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    Shadow of the Crone: Sal Van Sleen, #3
    Shadow of the Crone: Sal Van Sleen, #3
    Shadow of the Crone: Sal Van Sleen, #3
    Ebook59 pages51 minutes

    Shadow of the Crone: Sal Van Sleen, #3

    By Eric Kent Edstrom

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    About this ebook

    A blood magic ritual awakens powers Sal did not know he—or his girlfriend Becky—possessed.

    When an ancient woman who only Sal can see steals a family heirloom from a dead woman’s neck, he finds himself embroiled in a fight to save Becky’s entire family.


    New revelations about Sal’s own paranormal nature, and an awakening of power in his girlfriend Becky, make for an exciting new novelette (14,000 words) that is sure to please Sal Van Sleen fans.
    Grab your copy today.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUndermountain Books LLC
    Release dateJan 5, 2017
    ISBN9781386138709
    Shadow of the Crone: Sal Van Sleen, #3
    Author

    Eric Kent Edstrom

    Eric is the author of over a dozen novels and numerous short stories.

    Read more from Eric Kent Edstrom

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      Book preview

      Shadow of the Crone - Eric Kent Edstrom

      1

      Ididn't know Becky's grandma that well. I had only seen her a few times. She lived in a crusty old Victorian house over on the west side of Mushkobewun. I suppose the area had been fancy at one time, but a little industrial park built nearby had made it sort of a dingy part of town.

      I had seen her recently, though. In an open casket.

      And now I was standing in a graveyard, surrounded by mourners. Becky stood next to me, dabbing her eyes and nose with a wadded tissue. My eyes were dry, but I tried to put on a thoughtful expression for Becky's benefit. We had just started going together. I didn't want to screw it up by being insensitive. In truth, I thought the old lady's death was a mercy. She'd been in a wheelchair for 10 years, and the one time I had spoken to her she had kept calling me Bartholomew.

      My best friend Billy stood on the other side of Becky, his eyes glistening, his cheeks a bit more red than usual. He was always too willing to show emotion.

      It was October 1986. The three of us had a weird sort of bond. It was a kind of unhealthy triangle. Becky and I liked each other. Billy loved me. I was friends with Billy. And Becky and Billy . . . Well, they had a complicated relationship. But the funeral showed that beneath their sharp-edged bickering, there was an actual friendship.

      I had put on my best clothes. That is, my Sunday best. I don't know why they call a teenager’s only suit his Sunday best. I never wore the suit to church on Sunday. Our town was a casual place back in ’86. People wore their good jeans and a collared shirt to church.

      So the suit was really my wedding/funeral best, if we want to get technical about it. It was a little too short in the legs and sleeves. The tie was polyester, and the clip that fastened it to my collar was a little tired, so the whole thing tended to droop to the left.

      A Baptist minister presided over the ceremony, comfy in his rumpled brown suit. He held the Bible in his hand like a club. He made some very grave-sounding prayers, his voice rising and falling in a hypnotic cadence I found rather interesting. Being Catholic, I was more accustomed to being bored to death at events like this. But this guy was entertaining.

      And so we commit Miss Hammond to the earth. But we know she's already sitting at a card table across from Jesus, beating his socks off at double solitaire.

      All the mourners—teary-eyed, snotty-nosed, and beside themselves with grief for a woman they never gave two thoughts about during most of their daily lives—laughed knowingly.

      She loved double sol, Becky's mom said.

      The service came to an end, and the funeral home people started preparing to lower the box into the earth. I was a little fascinated by this process. Couldn't help imagining what it would be like to be inside that box, knowing that you were about to be trapped under six feet of Wisconsin clay. A sick feeling waved through my gut, and my skin prickled with more than the chill in the autumn air.

      They couldn't have picked a more ominous day for the funeral. The skies were slate gray, the weary trees well past their colorful fall prime. Drifts of dry brown oak leaves leaned against the tombstones all around us. The wind was just shy of bitter, and it stung our faces with a misty drizzle.

      The mourners started hugging each other. A few went to pluck a flower from a spray of roses on top of the coffin.

      I backed away from the crowd with Billy, letting Becky do what she needed to do with her family. My stomach was starting to growl, so I was looking forward to the reception that would be held at the dead lady's house afterward.

      I eyed the lineup of cars in the graveyard. Already a funeral home guy was walking along, collecting the little magnetic flags from their hoods, making sure no one made off with one.

      The funeral business is a racket. What are you going

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