 Waiting
on the Thunder
A Coven
of the
Jeweled Dragon
Suspense Novel
by Lorna Tedder
copyright 2008
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Synopsis
Evan Duran made a terrible mistake that cost him everything, including his
career, his fiancee's life, and his faith in his own abilities. He lives for one
thing--vengeance--and he's closer than ever to catching the man who destroyed
everything he loved.
The last thing he wants to do is endanger the life of Meg Donovan, an innocent
who has lost her faith in God and come home to seek balance.
Unfortunately, she's just moved into Evan's hideout and into the sights of a
brutal killer.
WARNING: This story contains episodes of violence and sexuality,
offensive language, and occult concepts.
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This Book is Sponsored
by
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Author: Lorna Tedder
 A
former Southern Baptist, Lorna holds a doctorate in metaphysics and is a Third
Degree High Priestess of Wicca. She has written novels and non-fiction for three
major publishing houses and one small press. Her
other recent suspense novels include
Flying
by Night and
Dark
Revelations.
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Chapter One, continued
No thunder.
No lightning. Not yet.
But the storm was coming, and Meg knew it.
It dragged at her breath, draining her lungs until she wondered why
she’d ever come back. With her
history, how could she have forgotten how stifling Little Hope could be?
Less than two lousy hours back home and already it was choking the life
out of her!
In the dark and airless room, she sat on the torn sofa with her head
between her knees and promised herself she wouldn’t be sick.
There was such a heaviness here.
It was almost as if someone—or some
thing—still occupied the house and its presence warned her away.
She felt energy sometimes, though not as often as she had back in the
days when she’d been a member of the Coven of the Jeweled Dragon, working
closely with its High Priestess, Saadia.
Meg could most definitely feel the presence of the old couple who’d lived
here all their lives. She had that
gift from the Goddess, though nowadays she usually ignored it.
She should have been a better student, a better witch.
That’s the only reason she’d left the Coven of the Jeweled Dragon.
Lady Saadia had tried to teach her the Universal Laws, particularly the
Law of Attraction, but she’d never been able to master it.
Saadia had warned her, “What you focus on most is what you’ll get,
whether it’s good or bane.” And
Meg’s biggest worry for the past few years had been over lack of money and the
possibility of being forced to go back to the life she’d fled.
Back to Little Hope. Back
here.
She’d told herself it wouldn’t be bad, that she could do it.
She’d told herself she had nowhere else to go and that the Goddess had
opened this door for a reason. She
told herself a lot of things she wasn’t sure she believed.
Her forehead felt clammy against the back of her hand.
Beads of sweat tingled at her hairline.
Air! I’ve got to have air!
She struggled to her feet.
Not too fast though. Standing
suddenly would only make it worse.
With one hand clutching the pentacle at her throat and the other out in
front of her, she felt her way to the door, around the box of ritual candles and
incense, and stumbled out onto the front porch.
A breeze moved along the ground, stirred the overgrown azaleas, and
carried with it the taunting scent of rain.
Sitting down cross-legged on the old boards, she sucked in the oxygen.
She concentrated on letting it feed her body, nourish her cells.
Slowly the throbbing in her temples subsided.
Flashes of light blue stabbed the distant clouds.
The storm was still too far away for her to hear the thunder, and though
night had not yet fallen, the heavy clouds darkened what little light was left.
She was almost grateful for the veil of darkness over the land and shabby
buildings. It wasn’t the farm she
remembered. It was, but it wasn’t.
Except for the ripped screen door and
the patched roof, the house was still the same as it had been when Aunt Lettie
had died. The yards were in worse
shape. Most of the camellias had
withered long ago from lack of care.
Two of the old cow sheds had collapsed and lay in heaps in broken boards and
rusted tin. The barn was in
bad need of a painting, too, its half-rotten door ajar.
How odd.
Someone must have left the barn unlatched the day Uncle Joe died.
He always was a stickler for locking up.
“Get the door, Midgie,” he’d say.
Nothing short of a heart attack could’ve kept him from closing the barn
door.
The breeze picked up, flapping at the multi-colored wind sock
flailing from the utility pole in front of the barn.
Tears stung her eyes. So the
old man had actually put it up.
She’d jokingly sent the stupid thing to him a year ago as a father’s day
present—being he was the closest thing she’d had to a father since she was three
years old—and he’d ranted for weeks about how ugly it was.
The sock was shaped like a giant fish, in honor of Unk’s second favorite
pastime. His first favorite pastime
had been ranting.
Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she looked up again.
The barn door was shut.
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Waiting on the Thunder
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