M r sellars rowan gant.., p.1
M R Sellars - [Rowan Gant 01], page 1
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HARM NONE
Rowan Gant 1
By
M. R. Sellars
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Contents
PROLOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HARM NONE: A Rowan Gant Investigation
A WillowTree Press Book
PRINTING HISTORY
WillowTree Press First Edition / June 2000
Second Printing / June 2001
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 1997, 2000 by M. R. Sellars
Excerpt from Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation
Copyright © 2000 by M. R. Sellars
Excerpt from Veteran of the Psychic Wars on page 309, Copyright © Michael
Moorcock, Used With Permission
Paraphrased Excerpts from Buckland's Complete Book of WitchCraft on pages 1-6, 27, and 366-67 Copyright © Raymond Buckland, Used With Permission
ISBN: 0-9678221-0-6
Cover design by Johnathan Minton
Text Layout by K. J. Epps
Printed on 20% Post-Consumer Recycled Acid Free Paper
Printed With Soy Based Ink
PRINTED IN CANADA
by
Westcan Printing Group
Winnipeg, Manitoba
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Books By M. R. Sellars
The Rowan Gant Investigations
HARM NONE
NEVER BURN A WITCH
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Praise for Harm None:
"Hooray for M.R. Sellars, the master of Pagan fiction! HARM NONE is a tale so real, so complex, and so terrifying, that it won't just keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last word - it's guaranteed to leave you breathless and begging for more."
—Dorothy Morrison
Author of Everyday Magic and The Craft
"HARM NONE is a superbly suspenseful thriller… highly recommended."
—Midwest Book Review
"…Sellars is a wonderful surprise all around… A good murder mystery has mystery, it has action, it has its dark sides, it has plot twists, and it has entertainment value. You can find all of that in this book."
—Boudica
The Wiccan - Pagan Times
"Fans of Hamilton and Lackey will want to religiously follow the exploits of Mr. Rowan Gant."
—Harriet Klausner
Literary Reviewer
"HARM NONE is a gripping, carefully plotted mystery that will keep pages turning right to the end."
—P.J. Nunn
Senior Mystery Reviewer,
The Charlotte Austin Review
"HARM NONE is one of the most remarkable books I've read this year. I bow to M.R. Sellars' superior story telling ability!"
—Elizabeth Henze
Murder on the Internet Express
"Fans of Mercedes Lackey's defunct Diana Tregarde Mysteries rejoice—a new witch is in town! Wonderful characterization from a first-person view, chilling suspense, and a baffling mystery make this first Rowan Gant mystery top-notch."
—Melanie C. Duncan,
The BookDragon Review
"Curl up one weekend with this book. You, too, will find yourself falling victim to Sellars' dangerously realistic descriptive style."
—Woody NaDobhar
Whispering Willow Pagan Newspaper
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Praise for Never Burn A Witch:
"Mr. Sellars presents us with an excellent offering of mystery/suspense. From the opening pages to the cliff hanger ending, it's a "can't put it down" novel!"
—Boudica
The Wiccan - Pagan Times
"M.R. Sellars, Pagan master of suspense, does it again! If you only read one book this year, make it NEVER BURN A WITCH. It's a tale so realistically terrifying, that the memory will haunt you forever."
—Dorothy Morrison
Author of Everyday Magic and The Craft
"Sellars has tackled a unique and controversial topic with boldness and aplomb. He makes no apologies and NEVER BURN A WITCH is even more aggressive than the first Rowan Gant mystery, HARM NONE… It's a hair-raising good time…"
—P. J. Nunn
Senior Mystery Reviewer,
The Charlotte Austin Review
"Rowan Gant is a detective in the tradition of Diana Tregarde and Anita Blake."
—Rosemary Edghill
Author, The Bast Mysteries
"NEVER BURN A WITCH is a tale of haunting possibilities. The stuff that nightmares are made of!"
—FaDraSha.COM
"NEVER BURN A WITCH is simply a chiller… This is a must read book!"
—Nancy Lankford, Literary Reviewer
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would be sorely remiss if I didn't take a moment to thank at least a few of the individuals who were there to act as my sounding boards and as my moral support staff throughout the writing and editing of this novel—
Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD without whom Detective Benjamin Storm would be just another one dimensional pseudo-cop; Jacquelyn Busch Hunt, Attorney, for the legal advice and mighty strokes of her blue pencil; Roxanne and Sharon for reading, re-reading, and then reading some more; and of course, my wife Kat, who put up with me throughout it all.
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For my parents.
Thank you for teaching me that the true value of the written word is priceless.
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Author's Note
While the City of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be enjoyed.
In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining.
Note also that this book is a first person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. I know of no one who thinks and speaks in perfect, unblemished English, therefore some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support the illusion of reality.
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Eight words ye wiccan rede fulfill,
AN IT HARM NONE, DO WHAT YE WILL.
Final Verse
The Wiccan Rede
Lady Gwen Thompson
Original Printing "Green Egg #69"
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PROLOGUE
"Be it known to all that the circle is now to be drawn," stated the slight, robed figure as she raised her arms upward to the sky. Her dainty hands held tight to the leather bound handle of a Dirk, its brightly polished blade reflecting the light of the full moon high above. "Let no one be here but of their own free will. Blessed be."
"So mote it be," came a solemn chant in unison from the coven members gathered around her.
The air was still in the large, semi-wooded Saint Louis back yard as the Priestess slowly and purposefully drew the ceremonial knife, her athamè, through the air above her, scribing a five-pointed star, starting and ending with the top point. With the imaginary Pentacle drawn, she fluidly lowered the Dirk, and brought her arms to rest outstretched before her, and pointing to the East.
"R.J.," she said to the young man directly before her. "Would you please light the circle candles?"
The young man gave a perceptible nod, and pulled back the hood of his robe to reveal his mane of long black hair. Turning, he struck the end of a wooden fireplace match, bringing it to life, and as the flame settled to evenness, merged it with the wick of a yellow votive candle resting in a homemade stand.
"At the East I bring light and air to our circle," spoke the strawberry blonde priestess from the center of the group. "All hail the Watchtower of the East, element of air. May it watch over us in our circle. Blessed be."
"Blessed be," chanted the gathering around her.
The young man worked his way to the South, and touched the burning match to a red votive.
"At the South I bring light and fire to our circle," came the priestess as she made a clockwise quarter turn. "All hail the Watchtower of the South. Element of fire. May it watch over our circle. Blessed be."
"Blessed be." The chant in un
Evenly, the young woman turned to the West as the young man brought a blue candle alight.
"At the West I bring light and water to our circle. All hail the Watchtower of the West. Element of water. May it watch over our circle. Blessed be."
"Blessed be!" Stronger still the chorus echoed.
"At the North I bring light and earth to our circle," the priestess melodically spoke as she turned. The young man applied the fire to a green candle fixed securely in its holder. "All hail the Watchtower of the North. Element of earth. May it watch over our circle. Blessed be."
"Blessed be!" The coven's chant lifted skyward, harmonious and strong.
The Priestess kissed the blade of the athamè, and lifted it upward, scribing the Pentacle in the air once more.
"All hail the four towers, and all hail the God and Goddess. We welcome and invite Pan and Diana to join us in this rite we hold in their honor. Blessed be, so mote it be!"
"Blessed be, so mote it be!" chimed the coven.
At this point, the dark-haired man had returned to his original position in the circle, and the members had joined hands, interlocking their fingers, left palm up, right palm down.
"Ariel," his gaze leveled on the priestess, "may I ask that you lead us in the weave."
The young woman gave a nod, and after once again kissing the blade of the athamè, laid it reverently on the altar before her.
"Weave, weave," she began the melodious chant, "weave us together. Weave us together, together with love."
The remaining members of the coven joined in and they sang the verse twice more. When the last note had drifted away on the still air, no sound was left but for the midsummer song of the crickets.
"The circle is cast," Ariel finally said. "You may release hands and we shall remain as one."
The group released their grasps on one another, and while remaining alert and attentive to their priestess, began to relax.
"Our circles are a happy time," she continued, her strawberry blonde hair drifting lazily about on a sudden breeze as she turned around the circle, bringing her eyes to bear on each member's face. "A time for us to rejoice in our kinship with nature… with the Mother Goddess Diana… and with Pan the Hunter. Our circles are meant for exchanging knowledge. Tonight… " Ariel caught her breath and looked down at the ground. She paused for what seemed an eternity to all present as a single teardrop began its slow journey down her cheek. Sadness welled in her voice as she began once again to speak. "Tonight, we come together to make a decision. A decision that will affect the direction and future of this coven. We have all discussed this over and over, so I will spare you the details."
The members of the coven lowered their gazes to the ground as she once again paused and angrily wiped away another tear that had escaped her eye. They knew how much she hated losing control of her emotions and they felt a great empathy for her. They remained quiet and kept their gazes averted as she struggled for her composure. However, one member among the group refused to grant her the reprieve. He stared at the back of Ariel's head, unblinking, with cold grey eyes. His face remained expressionless, and to the coven, that cold countenance was the most frightening thing of all.
"Let it be done," stated the young dark-haired man known as R.J. in a compassionate attempt to assume her painful burden.
He stepped forward to the altar and lifted a pewter goblet from its weathered surface. One by one, R.J. stepped before each member of the coven and held the goblet out to them, and one by one, each member deposited a single stone. When he came before the expressionless grey-eyed man, he waited. The man continued to stare, as if looking straight through him to remain fixed upon Ariel.
"Go on Devon," R.J. said, "you still have a vote."
Momentarily the expressionless man's eyes unglazed, and he focused his glare on R.J.
"I don't recognize this vote," was all he said, and once again he seemed to stare icily through to Ariel.
R.J. fought back his desire to tell Devon just where he could get off. This was going to be over soon enough, and he knew there was no need for an altercation now. He continued around the circle, and came finally to rest in the center.
Standing at the altar opposite Ariel, R.J. held out the goblet and let a stone fall into it from his own palm, silently casting his vote. Slowly, Ariel lifted her hand to its rim and dropped in her stone. It rattled and clinked in the tense silence of the circle, then fell still. She brought her gaze up to meet R.J.'s, drew a deep breath, and then gave a slightly perceptible nod. R.J. tilted the goblet down to the altar and poured the stones out upon its surface. The pebbles glittered, as if winking back at them in the candlelight, each of their polished surfaces obsidian black.
Ariel turned and faced Devon, summoning every bit of strength in her being and borrowing from her fellow coven members as much as she could.
"You know the most basic law of The Craft is to Harm None." She stared at him coolly as anger seeped in to replace sadness. "You have violated that law, Devon."
He continued to stare back at her, pupils large in his irises like puddles of ink in dirty grey ice. The circle candles flickered as a mild breeze began to blow.
"So I sacrificed a dog," Devon answered her frostily. "You little wimps are just afraid to take the next step. You'll never be anything but a bunch of wannabees."
Ariel continued, ignoring his comment. "For your disregard for life, and the most basic of Wiccan laws, you are hereby banished from this coven. Your punishment is that which you bring upon your own self, as anything you may do will return to you three fold. May the God and Goddess take mercy upon you."
"So Mote It Be," the members of the circle solemnly chimed.
Devon looked slowly around the circle, resting his cold gaze for a moment upon each member of the coven, finally, leveling it once again on Ariel's face.
"You're going to wish you never did this, Ariel," he said. "Fuck you… Fuck all of you."
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Three weeks later…
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CHAPTER 1
Blue-white wisps curled upward from the lit end of a tight roll of tobacco that was hooked under my index finger. I took a lazy puff and rolled the spicy smoke around on my tongue before blowing it outward into an evenly spreading cloud that wafted about on the warm breeze. Then, with a lazy stretch, I rested my forearm across my knee and contemplated the slowly growing ash on the end of the cigar.
It had been more than six months since my last cigarette, so my wife, Felicity, was none too excited when I decided to revive my old habit of cigar smoking. As I am not one to do things halfway these weren't the greenish, dried out logs you pick up at the local stop' n' grab. Not at all. My humidor was filled with rich Maduro wrapped symbols of masculinity available only from a good tobacco shop. Inevitably, with such quality there comes a price, and said price served simply to provide Felicity with yet another reason to harbor disdain for the habit.
Of course, with any marriage—well, good ones anyway—there is a generous amount of compromise. The 'compromise' that had been reached in ours was something on the order of a matter-of-fact statement from my headstrong wife of, "If you're going to smoke those things anyway, you're going to do it outside!" After eight years with this auburn-haired, second generation Irish-American dynamo on a five-foot-four frame, I had learned to cut my losses and run; for as much as she hated to admit it, Felicity fit neatly into the stereotype of the tempestuous Irish redhead. Though her singsong accent made itself known only when she was in close proximity with her relatives, her stubbornness and temper were with her twenty-four seven.
