A ghost with no memory.
Lenora Khade is dead. As her spirit rises, her memories are replaced with those of a reluctant spiritualist. To find her killer, Lenora must first find the woman in her head.
A medium trying to forget her past.
Fleur Harkyn has better things to do than help the desperate spirit haunting herâshe's been down that road and no good came from it, until Lenora possesses the body of a fake spiritualist at a sĂ©ance, revealing secrets Fleur buried long ago.
Hunted by shadow creatures that feed on young spirits and dogged at every step by the skeptical detective assigned to the case, Fleur and Lenora navigate one wrong turn after another, until a mysterious letter forces Fleur to accept that Lenora's missing past is linked to her own.
But discovering the truth behind Lenora's death is only the first thread in an intricate tapestry of magic and betrayal.
A ghost with no memory.
Lenora Khade is dead. As her spirit rises, her memories are replaced with those of a reluctant spiritualist. To find her killer, Lenora must first find the woman in her head.
A medium trying to forget her past.
Fleur Harkyn has better things to do than help the desperate spirit haunting herâshe's been down that road and no good came from it, until Lenora possesses the body of a fake spiritualist at a sĂ©ance, revealing secrets Fleur buried long ago.
Hunted by shadow creatures that feed on young spirits and dogged at every step by the skeptical detective assigned to the case, Fleur and Lenora navigate one wrong turn after another, until a mysterious letter forces Fleur to accept that Lenora's missing past is linked to her own.
But discovering the truth behind Lenora's death is only the first thread in an intricate tapestry of magic and betrayal.
My last thought was of sunlightânot panic, not loved ones, but of warmth. I slumped against the back of a wooden bench. Damp hair plastered to my brow, my skin swollen and gray. It might have been the stench that gave me away. Not even an orchidâs heady fragrance could mask the putrid odor of death.
My lungs, their fragile lace unable to withstand the poisonâs onslaught, tightened. I wheezed, sucking in air and releasing it in the same breath as I struggled to remain whole. I lolled, heavy and limp, my body paralyzed. My stunted gasps echoed in my ears, loud and intrusive, until nothing else mattered.
Some poor janitor found me. He shrieked. I donât think Iâll ever forget the sound. I hovered over us, watching as he regained his confidence and pressed two fingers to my neck. He stumbled back, shaking, and pulled his phone from the pocket of his green jumpsuit.
Next came the bevy of coroners and inspectors. They poked, prodded, and photographed me, recorded my death on their tablets. Speculated, searching for answers, and found none.
I watched with a morbid fascination reserved for voyeurism, not realizing I was watching myself. That this was real, not some horrible nightmare. I lifted my arms to steady myself against the shelving behind me but couldnât grasp it. My energy fizzled and sparked as it passed through the metal. I inhaled, but instead of the deep swell of air in my chest, light filled the room, unseen but by me. Instead of a heartbeat, luminescence flickered softly like a light bulb at the end of its life. I laughed bitterly, relieved I could still hear the echo of my voice in my ears.
The coroner and a medic lifted my body onto a gurney. My light flickered faster. Colored rays fluttered around me like cards in a bikeâs spokes.
NO! I screamed. Donât go. Iâm not finished yet!
But they left. The gurneyâs wheels creaked as they rolled my body through the double doors, vanishing into a labyrinth of glass corridors. One by one, the police and medics ambled out of sight until I was alone in the gloom with only the flicker of my light for company.
They left police tape in their wake, banning the door with a bright yellow sash. I looked at the tiled floor, expecting to see some kind of outline or an impression of what was once my lifeâbut there was nothing, no trace of me.
My light beamed, spotlighting the absence of my body. Purpose surged within me. There was something I was meant to do, something I needed. The urgency colored my aura red, then drained, disappearing into obscurity.
I was dead. Killed, I was sure of it. But why? And by who? I closed my eyes, probing every inch of my memory.
A shudder raced through my phantom limbs, wracking my light. Why couldnât I remember my name? I thought of something simple, something everyone hadâa favorite food.
My mind drew an image of hot mead and barley in a tankard, but I couldnât taste it. I pulled at the tangle of images swirling around me, images of a stone building, church-like with a wide spiral staircase, and books, massive amounts of booksâa man sat in a wing back chair beside a fire, he was young, his face unlined by the weariness of time. His close-cropped gray hair curled over his forehead. A small girl raced up to him, her cheeks flushed, the same gray curls tumbled down her back. The air smelled of musk and strawberries. The man smiled down at the young girl.
âWhat do you have for me, Fleurie girl?â he asked, his cheeks dimpling.
I pulled back, reeling. I would have stumbled if I were still made of flesh and bone.
This was not my memory.
âMy last thought was of sunlight â not panic, not loved ones, but of warmth.â
Right from its first sentence, Moths and Moonlight piques our curiosity and promises to be a captivating read. Told from the perspective of Fleur Harkyn, a seer, and the ghost of Lenora Khade, this imaginative debut novel by Krista Fazendin is a challenge to put down. Â
Most of the story takes place in Mundad, the non-magical realm of existence that we live in. Protagonist Fleur Harkyn has been banished to this realm. Unable to reconcile with her past, she denies her powers and responsibilities until she meets the ghost of Lenora, a woman who dies under mysterious circumstances and inexplicably has Fleurâs memories. Fleur and Lenora soon discover that there are more dangerous things going on in the realms than meets the eye.Â
Moths and Moonlight keeps a quick pace and is highly visual. Fazendin excels at painting a convincing picture in our minds, and her dialogues make for exciting exchanges that keep you reading on. The use of an alternating narrative provides for interesting contrast, with Fleurâs story presented in third person while Lenoraâs is in first person. The effect is that we start to feel Lenoraâs story more personally â and for good reason as it is her story that drives the plot forward.Â
The author writes fluidly; however, charactersâ inner worlds, motivations and backgrounds are inadequately drawn out. This prevents the story from maximising its potential as a book. The story consequently struggles at the peak of its action, when characters seem inexplicably nonchalant while pulling off an elaborate gadget-laden heist. It is also unclear why the author does not leverage on the protagonistâs magical abilities during these scenes. Nevertheless, it stands as testament to Fazendinâs storytelling abilities that the reader gets invested enough to be left wanting more.
Much like watching supernatural fantasy on television, this book leaves you with the satisfaction of having binged on an imaginative and engaging story with just the right amount of romance peppered in, albeit without the depth one could potentially get from a book. This does not prevent it from being enjoyable, however. Moths and Moonlight is a promising novel that fans of supernatural fantasy will love â especially those who enjoy watching fantasy television. I look forward to reading the next book in this series.