head. “Never even heard of this place before my mother died.” My throat tightened, and tears burned my eyes. I blinked them back. I would not cry. Not here and certainly not now.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The strange thing was, she did seem to be sorry, certainly more than those who had known my mother in Maxon’s Mill. But it was the look on the judge’s face that had me swallowing hard. A few moments before, he had been as nonplussed by Miss Peggy’s comment as had I. Now sympathy and something else darkened his expression. When he closed his hand over Annie’s and mine, it was as if he was offering protection and something more. Concern, caring maybe?

  “Meg,” he began. “May I call you Meg?” he asked, as if suddenly remembering his manners.

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled slightly and nodded.

  “Meg, you’ll have to forgive Peggy. We haven’t figured out how she does it, but she knows everything that goes on here in town. Sometimes she knows it even before those involved do.”

  Miss Peggy snorted and slid onto the seat to my right. A moment later, Janny served us fresh mugs of coffee. They were followed a few moments later by my pancakes. Her mother told me to eat while they were still warm. One bite was enough to convince me to do as she said. Robbie had been right. They were the best pancakes ever. But, good as they were, they didn’t answer my questions.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, how do you know why I’m here?”

  “Because I knew your mother. You did too, Judge.”

  His brow furrowed and he looked from her to me in question. At least I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what was going on.

  “Faith Luíseach.” She pronounced the last name lee-shock.