M. R. Sellars - Rowan Gant 1 - Harm None

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HARM NONE

Rowan Gant 1

M. R. Sellars

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

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

Excerpt from Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

Moorcock, Used With Permission

Paraphrased Excerpts from Buckland's Complete Book of WitchCraft on pages

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

Westcan Printing Group

Winnipeg, Manitoba

Books By M. R. Sellars

The Rowan Gant Investigations

HARM NONE

NEVER BURN A WITCH

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

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

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.

For my parents.

Thank you for teaching me that the true value of the written word is priceless.

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.

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"

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 unison came stronger.

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."

Three weeks later…

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.

In this particular instance, however, the fact that there was no way she was about

to let me in the door with a lit cigar, was only one of a trio of reasons I had for being

parked on the cement stairs of our modest suburban Saint Louis home this warm late

summer's evening. The second, and most important reason for smoking outside was

that we had only recently discovered that Felicity was six weeks pregnant. The

third—I was waiting for someone.

Earlier in the day I had received a phone call from my long time cohort, Ben

Storm, a detective with the Saint Louis City Police Department. Since he had a

tendency to work somewhat bizarre hours I was pleasantly surprised when he

suggested that he drop by this evening for an impromptu drink to congratulate us on

our impending family addition. I was more than agreeable to the idea; unfortunately,

the tone of his voice told me there was an underlying, less social reason for the visit.

His inflection only confirmed a suspicion that had been nagging at me for nearly two

days now.

Late Wednesday night I had received a short, cryptic call from a distracted and

extremely official sounding version of my friend. He had been seeking information

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