Page 14 of Cruel Moon
Depositing my dishes in the collection bin, I take one last look around the dining room at the strange mix of families and children and the obvious tourists here for the Faire before exiting through the lobby doors. I step out into the crisp morning mountain air and square my shoulders. Time to see what secrets this little town will give up to me.
The main street of White Fork has transformed overnight into a scene plucked from a storybook. Vendor stalls line the sidewalks, full to the brim with all kinds of trinkets, baked goods, and costumes. The scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke mingles with the sharp pine air, creating an intoxicating blend that momentarily overwhelms my senses.
Costumed performers weave through the growing crowds—jugglers tossing glittering balls high into the air, musicians strumming lutes and pipes, and actors in elaborate period dress proclaiming the day’s events in booming voices. It’s a rainbow of color and sound and actually rather enjoyable.
Nope. Don’t get distracted, Bridget.I’m not here as a tourist. I have a mission to complete. Scanning the crowd, I look for any sign of Rachel or the mysterious movie-star-pirate-Bast the girlsspoke about. If they’re regulars at the Faire, they’re more likely to know Meredith if she lived in this town.
As I make my way down the street, I marvel at the open display ofrealandfakemagickal items for sale. Crystal pendants catch the sunlight, sending rainbow refractions dancing across weathered wooden stalls. Bundles of dried herbs hang from rafters, their pungent scents mingling in the air.
In Salem, there’s so many occult and Wiccan things out for sale all the time, but it’s fake and harmless. No real spells. Norealmagick. The coven makes sure of it. Here, it’s like the witches have the whole town in on their secret.
I’m so lost in my observations that I almost miss it—a flash of familiar face in the crowd ahead. Rachel. I track her movement through the throng. She’s speaking animatedly to someone, her hands gesturing wildly as she laughs.
Then the crowd parts, and I catch my first glimpse of the man she’s talking to. My breath catches in my throat.
He’s…stunning. Tall and lean, with a rakish grin that seems to light up the entire street. His costume is impeccable—the spitting image of Jack Sparrow, from the weather-beaten tricorn hat to the scuffed leather boots. But it’s his eyes that capture me, dark and intense, sparkling with mischief and something deeper…something almost familiar.
This must be Bast. The teenagers at breakfast hadn’t exaggerated—heismovie-star handsome, and then some. There’s a magnetism about him that draws the eye, an easy confidence in the way he moves.
I realize I’m staring and force myself to look away, my cheeks burning. What’s wrong with me? I’m here on a mission, not to gawk at some Ren Faire performer, no matter how attractive he might be. But even as I try to focus on Rachel, to glean any useful information from their interaction, I find my gaze drawn back to the man I assume to be Bast.
How many Jack Sparrow performers are there?
He throws his head back in laughter at something Rachel says, and the sound carries across the crowded street. It’s rich and warm, like honey poured over gravel, and I feel an answering smile tug at my own lips before I can stop it.
I edge closer, straining to hear their conversation over the general noise of the Faire. I need to stay focused, to remember why I’m here. Meredith Banfield is still out there somewhere, and every moment I waste is another moment my sister spends in that cold, dark cell.
But as I watch Rachel and Bast, their easy camaraderie, evident in every gesture, makes me feel left out. Which is stupid. I don’t know either of them. I’m not trying to be anyone’s friend.
When Bast’s gaze suddenly snaps up, locking with mine across the crowded street, I feel a jolt of…something. Recognition? Which is dumb, I’ve never met him. Fear? Which is also stupid, I’m not afraid of anyone…except theMathairs.Attraction?Absolutely not acceptable. Stay on mission, Bridget.
For a single moment the rest of the world falls away, leaving just the two of us, connected by an invisible thread of…what? Then someone jostles me, breaking the spell. I blink, disoriented, and when I look back, Bast and Rachel have disappeared into the crowd flowing into the sword arena.
Guess I’m going to a pirate show.
I follow the flow of people toward what appears to be the main event area. A makeshift arena has been set up, hay bales forming a rough circle around a cleared space. Colorful flags flutter from poles, adding to the festive atmosphere.
Children and teens, many dressed in pirate costumes, gather eagerly at the edge of the arena. Their energy is infectious, faces flushed with anticipation. Parents stand behind them, phones at the ready to snap pictures or record.
A hush falls over the crowd as a figure strides into the arena.
“Ahoy, me hearties!” His voice booms across the arena, that honey-gravel tone sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Who among ye landlubbers dares to challenge the mighty Captain Jack Sparrow?”
The children erupt in cheers, many waving their toy swords in the air. Bast grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he surveys the crowd. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s looking right at me, but then he turns, selecting a young boy from the crowd.
What follows is part performance, part lesson, and all entertainment. Bast guides the child through basic sword-fighting stances, his patience evident even as he stays in character. Soon, more children join in, and the arena becomes a whirlwind of clacking wooden swords and peals of laughter.
Bast is in constant motion, alternating between exaggerated pirate swagger and genuine instruction. He parries a blow from one child, spins to encourage another, all while keeping up a stream of pirate small talk that has both kids and adults in stitches.
I find myself drawn to watch him again despite my best efforts to maintain detachment. There’s something mesmerizing about the way Bast moves. I can’t explain it and I can’t turn away.
As the demonstration reaches its climax, Bast takes on multiple “opponents” at once, his movements a blur of controlled chaos. He leaps onto a hay bale, toy sword swishing through the air as he fends off his pint-sized attackers.
“You’ll always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow!” he declares, executing a backflip off the bale that draws gasps and applause from the crowd.
Landing in a crouch, Bast rises slowly, pushing his hat back on his head. His eyes scan the crowd, and this time, I’m certain—he’s looking right at me. The world narrows again, the cheersof the crowd fading to a distant roar as our gazes lock for the second time and I can’t look away.
I want to touch him. Desperately. It feels like hunger. The type of hunger that can’t ever be satisfied. Panic flares in my chest and with it my control comes crashing back down in full force.What the hell is happening to me?
