Omens Bite
Author: P.C. Cast
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Young Adult; Witches; Paranormal; Magic; Fiction; Young Adult Fantasy; Lgbt; Mystery; Mythology
Description: Something wicked this way comes...Twin sisters, Mercy and Hunter are witches, direct descendants of the Goode family, the founders of their town. After the murder of their mother at the hands of a foul demon, they have become the protectors of the Gates to different underworlds--ancient portals between their world and realms where mythology rules and the darkest of creatures exist. Grief has taken a terrible toll on the twins. Rather than bringing them together, their sadness has torn them apart, driving Mercy to attempt to save the crumbling Gates without her twin and Hunter into the arms of
Publisher: Wednesday Books

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Table of Contents

About the Authors

Copyright Page

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To our friend Shawn “Pats” Wilson, who we love very much!

Prologue

Hunter’s shriek matched the crack of lightning that lit Goodeville’s night sky. Each flash of white spotlighted her frenzied movements—chopping, shoveling, and screaming and crying—until she threw the ax onto the grass and the final log down beside it. Mud splattered against her face. She tilted her chin toward the sky, closed her eyes, and let the rain wash away the dirt. It was almost finished.

Hunter took a deep breath and wiped her cool, rain-soaked sleeve against her hot cheeks before she bent down and picked up the shovel she’d cast aside when digging had become too much and she’d chosen the ax instead. Chopping the skinny logs had felt good. The way the blade glinted in the flashes of lightning and made that chest-rattling thwack as it split the wood had momentarily dried Hunter’s tears. But then she had remembered the doum palm and how its tall stem had turned to ash under her sister’s touch. Mercy had made Hunter forsake her god in the name of a poem she had called prophecy. Hunter had always followed her twin sister’s lead. She had always wadded up her feelings and stuffed them down her throat so no words could escape. So her truth could not escape.

She’d lost her mother, her god, and soon she’d lose her sister, too. Letting go of Mercy was necessary. Letting go of Mercy would set Hunter free. Never again would she be forced to choke down her feelings. She’d let them loose, and she’d start now.

Hunter’s throat burned as she screamed and flung another shovel of dirt over her shoulder. She didn’t care where the mud went as long as it wasn’t here, in this space she made for her mother. The shovel’s wooden handle bit into the tear in Hunter’s palm. She spat out a curse and threw the shovel to the ground. She jumped into the pit and her bare feet sank into the mud. It squelched as she pulled out each foot and shook off the clumps of wet earth. She dropped to her knees and dug her fingers into the ground. Mud scraped against her bleeding palm and pressed into her nailbeds as she tore at the dirt and threw fistfuls out of the fresh grave. But the pain in her body was nothing compared to that of her broken heart.

Rain pooled around her toes and sloshed against her shins. Every muscle ached. Heat pricked her chest, and her vision swam in unshed tears—for her mother, for herself. Hunter’s fingers hit rock and what was left of her jagged nails bent and snapped against the unforgiving boulders. She reached out and grabbed the grassy lip of the grave and pushed herself to standing.

Hunter leaned forward and shoveled the split oak logs and snapped pine branches into the hole in the earth. She arranged the wood to cover the bottom of the grave as muddy water splashed against her knees and twigs scraped her calves. Pain splintered her body. It was almost too much, but was what she deserved for hiding in her twin sister’s shadow. It would hurt worse tomorrow, but the hurt would be a reminder. That’s always how it went for Hunter. Every scar, a lesson learned.

Hunter crawled out of the pit. She collapsed onto the grass next to the grave she’d dug for her mother, closed her eyes, and let sleep overtake her.

One

Hunter smoothed the hem of her white linen dress against her legs. She’d dug the dress out of the back of her closet and hadn’t bothered to iron it. A fact she knew would drive Mercy insane. Hunter also hadn’t bothered to mop up the dirty footprints she’d left behind as she’d dragged herself from the backyard, through the house, and up the stairs to her bathroom. She’d come in sometime after the rain had stopped and the crickets had swarmed, chirping and hopping as if they’d gotten drunk off the storm. Hunter collected her journal and pen from the kitchen counter and retraced her crusted mud footprints into the living room, parting from them to collapse onto the couch. Her gaze lingered on the muddy footprints. Her sister would hate them, too.

Hunter grinned and unclasped the lock on her journal as she stared out the living room window. The night sky had pierced the rising sun, which bled egg yolk yellow against the clouds. She set her journal on the side table and capped her pen before rubbing her eyes. Hunter had cried so much that her tears had dried up, along with any sense of compassion she’d had for her sister. Perhaps it hadn’t been compassion that she’d felt for Mercy, but pity. Hunter bit down on the tip of her worn fingernail. It didn’t matter now. She’d lost her mother and forsaken her god and Hunter didn’t have anything left to give the one person in her life who did nothing but take.

The screen door creaked open and Hunter loosed another smile as Jax balanced four paper cups in his hands and closed the door with his foot. His head-to-toe white was less wrinkled than Hunter’s, but was the same loose, cruise ship style. His crooked teeth poked out from the bottom of his sheepish half grin as he made a beeline for the side table.

Hunter dragged her fingernail along the mounds and bumps of her full pocket. Not wearing the traditional funeral black was understandable—this wasn’t a traditional funeral—but why white? It wasn’t the color of celebration. Heteronormative weddings had taught the entire country that white was the color of purity, virginity. And who wanted to think about sex at a funeral? But the Goode witches had worn white for mourning for ages, and it wasn’t a custom Hunter was interested in breaking.

Jax handed Hunter a cup and plopped down next to her on the couch. Hunter held the cup beneath her lips and blew into the open circle. Air whooshed like a muffled foghorn as Jax draped his arm across Hunter’s shoulders.

“You doing okay, H?” he asked, shaking his inky black hair away from his forehead.

NO. Hunter swallowed the word. It stuck inside her chest like a cocklebur. She took a drink. The tea scorched her mouth and burned all the way down to her belly.

There.

She leaned her head against Jax’s forearm.

That’s better.

The stairs announced Mercy’s arrival with a groan. She walked down two steps, stopped, adjusted the crown of white flowers braided into her hair, and ran her hands along the lacy bodice of her floor-length dress before she continued her descent. The gown pooled against the stairs, and with each step, the fabric slid behind her like a shadow.

A door closed upstairs, and hurried footsteps tapped against the wood floor. Emily stopped at the top of the stairs, clutching a bundle of dried herbs in her hands like a bridal bouquet. “Mag, you forgot this.” She waved the herbs in the air as she clicked down the steps and followed Mercy to the bottom of the staircase.

Jax slid his arm out from behind Hunter and reached for the side table and the two remaining drinks. He stood and walked to Emily and Mercy, his brow pinched as he watched the lids of the cups. “Two oat milk vanilla lattes.” The corners of his lips quirked. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want so I googled most popular coffee drinks.” He handed the girls their beverages and took a drink of his own.

“Thanks, Jax.” Mercy wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes as she squeezed him against her.

Hunter’s grip dented the flimsy cup. If she wasn’t careful, Mercy would steal Jax, too.

Mercy released Hunter’s best friend and looped her arm through Emily’s. “I’m so glad both of you are here.” She took a step. Dirt crunched beneath her feet. She paused and stared at the muddy footprints that trailed through the living room and disappeared into the kitchen. Her temples pulsed as she jerked her head up and narrowed her eyes at Hunter. “The wake. What will everyone think if the floor is so—” Another pulse of her dark temples. “Filthy?”

Hunter bit the tip of her tongue to keep from laughing. Mercy had always been predictable.

Emily’s mouth tightened into a small O. Her gaze went from the footprints, to Mercy, to Hunter and back again. “We need to cleanse ourselves, right? That’s what happens before, you know, everything else.” She let out an awkward bleat of laughter as she shook the bouquet of herbs under Mercy’s chin. “Wave around a smoky bunch of herbs first. Sweep up second.”

Hunter set her cup down and pushed herself off the couch. She fished the lighter out of her pocket and flicked her thumb against the spark wheel. A flame shot up a few inches before settling down and wiggling like a dog’s stumpy tail. “Let’s get started.”

Mercy marched over and jerked the lighter out of Hunter’s hand. “Abigail would want matches!” Coffee sloshed out of her paper cup and splattered against the floor. Her temples pulsed once, twice, three times. Mercy set the cup and the lighter on the side table and fluffed the ends of her curled hair. “Matches are the right way to begin any cleansing ceremony.” She turned on her heels and marched into the kitchen.

Emily mouthed the words I’m sorry and scampered after her bestie. She should be sorry. There were clearly sides, factions, warring clans. Unfortunately for Emily, she had chosen poorly.

With a sigh, Jax slung his arm back around Hunter’s shoulders. “So, there’s no chance of any olive branching anytime soon?” He blew into the lid of his cup before he took a drink. “I mean,” he said with a smack of his lips, “it is your mom’s funeral. Wouldn’t she want you and Mag to stay together?”

Again, Hunter bit her tongue. This time, to keep from screaming. “You and I are together. That’s all that matters.”

“Always and forever, H.” He took another drink. “Always and forever.”

Hunter stared into the kitchen as Mercy took the homegrown herbs from Emily. She’d cut a piece of twine and busied herself wrapping it around the bouquet until she was satisfied with the tightly bound bundle. She motioned for Emily to pick up the box of matches off the kitchen island. Together, the friends lit the match and held the flame under the dehydrated plants. Mercy hadn’t bothered to wait for Hunter, hadn’t even looked back to see if her sister was coming. She’d just gone on as if Hunter didn’t exist. And soon, she wouldn’t. At least, not to Mercy.

Jax jerked his arm from Hunter’s shoulders and swiped at the brown droplets that rolled down the front of his white shirt. “Shit!” He hissed as he tried unsuccessfully to rid himself of the stain.

The woody, earthy scent of burning herbs reached Hunter as she turned to inspect Jax’s shirt. Her mouth went dry as she traced her fingers along the damp streaks. It was a T. A perfect T. It was Tyr. It had to be. Hunter’s former god was trying to reach her.

Jax frowned at his shirt. “Should I change?”

Hunter pressed her wet fingertips against her lips and shook her head.

“You two coming?” Mercy’s voice held the same shrill tightness as a substitute teacher on the brink of a meltdown.

Hunter wiped her fingers on her arm and strolled into the kitchen. Mercy held out the cleansing bundle. Smoke coiled and twisted between the sisters. Hunter reached for it and Mercy jerked away at the last second.

“This has all been planned, Hunter.” Mercy’s green eyes narrowed in warning. “We all have our parts to play. It’s going to be beautiful.”

For Hunter, looking at her twin had never been like looking in a mirror. Sure, they had the same corn-silk white skin that dusted with freckles at the first sign of summer; long, coal-black hair that spilled in natural waves against their shoulders; and full round cheeks that burned cherry red at the slightest hint of embarrassment. Yes, most people couldn’t tell the Goode twins apart, but most people didn’t pay close enough attention.

A perfectly curled lock of hair slid from Mercy’s shoulder. Hunter cocked her head, shocked that Mercy hadn’t admonished it for slipping out of place. That was the huge difference between the Goode sisters. Not that Mercy’s hair was always down and Hunter’s always secured in a ponytail, but the fact that Mercy tried so hard. She wrangled life, strangled it. Mercy Anne Goode controlled everything.

Until now.

Hunter took the burning herb stick and brushed past Mercy, who frowned the moment she noticed Jax’s shirt. Hunter waved the bundle in front of herself, letting the twisting smoke brush against her skin before she passed the burning herbs in front of Jax. She paused near his chest and squinted through the haze at the T stained into the fabric.

Tyr …

The back door opened and Xena sneezed as she stepped into the smoke-filled kitchen. The fragrant white fog lapped against Xena’s wild black, brown, and white mane and twirled around the wicker picnic basket that hung from her arm. “Mercy, Hunter, if you have your items for our dear Abigail, we may begin.” She ran her fingers through her hair. The bell sleeves of the flowing white robe she’d taken from Abigail’s closet slid back past her elbow. Her pale skin was not unlike the soft peachy tan that striped her fur when she was in her true Maine coon form.

Hunter swept her palm against the chunky outline in her pocket and nodded.

“I have mine!” Mercy said. Because Mercy always had to say something.

The contents of the picnic basket clanked as Xena clapped her slender hands together and smiled. “Come with me, kittens.”

Hunter didn’t bother to slip on her shoes as she led Jax out of the house. Mud squished between her toes. A reminder that everything died and returned to the earth.

Jax leaned into Hunter as they trailed the others. “I didn’t know I was supposed to bring something for your mom.”

“You weren’t.” Hunter grinned as the heels of Mercy’s pointed shoes sank into the ground with each wobbly step. “Just those closest to her.”

Xena opened the wrought-iron gate to the Goode family cemetery and waved the group into the headstone-dotted plot of land. “Form a circle around Abigail’s grave, kittens.”

The muddy rectangle was a toothless gap against the spring grass that carpeted the rest of the cemetery. Hunter stared down at her feet, the mud between her toes, the scrapes and scratches on her shins. Her mother’s ashes were in that hole. The one Hunter had dug with her bare hands and filled with split logs and broken branches. Last night, she’d emptied herself into that pit. The pieces of herself she’d left in there were far more precious than any ceremony.

Mercy took a deep breath and clasped her hands in front of her. “Wow, Xena, it looks beautiful. Abigail would love it.”

Hunter’s gaze slid along the grass in front of her feet and finally fell into the grave. Xena had placed a box, the box, in the center of the hole atop a pine branch. Its needles encircled the box like a crown.

I did it. But Hunter couldn’t get the words past the lump in her throat.

Xena set the basket on the grass next to Hunter and squatted down to flip open the lid. She took out four white pillar candles and handed them to Hunter one by one, motioning for Hunter to pass them to the rest of the circle. “As we begin this Rite for the Dead, I would like each of you think of a memory of our Abigail. One that makes you smile.” She paused before handing Hunter the final candle. A grin plumped her cheeks. “Soon, you’ll share the memory with the circle.” She turned her attention back to the picnic basket and removed a long box of wooden matches, a small bottle of red wine, and five ritual chalices, which she set on the grass next to the basket.

Hunter clutched the candle against her chest and dug the craggy tips of her nails into the wax. She had tons of happy memories of her mother, but she didn’t want to share any of them. She wanted to keep them inside, like birthday wishes that would spoil if spoken aloud.

The matchsticks rattled as Xena opened the box. “And now we begin.” She drew out one long, slender match. “O elements of air, fire, water, and earth, we call you to us today to aid us in our farewell of our beloved Abigail Goode—mother, friend, and most excellent witch.” She struck the match against the side of the box and continued. “O Athena, lovely Goddess of Wisdom and War, we do call on thee. Be with us here at this time of great loss. We of the Olde Ways know that when a person dies, it is only their body that is lost. Their immortal soul shall return to life again and again.”

Hunter held out her candle as Xena stepped in front of her. Fire chewed down the long stick as the cat person spoke. “Air, grant us release from pain. Flow through those of us who remain in this lonelier world and carry our sadness away.” Xena touched the flame to the wick of Hunter’s white candle. Tree branches creaked and swayed, and Hunter’s ponytail lifted as air entered their circle. Xena nodded and moved to Jax, her silk sleeves billowing in the gusts.

Hunter studied her best friend as Xena called upon fire to warm them with memories and release them from pain. Jax’s dark eyes widened as invisible flames warmed the circle and the steady crackles and pops of a campfire magically surrounded them. Through everything, he’d been absolutely perfect. Even now as Xena moved on to Emily and the sounds of the campfire morphed into a trickling brook and briny waves swept away the mystical heat, Jax was poised and calm. So was Emily. And, of course, so was Mercy. No one else had marred their cloud-white candle or dug their toes so deep into the grass their toenails were brown with mud or bit down on their bottom lip so hard imprints flashed against the flesh. They were perfect. Every one of them. Everyone except for Hunter.

Jax returned Xena’s nod and scooted closer to Hunter as the Maine-coon-turned-legal-guardian spoke to him, Emily, and Mercy. The coffee stain on his shirt had lightened as it dried and now looked more like an unfinished game of hangman than the bold T Hunter had seen before. Tyr hadn’t been sending her a sign. It had been her imagination, her wild hope.

“Hunter? What memory will you share of our Abigail?” Xena had made it back to her place at the head of the circle and was now staring at Hunter. They all were.

Hunter’s breath hitched. Too many eyes, too many expectations. Why couldn’t she mourn her mother in peace? Why did it have to be a show? She didn’t want to play her part. She wanted her mother back.

Mercy let out an annoyed rumble that sent one hand to her hip. “Come on, H. You have to say something.”

Hunter’s toes bit into the earth. She didn’t have to do anything. This whole thing was more for Mercy than it had ever been for their mother. If it was up to Hunter, if anything was ever actually up to Hunter, it would have been different. It would have been real. Not full of virgin white and circle casting and catering.

Mercy tapped the muddy point of her high heel against the grass. “I knew I should have stood on that side of Xena so I could start everything off.”

The familiar heat was back. Rage ate through Hunter’s stomach, her chest, her limbs. It swallowed her heart and left teeth in its place.

“This isn’t for Mom.” Hunter thrust her finger at the hole in the ground and the box nestled in the grave. “She’s already gone. This is for everyone else. But this part, specifically, is for me. I don’t care about the rest. You do.”

Xena clasped her hands together, her white sleeves waving like flags of surrender in the tense space between the sisters. “That’s perfectly understandable, kitten. We can—”

“You’re seriously going to ruin this whole day?” Mercy glared at Hunter the same way she had in the house. If Hunter thought back, Mercy had been glaring at her like that for as long as she could remember. Anytime Mercy felt Hunter slipping, straying from the path, she was there with her narrowed eyes and silent threats so loud they drowned out Hunter’s own desires. But that had been the past, and Hunter wouldn’t go back.

Emily rested her hand on Mercy’s arm, interrupting the spray of venom shooting between the sisters. “No one is ruining—”

But Mercy had sunk her fangs in too far and she wouldn’t let her prey go without a fight. A pebble fell into the grave as she stepped forward. “You’re seriously still mad at me for doing my best to seal the gates and protect Goodeville?”

This was Hunter’s twin. This snake. Not the young woman who’d floated down the stairs like Scarlett O’Hara or who could unite every clique at school under the umbrella of love and togetherness. No, that girl didn’t really exist.

Hunter’s eyes burned and her pulse battered her eardrums. “I betrayed Tyr because you thought it would fix everything. I did it for you!” Spittle flew from Hunter’s mouth and she wiped the back of her hand against her lips. “I do everything for you and you’ve never been worth it!” Hot wax rolled down the side of the candle and waterfalled across Hunter’s fingers. “I’m leaving after this. I’m moving in with Jax.”

Mercy stiffened. The flame of her candle flickered in the wake of her measured exhale. “Why don’t you leave right now? You’re clearly not interested in participating.”

Hunter reached into her pocket and clutched the moonstone owl. She’d keep it hidden, too, along with all her happy memories. “You’re right.” Mercy opened her mouth to speak, but Hunter filled the space before her sister had the chance. “I’m not interested in putting on a show.” Another glob of wax sloshed over the side of the candle and coated her fingers as she blew out the flame and set the pillar next to the picnic basket. “Good-bye, Xena.” Hunter turned and sprinted back to the house.

She burst through the back door and left a fresh trail of muddy footprints through the main floor, up the stairs, and into her bedroom. She threw open her closet door and parted the few remaining clothes and wrestled her heavy suitcase out from between the boxes of books she wanted to donate but could never bring herself to part with. She glanced around her room at the bare spots on the walls where her favorite pictures and posters had been and the empty spaces, like missing teeth, where she’d pulled her most loved books from their places in her alphabetized library.

Everything that was important to her had ended up in the suitcase she’d packed days ago. Hunter knew then that she had to get away from her sister and into a space where she was allowed to be herself, think for herself. She’d only stuck around because she held a sliver of hope that Mercy would apologize and fix what she had broken. But each day that had passed while Hunter and Mercy stayed tucked away in their separate rooms, had chipped away at that small piece in Hunter that believed her sister would change.

The dried flower crowns Mercy had made along with clothes Hunter had borrowed were in a pile on the bed like the sloughed skin of a snake. The things in this house no longer served Hunter. She was an orphan. She belonged nowhere. The sooner she accepted that and got on with her life, the better.

Hunter checked the contents of the suitcase one last time. Her writing journal was tucked inside, along with her favorite pens. She would be without a permanent home, living out of a suitcase like so many famous writers had before her. She zipped up the bag and tossed it into the hall. She didn’t pick it up as she approached the stairs. Instead, she dragged the duffle down each wooden step.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Hunter’s lips curled. No more padding through life on soft footsteps with a soft voice trying not to be seen. She would be remembered—by this house, by her sister, by all the people she would no longer let use her as their punching bag. She would be seen.

And Hunter Goode would be missed.

Two

“I cannot believe she did that!” Mercy slammed the back door and fisted her hands at her waist as she stared at the muddy footprints Hunter had tracked into the house.

Beside her Emily brushed her dark curls back from her face and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “It is a lot of mud.”

“Mud?” Mercy shook herself like a cat coming in out of the rain. “It’s not just the mud, although that’s pretty damn annoying. She ruined Mom’s funeral—her funeral, Em! How the bloody hell could she be so selfish?” Mercy barreled on without waiting for her bestie to respond. “I hope Xena is telling her off. And where’s Jax?” She stepped delicately over the mud prints as she headed into the living room to look through the front picture window. “I mean, seriously! She couldn’t even pretend to act right? Instead she stomps off leaving me to be the adult—as usual.”

At her shoulder Em peeked through the lacy sheers. “Uh, Mag, his car isn’t out there.”

Xena’s bare feet padded down the stairs.

Mercy whirled around to face the cat person. “What? Is she feeling too ashamed to come down? Too damn bad. She needs to clean up the muddy mess she left.” Mercy sucked in a breath and shouted, “Hunter Jayne Goode! Get your ass down here!”

“Kitten, she’s gone.” Xena sat on the corner of the couch and pulled the chenille throw up around her bowed shoulders.

Mercy’s mouth closed, then opened. Then closed again. She cleared her throat. “So she ran away with Jax and left us to clean up her mess.” Mercy snorted. “That’s ironic since she’s so good at whining about how she’s always cleaning up my messes.” Mercy plopped down on the couch and Emily sat in one of the comfy chairs close by. “What does that mean, anyway? Sometimes I just don’t get her at all. Well, I’m not touching that!” She pointed at the mud her twin had tracked through the house and up the stairs. “And when our guests for Abigail’s wake give the mud WTF looks I’ll tell them it’s Hunter’s mess—not mine. It’ll be here when she’s done pouting and slinks home tonight.”

Xena licked the back of her hands and smoothed her hair with short, frantic strokes. “I do not believe Hunter will come home. Not tonight. Perhaps not for many nights.”

Emily leaned forward in her chair. “What do you mean?”

Xena sighed and stilled her hands by clutching them together. “Her things are gone. Her favorite things.”

“Wait, what?” Mercy felt like she’d been gut punched. “You mean she’s gone gone?”

Xena nodded sadly. “Yes, kitten.”

“Holy shit,” said Emily.

Heat lifted from Mercy’s heart to flush her face. Her stomach felt twisted and for a second she thought she was going to be sick. “H-how could she leave me?”

“People grieve in different ways,” said Xena.

“You mean like some choose to be a bitch?” Mercy shot back.

“Mercy, perhaps our Hunter just needs time to herself. Perhaps that is how she will work through her grief and then—”

“That’s not grieving.” Mercy stood and paced. “Actually, maybe that is grieving. How the bloody hell would I know? Hunter took my grief from me before I could work through it.”

Xena frowned. “That’s not fair, kitten.”

“Yeah, hey, I’m on your side,” Em spoke up, “but you gotta remember that you were seriously not functioning. I’m not a witch, but I did just lose a parent, too. So I understand, believe me. You needed that spell, Mag.”

Mercy wiped her hands down her face. “I’m sorry, Em. You do understand.”

“As do I,” Xena said. “And, kitten, you need to understand as well. Your sister took nothing from you. She only washed the worst of your grief away so that you could move forward.”

Mercy knew they were right, but being pissed at Hunter made her absence bearable. “Whatever. Hunter made up the sodding spell. We don’t know what it was she actually did.”

“But, Mag, she’s Hunter.” Emily rubbed her arms as if she was cold. “You know her better than anyone. She’d never do anything to hurt you.”

Mercy met her best friend’s gaze. “Bullshit. She hurt me today. She hurt Xena today. If Abigail had been here she would’ve hurt her, too.”

“Your sister has also been wounded.” Xena’s voice was soft, but her words felt like sledgehammers battering Mercy’s wounded heart. “She forsook her beloved god.”

Mercy wanted to close in on herself and let tears of heartbreak drown her feelings. She hated that her sister had betrayed her god for nothing. I just don’t get it. Everything had pointed to Tyr being the cause of the sickness killing the trees and weakening the gates to the Underworlds—the fact that no Goode witch had ever chosen to follow a god before, as well as the prophetic-like poem I found in Sarah Goode’s grimoire—everything pointed to Tyr. Mercy swallowed the guilt that flooded her mouth like bile. “It was the right thing to do. We all agreed.”

“Kitten, Hunter didn’t agree. She did it for you, and when—”

Mercy’s raised hand stopped her words. “No. I don’t want to hear it. I didn’t force her to forsake Tyr.”

Emily’s phone bleeped and she pulled it from the deep pocket of her white lacy peasant skirt and frowned. “That’s Mom. She and my grandparents are on their way here for the wake.”

Mercy pressed her fingers to her temples as the sound of a car crunching up their driveway signaled the beginning of the people who would come by to show their respect to their mother’s memory. I wish I could run away, too! But Mercy couldn’t—wouldn’t—run. Instead she stood and straightened her shoulders. “Xena and Em, if you get the door I’ll put out the lemonade and be sure there’s coffee.” Mercy ignored her shaking hands and the fact that her sister’s absence was a wound so deep it felt as if misery pumped throughout her body with each beat of her battered heart and went to handle things.

“That is the last of them.” Xena closed the thick front door and clicked the lock before she collapsed onto the couch. “How do people bear so many other people? There is so very much talking.”

“Tell me about it.” Mercy emerged from the kitchen. She carried a wicker basket in the crook of one arm. Over her other shoulder she’d slung her big boho bag. It bounced against her hip as she walked to Xena. “As soon as Em left with her mom and grandparents I was ready to shoo everyone out.” She handed the cat person a cup of hot cocoa with a truffled cannabis treat balanced on the saucer under it. “Here. This’ll help you relax while I’m gone.”

Xena took the cup and saucer and sat up straighter. “Gone? You’re going out?”

Mercy nodded grimly and patted the wicker basket. “I’m going to practice some green witchery. Alone. At one of the trees. Hunter gave up and left us, so it’s up to me to heal the trees and fix the gates.”

Xena studied Mercy as she blew across the top of her cocoa. “Did you think of something new?”

Mercy moved her shoulders. “Yes and no. I mean, we’ve only tried a couple different spells on the trees.” She hurried on when Xena opened her mouth to speak. “Yeah, I know one was a powerful major ritual that shoulda worked. But it didn’t. So I’m gonna keep trying.” Mercy paused and chewed at her lip before she blew out a long breath and continued. “I’ve chosen a simple heal-and-protect spell. One I’ve done over and over. It’s always worked. Every time. Maybe uncomplicated is best.”

Xena nodded and her mane of hair bounced around her shoulders. “That is a valid idea.”

“And maybe I will focus better alone—stay truer to my intent. Today Hunter freaked out and ran away. How long has she been feeling like running?” How long has she hated me? The question echoed through her mind. “It seemed like the trees were sick because Hunter chose a god and not a goddess to follow, but what if that was only one part of what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe it’s Hunter and not Hunter’s god who’s the problem!”

“Oh, kitten, you don’t really believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. But I do know that for generations—hundreds of years—solitary Goode witches have guarded the gates and kept the trees healthy. I’m a solitary Goode witch. I’m going to do my job. Period.”

Xena put the cup and saucer on the coffee table, stood, and enfolded Mercy in her arms. “Do not ever forget that you are not alone. I am here and I will always be here for you.”

Unshed tears made the back of Mercy’s throat burn. She clung to Xena and whispered, “I’ll remember.”

Xena finally sat back on the couch and smiled up at Mercy through watery eyes. “Blessed be, my kitten.”

“Blessed be, Xena.” Mercy responded as she headed for the front door. Xena’s voice made her pause with her hand on the knob.

“Abigail would have been proud of you today.”

Mercy couldn’t turn and look at Xena. If she did she’d dissolve into tears and never make it out of the house. Instead, she spoke over her shoulder. “That’s the nicest thing you could’ve said to me.”

In the car she put her basket and purse on the passenger’s seat where she usually sat because Hunter always drove. Mercy couldn’t remember exactly why Hunter always drove. It wasn’t like either of them had their licenses yet. Mercy had been meaning to schedule a driving test for weeks, but, well, a lot could happen in a few weeks. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I don’t know how to drive. Sheesh.” She turned the key and backed out—and then took a right. It wasn’t the fastest way to the weeping cherry tree she’d chosen to begin with, but it was midafternoon on a bright, beautiful spring day, and Goodeville’s version of heavy traffic would be meandering up and down Main Street, visiting the cute boutiques, cafés, and coffee shops. Like Xena, Mercy had had her fill of people for the day, which is why she chose the cherry tree. It was the most secluded of the five guardians.

It was also the tree she and Hunter used to pretend was a curtained stage. They’d put on more plays and concerts for their stuffed toys and dolls than she could count. Mag and H—we’re gonna be stars! Is what they used to tell each other as they skipped to the tree, hand in hand, to perform their version of The Sound of Music or Moana or whichever pop star’s current hit they loved the most.

Mercy clenched her teeth. No. She wouldn’t think about that. She’d only think about the fact that the cherry tree represented happiness and love and not the shattered and battered remains of what used to be. And anyway, she shouldn’t think about the past when she had to set her intention. Mercy relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and let the tension in her neck and shoulders loosen.

My intention is simple—with Freya’s help and the power of the ley lines that run deep within the earth I will heal the cherry tree.

Mercy cleared her mind of all else and repeated her intention over and over as she crossed the railroad tracks and turned onto the easement that stretched green and grassy between the raised track on her right and the verdant bean field that reached to the horizon on her left. The silver Camry bumped along to the weeping cherry tree, guardian of the gate to the Japanese Underworld, which Abigail said long ago was formally called the World of Darkness.

She parked on the familiar tire tracks made just a couple days ago by the Camry. Had it only been two days? It felt like a century ago. Focus! Mercy mentally shook herself and deepened her breathing as she slowly approached the tree.

A warm breeze rustled through the soybeans on either side of the railroad tracks, making them sway gracefully. Still several yards from the tree Mercy stopped and breathed in the scent of growing things and the Illinois spring. The undulating crops made a sea of green and Mercy was suddenly reminded of her eighth-grade field trip to a big horse ranch a couple hours south of Goodeville. The ranch owner had asked if any of the students would like to ride a horse. Mercy had been the first to volunteer. She was trotting the mare sedately in the pasture when a yellow jacket stung the horse on the butt—and the mare had taken off. Mercy remembered clearly that as she’d clung to the panicked mare’s back the long pasture grass had rippled past and looked exactly like a green sea. So, she’d jumped off—expecting to be caught gently by the grass ocean. Instead, she’d been shocked when the wind was knocked out of her and her arm broken. The memory was so vivid that Mercy’s right forearm momentarily throbbed. She clutched it to her chest and rubbed it as a cotton-ball cloud covered the sun and the day temporarily darkened. Mercy shivered.

Was it an omen? Freya, my goddess, am I making a mistake? Missing something?

The soft breeze blew the cloud away and, along with Mercy, the world breathed again. Aloud, she repeated her intention while she approached the cherry tree.

“My intention is simple—with Freya’s help and the power of the ley lines that run deep below me I will heal the cherry tree.”

At the tree she stopped just outside the curtain of branches. It looked deceptively healthy, though even from there she could see that every time the breeze sighed through the boughs leaves rained to the ground. Just like when Hunter and I visited two days ago and the tree was so sick it made me puke. Mercy’s body tensed. She was ready. She could take it.

From somewhere nearby a bird croaked—a sound so weird that it made Mercy pause, shield her eyes with her hand, and stare up at the pristine spring sky.

She sucked in a breath as she identified the pair of dark birds that circled the Japanese tree. “Ravens!” Mercy’s body relaxed as the call of Odin’s favorite birds soothed her. “Talk about an excellent omen! We never see ravens in Illinois!” She bowed her head. “Thank you All-Father.” It was time to stop allowing the past to get in her way. Mercy Anne Goode had a job to do. With the chatter of the magical ravens making beautiful background music, she parted the weeping boughs and stepped within the embrace of the tree.

Her ballet flats squished sickeningly against dead leaves and writhing worms. Mercy swallowed down her revulsion and ignored it. She also ignored the fetid scent that hovered like invisible fog around the trunk of the tree.

She’d cast this spell more times than she could count. It was purposefully simple, direct, and effective.

“Past time to return to my roots,” she spoke to the tree. “Pun intended. So, here we go!”

From the basket she took a checkered tablecloth—one of the many Abigail had folded neatly in their pantry always ready for an impromptu picnic. Mercy spread it on the ground in front of the tree. She placed the basket and her purse on the tablecloth, along with her shoes. Then she carefully took out five short, fat, pillar candles the color of milk, a velvet pouch filled with sea salt, a long box of wooden matches, her bronze mini cauldron that was decorated with painted ivy, a Sharpie, a small cone of juniper incense, a bottle of water that had been charged by the full moon, a stack of bay leaves, and lastly, a thick dried herb stick—it, like all of the herbs and plants Mercy used, had been respectfully harvested from her garden.

The first thing Mercy did was light the herb stick. The earthy tang of sage and rosemary and cedar filled the space around her, so thick and strong that it even blocked the stink that leaked from the tree.

Abigail’s words lifted from her memory with the smoke. When you cleanse with herbs if there is little smoke know that there is little to cleanse, but if the sage billows thick and pungent—that means the need for purifying and healing is great.

As if she headed into battle, Mercy cleansed herself thoroughly, bathing in the thick, cloud-colored smoke. Then she held the smoldering herb stick up with her right hand and used her left hand to waft the smoke to the suffering tree. Slowly, carefully, Mercy walked clockwise, or deosil, around the tree. She forced herself not to shiver and gag as her bare feet squished on worms and dead leaves. Instead Mercy focused completely on the tree. As she cleansed the guardian of the Japanese Underworld Mercy spoke the same words her mother had taught her so long ago that she had no memory of ever not knowing them.

“Sacred sage, strong cedar, fragrant rosemary I beseech thee three by three by magical three,
maiden, mother and wise woman—thy sacred trilogy
protect, purify and strengthen, three by three by magical three.”

When she returned to the blanket and the rest of her spellwork supplies she propped the thick, still-smoking stick up against one of the tree’s exposed roots so that it could continue to fill the area under the canopy with cleansing smoke.

To begin the spell Mercy needed to set a pentagram and cast a circle—two things that she’d done so many times that they were like breathing in and out. She placed the five white pillar candles so that they formed the points on a pentagram, with the cherry tree at its center. The velvet pouch filled with salt and the box of matches were next. Mercy went to the candle she’d placed on the far side of the tree at the top point of the pentagram. She lit a long, wooden match, and touched it to the white candle as she invoked, “Freya, Goddess of Love, Fertility, and Magic, I ask your blessing on my circle and my spellwork.” The flame blazed high and hot as her goddess responded to her invitation.

She loosened the lip of the pouch, turned to her right, and strode to the second point of the pentagram. As she walked Mercy poured a thin line of salt on the ground. She paused before the second candle and lit it, calling, “Air, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” She moved clockwise to the third candle while she poured salt with every step. “Fire, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” As Mercy moved to the fourth white pillar she released more salt and paused only long enough to touch the match to the wick and invite, “Water, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” At the fifth candle Mercy called, “Earth, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” She lit the final candle before completing the salt circle by returning to the top of the pentagram, then spoke solemnly. “And now my circle is complete—cleansed by sage, cedar, and rosemary and protected by salt.”

Staying within the salt circle, Mercy turned to go back to her blanket and the rest of the supplies waiting there. The ribbon of white that bound the pentagram together glowed softly. Every few seconds there was a muted hiss and she realized that the worms and dead leaves beneath the sacred granules writhed and shriveled.

Good! That’s a good sign!

Her bold steps flattened more of the disgusting, writhing worms as she returned to the blanket and sat, crossed-legged, facing the tree. Mercy placed the mini cauldron in front of her. With a grace that spoke of experience, she took the slim stack of bay leaves she’d harvested from their garden the year before and carefully dried on her shelf of the pantry. Mercy drew in and out three deep breaths and then spoke the words to the ancient Green Witch spell with confidence.

“Powers of earth and wind, sun and rain
by the strength of flower and leaf, stone and tree
with my spirit and heart, I ask your aid again, again, again.

Through bay’s protection and fidelity

Hear my plea to heal this tree, heal this tree, heal this tree!”

Completely immersed in the familiar spell, Mercy took the Sharpie and wrote CLEANSE in bold, capital letters on the first leaf. Mercy lit the match and held it to the bay leaf. It sizzled and popped as it caught fire and when she dropped it into her cauldron a delicate line of green smoke with a slight floral scent lifted lazily.

Mercy wrote a different word on each leaf—HEAL, PROTECT, STRENGTHEN, PROSPER—until all five smoldered in the little cauldron. Around her the fragrant smoke curled and danced as somewhere close the ravens continued to call, as if in encouragement. Mercy felt the power of the unfurling spell. It brushed against her bare arms and lifted the soft hairs on the back of her neck as she reveled in the connection to the earth that had helped her choose the path of a Green Witch.

Mercy upturned the salt pouch. She took the pinch that was left between her fingers and sprinkled it into the cauldron over the burning bay leaves.

“By earth I strengthen you.”

She lit one last match.

“By fire I purify you.”

Mercy touched the match to the cone of juniper incense.

“By air I protect you.”

She opened the bottle that held the moon-blessed water, poured a little into her palm, and with her other hand dipped her fingers into the small puddle and then flicked it into the cauldron.

“By water I cleanse you.”

Waves of smoke billowed from the cauldron and Mercy held it carefully as she stood. But instead of being hot the cauldron felt like ice cupped in her hands. She lifted it above her head and spoke to the tree in a voice magnified by the elements that filled her pentagram.

“I ask Freya’s blessing from me to thee.”

Power like static electricity sizzled from her bare feet up through her body to pour from her hands. The cauldron went from ice to radiate warmth—a warmth that should, with her final words, spread with the smoke and incense into the boughs of the tree to bless, heal, and protect.

“So I have spoken; so mote it be!”

Mercy readied herself for the familiar feeling of release that came with being a conduit for earth energy, but instead of the sizzle of loosed power lifting up into the tree, electric heat sparked from her cauldron through her palms. The bay smoke sputtered and died. The magic that had brushed against her skin faded. Around Mercy the curtain of long, slender boughs swayed and the cloud of smoke leaked away.

Mercy blinked back tears of frustration. What had happened? Everything had been perfect!

As Mercy retraced her steps and blew out and retrieved each candle she saw that the salt had disappeared, leaving only the dark outline of a circle made of dead worms and scalded leaves.

That’s good, right? Mercy couldn’t speak the words aloud. She’d done versions of the spell over and over, blessing and healing sick plants or cleansing negative energy or welcoming seedlings to their spring garden. She’d never felt the power this spell had invoked—and no salt circle she’d cast had ever turned black. But she’d also never had the spell seem to sputter out as this one had at the very end. It made zero sense.

Mercy wiped her feet off and then slid on her shoes and shook out the blanket, repacking it last into her basket. Then she drew a deep breath and went to the tree. She rubbed her hands together and steeled herself. If I puke—I puke. I can handle it. She pressed her palms against the rough bark.

“I hope that helped. I hope you’re okay,” Mercy murmured.

In response she felt the warmth of the tree and her gentle inhale and exhale. She didn’t exactly feel sick. Mercy didn’t think she felt anything.

She patted the tree’s skin. “Well, that’s an improvement. I’ll be back to check on you. Blessed be.” Mercy turned to pick up her basket and hefted her boho bag over her shoulder—and the earth below her seemed to pitch and roll, like she was trying to balance on the deck of a boat during a storm. Her vision blurred and pain spiked through her temples as she tried not to hyperventilate. Mercy staggered and automatically reached out—her hand searching for her twin, her strength, her sister who would never, ever leave her.

But Hunter wasn’t there. She didn’t grip her sister’s hand and borrow her strength. Hunter had left her. Mercy swallowed a sob and lurched away from the tree to walk unsteadily through the veil of boughs. She kept her gaze on the silver car. Just a few feet more—then I can sit down and rest. I just need to ground myself, that’s all. This is okay. I am okay.

Inside the Camry, Mercy tossed her purse and the spellwork basket onto the passenger’s seat and then she sat heavily, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel. There was a strange, almost listening silence that surrounded Mercy. No more ravens called. There was no birdsong at all. Mercy steadied her breath, repeating to herself, this is okay … I am okay.

Mercy kept repeating those words to herself as she slowly drove home. She didn’t park in the garage, but stopped beside the porch, barely able to drag herself from the car.

Xena was alone on the porch swing. Mercy didn’t have to ask if Hunter had come home. She knew she hadn’t. Mercy could feel it.

Xena stood as soon as Mercy was out of the car.

“Oh, kitten! You look wretched!” The cat person hurried down the porch steps to put her arm around Mercy and guide her up the sidewalk.

“I—I need to ground myself. I feel wrong. Empty. Dizzy.”

“Did it work, kitten? Is the tree better?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure what just—”

Xena halted and tugged at Mercy’s arm to pull her off the sidewalk.

“Oh, dear! I didn’t see that before. Careful, kitten. Don’t step on it.”

“Xena, what the—?” Mercy blinked in confusion, but followed Xena’s gaze down—and dread washed through her body.

On the sidewalk was a dead bird. Its head was twisted and its wings were tucked against its body so that it looked like one half of a heart. The wind ruffled its night-colored breast feathers.

“Oh no, no, no. That is a raven. A dead raven on our doorstep.” She met Mercy’s gaze. “Kitten, this is very, very bad.”

“I know. There were two of them watching me at the Japanese tree. I thought they were a good omen sent by Odin. I was wrong.” The words were almost too heavy for Mercy to speak. “Xena, my spell did not work.”

Then she leaned on the cat person and let Xena guide her around the poor, dead creature and into their silent house.

Three

Hunter had spent the past two nights sleeping somewhere other than her bed. The first she’d spent outside, on the muddy grass next to her mother’s freshly dug grave. The second, she’d passed out on the couch next to Jax’s mother sometime between after-dinner tea and the second recorded episode of Chicago Fire. Now, her bed was no longer the antique wood frame and fluffy duvet with the sparkly pink and purple Orion nebula spilled against the black background like unicorn blood. Now her bed waited behind the black front door that got too hot in the summer. Now her bed would be buried under the stiff white sheets and scratchy camel-colored blankets Jana Ashley had left out on the coffee table.

Hunter balled the lengths of the plaid nightshirt Mrs. Ashley had lent her and guided the back door to Jax’s house shut and leaned against it until the latch clicked. She’d never had to sneak out of Jax’s house before. Technically, she didn’t have to sneak out of it now, but she didn’t want to catch his mom first thing in the morning. Sitting through one round of questions from Mrs. Ashley who only had Hunter’s best interests at heart was enough. She didn’t have the space in her brain or heart to deal with a substitute mom. Hunter could figure out her own life, and it started with unpacking.

Jax’s dad had converted their detached garage into the perfect apartment. It was supposed to provide the Ashleys with extra income they could put aside for Jax’s college fund, but Jana had shut that down three days after their first tenant moved in. Jax’s mom was under the impression that the strict curfew she imposed upon her son should be shared by the forty-year-old, free-spirited Chicagoan who had signed the lease. Hunter and Jax had shared a sweating glass of sun tea on the back porch while the man, with his long beard and longer braid, ripped up the contract and threw it at Jana Ashley’s feet. Neither Jax nor Hunter had laughed. They hadn’t wanted to draw his mom’s attention. If she wasn’t praising a person in Jesus’s name, she was cursing them in Satan’s.

The outside of the garage apartment was identical to the main house from its bright white siding, black trim, and casement windows down to the crucifix door knocker. Hunter ran her fingers over the heavy bronze cross. In first grade, she and Jax had tied his Ben Grimm action figure to the main house’s knocker along with a piece of construction paper that said ouch in overly practiced elementary school lettering. Jax’s mom hadn’t thought it was funny. Instead, she’d punished the duo with the first and longest bible study Hunter had ever been a part of. Actually, it was still the only bible study Hunter had ever been a part of.

Hunter twisted the knob and the door opened with a soft whoosh. Not a loud creak of old hinges or rough smack of too many layers of sticky paint. It was the soft exhale of starting over, beginning again, shiny and new. Hunter wheeled her heavy duffle into the tiny living room, tossed her bedsheets onto the floor, and collapsed against the couch.

For as much as the two houses looked the same from the outside, the inside of the garage apartment was nothing like the floral-patterned, crucifix-laden innards of the main house. No, this space was filled with the denim blue and move-in-ready beige of the clearance section of Champaign Urbana’s TJ Maxx. Not thrilling, but it was Hunter’s, a place to start over and be herself for the first time. Away from her sister, she finally had the chance to be recognized as an individual instead of Mercy’s other half.

Hunter slid her flip-flops off and wiggled her toes against the stiff fibers of the unblemished rug. Her pale skin nearly blended in with the cream-colored carpet, her chipped red toenail polish standing out like torn flower petals.

Hunter unzipped her suitcase. A mound of socks and underwear exploded out of the opening and slid down the duffle like soap bubbles. She pushed them into a pile and dumped a handful of leggings and jeans on top when a silver glimmer caught her eye. She pressed her fingers to her lips as she picked up the piece of jewelry and inspected it. The ring’s band had turned from crisp silver to dull gray from all the times she’d mindlessly twisted it around her finger, but the small crescent moon that decorated the top was as shiny as the day her mother had given it to her. She slid it onto her middle finger and ran her hand over the metal points of the crescent. It was a sign from her mom that she was doing the right thing, on the right path. It had to be.

The morning sun shone in through the blinds and painted the cover of Moira Goode’s grimoire in orange tiger stripes. She tugged the heavy book free from hoodie sleeves and boot laces. Its leather binding flaked with each movement. Hunter brushed away the pieces and ignored the simile they brought to mind. If this last week had taught her anything (well, beside the fact that she shouldn’t trust her sister), it was that she needed to spend less time thinking and more time doing. It was time for Hunter to take charge and change things for the better.

The book flopped open in her lap. The pages rustled like dry leaves as she flipped through one after the other. Her phone vibrated from somewhere deep in her luggage, and she ignored it. She didn’t need the alarm that told her to get ready for school. This was her school now.

The front door whooshed and Hunter inhaled the rush of clean sheets and peppermint. Jax closed the door and kicked off his shoes before walking from the tiled entryway onto the laminate wood of the living room/dining room/kitchen combo. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the white wall next to a framed poster that read leave your worries and your shoes at the door. “You should’ve moved in here forever ago.”

Hunter rested her finger on the page beneath the last line she’d read before she responded. “Yeah, like your mom would have let me live here before mine died.”

Jax’s Adam’s apple bobbed. It was interesting how other people were more uncomfortable with the mention of Abigail’s death than Hunter. It hadn’t even happened to them.

“Well, you’re here now. An honorary Ashley in all of your plaid glory.” Jax wandered the few feet into the kitchen and opened the small white refrigerator. “Mom’s making breakfast. Good thing, too.” He wrinkled his nose as he took in the empty shelves and an open box of baking soda. “This is pitiful. We’ll have to go by IGA after school and stock up for tonight’s festivities.”

Hunter’s hand reached for her amulet before her mind had the chance to remember Tyr’s symbol was gone along with her god. She swallowed and traced the nightshirt’s soft collar. “Tonight’s festivities?”

Jax shrugged and batted the refrigerator door between his palms like a cat toy. “Figured we’d christen the place. There’s a whole group thread if you’d ever take your phone off silent.”

Hunter’s phone vibrated in agreement.

She kept her finger pressed against the page. In her haste to pack up and get out of her house, she hadn’t remembered a single bookmark and there was no way she was going to dog-ear the pages of a centuries-old magical text. “Tonight’s no good. I have to study.” She motioned to the open grimoire in her lap. “Plus, christen implies that we’ll be doing something untoward, and your mother would smite us before that happened. She probably has this whole place nanny cammed.”

Her phone vibrated again, and Hunter imagined the numerous notification bubbles filling the screen.

Jax paused his playtime with the fridge door and squinted up at each corner of the room. “My mom can’t even program the DVR.” The refrigerator door inched closed as Jax bounded the few feet from the kitchen to the living room. He leapt over the arm of the couch and landed on the stiff cushion with an oof!

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Hunter tapped his ribs with her elbow. He jerked away and scrunched into a tickle-proof ball. “There’s probably an antique bureau in your parents’ room that turns into some kind of Bat Cave when your mom waves a bible in front of it.”

“Oh yes.” Jax unfurled and leaned against Hunter. He stroked his chin in the way that every poorly written bad guy from every poorly written book did. “The Christ Cave where we keep watch over the entire town. Make sure our flock never strays…” He stiffened and whipped his head in Hunter’s direction, the combed and styled lengths of his dark hair unmoved by the dramatic reaction. “Wait! I’ve said too much!”

“You are such a nerd.” Hunter’s cheeks warmed. She should have done this sooner.

Jax pressed his hand to his chest and rested against the stiff couch cushions. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, H.”

They sat in silence, the occasional vibration of Hunter’s phone or chime of Jax’s reminding them that they’d soon have to rejoin the world.

“I don’t know how you read that.” Jax squinted down at the grimoire. “The words are so small.”

Hunter moved her finger and scanned the rest of the page before turning it to resume her search on the next. At this rate, it would take her until the end of the week before she found something useful. If there was even anything useful to find. “Wear your glasses, Jax Ashley.”

His phone chimed again, and he dug it out of his pocket. “You sound like my mom.”

Hunter shrugged. Being compared to the overly perky, overly caring Jana Ashley wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

As Jax spoke, his thumbs tapped against the keypad. This was Hunter’s least favorite part of texting—being two places at once. “Found anything on how to heal the trees and fix the gates?” He finished both conversations at the same time and set his phone on his stomach as he waited for replies.

Hunter’s heart fluttered. She might never get used to her best friend discussing the secret Goode women had once guarded with their lives. Especially since she was the one who’d given it away so easily. That day at the football field, it had rushed from her lips like water. And water could lay waste to anything it wanted.

“Not yet.” Hunter closed the grimoire and sagged against Jax. “It would be so much easier if Tyr would talk to me, but Mercy ruined any chance of that happening.”

Jax sat up a little straighter and his phone slid down his shirt and into his lap. “Tyr? Like, your former god, Tyr? You two actually spoke?”

Hunter picked at the grimoire’s flaking cover. “Not how the two of us are talking now. It was more like, a feeling … Or a sudden surge of power.” She peeled a piece of the cover back to the spine and ran her finger over the curling leather strip. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Burning bush style.” Jax nodded and pushed himself off the couch. “I get it.” His phone chimed and he plucked it off his lap. “Mom says the fakeon isn’t going to eat itself?”

“Fake bacon,” Hunter clarified and slid the grimoire onto the cushion. “You go ahead. I have to change out of this giant shirt before I go out into the world.”

“No.” Jax’s crooked smile lifted the corners of his eyes. “You look great!” He hid a chuckle behind his hand as he stuffed his feet into his shoes.

“Ha. Ha.” If he’d been closer to her, Hunter would have pinched his sides until he squealed.

Jax opened the front door and sunlight bleached the tile. “I’ll be sure to leave some fakeon for you, roomie.” He tossed a wink over his shoulder and disappeared into the blinding morning light.

The moment the door closed Hunter slipped out of the oversized, plaid nightshirt. She should have taken it off the second she’d come inside her new home, but the enormity of setting a new routine had taken over and she’d forgotten she was being swallowed by a tangible example of Mrs. Ashley’s desire to become her surrogate mother. Hunter tossed the pajamas over the back of the couch and sank down next to her duffle. She could do this. School was easy, a place where she’d learned to hide in plain sight. But she’d always hidden behind her sister, and now she was alone …

Hunter pressed her hand against her chest, where her pendant of Tyr used to be, and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “Tyr, I need you. Talk to me. Please…”

A cool gust lifted her ponytail and blew across the goose bumps sprouting from her flesh. Hunter pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and choked back a sob. Tyr had answered her! He hadn’t abandoned Hunter the same way she’d abandoned him. He was there in her time of need. He was—

Laughter like cracking ice made Hunter spin around and trip over her open luggage.

A glowing blue figure leaned against the back of the couch, eyeing the plaid nightshirt. You should light this on fire. Her vibrant cobalt arm reached out and long fingers pinched the cotton pajamas off the back of the couch. Put the poor thing out of its misery.

Hunter’s gaze slid up the rippling azure forearm to the slender shoulders and up the lithe neck to the goddess’s delicate features. Hunter rubbed the center of her chest where the same glimmering blue arm had stabbed through her middle like an icy pick.

“Amphitrite?”

The goddess nodded slightly, her crown of starfish and seashells unmoving with the gesture.

Hunter swiped the first T-shirt she saw off the floor and tugged it on, not caring about how the base of her ponytail got caught up in the collar and loosened into a floppy tail. She deepened her bow as she plucked a pair of jeans from the pile. What was the proper etiquette when meeting a goddess? She’d never met her former god and there was nothing she’d read in any Goode grimoire or magical text that even hinted at the possibility of seeing a chosen deity in the flesh. Much less one who had already stabbed you.

Amphitrite dropped the pajamas on the floor and brushed her hands off on the skirt of her dress, shimmering like scales in the scattered sunlight.

“Tyr does hear you.” Her long pinkish eyelashes rippled like anemone tentacles with every blink. “But I chose to come.” She glided around the back of the couch, each step a subtle, wavelike push forward. “Twice now, that I’ve come to your aid, Witch.” She dragged a long finger along the arm of the couch and left behind a trail of water that darkened the blue fabric. “Twice to Tyr’s zero.”

Hunter buttoned her jeans and smoothed down her black T-shirt. “Thank you.” She swallowed, her throat tightening the same way it did when she was called on in class.

Amphitrite’s algae-green gaze slid down Hunter and back up again. “I can help you, Hunter Goode. Together, we can restore order to this realm.” Her attention drifted around the room and settled on Moira’s grimoire. “But you need the right kind of magic. The right kind of guide.”

Hunter tugged on the jagged edge of her thumbnail. “Yeah, I haven’t really been able to find anything that will help me fix the gates.”

Amphitrite’s crown didn’t budge as she swept her kelp-brown curls off her shoulders. “That’s because there hasn’t been a problem like this before … or a witch like you. You’re special, Hunter Goode, and I can help you be everything you desire.”

The lump in Hunter’s throat solidified. The same surge of power she had felt when she’d first used blood magic brushed against her senses now.

Amphitrite held out her blue hands. Turquoise waves rippled up from her palms, and a white rectangle shimmered beneath the surface like a mirage.

Hunter’s palms tingled and her blood pulsed inside her veins with the ebb and flow of Amphitrite’s magical waters. The waves stilled and sank beneath the surface of the book until each drop had emptied back into the goddess. She stepped closer to Hunter. Cool spray lifted from Amphitrite’s skirts and dusted Hunter’s arms.

Hunter’s hands flew to the book, her body sensing its power before her mind had time to process it. A gasp slipped past her lips as her fingertips grazed the ivory cover. It was puppy-ear soft and vibrated with a magic so fierce Hunter wanted to sink her teeth into it and drink every last drop.

A smile slid across the goddess’s lips with the fluidity of a serpent starfish. “Feed it and it will grow, and the stronger you’ll both become.”

Hunter couldn’t take her eyes from the book or her hands from its cover. “What does it eat?” The question rushed out of her as if it was normal. Like taking a magical book that felt like flesh and hummed with energy from a sea goddess was what every sixteen-year-old did before school. “I mean…” she stammered.

What did she mean? The only thing Hunter knew was that she’d never give the book back. Not after touching it and feeling its power. The power she needed.

Hunter’s knuckles whitened as she clutched the fleshy grimoire. Her heart clicked against her ribs. She sucked in air, slowed her breathing, and lifted her gaze to her goddess’s cerulean cheeks and sparkling green eyes. The lump in Hunter’s throat was back and she tried to force it down with a tight swallow. She would take care of the book. Feed it, like a houseplant.

Amphitrite brushed back the stray hairs that had fallen from Hunter’s ponytail and slid her fingertips down Hunter’s neck. “Witch, you know that I can’t tell you everything. Think of this as a heroine’s journey. It’ll be your most exciting story yet, and you deserve it.” She pinched the sleeve of Hunter’s T-shirt and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger the same way she had Mrs. Ashley’s nightshirt. A frown ticked the corners of her lips.

“It’s No Doubt,” Hunter looked down at her T-shirt, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Gwen Stefani’s band from forever ago.” She pointed to the slender blonde posed in her bright red latex mini dress and matching boots. “I found it at the thrift store.”

Amphitrite tilted her head to the side and swiped her finger across the bottom of the oversized tee. The shirt sizzled and a black O of fabric pooled around Hunter’s feet.

Hunter pressed the book against her bare stomach. “Oh, I don’t think—”

Before she could finish, Amphitrite slid her glowing azure finger from the collar of the T-shirt to the middle of Hunter’s sternum. The two sides frayed and flapped open like lapels.

Hunter stared down at her own cleavage. She knew she had boobs, but no one ever saw them. Especially once she put her clothes on. “I can’t go to school like this. It’s not me. It’s—”

Amphitrite pursed her lips and her chest rose with a full inhale. She flicked her wrist at the bathroom door. It flew open and thwacked against the door stopper. She grabbed Hunter’s hand and pulled her into the bathroom. “Witch, if you’re going to be different, you have to be different.”

Hunter lifted onto her tiptoes and slid her hand down her bare waist and the gentle slope of her hips. Somehow Amphitrite knew—knew how desperately Hunter wanted to be different, to not stand behind Mercy as the silent, obedient twin. Amphitrite had seen Hunter, understood her without her having to bare the soft and delicate pieces of her life. The goddess was right. Hunter deserved the kind of life she’d been held back from living.

Amphitrite looped her finger around Hunter’s hair tie and pulled. “Isn’t that better?”

Hunter’s stomach squeezed. She looked like her sister. And like Mercy, Hunter would take center stage and be the heroine of her own story.

Amphitrite’s hair slid in front of her narrow shoulders as she leaned down and pressed her cold lips to Hunter’s cheek. “Feed it, Witch, and it will show you things not of this world.” She whispered, her cool breath sticky with salt. The goddess’s glowing skin rippled, replaced with the same pulsing waves that had delivered the magical book still clutched in Hunter’s hand.

“I have questions!” Hunter shouted at the glowing current quickly dissolving into sea spray. “How do I reach you?”

“You are mine now, Hunter Goode.” Amphitrite’s words echoed between Hunter’s ears. “And I am always watching.”

Four

“Hey there, Mrs. Laughlin, do I spot a new hairdo under that net?” Kirk Whitfield flashed his perfect white smile charmingly at the gray-haired lunch lady. “Be careful, people will think you’re a student here!”

Mrs. Laughlin’s cheeks pinkened. “Oh, Kirk, you’re such a pill!”

“Just keepin’ it real!” Kirk winked at her as the lunch lady predictably piled his plate with extra tater tots.

“Take this apple, too. You need to eat healthy so we can keep winning those Friday-night games.”

Kirk executed a little bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Laughlin, and you have a nice day.” He paid and balanced his tray with one hand as he tossed the bright crimson apple up and down with his other hand while he scanned the lunchroom.

“Whitfield! Over here!” A meaty fist raised in the middle of the crowded cafeteria and Kirk headed toward it and the table packed with most of the starting lineup and several of the varsity cheerleaders. The group scrunched together to make room for their quarterback and captain.

Derek Burke, the team’s starting center, reached across the table and tried to grab one of his tater tots, but Kirk’s excellent reflexes smacked his hand with a spoon before he could snag it.

Derek rubbed the back of his hand. “Dude, how do you always get so damn many tots?”

“He pays double,” said Heather Johnson.

Kirk frowned down the table at the cheerleader. Why did females always have to butt in and say crap like that? “I pay the same as you do. I can’t help it if the lunch ladies crush on me.”

Jarod Frazier, Kirk’s favorite linebacker, grinned. “That’s right. All the ladies want Whitfield.”

Heather snorted a little laugh that grated on Kirk’s nerves like fingernails down a chalkboard.

“What the hell’s funny about that?” he asked her.

She flipped back her long, dark hair and wiggled her fingers in the direction of a cluster of tables to their right. Kirk followed her gaze to see Mercy sitting beside Emily. The two had their heads together, as usual. Mercy was wearing a short mint-green dress the color of her eyes. Her long legs were crossed and bare and too damn sexy. He glared at her, but she didn’t so much as glance his way—all damn morning every time he’d passed her in the hall she hadn’t looked at him. Not once. Kirk felt anger bubble up from his stomach as the tots he’d shoved in his mouth turned to sawdust. He swallowed, shrugged, and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair with a nonchalance he definitely didn’t feel.

“Whatever. I broke up with her.”

“Yeah, right. We all heard.” Heather’s knowing smile was starting to piss him off.

Kirk glanced up and down the newly silent table at his crew—his players and the cheerleaders who shadowed them. No one met his eyes. The anger that festered in his stomach boiled. It was time to deal with this Mercy crap. Now. Before it got worse and fucked up everything he’d worked his seventeen years for. He leaned forward and pressed his hands against the table on either side of his lunch tray so that his biceps and the thick muscles of his chest bulged against his favorite red and white GOODEVILLE MUSTANGS tee.

“What you heard was me trying to deal with a bitch who’s too high maintenance to be worth the trouble. And you wouldn’t have heard anything at all if she hadn’t zapped me with some kinda spell.” Their gazes snapped to him. The disbelief there was super easy to read. “I’m not making that shit up. Think about it. Did I sound like me? Act like me? And how the hell did you hear us? It wasn’t like we were yelling. I’m telling you—Mercy Goode and her sister are witches. Real witches.”

There was a long, silent pause. Kirk’s hands fisted against the table. Why the hell hadn’t he thought to try to record some of that bizarre witch shit Hunter had done the night he helped those freaks take some sadness, or whatever, from Mercy? Then everyone would see that he was telling the truth.

Derek, who always had his back, cleared his throat and said, “It’s true. That stuff you were saying, and the, uh, crying part—definitely wasn’t you.”

“Right? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you guys.” Kirk tossed him a tater tot, which he caught and shoved in his mouth.

Jarod nodded and spoke through a mouthful of pizza. “The Goode twins are weird. That’s for sure. I mean, hot, but weird.”

Dillon Sanders, who weighed in at an even three-fifty and was the top 2A linebacker in the state added, “Hunter isn’t that hot ’cause she dresses like a dude. Should be, like, against the law for a girl with a body like that to be a lesbo.”

Tiffany Wilson, the cheer captain they called Blow-Up Doll behind her back, smirked. “She doesn’t look like a dude today. Actually, she looks kinda skank-a-licious.” She jerked her perfect chin to their left.

Kirk glanced over to see a girl who had to be Hunter sitting across from pussy Jax Ashley—only this version of Hunter had her long, silky hair free. Her back was to him, but he could definitely see that her vintage tee was short enough to expose a nice length of flawless skin. As if she felt his gaze she swiveled around. She was holding a book that almost seemed to glow white against her black shirt, but he didn’t spend much time looking at just a book. His gaze focused on the deep V of the shirt and the perky globes of her partially exposed boobs. His hands twitched and he felt himself get semi-hard. He knew those boobs. They looked exactly like Mercy’s.

“Daaaaamn.” Derek breathed the word. “Think she changed teams?”

Even from a distance Hunter’s sneer of disgust was obvious before she turned back around. Kirk’s jaw set. He really hated that little bitch.

Jarod rubbed his hands together. “I say we send Tiffany over there to see for sure—and we all get to watch if she hasn’t changed teams.”

“That’d be a mistake,” Kirk said. “I’m telling you. The dyke is a witch, too. A major witch.” A sudden thought had him sitting up straighter. “You know those five weird trees around the town?”

All eyes returned to him. Derek shrugged. “You mean like the palms in the middle of the park?”

“And there’s that super strange tree that’s kinda by the school? The one that looks like it should be on an island or down South somewhere?” added Tiffany.

“Yeah, I mean those and three more. The trees are here because the Goodes are witches. They’re gates to someplace, or something like that.” Kirk paused, trying to remember exactly what Hunter had said that day at the football field when she tried to get him to be part of another freaky spell. “The point is—they’re real witches and they have real powers.”

“Powers?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, dude. How do you think they made me say that cornball shit to Mercy?” His voice turned mocking, “I love you—I need you—whaa, whaa!”

Derek slowly nodded his head. “I thought somethin’ was wrong. Like I said, no way are you gonna cry over a chick.”

“It’s not right,” agreed Jarod. “They can’t just randomly put spells on people. We should tell someone.”

Derek cracked his beefy knuckles. “Or do something.”

The anger that roiled in Kirk’s gut reduced to a simmer. It was working. His crew would listen to him—they always did.

“Hey, why don’t we leave it alone right now?” Heather’s voice grated against Kirk’s ears. “Their mom just died. Plus, have you ever seen them not eat lunch together? Well, I mean before you two started dating and she ate at our table for a while.”

“No, they’re joined at the fucking hip,” Kirk grumbled.

“Not now they aren’t,” Tiffany said as she dabbed a napkin against her glossy pink lips. “I saw them in the library earlier, and they didn’t even look at each other. So something is going down between them.”

“Could have something to do with the fact that Mercy’s bff’s dad just died,” said Heather.

An idea had Kirk’s lips tilting up in a satisfied smile that he quickly squelched. “Don’t you think that’s a bizarre coincidence? The fact that the freaks’ mom died—and then a night later Mr. Parrott was killed along with that old dude with the truck?”

Heather sipped her Coke as she shook her head. “Mr. Thompson died the same night as their mom.”

Kirk had to stop himself from telling her to shut the hell up. Instead he loosened his jaw just enough to grind out, “That pretty much makes my point. The deaths have something to do with the Goodes.”

The table went silent again, but this time it was an electric silence—like they were waiting for Kirk’s next pronouncement—as they shot glances from one twin to the other.

“Come to think of it—that is pretty crazy,” said Derek, whose perpetually flushed face had gone pale.

“Still, guys, their mom just died. I—I don’t feel great talking about them like this,” insisted Heather.

Kirk decided he’d pushed enough—for right then. He held his hands up innocently. “Hey, you’re right. It’s real bad about their mom—and Emily’s dad.” Kirk picked up another tot and tossed it at Derek. He was still staring at Mercy, so it hit him square on the forehead, which made the table laugh. “Dude, where are we partying after practice?” He smoothly changed the subject. It didn’t matter. He’d seen the fear begin to spark in his friends’ eyes and Kirk knew all he needed to do was wait, bide his time, and what he’d begun today would eventually blaze and burn.

After all, the twins deserved it. They were witches.

Five

The bleachers glinted in the late-afternoon sun as Hunter unzipped her backpack and pulled out her new goddess-given book. She flipped past the initial blank page to the fourth. The first three were simple: home protection, strengthening a lunar bond, and a spell to aid in restful sleep. She’d performed versions of each of these the first month she was allowed to practice magic on her own. By now, they weren’t only simple, but boring with a capital B. But the fourth spell … Hunter’s blue eyes traced its simple instructions and the spoken words written in an unfamiliar language for the millionth time since Amphitrite had gifted her with the deliciously otherworldly book destined to change her life. It had to. She was a witch. She must be fated for something more than afternoons spent watching football practice.

A gust of wind blew Hunter’s hair into her eyes and tickled her exposed middle. She sighed and tucked the charcoal-black waves into the collar of her ripped T-shirt. Being different was a lot harder than she’d expected. She snorted. The irony wasn’t lost on her. This was the only time in her life she had chosen to be different, yet she was now more like her peers than she’d ever been before.

Hunter opened her spellbook across her lap and ran her fingers along the title written in bold cursive on the top of the page. WANT. She blew out a puff of air and twisted her ring around her finger as she stared out at the football field. She didn’t really know what she wanted. Being on her own was a start, but it’s not like that and a new look immediately changed the world. A few days ago, she would have used her tarot to guide her and to help her heal the gates, but she’d left her cards behind the same way she had Tyr. The two felt intertwined. How could she use one without the help of the other?

Jax and the rest of the Mustang wide receivers ran drills down half the football field while the cheerleaders practiced a multitude of terrifying stunts on the other. Hunter winced as her best friend jumped seconds too late and missed another ball. He was never this off. Not that Hunter had ever watched him practice before, but she did make it to every game. Supporting Jax was way more important than her dislike of football, crowds, and cheering. She shielded her eyes and squinted at Jax.

“You’re kidding.” She breathed as she locked onto his crooked smile and followed his attention to the gaggle of cheerleaders taking a water break. Jax Ashley couldn’t stop grinning at Kylie York.

A high-pitched boo came from the cluster of girls huddled together a few rows below Hunter. The murder. At least, that’s what Hunter called the group of football player girlfriends who flitted through Goodeville High ready to peck the eyes out of anyone they deemed a threat.

Hunter clamped her mouth shut and rubbed her sweating palms together. There was a chance the murder hadn’t noticed her. She was traveling down a new path and didn’t want to be derailed by the girls who’d tormented her in middle school.

Hunter’s breaths were shallow, shoulders tensed as she studied the group’s perfectly curled hair and polished nails and—

One of the girls whipped around to face Hunter. Shayla’s long strands of beachy blond waves caught in her mauve lip gloss. “You really need to take control of your man.”

Hunter couldn’t swallow past the ball of nerves tightening her throat. She hadn’t gone unnoticed. She’d gotten caught in the murder’s territory.

“I mean, if Jax plays like this all summer, we’ll get slaughtered next year for sure.” Shayla tilted her head from side to side and examined Hunter with the beady-eyed intensity of a crow as she swept her hair free from her lips. “You don’t want him to be the reason another perfect season is ruined, do you?”

Two other girls turned, and then two more, and then three more, until they all stared at Hunter through their expertly lined eyes, ready to attack.

Hunter’s tongue stuck to the back of her teeth as she shook her head. “Jax’s isn’t my man.” She cleared her throat. “There’s nothing I can do about how he plays.”

Isabel swept up her brown curls and tied them into a perfect messy bun on her first try. “But you’ve, you know”—she waved her hand in Hunter’s direction—“changed and everything.”

Shayla adjusted the lacy straps of her Mustang-red tank top and giggled. “I mean, you’ll always be the same loser doormat person you’ve been since middle school, but at least you look half-decent now.”

Hunter pressed the fleshy cover of her book against her bare stomach.

Cara cocked her head and fiddled with the large gold hoop that dangled from her earlobe. “We figured you updated your style because you and Jax finally hooked up.” She tapped her long fingernail against her earring and shrugged. “But why he’d want to stick any part of his body even remotely close to yours is a mystery to me.”

Hunter stiffened. “You all think that I changed my hair and my clothes because I’m suddenly straight and with Jax?” Her cheeks burned as if the murder had clawed her face with their talons. “You have to know that’s not how sexuality works.”

Shayla pursed her mauve lips. “But you could, like, switch to bi or whatever to at least try to make yourself more interesting.”

Hunter’s fingertips tingled and the book heated against her belly. “Yeah, totally.” She snatched her backpack off the bleacher and stood. “I’m going to go, like, rub my vag all over Jax so he doesn’t fumble any more balls. Goooo Mustangs!”

The murder sucked in a collective breath and Hunter felt their gaze press against her back as she stuffed her book into her bag and stomped down the bleachers. Tears burned her eyes and the cold rock encasing her heart heated. Why did everyone have to test her? Sure, Goodeville wasn’t completely filled with people as ignorant as the murder, but anyone birdbrained or with hate to spew always seemed to be the loudest and always seemed to target her. Hunter was tired of being laughed at and bullied. It was time for things to change.

She yanked her backpack over her shoulders and clutched the railing that protected shouting fans from faceplanting onto the gravel track that bordered the field. If only they’d seen how she’d conquered Polyphemus. How she’d drawn down the power of the stars and melted the skin from his bones. Metal groaned under her grip. She hopped backward and shook out her hands as she stared down at the railing. Indentations the same fiery orange as the blood moon remained where her hands had been.

Footsteps clanged against the bleachers behind her, and Hunter whirled around, hiding the railing with her backpack.

“I know you think you’re royalty because some man named this town after your dirty dishwater family.” Shayla spat, her finger inches from Hunter’s face. “But you’re nothing.”

Fire raged inside Hunter’s belly. “Sarah Goode named this town Goodeville because of everything she did to—” Hunter grasped the metal railing and steadied herself. No more telling of family secrets.

Salt filled the air and a cold spray dusted Hunter’s arms. You don’t deserve this, Witch. Amphitrite’s voice snaked like a river between Hunter’s ears. You have the power to stop it.

Hunter’s gaze searched the stands for the brilliant blue goddess, but Amphitrite was nowhere.

“Are you finally realizing how pathetic you are?” A grin stretched Shayla’s lips as she crossed her arms over her chest and cemented her place between Hunter and the only set of stairs. “I don’t know which is more depressing, being a slut like your sister or an ugly dyke no one wants.”

Harness your power and use it, Witch.

Metal melted under Hunter’s grasp, molten pieces sizzling when they hit the ground. “Leave me alone, or else…”

“Or else what?” She scoffed.

You’ll show her why you should be revered and not reviled.

Hunter’s heart thrummed in her throat. Amphitrite was right. Hunter deserved better. But even if she knew how, she couldn’t harness her power here in front of everyone.

Another sharp boo from the stands, and Shayla’s attention snapped up to the murder who disapprovingly shook their heads at Jax and his most recent failed catch. Hunter glanced over her shoulder as Coach Jamison barked commands from the sidelines and Jax jogged, shoulders slumped, to collect the lone pigskin before he joined the rest of the players in a huddle.

Practice was almost over. Shayla, the rest of the murder, and the parents, students, and faculty all watching from the stands would descend and see what Hunter had done and know that she was a true witch who couldn’t control her gifts. She needed to get out of here, get under control.

She elbowed past the blonde, the sharp point of Hunter’s crescent ring catching on Shayla’s tank. The delicate rip of fabric was ice water through Hunter’s veins.

Shayla screamed and covered her exposed bra with her hands. “You ripped my fucking shirt, you bitch!”

The murder stood, their feathers flapping as they rushed down the bleachers.

“You gross, desperate cow!” Shayla cawed and rushed toward her group.

Hunter’s breaths were crashing ocean waves roaring through her thoughts as she hurried away from the bleachers. She would go to the parking lot and hide next to Jax’s car and never come to another practice again.

Don’t run, Witch. Amphitrite’s voice coated Hunter’s ears like oil. They need to learn their place.

Gravel dust billowed around Hunter’s boots as she dashed to the shuttered snack hut and pressed herself into its shadow while she again searched the bleachers and the field for her new goddess.

I don’t have to be in your presence to see you, Witch. Amphitrite’s laughter was the metallic shink of sharpening knives. As I told you, I am always watching.

Hunter sagged against the paneled side of the snack hut and wrung her trembling hands.

“Hey!”

Hunter yipped and clapped her palm over her mouth as she spun around to face the voice.

Kylie York stood in the sun-drenched gravel. Her Mustang red sports bra and shorts beamed like rose petals. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hunter hooked her thumbs around the straps of her backpack and shook back her hair. “I’m not Mercy.”

“I know. Although, when you didn’t answer, I thought I might have messed that up.” Her smile tugged at the corners of her hazel eyes. “Glad to know I was wrong.” She cocked her head and her reddish blond braid slid off her shoulder. “Or right?” She shook her head. “Practice kicked my ass and now my brain is mush.”

Hunter didn’t know what to say. Had the murder sent Kylie to deliver a final blow?

“Looked like a lot of drama back there, but Shayla would probably shrivel up like a raisin if she wasn’t the center of attention.” The cheerleader adjusted the thick strap of her sports bra and scraped the toe of her white-and-red sneaker against the gravel. “Your backpack is unzipped, and you dropped this.” She held out her hand. The bubblegum-pink Lamy fountain pen stood out like a glowstick against Kylie’s sandy complexion. “That’s why I followed you.”

Hunter stepped into the sunlight and plucked the pen from Kylie’s outstretched hand. She smoothed her thumb over the scratch that marred the cap and smiled. “Mercy found this at the pawnshop. She got it for twenty-five dollars. The owner had no idea what he had.” Hunter’s cheeks heated and cooled just as quickly. Who cared about Mercy or fancy pens? She certainly didn’t. And neither did Kylie. Hunter folded her arms in front of her midriff, suddenly very aware of how bare it was.

“I’m more of a Montblanc girl.” Kylie twirled the end of her long braid. “Glitter and Glue has one of their amazing limited-edition fountain pens in the locked case by the register. I stare at it every time I’m in there.”

“Oh yeah!” Hunter lifted onto her toes. “The Moctezuma. I saw that last time I was in. It looks like an—”

“Atlatl!” they said in unison.

Kylie’s laughter was morning time and chickadee calls, sweet and light and everywhere. “I thought I was the only one who even knew how to say atlatl.” She freed her hair from its braid, and it fell against her shoulders in reddish blond waves.

Hunter’s mouth went dry. Thirty seconds ago she’d known what an atlatl was, but now she could barely remember how to pronounce her own name. She never thought she’d share the same interests with anyone so popular, so perfect.

Kylie’s hazel eyes scanned Hunter’s ripped tee and tight jeans. “‘Just a Girl’ is one of my favorites. It’s crazy that Gwen wrote it forever ago and it still speaks to exactly what we’re going through right now, you know?”

Hunter was supposed to respond. She was supposed to fill this space with a witty feminist rejoinder or Ruth Bader Ginsburg quote, but all she could do was twist her crescent ring around her finger while she looked down at her ripped shirt and her boobs that billowed out of her pushup bra like muffin tops.

“H! There you are!”

Hunter barely recognized Jax’s voice as it jolted her from her stupor.

Sweat clung to strands of his slicked-back hair and he still had a red spot on his forehead where his practice helmet had pressed against it a little too hard.

Kylie adjusted the elastic band on her tight shorts and stood a bit straighter as Jax joined them. “H and I were just discussing the music industry and its amazing feminist icons.” Kylie picked up Hunter’s nickname like she’d been a part of their group her whole life.

“Yes.” Hunter’s voice cracked like a middle school boy’s, and she cleared her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and silently scolded herself. She had no chance with Kylie and there was no use thinking otherwise.

“You didn’t tell me she was so clever.” Kylie chirped as she slapped Jax’s arm.

And there it was. The real reason Kylie York had chased Hunter from the bleachers to the snack hut. It wasn’t to return a pen. Kylie wanted to get closer to Jax, hook him with her beauty and charm and reel him in with her ability to fit into his life without causing so much as a ripple.

Jax’s tawny cheeks reddened and he swept his hand through his damp hair. “What can I say? H is a genius.”

Hunter fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was in the Twilight Zone where gorgeous cheerleaders loved fancy pens and nineties music and she was a budding Albert Einstein.

“Jax, I really need to get back to the house. I have a lot of, uh, homework.” A jolt of energy pricked her back and she could practically feel the spellbook wriggling with excitement.

Kylie combed her fingers through her hair as she looked up at Jax. “Did you guys still need a ride?”

“Abso-fruitly!” he emphasized with a crooked-toothed grin.

Hunter’s grimace was swept away when Kylie let out another exhale of sweet chickadee laughter. “I’ll get my bag and meet you in the parking lot.” The mouthwateringly tart scent of grapefruit splashed against Hunter as Kylie brushed past and headed toward the locker room. “Top’s down!” she called over her shoulder. “Hope that’s okay!”

Gravel crunched as Jax shuffled next to Hunter and rested his arm on her shoulder. “Fuuudge.” He pulled the word from his mouth like taffy. “Remember those porta potties the school set up when the plumbing went nuts a few months ago?”

Hunter shivered and suppressed a gag. At least Jax had given her something to think about besides Kylie’s strong legs and full lips and everything Hunter wanted and would never have.

“There were so many things written in there.” He continued while he leaned against Hunter like a kickstand. “Things that I thought I would never think about a girl, but I’m definitely thinking about—”

“Stop.” Hunter shrugged away from him and held up her hand. “Your horny boyness is overwhelming.”

Jax scrunched his nose as if he could suddenly smell the hormones rushing from his pores. “We should go before I say anything you might regret.” He picked up his bag and paused to zip Hunter’s open backpack before they headed toward the parking lot.

“What’s wrong with your car?” Hunter asked as they crossed the sharp line where the gravel ended and blacktop began.

Jax shrugged. “Dad sent me a text before practice. Something about helping out a friend.” He adjusted the strap of his red-and-white football bag and shook his head. “You and I will be carless for at least a week. We’re supposed to bum rides from Kirk.”

Hunter snorted. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” She eyed the remaining cars in the parking lot, thankful the quarterback’s red Jeep was nowhere to be found.

“My thoughts exactly,” Jax said as he steered them toward Kylie’s sunflower-yellow Camaro. “I saw Kylie before practice, and I’ve been trying to find the perfect way to talk to her, so—”

“I didn’t know you were interested in Kylie York.” Hunter wanted to take back the comment, carve out the jealousy and offer it casually. A simple question rather than a scathing accusation or personal admission.

With another shrug, Jax fished his phone out of his pocket and tapped a quick message. Probably to Kylie. Hunter shook her head and bit down on the raw spot inside her cheek.

“A lot’s been happening in your life. It didn’t seem important.”

Hunter swallowed the copper painting her tongue. It was so like Jax to put her needs before his. He was an amazing friend. And she was too busy being jealous to notice.

Kylie waved to Jax and Hunter from the edge of the parking lot as she jogged over to meet them. “You live by the Gas-N-Go, right?” she asked before hefting her bag into the backseat.

“In Hollow Pines.” Jax nodded so furiously, Hunter worried his head would topple off.

Kylie opened her door and tipped the driver’s seat forward. “The leather’s probably hot, but it’ll cool down as soon as we get going,” she said, motioning toward the seats.

Before Hunter could call shotgun, Jax had rounded the car and leapt over the closed passenger-side door and into the seat next to Kylie. Hunter’s nostrils flared. No matter how much it felt like one, this wasn’t a competition. Kylie and Jax were into each other, and Hunter was the magical third wheel.

She tossed her backpack onto the floorboard beside Kylie’s and climbed into the small backseat. The leather was warm against her skin and kept her at the perfect temperature as they drove out of the parking lot and headed toward Jax’s. Hunter leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes while the wind muted Jax and Kylie’s conversation into a steady drone. She took a deep inhale and smiled. Her whole world smelled like grapefruit.

Six

Mercy felt old. Not sarcastically pretend old, like if she said she felt like she was thirty-five or whatever, but truly old. The day before at Abigail’s wake she’d watched Emily’s grandma get up from sitting on the couch—slowly, as if every joint in her body ached. The grandma had hobbled through the living room to give Mercy a dry kiss on her cheek before she’d slowly followed her daughter and granddaughter to their car.

That’s just how old Mercy felt, but she’d forced herself to ignore her exhaustion. She’d had to. Someone had to be responsible and continue the work Goode witches had been doing for centuries, and goddess knew Hunter wouldn’t help her. Mercy thought about the outfit her twin had worn to school that day—how weirdly revealing it had been and how she’d been overly animated with Jax. She’d even giggled at him between classes like a flirty cheerleader. The difficult truth was Hunter wasn’t Hunter anymore.

As soon as school was out Mercy had known what she had to do. She’d forced herself to check the trees—by herself—even though all she’d wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed with a bag of chips and a big bowl of her favorite dip, and watch one old rom-com after another until she finally passed out. Now she was almost done. Almost able to go home and crash …

Wearily, she closed the door of the Camry, rested her head against the steering wheel, and forced herself not to cry. She’d been so glad when the final bell had rung that day and she’d been able to escape. Mercy usually loved school—well, the classes were mostly whatever—but she loved everything else about it. Her friends, the fashion hits and misses, the gossip, the ever-changing cliques, everything.

Not today.

“Maybe never again.” She lifted her head and wiped at a tear. It had been exhausting to pretend not to care that everyone whispered about her or stared at her and Em like they were freaks. About half of the girls she’d been hanging with since she started dating Kirk wouldn’t speak to her at all—though they were definitely talking about her.

“Kirk.” She curled her lip like the name tasted foul. “At least I didn’t look at him—not even once.” Of course every time she passed him in the hall her stomach revolted. She’d actually had to rush into the bathroom twice because she thought she was going to be sick.

And then there was Hunter. She hadn’t spoken to Mercy all day. Not even during the class they shared. Mercy couldn’t figure out if she should be pissed or upset—or both. And instead of trying to figure it out she’d escaped the misery school had become and then for the next several hours she’d shoved everything from her mind except her job.

Check on the trees. Figure out how to fix them.

Mercy’s sigh reverberated throughout the car. Four down—one to go. The windows of the Camry were cracked and the sounds of evening insects buzzed and hummed around her so that she was reminded of how late it was. Mercy lifted her head to watch the sun just begin to dip below the olive tree she’d parked just a few yards from. She hadn’t cared that the car had bumped over grass and rocks. No damn way was she going to park beside the spot where Mr. Thompson’s body had been—and where Hunter had used her tarot to reveal that a Cyclops had escaped the Greek gate—and walk by all of that to the tree. A chill fingered its way down Mercy’s back and she started the car and carefully reversed to the blacktop road. There was also no damn way she was going to stay out here after dark. Plus, she had one more tree to check.

Slowly, she headed into town, winding through sleepy streets to Goode Park. She’d saved the doum palms for last. The park tended to be busy, but would be less so on a weeknight at dusk. People would finish up their tennis games and pack up their Frisbees to go home to dinner, which would give Mercy a chance to see what she was 99 percent sure she would see—a sick and dying clump of trees.

Mercy pulled into the nearly deserted lot that framed the street side of the park. She slouched down in the driver’s seat and hid behind the steering wheel as little clusters of people meandered to their cars and bikes. It didn’t take long. She checked the car’s dashboard clock. It was hard to believe that it was almost eight o’clock. She was glad Xena had made her eat a quick tomato sandwich after school before she took off for the five trees. Her stomach felt empty—not hungry. Just empty.

“I shouldn’t have spent so much time at the apple tree,” she muttered to herself as she picked at her lip and watched the happy groups of people leave. But she hadn’t been able to help herself. The Norse tree was the only one that was healthy. Abigail’s sacrifice had stopped whatever caused the worms and the stench and the rot. The magnificent ancient apple tree had soothed and centered her, provided her an island of relief in a sea of shattered promises and broken hearts.

An old Mustang parked a few yards from her backfired as its engine turned over. Mercy startled like it was gunfire. She blinked and looked around at the empty, twilight park. She sighed, slung her bottomless boho bag over her shoulder, and got out of the car. The day had been warm, but the setting sun had drained away the spring heat and the grass felt cool and damp against her sandaled feet. The park lights hadn’t switched on yet, and the sky’s fading blues cast everything in undersea colors. Mercy’s favorite time of day was dawn, but dusk had magic, too—though that was usually something Hunter was more drawn to.

Mercy shook her head. No. Stop thinking about Hunter. Focus on your job.

She came to the cluster of doum palms that appeared to be four trees, but was really just one and its offshoots. Mercy’s gaze went to the debris made of bark and dead leaves that was all that was left of the fifth tree. What used to be a healthy offshoot of the doum crunched beneath her feet. She didn’t see any worms, but the stench was there—like rotten eggs mixed with really old roadkill. As she had the other four guardians, Mercy ignored the smell and pressed both of her hands against the bark.

“Hello, Mother Palm.” She spoke softly and asked the same question she’d posed to the others. “How are you?”

The tree didn’t warm against her hand as the healthy Norse guardian had. The Norse apple tree had heated her skin and filled her body with the sense of rightness that healthy green and growing things always gave her. This tree’s bark was dry and brittle and felt slightly cool.

“What is it?” she whispered to the ailing tree. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Mercy felt nothing at all. At the cherry tree she’d felt its breath—though it had definitely been sick. Worms had writhed among its roots and dropped from its curtain-like branches. The banyan tree, guardian of the Hindu gate to the Underworld, had been breathing, too, though when she’d touched it Mercy had felt sick. Not puke sick, though. More like she had the flu, with aches in all of her joints. The olive tree had reeked so badly that it’d made her gag, and when she touched it she’d felt chilled and weak.

Mentally, Mercy shook herself and concentrated. She patted the palm gently, like it was a frightened bird, and then pressed her hands against the bark again, closed her eyes, and went inward.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Mercy cleared her throat, coughed, and tried to draw a deep breath, but it felt like someone had wrapped a rope around her chest and was slowly tightening it so that her lungs couldn’t expand. Mercy stumbled back, tripped over a root, and fell to her knees as she curled in on herself while she gasped for air. She didn’t realize she was sobbing until the tears plopped onto her bare legs.

Mercy swiped angrily at her cheeks and sucked in more breath. She looked up at the palm and her fear and frustration boiled over. “I don’t know how to fix you! Please, help me! Please!”

Like she’d pressed a play button the base of the tree began to flicker as if it was trying to bring itself into focus. The bark shifted to become semi-translucent. The colors of an oyster’s shell rippled up the trunk as an image took form inside the tree. Mercy held her breath as the image became the shape of a warrior who had the body of a young god and the head of a snarling reptile.

“Khenti!” His name burst from her lips as she hastily stood and brushed dead leaves and rotted bark from her dress.

The warrior’s nightmarish head turned in her direction and his snarl instantly stilled. The spear he’d held up, ready to throw, lowered, and he bowed respectfully. “I greet you!” He squinted dark eyes that were disturbingly human, and then added, “Gatekeeper and Green Witch, Mercy.”

“You remembered who I am!” Mercy blurted and then felt heat rise up her neck to her cheeks as she realized how silly she sounded.

He nodded his massive reptilian head. “Of course, Gatekeeper.” He glanced around as the opalescent gate rippled like a rock-disturbed pool. “Is your sister, the Cosmic Witch Hunter, not with you today?”

“No, she’s—” Mercy paused and searched for the right words. “No,” she began again, “I’m alone.” And then, to Mercy’s complete mortification, she burst into tears.

Khenti raised his hand and mist, black as his onyx scales, swirled to obscure his face. When it cleared the ferocious reptilian head was gone, replaced by that of a boy about Mercy’s age. His skin was golden brown, his long, dark hair was tied neatly back, and his umber eyes filled with concern as they focused on her.

“What is it? What has happened?”

Mercy shook her head and dug into her purse for a wadded-up tissue. Hastily, she wiped at her eyes and nose and gulped more air. “It’s nothing. I’m—I’m just being silly.”

Khenti cocked his head to the side. “Are your emotions not honest?”

She sniffled. “Yeah, I suppose they are.”

“Then how can an honest emotion be silly?”

“Actually, that’s a good point.” Mercy brushed her hair back from her damp face and dropped the tissue into her purse. “It’s just that a lot has happened lately and I have had a spectacularly bad day.” She blew out a long breath. “I’m usually better at controlling my emotions.”

His sigh echoed her breath. “I, too, have had a spectacularly bad day.”

“Really? I, uh, don’t want to get into your business, but I’m here if you want to talk about it,” said Mercy.

Khenti’s wide shoulders moved restlessly. “It’s difficult for me to speak about.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Families can be difficult.”

Mercy snorted. “Tell me about it. I don’t know what’s worse—messed-up trees or messed-up family.”

Even through the shimmering barrier between them Mercy read the worry on his face. “When we spoke before you said your mother, the magnificent Kitchen Witch, Abigail, died not long ago.”

Mercy nodded. “Yes, just a few days ago.”

Khenti mirrored her nod. His dark eyes were shadowed. “I, too, know the loss of a mother. Your sadness should not shame you. It is a tribute to your mother and your love for her.”

Mercy took a step closer to the tree. “Your mom died, too?”

“She did.” He clipped out the two words.

“But you get to see her, right? I mean, you’re in the Egyptian Underworld. So, isn’t she there with you?”

Khenti looked down at his golden leather sandals, but even through the shimmering barrier that separated them Mercy saw his grimace of pain. “No. There are different realms of our Underworld—the Land of the Dead. In my mother’s Book of the Dead she described her afterlife in detail. After her heart was weighed and her life judged as just, her spirit moved on. She is beyond even the reach of her beloved son until the day that I die.” His grim expression shifted and a smile lifted the corners of his lips. “That day, if I have lived a just life, I will join her, as she and I have each inscribed in our books.”

Mercy squinted as she tried to see through the incandescent gate between worlds Khenti stood behind. “You write in a book, and whatever you write comes true after you die?”

His smile widened. “Yes and no. Yes, if you pass the tests of the gods. No, if you do not.”

“And, um, you’re not immortal?”

“No! I am a demi-god, like my father. My mother was a mortal woman—the daughter of Ka, the Pharaoh’s favorite architect.” His expression softened as he spoke about her. “That was how Father met her. She was taking lunch to Ka in the Valley of the Kings. Upuant, my father, visits the valley regularly to note the progress of the great tombs. He glimpsed my mother, Meryt, and became obsessed with her.”

“She must have been beautiful,” Mercy said as she thought of how much like a goddess her own mother had often seemed to her.

“She was—and is again.”

“Your father must miss her, too,” Mercy said.

Khenti’s expression instantly hardened. “I am not sure that my father has the ability to miss anyone.”

“Ugh, let me guess—your dad is powerful, cold, and distant.”

The swirling barrier between them stilled long enough that Mercy saw Khenti’s dark eyes widen in surprise. “Yes, exactly. How did you know?”

“In my world too many men believe they can’t be strong unless they’re shut off from their feelings.”

“But you do not believe that?” Khenti asked.

“Oh, bloody hell no! That doesn’t make any sense to me. Our hearts, our feelings are where we find strength.”

Their gazes met. “I agree. I did not know Upuant well before my mother’s death, and since she has been gone and I have been here, guarding the gate to the Land of the Dead, I have often wondered how such an aloof being could have earned my mother’s love.” He looked down again. “Or perhaps it is my father’s disappointment in me that has made him so distant.”

“Don’t blame yourself. When Hunter and I were upset about something crappy someone said or did Abigail used to remind us that we are only responsible for our own feelings—no one else’s. She’d tell us that all we can do is be the best versions of ourselves because that’s all we really have control over.”

Khenti’s grinned. “Your mother was a wise woman—as was mine. I look forward to my reunion with her, though not too soon.”

Mercy returned his smile. “I understand. My mother is with her goddess, Athena. Someday I’ll see her again, too. Whether in this life or after we are reborn in the next.”

“It is a comfort, even in loneliness,” agreed Khenti.

“Yeah, but I wish she was here. I really need her advice.” For a moment, as she’d been talking with Khenti, Mercy had forgotten the sick gates and the fight with Hunter, but now it all came rushing back. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed heavily.

“Can I help?”

Mercy’s gaze met his. “I don’t really know. Is the gate still sick on your side?”

“It is.”

“Is it any worse?”

Khenti let out a long breath and nodded. “I’m afraid it is. I have had to burn sacred incense to cleanse the area and have remained near the gate. That is why I was close enough to hear your cries.”

Mercy felt her face heat again, but she pushed aside her embarrassment. “Four of our five gates are sick, and seem to be getting worse.”

“What of the fifth gate?”

“It’s where my mother died. She sacrificed herself to keep a creature from coming through into our world. When she did that she healed whatever was wrong with the tree and the gate to the Norse Underworld,” Mercy explained. Then she threw her hands up as her frustration boiled over. “What am I supposed to do? Die to save a tree? There’s only one of me! My sister moved out. We aren’t even speaking, but if our only answer is to die to save the trees there are just two of us and four trees, so we’ve already lost.”

Khenti shook his head quickly. “There is no logic to requiring a Gatekeeper to die to heal a gate. It would defeat the purpose of being a Gatekeeper. What of your magic? Is that not how you maintained the trees for generations?”

Mercy paced back and forth in front of the flickering barrier between their worlds. “Yes, that’s exactly how each Goode witch kept the trees and their gates healthy generation after generation, but something’s happened to our magic. Well, my magic for sure.” She stopped and faced Khenti again. “Below us are streams of power called ley lines. Five of them intersect here, in our town, to form a powerful pentagram. You know what that is, right?”

“A five-pointed star.”

“Right. Okay, so, each generation the Goode witch has been able to pull power from those ley lines. We use our bodies as conduits to aim the power at the trees. The trees stay healthy and the gates remain sealed. But it’s not working anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “The power of the lines is gone?”

“No, which is totally frustrating. It’s still there. I can feel it right now. Yesterday, I cast a simple heal-and-protect spell on one of the trees. I’ve cast that same spell more times than I can count. Everything seemed fine. I tapped into the power like usual, pulled it up into my body, and then when I aimed it at the tree it just … just … fizzled. It reminds me of seeds sprouting.”

“Seeds? I do not understand.”

“Not seeds—sprouting seeds. I do it in my greenhouse in the winter. Um, a greenhouse is a place where plants can be safe and warm, even when it’s cold outside.” He nodded in understanding and Mercy continued. “I’m a Green Witch, so my plants thrive. But once in a while a seed will begin to sprout—to push up through the dirt and appear just fine like the rest of them. And then, for no apparent reason, it withers and dies. It happens fast. Like, poof! Seedling suicide or whatever.”

“And that is what your magic feels like when you aim it at a gate—a dying sprout?” Khenti asked.

She shrugged. “It’s the best comparison I can make.”

His brows went up. “Have you tried any other spells recently?”

“Yeah, I’ve tried different spells on the trees. Everything I can think of.”

“No, I do not mean spells on the trees. I mean other magic.”

“Hmm, now that you mention it, Hunter and I cast a rainmaking spell just a few days ago. It worked with no problem at all.” And Hunter’s spell to take away my grief worked, too, Mercy added silently.

“But you and Hunter are not casting spells together now?” Khenti asked.

Mercy fisted her hands so she wouldn’t pick at her lip. “No. She’s mad at me.”

Khenti’s brow furrowed again. “But is she not your Gatekeeper partner?”

“Yeah, but she’s also my sister who is super pissed,” Mercy said.

“So she betrays her duties?” Khenti shook his head. “I would not speak ill of your sister, but that is extremely irresponsible.”

“Right?!” The word burst from Mercy. “She said she was going to fix the trees on her own, but I visited every sodding tree today and she was nowhere to be seen—and I didn’t feel any of her magic.” Mercy’s anger felt good—righteous—and so much easier to deal with than tears and loneliness.

“It seems to me that you should cast your own spell, but not on one of the gates.”

She nodded and felt a stir of hope. “That’s not a bad idea. At least then I’d know for sure if it’s me or—”

“If it’s the trees and the gates they hold,” Khenti finished for her as his sweeping gesture took in the opalescent gate between them.

Mercy straightened her spine and grinned at Khenti. “I’ll do it. Tonight. I’ll go home and cast a spell by myself and see what happens! Hey, thanks. I really needed someone to talk to.”

“I am here for you, Gatekeeper. I will not forsake my duty to the gate, which includes my duty to you.” Khenti paused and took a small step closer to the barrier between them. “And I have enjoyed our conversation.” His deep voice softened. “It can get lonely here.”

Mercy stepped closer to the glistening gate. “Loneliness is something that I never understood before. But, since Abigail died and Hunter—and really my whole world—changed, I’m sorry to say I understand it way too well now.”

His dark eyes caught hers and the barrier stilled so that it looked like Khenti was just beneath the surface of a crystal lake. He raised his hand, palm toward her, and spoke quietly. “I am here for you,” he repeated. “Call me. I will always answer. I give you my oath.”

Mercy lifted her hand, palm facing him. She didn’t think. Mercy just pressed her palm to the gate and it gave way. Her hand slipped within the glistening surface. It felt like nothing—only a slight pressure against her skin—and then her hand was through and she felt the warmth of Khenti’s world.

The warrior stared at her hand and reached forward. Khenti pressed his palm to hers and they touched. Against her hand Mercy could feel the roughness of his palm, calluses caused by the spear by his side, or the sword strapped to his waist. Mercy’s gaze went from his kind brown eyes to their joined hands. Hers was gray! And that grayness was creeping up her arm. She gasped and yanked. There was a liquid plop and the barrier released her arm. It was dry, but still gray. Mercy rubbed it frantically and gradually it pinkened.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Mercy kept rubbing at her wrist and forearm. “Am I okay?” What were you thinking? That you could high-five him? Touch him? Hold his hand?

“Yes, of course!” Khenti started to move forward, as if to take her hand again, but stopped at the barrier and instead ran a hand across his face. “You are a living being from another world, another realm. You cannot cross through the gate into my Underworld unless you have a vessel to inhabit. If you do not—you die.” At her wide-eyed expression he hurriedly added. “Not immediately! What was happening to your hand and arm would eventually spread throughout your body and you would die unless your spirit found another home.”

Something tugged at Mercy’s mind. “Wait, you said I wouldn’t die immediately. How long would it take?”

Khenti moved his broad shoulders. “From what I have observed that depends on how long you have lived in your own world.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“It isn’t complicated. The younger a being, the sooner they die. You seem quite young.”

Mercy squared her shoulders and attempted to look mature. “I’m sixteen.”

“Yes.” Khenti’s lips tilted up at the corners. “Young. You could visit for perhaps half of a day. Those who are older can exist full days, even longer, before their bodies fade and then cease to breathe.”

“The Fenrir! He was powerful enough to come close to killing all of us—my mom, my sister, even our cat, and me—and he wasn’t gray at all.”

“Do you know the creature’s age?” Khenti asked.

“Super old, like from ancient Norse mythology.”

Khenti nodded. “Yes, a creature who is that old would be powerful in its own body for some time before he began to fade.”

“Ohmygoddess! Polyphemus, the Cyclops who came through the Greek gate the day my mom died, was really, really old, too. But he killed Sheriff Dearborn that night and took his body.” Then she smacked herself on the forehead. “Of course he killed someone and took his body fast. No way could a one-eyed monster walk around Goodeville killing people without being noticed.”

“Which is why most of the creatures that slip from their realms to another kill quickly, no matter their age.”

“Huh. That’s good to know. I’ll be sure to write all of this down in my grimoire,” Mercy said.

“Grimoire?”

“Every witch has a collection of grimoires. It’s where she records all of her spells and notes about them. For a Goode witch they’re super important because we pass them down from generation to generation,” Mercy explained.

“Ah, I see. A record of how you have cared for the gates.”

“Sorta. But it also has a lot of other spells in it, and random information. What you just told me could help a Goode witch centuries from now—literally.”

A full smile bloomed on his handsome face and he bowed his head slightly to her. “I am pleased to know that I have aided you.”

“You’ve also helped me.” Mercy grinned back at him. “I’m going to go home and cast a spell.”

“You will tell me what happens?” His gaze captured hers again.

She couldn’t look away. “Yes. Promise.” The park’s lights chose that moment to blaze and splashes of white illuminated the parking lot and the cars that parked there. “Crap! I totally lost track of time. Lights are on. I gotta go before someone sees all of this.” She gestured at the swirl of colors between them.

“Yes, of course. Fare thee well, Gatekeeper Mercy.” He bowed to her.

“You, too, Gatekeeper Khenti. And thanks. I needed a friend tonight.” She bent her knees in what she hoped was a cheeky curtsy.

As the barrier faded Khenti’s voice echoed, “As did I, my friend.”

Seven

Jax had brought his Xbox console from the main house and had connected it to the small TV in Hunter’s garage apartment. He and Kylie had gone from the couch to the floor, and now sat even closer to the television (and each other) to better see each of their players in the split-screen Call of Duty game. The sun had also changed positions and slipped from the heavens, replaced by the cool black cloak of night as Jax and Kylie sat whooping and hollering after each kill. Normally, Hunter would have found it annoying, but there was something about Kylie that shimmered in the air and quelled Hunter’s nerves.

A burst of citrus filled the small space as Kylie shook back her hair and glided her fingers through her shiny reddish blond waves. Hunter clutched her open spellbook and inhaled so deeply her shirt strained against her full chest. She was calm, focused, inspired—maybe this is what it was like to have a muse.

When their current game ended, Jax shouted a testosterone-fueled yes and pulled Kylie into a hug that lasted much longer than a friendly embrace. Hunter frowned. No, Kylie couldn’t be her muse. Not when the cheerleader was so clearly interested in Hunter’s best friend.

Kylie’s phone chirped and she pulled away from Jax to answer. “It’s my mom.” She smiled and lifted the phone to her ear as she headed toward the front door. “Why, hello there, Momster—” The door closed behind her, reducing her words to the dull wah wah of a Charlie Brown adult.

Jax plopped onto the couch next to Hunter. “She’s great.” He sighed, his dark eyes sparkling as he stared at the door. “Really, really great.”

Beneath Hunter’s hand, the spellbook thrummed. Her gaze flicked from it, to Jax, and back to the spell she’d been focused on all day. WANT. She flattened her palm against the page. “Say that again.”

Jax stretched his arm along the back of the couch as he turned to Hunter. “Kylie frickin’ rocks.” His crooked teeth peeked out from under his top lip. “I wish she wouldn’t have put her sweats on over those tiny shorts.”

You feel it, don’t you, Witch? Amphitrite’s voice slipped into Hunter’s mind with the ease of sunlight through glass. How the book speaks to you, calls to you?

Hunter squeezed her eyelids closed. “Shut up,” she commanded, her eyes fluttering open.

Jax sagged against the couch cushion and tossed his hands into the air. “I can’t help my horny boyness. I am a horny boy.”

Hunter’s heartbeat quickened and her fingertips heated. “Not that.” She glossed her tongue across her lips and swallowed a shaking breath. “I mean, yes, you’re gross, but that’s not why I said to be quiet.”

Feed it, Hunter Goode, Amphitrite urged. Feed it and it will grow, and the stronger you’ll both become.

Jax held up his finger. “You told me to shut up, which is way more hostile than be quiet.”

Heat swarmed Hunter’s hand and climbed up her wrist. “Do you want to argue about my level of sass, or do you want to do a spell?”

Jax’s brown eyes flew to the closed front door. “Kylie’s right outside.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Of this room and our pentagram of trust.”

A grin lifted Hunter’s lips. Pentagram of trust. Not cool enough to be the name of their coven, but definitely cute. “True, but this spell is about her.”

Again, Jax’s attention wandered to the door as if he had X-ray vision and could see Kylie’s lithe, powerful form through the wood. “About her how?”

Hunter slid the spellbook between them. “This book sent a message straight to my witchy woman powers and told me that this spell is for you.” She forced her hand away from the page and the magic that rose from it like steam. “You want Kylie. Let’s see if Kylie wants you. It’ll be like all those years ago when my mom gave Em’s dad cookies that made Helene’s true feelings known. They were married three months later.”

Silence stained the air between the friends. Hunter’s mom and Emily’s dad were both dead, and neither Jax nor Hunter could do anything to fix it.

Jax opened his mouth to speak but paused, his lips working on an answer his tongue wasn’t yet ready to supply. Finally, he spoke. “Before everything happened, Mr. and Mrs. Parrott were days away from getting divorced.”

“Not because of my mom’s spell. If you can even call it that.” Anxiety pooled in Hunter’s gut and she bit down to keep her teeth from clacking.

“You’re witches! What else would you call it?”

Hunter shook her head. “That’s not the point!” she hissed. “Do you want to know whether or not Kylie wants you the same way you want her? Or are you going to spend the entire summer playing video games and bumming rides hoping she makes the first move?”

Jax’s jaw looked carved from steel as he pondered Hunter’s question. “Fine. As long as the spell doesn’t force her to have feelings that aren’t really there.”

Hunter glanced down at the open spellbook and the subtitle penned below the title, WANT.

Once an Empty Well. Now Your Cup Runneth Over.

She knew exactly what to do. Excitement pricked hot against her skin as she swallowed back her questions and hung a smile on her lips. “That’s not even possible.”

She hadn’t lied. She just wasn’t sure of the truth.

A rush of heat swept through Hunter as she picked up the book and moved from the couch to the floor. “We’re making a pentagram out of items.” She paused to listen for the muffled wah wah wah of Kylie’s conversation before she motioned for Jax to join her. “Three of yours and two of hers.”

Jax looked around as he folded his long legs and sat on the floor across from Hunter. “We don’t have anything of Kylie’s or mine in here.”

Hunter puffed out panicked breaths as she scoured the room for something, anything she could use. “Shoes!” She pointed to the front wall and the poster that read LEAVE YOUR WORRIES AND YOUR SHOES AT THE DOOR.

Jax laid back, stretched his arms over his head, grabbed the shoes, and sat back up before Hunter had even gotten to her feet. He dropped the shoes next to the spellbook and grinned. “You want mine, too?”

Hunter grimaced. “Absolutely not.” He still hadn’t showered from practice. Kylie was the only reason Hunter couldn’t smell how sweaty and gross he was. Even though she was outside, her sweet grapefruit scent still coated the air.

Jax shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets as Hunter moved Kylie’s shoes to the points at the arms of the invisible pentagram and placed the book between them.

“Will these work?” Jax held out his phone, school ID, and two protein bar wrappers.

Hunter plucked the phone and ID from his hands. “I’m pretty sure trash doesn’t count, so we’re still one short.”

With a nod, he closed his mouth. His jaw worked like he was chewing gum before he held his hand up to his chin and spit. Clear plastic flew into his palm along with a dollop of saliva. “Number three,” he chimed and placed the Invisalign tray at the head of the pentagram.

Hunter couldn’t help but frown. The pentagram looked like the contents of Goodeville High’s lost-and-found bin. She shook her head, pushed her doubts aside, and surrendered to the magic that increased her heart rate and plucked at her nerves.

She read the spell’s next steps a final time before she sucked in a deep breath and took Jax’s hand in both of hers. “Do you trust me?”

Jax nodded, his gaze never leaving hers.

And so it begins … Amphitrite hummed.

Hunter relaxed into the laughter that snaked between her ears and lifted the hairs on her arms. The goddess had already given her more than Tyr ever had. And now Amphitrite was assisting with a spell that would not only make Jax happy but would also fill in the empty pages of her spellbook. This is what she’d meant by feed it. Hunter was going to grow her power and make everything better. She knew it, just as she knew the moon would once again be full.

Another deep breath and Hunter flipped Jax’s palm toward the ceiling. Blue light coated Hunter’s fingers and salty spray dusted her cheeks. Her eyes flicked up to his. “Do you see that?”

He blinked back at her, his brows pinched. “See what? Is something supposed to happen?”

He is a mortal. There are many things he cannot see, Amphitrite hissed. Hurry, Witch. Complete the spell before the girl returns.

“We have to be quick.” Hunter squeezed Jax’s hand in hers to keep from trembling. “And remember your intention: what does Kylie want?”

His hair flopped against his forehead with another nod.

Hunter dragged her blue-tipped index finger along the end of Jax’s thumb. “Τομή.” Cut. Her voice deepened to a purr that vibrated against the back of her throat as she uttered the Greek spell word without thinking. The line she drew morphed into a thin cut, and Jax flinched as blood welled against his skin.

Hunter guided his hand to the top point of the pentagram and squeezed his thumb. Blood dripped onto the plastic and pooled in the hollows of Jax’s dental imprint before sizzling and disappearing into nothing.

“θέλω.” I want. Another low hum, and Amphitrite’s laughter slithered through Hunter’s veins.

Jax’s breathing quickened as Hunter brought his bloody hand to Kylie’s shoe. “Θέλεις.” You want.

Sweat popped against his forehead as she squeezed his thumb and dripped crimson over his school ID, his phone, and finally Kylie’s other shoe.

Amphitrite’s ghostly laughter tightened Hunter’s chest and squeezed her heart as the young witch cupped her hand under Jax’s thumb and collected his blood. She released him and held the scarlet pool over the white pages of her spellbook.

“Θέλουμε.” We want.

She roared and slammed her bloody palm against the pages. The pentagram ignited with electric red light that illuminated each item and connected them with fiery bolts. She and Jax shielded their eyes as the book slammed shut and the five items lifted from the floor.

It is done! Amphitrite’s laughter screeched through Hunter so loud and sharp that she pressed her hands over her ears.

Power exploded from the pentagram and crashed against Hunter. She flew backward and landed on the floor with a heavy thud. The five items dropped onto the rug as Hunter sat up and blinked the red star from her vision.

Blood dripped from Jax’s thumb as he rubbed his eyes. “What the hell was that?”

The doorknob jiggled and the door let out a breathy whoosh as Kylie ended her call. Hunter’s stomach squeezed and her heart galloped within her chest as she tossed Kylie’s shoes back to the front of the room and snatched her spellbook from the floor.

Jax shoved his braces and ID into his pocket and busied himself with his phone as Kylie stepped inside.

“Sorry about that.” She brushed her hair behind her ears and smiled. “My sister’s birthday is next week and my mom’s trying to plan our trip to Northwestern to surprise her, but she refuses to hear that Reese would rather die than have us pop up at her dorm.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Jax stammered, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I mean, surprises … they’re just—”

“The worst.” Hunter supplied, nodding so adamantly her hair flopped in front of her face.

Kylie cocked her head and slipped her phone into her pocket. “You guys okay?”

Hunter leaned against the couch and did her best to feign nonchalance while she hid her bloody palm. “We’re terrific.”

“Super great.” Jax swept his hand through his hair and flashed a cute, crooked-toothed grin. “How about you?”

She shoved the sleeves of her windbreaker up past her elbows and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I’m actually starving. How do you feel about pizza?”

“You had me at starving,” Jax said and leapt to his feet. “Want to come to the house with me to get some pop?” he asked, leaning down to offer Kylie his arm. “With you there, my mom is less likely to yell at me about pizza not being a real meal.”

With a giggle, Kylie stuffed her feet into her shoes and hooked her arm through his. “How can pizza not be a real meal?” she asked as Jax opened the door. “It has all the food groups…” Their conversation faded as the door closed behind them.

It was only a matter of time before they knew for sure whether or not Kylie wanted Jax. Hunter released a pent-up exhale and caught herself before she collapsed onto the floor. The spellbook spilled out of her lap and landed on the rug beside her. Her heart thrummed with another surge of adrenaline as she scooped up the book and brushed her hand along the fleshy cover. A crimson streak ran along the bottom of the book and faded into pink then milky white at the top. She flipped through the spells and stopped when she reached WANT. She gasped and pressed her fingers against her lips. The page was the same deep red as the blood crusted against her palm. Her hand trembled as she turned the page. Another spell. She laughed against her copper-tinged fingers as she turned one page, and then another, and another. Four new spells. She was that much closer to fixing the gates.

Hunter sprawled out on the rug and clutched the book against her bare stomach. “Thank you, Amphitrite.”

Salt coated Hunter’s tongue, sticky and dry, as mist dotted her lashes.

You’re welcome, young witch, Amphitrite purred. But it is far from finished feeding.

Hunter nuzzled the creamy soft cover against her cheek and pressed down the worry that had begun to tug on her stomach. Feeding the spellbook once had been easy. It couldn’t be that hard to do it once more. Plus, additional spells meant additional power. And more power meant Hunter would never again get lost in the shadows.

Eight

It was fully dark when Mercy pulled out of Goode Park. She halted at a stop sign and tried to decide whether she should chance it and cut through the neighborhood that surrounded the park to Main Street, where she’d then turn left and be home super fast—or whether she should go the opposite direction and wind around the country roads that framed the corn and bean fields outside of town to take the long way home—when her phone lit up. The screen said ABIGAIL/MOM with her familiar Aretha Franklin “Respect” ringtone.

For an instant Mercy froze and her heart felt like it was going to fly out of her chest. And then she remembered that Xena had been using Abigail’s phone. With a trembling hand she hit the accept button and the cat person’s voice blared throughout the Camry.

“Kitten! Are you ever coming home?”

“Yes! I just left the last tree—the doum at the park. Sorry it took so long, but Khenti—”

“Yes, yes, you can tell me all about the odd Egyptian reptile boy when you get home and we are eating dinner.” Xena paused. “Which means we need dinner, kitten!” she shouted.

Mercy cringed. “Sheesh, Xena, you don’t need to yell. I can hear you just fine.”

“You know I am not good with electronics!” Xena continued to shout.

“I know.” Mercy hastily turned the volume down on the phone call. “I’ll be home in a few minutes and we’ll decide what to eat.”

“Oh, I already know what we should eat, which is why I called. On your way home please stop by that restaurant where my Abigail used to get my seafood pizza.”

“Foxfire Woodstove Pizzeria?”

“That is exactly it! I would like one small pizza—with extra tuna and no vegetables except broccoli.”

Mercy shuddered in disgust. “Gross, and broccoli?”

“It is the only green I can abide besides the wheatgrass you and Abigail grow for me,” said the cat person.

“It still boggles my mind that they actually make a pizza with shrimp and tuna on it.”

“It is quite delicious. And, of course, get your vile vegetable concoction, too.”

“Um, you do remember that the seafood pizza always makes you sick, don’t you? I mean, seriously, Xena, last time Abigail got it for you I had to clean your litter box. Talk about vile.”

“That was because my cat body has trouble with too much cheese. My human body likes it. Very much. And you needn’t worry; I shall use the human litter box.”

“You mean the toilet?”

“Yes, of course. Will you be a dear and hurry? I am quite hungry and none of the cans of albacore tuna are opened. I tried to use that thing and I broke a nail.”

Xena stopped talking and Mercy heard a weird wet sound echoing from the car speakers around her. “Ohmygoddess, are you licking your fingernail?”

Xena swallowed quickly and audibly. “Not now I’m not. Hurry, kitten. I think I might be faint with hunger.”

Mercy rolled her eyes as she envisioned the voluptuous cat person who definitely was in no danger of passing out if she missed a meal. “Xena, if you’re that hungry call the pizza place and give them our takeout order. I know Abigail has Foxfire in her contacts; you don’t even need to look it up.”

“Kitten, I prefer not to speak to strangers.” She whispered the last word so that it almost sounded like a hiss.

Mercy sighed. “Okay, well, then you’ll have to wait a little longer. I’m only a few minutes away from downtown, so I’ll stop by the pizza place, wait for our to-go order, and then be home.” Mercy cleared her throat and then added with feigned nonchalance, “Uh, have you heard from Hunter?”

There was a stretch of silence before Xena answered in a much-subdued tone. “No. Shall I find her name in Abigail’s phone and press call?”

“Oh, bloody hell no!” Mercy’s response was quick and the words burst from her like a command. She sighed and licked her lips, which felt as dry and cracked as her feelings, and started over with less emotion. “What I mean is don’t call her because of me. If you want to try to talk to her, go ahead, but be prepared for her to hurt your feelings. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you she barely looked at me all day at school.”

Xena’s sigh mirrored hers. “Perhaps our Hunter just needs some time.”

“Yeah, perhaps.” Mercy said the words without believing them. Something had happened to Hunter and she didn’t think time would change it. “I’ll get your pizza—with extra tuna. See ya soon.”

“Oh, kitten, could you also bring home some of those lovely salts for my bath? I’ve used all of Abigail’s and I do need my nightly soak. I am not as young as I once was, you know.”

“Exactly how old are you, Xena?” Mercy asked mischievously—knowing the question would definitely get the cat off the phone.

Xena’s gasp was Oscar-worthy. “A lady never tells her age!”

“You’re not a lady.”

“I most definitely am. At this moment. Now, will you get me my salts?”

“Of course. The IGA’s just down the street from Foxfire. I’ll get them while the pizzas are cooking.”

“Thank you, kitten! I shall be waiting on the porch with the light—” Midsentence Xena accidentally hung up on her.

“That cat…” Mercy muttered. She was so used to Hunter being with her that she heard her twin’s response of, Right? That cat! lift from her memory—but that’s all it was. Just a memory.

Mercy shook herself mentally. “Welp, Xena made my decision for me.” She spoke aloud to chase away the ghost of her absent twin. Foxfire Pizzeria was in the northern section of Main Street, not far from the IGA. Mercy glanced at the digital clock on the dash—it was almost nine o’clock on a weeknight. “Sod it!” Mercy took a left. “Hardly anyone will be downtown anyway.”

It didn’t take her long to navigate through the sleepy neighborhood to Main Street, where she turned left again and easily found a parking spot right in front of Foxfire Pizzeria. Feeling relieved that the heart of the town appeared to already have gone to bed, Mercy closed the car door with her hip as she shoved her hand in her bottomless purse and felt around for her violet Kate Spade wallet.

“Repent, Witch! The end is near!”

The shout was punctuated by the siren of a police car.

Mercy was so startled by the simultaneous shout-siren that she almost dropped her purse. Her head snapped up to see a tall, painfully thin man with dishwater-colored hair that hung in mats around his shoulders pointing a dirty finger at her from the middle of the sidewalk.

“Bloody hell, Chuck. You almost gave me a heart attack.” Mercy glanced around, expecting to see the police cruiser speed by, but the siren seemed to be coming from the neighborhood behind Main Street—and it shut off abruptly. She turned her attention back to the shouter on the sidewalk and frowned at the man she and her sister had dubbed Creepy Chuck when they were in grade school. Goodeville’s conspiracy theorist and self-proclaimed Prophet of Jesus was harmless, except for his smell and his ability to be soundless when he wasn’t shrieking at Goodeville residents to repent and prepare for the Rapture. She started to walk past him as she shook her head. “Seriously, it’s not cool to sneak up on people and yell at them like that.”

He moved with fluid quickness to block her and bent down so that his face was way too close to hers. Spittle flew as he shouted, “It spreads! Infects! Poisons! From them to me, and me to us. Can you not see?” The horrible stench of gum disease wafted over her along with another, more coppery scent.

She gagged and stumbled back, as the door to the pizzeria opened and the middle-aged owner, Terry Mitchell, rushed out.

“Chuck, I’ve told you before—you harass people by my restaurant and I’ll call the cops on you! Now leave Hunter alone and get goin’.” Mr. Mitchell made a shooing motion at him.

Chuck glared. “You are blind, too! When will you see the poison? What will it take?”

Mr. Mitchell pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Okay, then. Calling the cops it is.” Before the restaurant owner could connect the call a second siren wailed from somewhere behind him, and even though its sound was different—more ambulance than police—Creepy Chuck spun around as if he could see through the block of buildings before he turned back to face Mercy.

“You’ll be sorry! Repent and stop the abomination you have caused!” Chuck shouted in Mercy’s face then laughed maniacally as he sprinted past her and into the street where he caused a truck to brake abruptly to avoid hitting him.

Mr. Mitchell shook his head as Chuck disappeared into the shadows. “That crazy is a nuisance. You okay there, Hunter?”

“Mercy,” she corrected automatically. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sheesh, he has bad breath.”

“Next time Sheriff Dearborn comes in for a pizza I’m gonna have to have words with him. Chuck’s gotten worse and worse. He’s setting my customers on edge. I actually had to stop a fight between two grown men right out here yesterday afternoon—broad daylight! The truth is Chuck’s bad for business. Speaking of—you coming in for a pie, or you going down the street to a lesser restaurant?” Mr. Mitchell smiled good-naturedly at her—and then his brows went up as his memory kicked in and in a much more subdued voice he added, “Real sorry to hear about your mom, Hunter. Real sorry.”

Mercy sighed, but didn’t bother to correct him. Again. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Yeah, I’m here for takeout.”

“Your usual? Individual seafood pizza, extra tuna add broccoli, and a large veggie pie?”

Mercy’s stomach felt sick as she corrected the order. “Well, almost. Make the large veggie an individual, too. And, um, add a Greek side salad, please.”

“I can do that!” Mr. Mitchell said, his jovial self again. “Want a Coke while you wait?” He opened the door to the pizzeria and the delicious scents of bubbling cheese and roasting dough teased Mercy’s nose.

“Sure, but I need to run to the IGA real quick.” Mercy jerked her chin to her right at the almost deserted parking lot of the one grocery store in Goodeville.

“Better hurry. It’s almost nine, and the Igga closes then,” said Mr. Mitchell.

“’Kay, I’ll be right back.” Mercy gave him a little wave as she slung her purse over her shoulder and jogged up the concrete stairs that led from the diagonal parking spaces that lined Main Street to the wide sidewalk, then she turned right and walked briskly along the quiet street.

The shop next door to Foxfire Woodstove Pizzeria was Olde Towne Florist. Mercy had zero clue why they’d added the two e’s, but she’d always kinda liked the way it looked, especially because she and Hunter pronounced them and laughed and laughed …

“Nope. Not going there,” Mercy said. She averted her eyes from the e-filled storefront sign. Beside the florist was J’aime le Vin, a high-end wineshop, which made Mercy feel suddenly nostalgic. She smiled sadly as she remembered Abigail’s gasp of happiness when she found out Goodeville was getting the store. For the first time she was glad she wasn’t twenty-one. With a quick glance inside as she hurried past she recognized Samantha Monroe, the woman behind the counter who was arranging expensive bottles of wine before closing. “Like I want to be called Hunter again and told how sorry she is about Abigail?” Mercy muttered.

The post office was next to the wineshop. It had been closed for hours, but instead of being silent and dark Mercy heard male voices coming from the alley that separated it from the IGA. Mercy slowed as the red-and-blue lights of a police cruiser reflected off the brick side of the IGA across the alley.

Mercy stepped over the curb and gawked down the alley. She wasn’t sure what she expected to see—maybe a kid who got caught painting graffiti, or that the cops had pulled over someone who had run one of the two stoplights on Main Street. What she hadn’t expected—hadn’t even considered—was that there would be an ambulance beside the sheriff’s car, yellow CRIME SCENE tape going up, and a bloody-faced body being zipped into a black bag by two EMTs.

Mercy’s feet stopped moving as the red lights of the ambulance grotesquely illuminated the face of the corpse. Just before the EMT closed the body bag she clearly saw that he was missing his eyes.

Mercy must have made some sound, because Deputy Carter was suddenly jogging toward her, obviously trying to block her view. “Please move along,” he said. “There’s nothing here you want to see.”

“He’s dead!” The words hurled from Mercy’s mouth. “And his eyes are gone!”

“Oh, it’s you, Miss Goode. Hey, I wanted to say how sorry I am that I had to give you the third degree the other day. Still no sign of Sheriff Dearborn. Really wish we’d find him, though.” Gently, Deputy Carter took her elbow and guided her from the alley and back to the sidewalk. “This is a crime scene. I need to be sure it remains intact. You understand that, don’t you, Hunt—”

“I’m Mercy, not Hunter,” she interrupted. “Who is it? Who was killed?”

Deputy Carter tilted his hat back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. His kind gray eyes were shadowed and he looked decades older than his twenty-five years. “I can’t say. His family hasn’t been notified.”

Mercy caught his gaze with hers. “But the dead man’s eyes are gone, right? Just like Mr. Parrott.” And Mr. Thompson, and almost Hunter …

The young deputy’s gaze slid from hers. “Can’t really talk about the details of the case,” he said. He took her elbow again and walked her a few feet back toward the pizza place. “I’m going to ask you to move on, now, Mercy.”

Mercy felt like her head was going to explode. She nodded dazedly. When the deputy let loose her elbow she stumbled. He reached out to steady her, but she shook him off. “I’m fine. Really. I’m okay. Gotta, uh, get my pizza.” Mercy turned her back to him and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other.

But Hunter killed Polyphemus … Hunter killed Polyphemus … Hunter killed Polyphemus!

The words circled around and around inside Mercy’s mind as she numbly paid for the pizzas and salad. Later she couldn’t recall anything Mr. Mitchell had said to her. She also barely remembered the short drive north to the end of Main Street. Xena was on the porch when she parked the car in their driveway without bothering with the garage. The cat person was on her feet, clapping happily as Mercy trudged up the front stairs with the boxes from the pizzeria. From the porch swing behind her Emily stood and said, “Surprise! Xena called and invited me over for dinner.” Em smiled at Xena and then sneezed. “Sorry, ’scuse me. Anyway, she thought I needed something to get my mind off Dad’s funeral tomorrow, and I was like, that’s really sweet Xena, and so I—” One good look at Mercy’s face and Emily’s words broke off.

“Are you okay?” Em asked.

“What is it, kitten?” Xena hurried to take the to-go boxes from her.

“Th-there’s been…” Mercy had to stop and clear the shock from her throat. She looked from Xena to her best friend, who had just lost her father to a horribly similar murder just days before. “Can we go inside? I need to brew some chamomile and lavender tea.”

Xena’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, of course.” She handed the pizza boxes to Emily. “Darling Emily kitten, would you take these for me and put them in the oven on warm while I help our Mercy inside?”

Emily’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she shrugged and took the boxes. “Yeah, sure.” Ahead of them, she went inside while Xena hung back with Mercy.

“Tell me,” Xena said.

“There’s been another murder. Downtown in the alley beside the post office. I don’t know who’s dead, but I do know that his body is missing its eyes.”

Xena gasped. “This is bad. This is so, so very bad…”

“What the bloody hell do I tell Em?” Mercy asked as she picked at her lip.

“The truth, kitten. It will come out eventually anyway. So, let us tell your friend the truth. It will be better coming from those who love her.” Xena took her hand. “I shall help you and we shall both be there for our Emily kitten.”

Nine

“I don’t understand. Didn’t Hunter kill the Cyclops and send him back to the Greek Underworld?” Emily’s umber skin looked ashen. She sat on the couch between Mercy and Xena. Three untouched plates of pizza and salad rested before them on the coffee table. Each of them held a mug of steaming chamomile and lavender tea that Xena kept reminding them to sip.

“She did,” Xena said firmly.

“But did she, or was she so freaked out from losing Tyr that she only thought she did?” Mercy asked.

Xena’s eyes flashed with anger. “Hunter returned Polyphemus to Tartarus. She is not here to say it, but you know better than that. Our Hunter would not lie about something of such great import.”

Mercy’s shoulders bowed and she picked at the gold rim of the porcelain cup. “Yeah, I get that. I didn’t mean that she lied. I just meant that maybe she thought she’d gotten rid of the Cyclops when she really hadn’t.”

“But her new goddess was involved.” Emily picked up her piece of pizza, nibbled at the end of it, and then listlessly put it back on the plate. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

“It does indeed,” Xena said. “Amphitrite is a powerful deity. With her aid Hunter defeated the monster.”

“Then why did I just see an eyeless dead guy get loaded into an ambulance?”

“I shall call my Hunter kitten,” Xena said resolutely. She stood and then looked around the living room helplessly before asking, “Has anyone seen Abigail’s phone?”

Emily cleared her throat and almost smiled. “Yeah, I saw you put it in the pocket of your bathrobe.”

Xena’s hand disappeared into one of the voluminous pockets of Abigail’s robe and emerged with the phone that still wore the cover decorated with a pentagram wrapped in vines that Mercy and Hunter had made for their mom’s birthday the year before. “I shall call my Hunter kitten,” she repeated. “Now.”

Mercy and Emily watched as the cat person pawed at the screen of the phone. Brow furrowed it took her several tries, but finally she flashed a victorious smile and pressed the call button. Then she lifted the phone to her ear. “I found her!”

“Xena, Abigail has both of us in her favorites, so you could just—”

“Shh!” Xena help up a hand tipped with sharp, perfectly manicured nails and whispered, “It is ringing!”

Mercy waited. And then waited some more. Finally Xena said, “Kitten! I wish to…” but her words trailed away as she realized it was only a recording of Hunter’s voice. Still, the cat person straightened her back, paused, and then in one rush said, “Kitten, it is your Xena and I must speak with you urgently about the horrid Cyclops killer because there had been a death! Downtown! Tonight! Oh, kitten, Mercy says the body has no eyes and we are quite wor—” Xena’s wave of words ended as she lowered the phone and blinked rapidly. “It did not allow me to finish.”

Mercy put her cup and saucer on the coffee table and dug her phone out of her giant purse, which was by her feet. “I’ll try.” She tapped Hunter’s number and looked away from the contact picture that showed a selfie Hunter had taken with the open first page of her writing journal that blazed WHEN DARKNESS RISES, the title of her perpetual book in progress, across it. Unlike Xena, she wasn’t surprised when Hunter’s canned voice told her to leave a message, which she did not do. “She’s not answering me, either.”

“Try texting her. It is late for a school night. She might have her phone on silent and she’ll see your text first thing in the morning,” said Emily.

“Will do.” Mercy tried not to sound super negative, but she knew her sister—or rather, she used to know her sister—and the Hunter she knew would never have ignored back-to-back calls from her family. Still, she texted quickly, DEAD BODY DOWNTOWN—NO EYES—COULD CYCLOPS BE BACK???? WE NEED 2 TALK!!! “Done. But if she doesn’t answer we’re gonna have to make her talk to us.”

“Do you, uh, think she’ll be at Dad’s funeral tomorrow?” Emily’s voice sounded heartbreakingly young.

Mercy put her arm around her best friend and squeezed her shoulders. “Em, we’ll all be there.”

“That is right, Emily kitten.” Xena leaned into her and Emily sneezed. “Oh, sorry. I do wish you weren’t allergic to me.”

Emily wiped her nose on the back of her hand and quickly opened the little strawberry-colored crossbody she’d slung over her shoulder. She pulled out a small plastic bottle and then popped a pill into her mouth, using the tea to wash it down. “It’s okay. I gotta set a reminder to be sure I take this allergy medicine Mom got me.” She smiled at Xena and zipped up her purse. “I told her that it makes me feel better when you curl up on my lap—except that you also make me sneeze my brains out—so she got me some Zyrtec or Claritin, or whatever. It’s supposed to help.”

“What a lovely idea!” said Xena.

“Sounds like you and your mom are getting closer,” Mercy said.

Emily’s smile turned sad. “Yeah, it’s like she’s trying to make up for Dad being gone. When I think about getting closer to her I’m glad, but when I think about why I feel guilty for being glad.”

“Don’t do that to yourself, Em. I didn’t know your dad real well, but I think he’d be happy you and your mom are close.”

“Yes, kitten.” Xena licked her fingers and smoothed a dark curl back from Emily’s face. “And your mother is trying.”

Emily stared at Xena as the cat person licked her hand again and reached out to continue smoothing her curls—and Mercy hastily rescued her by standing and pulling her bestie up from the couch with her. “Xena! People don’t think it’s okay to touch each other’s hair like that.”

Emily snorted a laugh as she patted her dark curl back into place. “And there’s a much bigger conversation we need to have about hair-touching.”

Xena turned her frown from Emily to Mercy. “Then it is a rather good thing that I am not a people.”

Mercy opened her mouth to start explaining that bigger conversation to Xena when Emily sneezed so hard that the cup and saucer she was holding rattled and almost toppled to the wood floor. Em wiped her nose and shrugged.

“Xena does have a point. She’s definitely not a people.”

“Exactly,” said Xena before she blew across her teacup and then lapped at the golden liquid.

Mercy shook her head in defeat before she said, “Hey, I need to cast a spell. How about you come with me and be my witness?”

Emily’s fawn eyes lit with excitement. “Ooooh, magic? Do you need my help?”

“Well, not with the spell itself. That’s pretty simple. But it would help if you’d watch the results with me. I need to understand if the trees are sick because my magic isn’t working—or whether it’s something else.”

“Like that the only place your magic doesn’t work is the gates?” Emily said.

“Yeah, like that. Xena, you wanna come with us?”

Xena froze mid-lick of her tea. “Sorry, kitten, what did you say? I so enjoy the taste of honey that sometimes I forget myself.”

“Em and I are going out to my greenhouse so I can cast a quick spell. It was Khenti’s idea, and I think it’s a good one. Do you want to come with us?”

“No, you kittens go ahead. I shall finish my tea and, perhaps, lick the tuna and shrimp off my lovely pizza. Do you think it would be too unhealthy of me to ignore the broccoli?”

“You do you, Xena,” said Mercy as she and Em shared a grimace at the grossness of Xena’s tuna, shrimp, and broccoli pizza. “We won’t be long.”

“And I’ll say bye now.” Emily bent and hugged Xena while carefully turning her face away from the cat person’s mane of wild hair. “I need to get home and try to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be really hard.”

Xena hugged her back. “Then good night, kitten. We will be there for you tomorrow.” Then the cat person cupped Emily’s face between her hands and licked her gently on her forehead before releasing her.

Emily waited until they were in the kitchen to wipe at her forehead. “That’s really nasty.”

“Right? But it does mean she loves you.” Mercy disappeared into the voluminous pantry and gathered a white pillar candle and wooden spellwork matches, a bag of salt, and a Mason jar of water that had been charged by the full moon. Then, arms linked, the girls went out the back door and slowly walked the stepping-stone path toward Mercy’s beloved greenhouse—the last birthday gift Abigail would ever give her daughter. The moon was waning, but the night was clear and the stars looked like a goddess had broken a necklace of crystal beads that then scattered across the black velvet sky. Abigail’s koi pond and the fountain of Athena that poured into it were lit up so that lazy, watery shadows washed across the yard. The best friends tilted their heads together.

“You haven’t said hardly anything about your Egyptian guy,” Em said.

“He’s not my anything.”

Em snorted. “So, he’s super fine, right?”

“His head looks like a cross between a dragon and an alligator—or maybe a crocodile. Gotta look up the difference between the two again.”

Emily bumped her shoulder. “You said he also has a human head. And I remember that Hunter said he didn’t wear very many clothes.”

“It’s hot in Egypt.” Mercy felt her cheeks also get hot as her imagination sent her an image of Khenti in his almost-nothing warrior’s outfit.

Emily pulled her to a stop. “You are blushing.”

“Well, I just…” She sighed. “Yes, he’s super fine.”

“I knew it!”

“Em, he’s from another world, plus I’m on the rebound and the last thing I need is a boyfriend right now.”

“He doesn’t have to be your boyfriend for you to spill all the deets. So, spill.”

They started walking again as Mercy shrugged and tried to find the right words to describe Khenti. “He’s nice. I mean really nice and not Kirk pretend nice.”

Emily gave her the side-eye.

“Seriously! Khenti actually listens to me. And, um, I didn’t want to admit this when I was with him, but Kirk really isn’t very smart.”

“Ya think?”

Mercy rolled her eyes, but continued, “Khenti seems authentically smart. And he doesn’t have mommy issues, even though his mom is dead.”

“Oh shit! I’m sorry.”

Mercy nodded. “Yeah, he told me that today. It sounds like they were really close. And his dad’s some big, important demi-god guy who stresses Khenti out. He’s lonely, and I understand that.”

“Hey, you okay?” Emily touched her shoulder.

“Yeah. The Hunter stuff is hard, though.” Mercy cleared her throat. “Anyway, he’s nice and cute, but all we are is friends.”

“For now.”

Mercy’s snort mimicked Em’s. “Forever. Did you miss the part about him literally being in another world?”

“Girl, you know I’m a hopeless romantic, so I’m gonna ignore that part.”

Just outside the greenhouse was a tidy compost bin. Mercy paused there to use her gardening scoop to get a little of the fertile mixture. Then she opened the door and flipped on the row of overhead grow lights. She breathed in her favorite scents—dirt and growing things.

“Holy crap, Mag! I haven’t been in here since you got it all set up.” Emily walked up and down the rows of raised beds, gently touching delicate leaves and baby plants. “You seriously have a green thumb.”

Mercy laughed. “Em, I’m a Green Witch—it’s all part of that.”

“Well, I’m jelly. I can’t even grow cactuses.”

“I’ve told you like a zillion times—stop watering them so much and give them more sun.”

Emily shrugged. “I hear the words you speak, but somehow I can’t make your directions work.”

Mercy took Em’s shoulders in her hands and looked into her friend’s face. “It’s okay. You have other strengths.”

“Like?”

“You’re smart and funny and kind—and you have amazing hair.”

“Hmm. You’re right. I’ll stop murdering plants and leave the green stuff to you.” She gently touched the frond of a hanging fern. “So, what kinda spell are you doing and what do you want me to observe?”

“Oh, it’s simple. Come on over here to the orchids.” Emily followed Mercy down the length of the tidy greenhouse packed with thriving plants to the part of the center table that held rows of orchids. Some of them were blooming, but the majority had long, curving stems that dipped under the weight of as-yet unopened blossoms.

“These are so pretty. I’m almost scared to stand too close to them in case they recognize a plant murderer and shrivel up.”

Mercy laughed. “Don’t worry. They know they’re safe with me here.” She studied the grouping of orchids before picking one that had six tightly closed blossoms resting along a gracefully curving stem. “Em, could you move the rest of the orchids a little way down the table so I have room to draw a salt pentagram around this one?”

“Sure!” Emily carefully pushed the potted plants toward the end of the table so that Mercy was left with an open space between them and a tray of tomato starts that weren’t quite ready to be transplanted to the Goode’s massive garden yet. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” Mercy placed the orchid in the center of the cleared space. “Okay, I’m going to draw my pentagram, light my candle, and then cast the spell. My intention is to coax this orchid’s blossoms into full bloom.”

“What do you want me to do?” Em asked eagerly.

“Well, you can help by setting the intent of the spell.”

“For the orchid to bloom, right?”

“Yep, exactly. And then watch with me. I’m going to channel the energy from the ley lines. If my magic is working right at least one of those blossoms should open,” Mercy explained.

“Can I ask a quick question?” Emily whispered.

“Sure.” Mercy smiled at her bestie before returning her attention to the bag of salt. She reached in and began to sprinkle a white line that was the beginning of a pentagram—the center of which was the potted orchid. “This isn’t a difficult spell for a Green Witch, especially because my intent is always to help things grow. Ask away.” Mercy poured the second line of the pentagram.

“Well, if this is a bloom spell, why don’t you use it all the time? Wouldn’t that, like, speed up stuff like these little green spindly looking things?” Emily pointed at the sprouts to their left.

“Those are tomatoes. And that’s a good question.” She drew the third salt line as she explained. “In theory I could come out here every day and cast a spell to force everything to bloom and grow, but the key word is force. It wouldn’t be natural, and when any witch messes with what is natural too much it’s not a good thing and there will be consequences.” She scattered the white salt crystals to make the fourth line of the pentagram. “Think of it as me changing from a friend who is supportive and a good listener—someone who nurtures others and gives them space to be themselves—to a bossy bully who tries to force her will on everyone.”

“If you did that no one would be your friend,” said Emily.

“Exactly.” Mercy completed the salt pentagram with the fifth line.

“Oh, I get it! That would make you a plant bully.”

Mercy brushed her hands together to wipe off the salt. “Yep, and my plants would stop thriving.”

“So, does that go for all witches, or just Green Witches like you?” Emily asked.

Mercy took the white pillar candle and placed it above the top point of her salt pentagram. “It’s all witches because all of our powers are tied to nature in some way, whether it’s plants and growing things like I do, or cooking like Abigail.”

“Or the sky and the moon and such like Hunter?”

“Yep, cosmic energy is part of the natural world.” She turned to face Emily as she picked up the compost scoop and distributed the rich fertilizer equally over the dirt already in the orchid’s pot. “Would you hand me the jar of moon water?”

Emily passed her friend the water. Mercy unscrewed the lid and poured some of it onto the orchid. Then she put the jar aside and took a long wooden match from the ritual box, but before she struck it she caught Emily’s gaze.

“I’m going to cast the spell now and then light the candle. While I do that imagine with me that the orchid bursts into bloom.”

“Okay. Wait—I want to get it right. What color are its flowers supposed to be?”

Mercy studied the plant for a moment. “This one’s petals are white with just a blush of pink.”

“Got it.” Emily drew a deep breath and nodded. “Ready.”

Mercy turned to face the table that held her salt pentagram with the orchid in its center. She breathed in and out thrice to ground herself and reached down, down, down to the luminous green ley line that ran, riverlike, within the earth beneath her. In her mind’s eye she imagined that she tapped into that glowing stream of power and drew it up and into her body. Mercy felt the ley line’s answer as she flushed with warmth. Channeling that energy, she struck the match to the box and spoke the words of the simple grow spell.

“Freya, my goddess, in your name I do invoke:

As the season wheel turns

As the candlewick burns

Awaken with the light I bring

I ask that you bloom this night as you would for Mother Spring!”

Mercy touched the match flame to the wick of the white candle, and as she did so she envisioned her orchid bursting into full, beautiful bloom. There was an electric crackle and the candle blazed alight. At the same moment power shimmered around Mercy so fiercely that it became visual, like waves of heat lifting from a hot sidewalk newly cooled by summer rain.

The orchid in the middle of the pentagram shivered, as if in a gentle breeze, and then with the sound of a woman’s sigh, all of its tightly closed buds opened into bloom.

“Holy shit!” Emily gasped.

Mercy was staring at the orchid and felt a giant rush of relief as it blossomed. “Whew, it’s not me!”

“Girl, look around. It’s definitely not you!”

Mercy’s gaze swept her greenhouse and her gasp echoed Emily’s. Every flower in the greenhouse had opened and was in brilliant, beautiful full bloom!

“Freya! Ohmygoddess!” Mercy turned in a slow circle as she drank in the fragrance of newly opened geraniums and petunias, jasmine and freesia. She laughed in delight. “Look, Em! Even the little tomatoes are flowering!”

Emily’s eyes were bright with amazement. “Mag, this is incredible.”

Mercy faced her friend and grabbed her hands. “The trees aren’t sick because I’m not a powerful enough Green Witch to keep them well!”

“Seriously. You’re amazingly strong. There’s no way that what’s going on with the trees and the gates is your fault.” Emily paused, and looked down. “Does—does this mean that it’s Hunter’s fault?”

“I don’t know, Em, but I’m going to find out.”

Ten

“Christian funerals are so very dreary,” Xena said, sotto voce, as she tugged at the neck of the amber-colored silk blouse, then almost tripped on the hem of the long black peasant skirt she’d borrowed from Abigail’s closet. She hissed softly at the flats on her feet then made a sad mewing sound. “Shoes are horrible. Are you quite sure I cannot take them off?”

Mercy shifted the orchid she’d brought so it was cradled against her hip like a toddler, took Xena’s arm, and guided her to one of the shadowy alcoves outside the funeral home’s main viewing parlor. She kept her voice low, but spoke firmly. “No, you cannot take off your shoes. You have to act like a person. Remember? We talked about this when you refused to wear a bra.”

Xena looked down at her plentiful breasts, currently covered with a spandex tank top beneath the silk blouse. “It is odd to have bosoms, but odder yet to be expected to bind and torture them.”

Mercy sighed. “That is something you and Abigail would be in agreement about. But you’ve gotta stop fidgeting and picking at your clothes. This is the visitation. The interment service is private, so we’re only here to support Em and show our respect for Mr. Parrott, then we can go home.”

“I shall be naked for the rest of the day.”

Mercy fervently hoped that meant Xena was going to change into her cat form versus walking around the house as a well-endowed, voluptuous naked woman—who liked to sit on the arm of the couch, but decided that was a battle she wasn’t willing to fight just then. “You can be as naked as you want at home. But you can’t keep messing with your clothes and hissing while we’re in here.” Mercy lowered her voice more and delivered the coup de grâce. “People will think you have fleas.”

Xena hissed. “I have never!”

“Well then don’t act like it. And stop hissing! Come on. The sooner we go in—the sooner we can leave.” Mercy had taken a step forward when the door to the Parrott Family Funeral Home opened. A group of teenagers, somberly dressed and unusually quiet, poured inside. They blinked as their eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight of a pretty spring day to the funeral parlor’s sunset interior lighting of mauve and taupe. Mercy stepped back and froze, studying the group from the shadowy alcove. Tiffany Wilson, the captain of the cheerleading squad was there with Heather Johnson—which made Mercy’s stomach roil, because where there were cheerleaders Kirk and the other football douches could usually be found. With them were three underclassmen from the pom squad, and several band kids. Following hesitantly behind were only two kids from the football team, Jarod Frazier and Dillon Sanders. Mercy held her breath as she waited for Kirk and his asshole of a bestie, Derek Burke, to show up, and then breathed a long, relieved breath when the door closed without them appearing. She couldn’t handle dealing with that on top of everything else right now.

“What is it, kitten?” Xena whispered.

“Nothing. It’s okay. Let’s go in and see Emily.” Mercy squared her shoulders and smoothed a hand down her simple floor-length black lace tank dress and the little sage-colored cardigan she wore over it. Then, arm in arm with Xena she headed to the easel that held a poster-sized portrait of Mr. Parrott and the open double doors to the viewing parlor beyond. She felt the stares of her classmates on her ramrod straight back and was glad she clutched the orchid and Xena so that she couldn’t pick at her lip.

Mr. Parrott’s visitation was in the biggest, most ornate of the viewing rooms. Just inside the doors to their left was a long table that held stately silver urns with placards of gold that labeled them filled with coffee, tea, and water—beside which were row after row of fine porcelain cups and saucers, as well as plastic cups and plates. Claw-footed crystal pastry trays elegantly held an impressive assortment of petit fours. The linen napkins beside the fine flatware were embroidered with elaborate cursive Ps.

Mercy’s gaze swept from the table to the gold-upholstered chairs that rested in neat rows. A few people were seated, but most were clustered in little groups around the perimeter of the room. They sipped from the delicate teacups and murmured like wind soughing through fall leaves. At the far end of the room was a raised dais filled with huge bouquets of flowers and enormous wreaths. In the center of the mass of flowers was a tall, marble pillar that held a silver urn, beside which were several more easels. Each held a different picture of Emily’s dad, and standing to the right of the display at the bottom of the dais were Mrs. Parrott, Emily’s grandparents, and Mercy’s best friend with her hands fisted at her side. In one of those fists was a tissue and every few breaths Em mechanically wiped at the tears that leaked silently down her cheeks.

“Oh, poor little kitten,” Xena said softly. “Let us go to her.”

It was hard for Mercy to speak, so she nodded and was suddenly glad Xena was there, warm and alive and loving. Their linked arms propelled Mercy forward, though her feet felt as heavy as her soul.

As soon as Emily saw them she touched her mom’s arm, whispered something to her, and then stepped around the visitation line and met Mercy and Xena at the edge of the room.

Xena unwound her arm from Mercy’s and pulled Emily into a mom hug. “Little kitten, my kitten, I am so, so sorry.”

“Th-thank you, Xena.” Emily sniffled and buried her head in the cat person’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. I took my allergy pill this morning just so that I could hug you.”

“Oh, sweet kitten! I love you and I shall always be here for you.” Xena released her and stepped aside so Mercy could take her place.

“Mag! Y-you brought one of your m-magic orchids.” Emily’s voice shook with emotion.

Mercy blinked quickly as she tried not to burst into snotty sobs. “This morning I asked Freya to bless your dad’s spirit journey”—she kept her voice low—“and when I did the blooms on this orchid changed from purple to pure white. So I had to bring it to you.”

Emily engulfed Mercy in a hug. “White—the mourning color for Goode witches. It’s perfect. Please thank Freya for her kindness.”

“Freya hears you, Em. I promise she does.”

The best friends clung to one another and as they did Mercy reached down, down, down through the plush carpet and the rooms below them to the earth on which they rested. She found the thrumming ley line of power and gently, carefully, pulled it up, up, up through her body so that it could wash into Emily.

Em gasped and held tighter to Mercy. “That’s so warm! Oh, Mag, thank you. I’ve been so, so cold all morning.” When Emily finally stepped out of Mercy’s embrace her cheeks had regained some of their color and the circles that bruised her eyes had faded. She linked hands with Mercy and Xena. “Come on, you can say hi to Mom and my grandparents and put the orchid by Dad’s urn. It’ll be beautiful there.”

They bypassed the growing visitation line, which earned them narrow-eyed looks from some of the adults, but Em’s grandparents hugged them and thanked them for coming, and her mom smiled tearfully as she said how beautiful and thoughtful the orchid was. While Xena spoke somberly with Mrs. Parrott, Emily led Mercy up the stairs of the dais to the marble pillar that held the remains of her dad.

“Put the orchid here, right next to the urn.” Emily touched the silver container gently, reverently. “It’s hard to believe everything that Dad was is in there…” Her voice broke on the last word and Mercy quickly placed the orchid beside the urn and then put her arm around her friend.

“That’s just what remains of his body. Everything your dad was isn’t in there. It’s here.” Mercy pressed her fingers over Emily’s heart. “And here.” She lifted her hand and gently touched Em’s forehead. “He’s not really gone as long as he’s remembered. I’ll always remember him with you.”

Emily’s face crumbled. “And I’ll always remember Abigail with you. W-would you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“C-could we do a witchy ritual for Dad? Not like Abigail’s funeral, but just something to—to—” A sob broke her words as she stared out at nothing and tears washed her umber cheeks.

“Of course, Em!” Mercy squeezed her shoulder. “You, Xena, and I can perform a beautiful Rite of Release. I’ll check my grimoire and get the perfect—”

“Hunter,” Emily interrupted.

“Um, I can ask her next time I see her, but please don’t be upset if Hunter doesn’t show. You know she’s not acting like herself.”

“No, I’ll ask her. But what I meant is Hunter’s here.” Emily gestured surreptitiously toward the entrance of the viewing room.

Mercy followed Em’s gaze to see Hunter with Jax beside her. They were by the refreshments table and Jax was pouring water into a plastic cup. She’d barely processed the fact that her twin had entered the room when Emily’s mom joined them on the dais.

“Emily, honey, I hate to interrupt.” Mrs. Parrott gave Mercy a watery attempt at a smile. “But your third cousins from Michigan are here. I know you don’t remember them. I barely do, but we must be polite, especially as they’ve come all this way. Mercy, do you mind if…” She glanced over her shoulder at a group of strangers who were talking animatedly with Em’s grandparents.

“Oh, of course.” Mercy gave Emily another hasty hug. “Go do what you need to do.”

“I’ll text you later so we can plan that thing we were talking about,” said Emily.

Mercy nodded and Emily followed her mom back to the visitation line as Xena joined her on the dais.

“Your orchid looks lovely there.” Xena batted at one of the fleshy petals.

Mercy grabbed her hand and murmured, “Hunter is here.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the refreshments table, where Hunter was choosing a petit four. Jax stood beside her, clearly uncomfortable in a dark suit that had to have belonged to his dad.

Xena squeezed her hand. “We must speak with her.”

“Okay, but remember where we are. There’s not much we can say here.”

“I understand. Come. I shall let you do the talking so I do not rouse the villagers.”

Mercy almost told the cat person not to be ridiculous—that it was the twenty-first not the seventeenth century—but then the horrible insults Kirk had hurled at her when they’d broken up replayed in her mind, along with how everyone had been staring and whispering the past few days, and she pressed her lips together and nodded. Together they walked down the dais steps and headed to the back of the room. Mercy’s skin prickled and her eyes swept the room to rest on Jarod and Dillon, who were clustered in a small group with Heather and Tiffany at the perimeter of the room. They were openly staring from Mercy to Hunter. There was something about the boys’ narrowed gazes that put Mercy’s intuition on high alert.

“Something feels wrong,” she whispered to Xena.

“It certainly feels oppressive.” Xena plucked briefly at her skirt before sighing and clutching her hands together.

“No, I mean really wrong wrong. I think we should leave as soon as we get done talking to Hunter.”

Xena met her gaze. “We shall listen to your intuition, my Green Witch.”

Even through her worry about Hunter and the weirdness thrumming around them Mercy felt a rush of pride at Xena’s acknowledgment of her witchy intuition. It boosted her confidence so that she ignored the stares of her classmates and the sickness in her stomach. Her steps were sure as she walked up to Hunter—though as she got closer she saw that her sister, her twin who hated to show skin and hardly ever bared her legs, was wearing a black spaghetti-strap dress with an asymmetrical hem that exposed most of her thighs. Yeah, she had an oversized tan boy-cut jacket over it, but still there was more of Hunter showing than usual. And her long, dark hair, instead of pulled severely back in a ponytail like usual, cascaded loosely past her shoulders.

Hunter’s back was to them and Jax cleared his throat in obvious warning, but before Mercy could say anything Xena beat her to Hunter and pawed at her shoulder. Hunter turned and the cat person pulled her into an embrace so enthusiastic that the petit fours almost toppled off her disposable plate.

“My Hunter kitten! I have missed you so!”

Hunter returned her embrace. Her lips tilted up as she spoke in a low voice. “You’re wearing clothes and shoes.”

“I know. It is quite horrible,” said Xena.

“I miss you, too, Xena.” Hunter squeezed her one more time and then stepped back and faced Mercy.

Mercy started with her sister’s best friend, who felt a whole lot more approachable than Hunter. “Hi, Jax.”

“Hey there, Mag,” he said.

Then she faced her twin. “Um, H, Xena and I called you and I texted you,” blurted Mercy.

“I got the messages.”

Mercy glanced around them and stepped closer to her twin. “We need to talk and figure out what’s going on.”

“We do not. I’ve got it handled.” Hunter bit into a petit four.

“What do you mean?” Mercy paused and lowered her voice. “Could the Cyclops be back?”

Hunter’s blue eyes were glacial. “Not possible.”

“But then what’s going—”

Hunter broke in. “I said I have it handled. Now, I’m going to pay my respects to Emily.”

Before Mercy could speak again, Hunter marched around her to join the reception line.

Jax shrugged and followed Hunter. “See you in class tomorrow, Mag.”

Mercy had no clue what to do. She wanted to scream and run after Hunter and shake her—or maybe grab her long, suddenly emancipated hair and pull it. Hard. Instead she moved to the table and pretended to be interested in the assortment of teas.

Xena was a warm, comfortable presence at her side. “Give her time,” she said softly as she stroked her back. “Our Hunter will come back to us.”

Mercy shook her head and continued to stare at the tea.

Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.

Eleven

Hunter looked down at her small plastic plate and the remaining petit four sitting in the middle like a store-wrapped present. She pressed her finger against the white icing and wasn’t surprised when, like the plastic cakes she’d fed her toys when she was a child, it didn’t smudge. She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed. It figured. Wearing the slinky spaghetti-strap black dress she’d borrowed from Kylie, Hunter felt like a doll.

She glanced around the room as she popped the treat into her mouth and it dissolved on her tongue in a rush of sugary lemon. She spotted Mercy milling about the beverage station, her lips puckered and brow furrowed. All her sister needed to complete the look was a neon sign that said PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I AM GOING TO CRY!

Hunter quelled the pang of guilt that squeezed her heart. Mercy had made her choices. She couldn’t really expect Hunter to follow her around forever.

“Read the room, Mag,” Hunter grumbled and turned her back to her sister. She wouldn’t give Mercy another opportunity to make Mr. Parrott’s funeral service about her like she did with everything else. It was completely inappropriate to talk about murder and witch gates at the funeral of Mercy’s best friend’s dad. And Hunter wasn’t even going to touch on the fact that her twin obviously didn’t think she was capable of making sure Polyphemus remained in the Greek Underworld.

The line moved forward, and Hunter hooked her arm around Jax’s and shuffled along. It was strange how this funeral was so different from her mother’s but also resembled aspects of a wedding. A few months ago, she and Mercy had been Abigail’s dates to her client’s wedding. They’d stood in a line just like this, eating desserts just like these, as they’d waited to wish the couple a long and happy marriage. Shortly after, half of the couple cheated, and her mother’s client filed for divorce. Lies usually ended things.

The thought of lying made Hunter pull Jax a little closer and guilt paint pink blotches across her chest. She shook her head. The spell she’d performed last night would work out fine. Not knowing wasn’t the same thing as lying. She took a deep breath and her shoulders softened away from her ears. No, she definitely hadn’t lied to her best friend.

Hunter’s grip tightened on the empty plate and crinkled its plastic edge as a thought wormed its way between her ears. Maybe her sister didn’t believe that she had fought Polyphemus or called upon Amphitrite to banish him back to Tartarus. Maybe Mercy thought Hunter was lying …

“I didn’t know you could get cakes this small. I feel like a giant,” Jax said and stuffed three petit fours into his mouth at once. He swallowed and brushed the back of his hand across his lips. “Think we should bring a few to Em?”

Hunter wrinkled her nose. “She might not want sweets.”

They felt too celebratory. Another year alive? Cake! Graduation? Cake! Promotion? Cake! She wasn’t sure what she would say if they reached Emily and offered her a plate of tiny sugar loaves. Your dad is dead? Cake!?

Hunter used her plate as a fan as they trailed the guest in front of them and inched closer to Em and her family. “We should bring her one of the casseroles your mom has stashed in the freezer.”

Jax swished water around in his mouth before answering. “Her rainy day casseroles.” He shook his head and took another sip. “I don’t think she understands what a rainy day fund actually is.”

Tiffany and Heather seemed to appear from nowhere as they stuffed themselves into the narrow space before Hunter and Jax. The captain of the cheer squad tented her hands on her narrow hips like she was about to lead the room in an enthusiastic ditty about the power of a good defense.

“Kylie said she started hanging out with you. I didn’t want to believe her, but here you are, wearing her Zara.” Tiffany cocked her hip, and her faux leather pants creaked with the motion. “She usually has better sense.”

Hunter exchanged a confused glance with Jax. She had only been hanging out with Kylie by default. “Being the third wheel isn’t tantamount to choosing to hang out with someone.”

Tiffany’s fake eyelashes swallowed her eyes as she squinted. “Isn’t tantamount, Hunter? Really?”

Hunter couldn’t tell whether or not Tiffany was confused by the word or didn’t believe her. “Kylie wants to spend time with Jax. I just happen to be there.”

“Oh.” Tiffany and Heather blinked in unison.

The dense cheerleader stereotype was created to shame and minimize vivacious, outgoing athletes. Cheerleaders weren’t unintelligent. Unfortunately, Tiffany and Heather were.

Jax’s arm stiffened around Hunter’s. “Why does it matter to you who Kylie’s friends with, anyway?”

Heather smoothed her fingers over the small pearls that embellished her black cardigan. “Normally, it doesn’t, but we want her to be safe.”

The plastic plate crunched between Hunter’s fingers. “Kylie’s not going to turn into a lesbian because we breathe the same air.”

Heather snorted and pressed her polished fingertips against her square-tipped nose. “Obviously.”

Maybe Heather wasn’t as ignorant as Hunter thought.

Her brown eyes narrowed. “But she might if you do a sex spell on her.”

The corners of Hunter’s lips twitched with a chuckle. Never mind, Heather was definitely that dense.

The cheerleader brushed the lengths of her brown hair over her shoulders and continued. “I was totally on your side, and then Kirk informed us of some questionable behavior that Shayla totally confirmed.” Her glossed lips thinned into a straight line as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Hunter exchanged a confused look with Jax who shrugged and took another drink of his tea.

With a sigh, Heather tapped the toe of her strappy sandal against the floor. “Shayla told us what you said at practice about your magical vagina.” Her gaze scraped down Hunter, paused at her crotch, and clawed its way back up again. “Doing some kind of nasty pervert spell is the only way Kylie, or anyone, would ever be interested in a freak like you.”

“Your mom literally died to get away from you!” Tiffany’s pants squeaked in punctuation.

Water sloshed over the rim of Jax’s cup as he tightened his grip around the plastic.

Heat crept across Hunter’s chest and tickled her neck. Her fair skin kept no secrets, and she wished for the comfort and protection of her slouchy jackets and high-neck tees.

Witch! How can you abide their slander? The screech of laughter that accompanied Amphitrite’s words scorched Hunter’s thoughts. You could take them all. Burn this place to the ground with them inside.

The gap behind Tiffany and Heather widened as the line moved forward without them.

Hunter put her hand behind her back and channeled her rage into her fist. The bent edges of the plastic plate dug into Hunter’s palm. She vented her anger through each painful gouge until her chest no longer burned and the blush of hate and embarrassment faded from her skin. “What’s the point in all of this? It was cute at first, but now—”

Dillon and Jarod charged into the gap in the line like two sharks who smelled blood.

Jarod slipped his arm around Heather’s waist and brought his lips close to her ear. “You ask her yet?” He punctuated his fake whisper with a sneer aimed at Hunter.

“Not yet.” Tiffany’s pants creaked as she shuffled closer to Heather. “We were waiting for you two.”

Dillon draped his meaty arm around Tiffany’s narrow shoulders and pulled her against him. “Careful how you do it, baby. You don’t want the witch to curse you with chlamydia or something.”

Jax unwrapped his arm from Hunter’s and clenched his hand into a fist at his side as Hunter’s grip tightened around the ball of plastic. But the pain no longer offered relief. “I can’t curse someone with something you’ve already given them, Dillon.”

The line continued to move, and the teenaged goons continued to hold Hunter and Jax—and the stream of unaware people behind them—hostage in the middle of the funeral home. Hunter’s fingers itched to take Amphitrite up on her offer. To add her goddess’s gifts to the power that already slipped through Hunter’s pores like smoke and stop her tormentors once and for all.

I will show you how. Just say the word, young witch.

The scent of lilacs burned Hunter’s eyes. She blinked away her watery vision as Mercy rushed to her side. Hunter tipped back her head and groaned. What kind of magnet was she standing on that kept drawing people to this spot?

Mercy crossed her arms over her chest and stared down the tip of her nose at Dillon and co. “This is a funeral. Only Emily’s real friends and family should be here.”

Dillon led the group in a howl of laughter.

The hairs rose on Hunter’s arms and, behind her back, her palm heated. “Mag, I’ve got this. I don’t need—”

Mercy shook away Hunter’s objection and pressed on. “What’s wrong with you?”

Heather made a show of drying her eyes as she focused her attention over Hunter’s shoulder to where Xena stood. “I didn’t know you needed three bodyguards.”

They make you look weak when you could end them all with a droplet of blood.

A roar flexed in Hunter’s throat as Xena’s hand settled on her shoulder. She didn’t need them. She could fight her own battles. She shrugged Xena’s hand away and leaned into her sister. “Mag. Stop. I have—”

Mercy’s elbow jabbed Hunter’s ribs as her hands flew to her hips. “Em’s dad is dead and you decide that his funeral is the best place to bully my sister? Not only is it inappropriate, it’s completely—”

“Mercy!” Fire bit at Hunter’s fingertips and scorched the back of her throat. “Go away!” She spit the words from between clenched teeth.

Mercy’s hands slipped from her hips and her brow pinched. “I’m helping.”

The group’s steady laughter popped against Hunter’s skin like blisters. “I don’t need or want your help. Go be someone else’s hero.”

Mercy’s lower lip quivered as her green eyes searched Hunter’s face. They looked more alike now than ever, yet Hunter could barely recognize the sadness in her sister.

Xena brushed back her tabby hair, took Mercy’s hand, and led Hunter’s sister toward the front doors of Parrott Family Funeral Home.

Dillon sucked his teeth and smiled. “Never thought a funeral would be such a party.”

“You really are a bitch, Hunter Goode.” Tiffany cackled.

Hunter tilted her head. “I suppose I am.” She brushed her hand through her hair and stared at the gap between them and the rest of the line. “This has been lovely, but it’s time for you to go. You’re holding up the line, and we’d really like to pay our respects.”

Jarod stepped closer. “Not until we get our questions answered. Can’t have a witch running around town.”

Jax’s chest swelled, and Hunter placed her hand on his arm before he, too, swooped in to save her. She brought her hand from behind her back and held her palm in front of her. Heather gripped Dillon closer as Tiffany gasped.

Hunter eyed the melted ball of plastic in her hand before slicing her gaze over the group. “I don’t think I’m the one who should be running.”

The herd took a step back and bounced into each other like confused squirrels before they darted away from the line. Hunter couldn’t deny that showing off her power and being her own hero felt great.

“You did a plastic melting spell in your head while confronted by piping hot douche.” Jax downed the rest of his water and squashed his cup into a similar sized, but way less melted, version of Hunter’s plate. “You leveled up.”

Hunter looped her arm back around Jax’s as they closed the gap in the line. “Guess you never know what you can do until a bunch of dipshits act like assholes at your friend’s dad’s funeral.” Jax didn’t need to know that she’d unlocked the power of the stars and now her anger rushed from her fingers like lava. She had leveled up, but he was still many locked doors behind.

Jax’s voice rose an octave as he asked, “And we’re not talking about Mercy?”

Hunter looked up at her best friend.

He nodded and tossed the crumpled cup into the air and caught it. “So, you think there’s a way to fix the plastics crisis with that melting spell?”

Hunted swallowed back her fury and remained quiet as Jax mused about her potential planet-saving powers. Before she could use her power for good, she’d have to keep it from burning her alive.

Oh, Witch. I sense your worry. Do not fret.

Hunter relaxed as the gentle hum of invisible waves drowned out the crowd, and a salty, otherworldly breath pressed against her senses.

I will teach you to leash the beast of rage. But only a fool would tame it when you can use it instead.

Twelve

Xena held tightly to Mercy’s hand while she sat in the Camry and sobbed. Finally, when she felt like she was at least temporarily out of tears, Mercy dug a handful of tissues from her giant purse, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose before she asked Xena, “W-what’s wrong with her?”

“Hunter is grieving and angry. Until today I believed she would return to herself—and to us—on her own.”

“And now?” Mercy sniffed and wiped her nose again.

“Now I am concerned that her sadness is leading her down the wrong path.” Xena spoke quietly, as if the words were difficult to say. “I scented something odd—something that is not our Hunter—on her.”

“R-really?” Mercy hiccupped. “What was it?”

“I could not tell. It was indistinct, but most definitely wrong.”

“What do we do?”

Xena let out a long breath. “We need more wisdom—more guidance—than I can give. Kitten, let us go to the Norse tree and invoke your goddess. Freya will know what we must do.”

Mercy sat up straight and felt a rush of relief. “Freya! My goddess will know what to do! That’s a fantastic idea, Xena.” Quickly, she started the car and pulled out of the funeral home parking lot. “Bloody hell! Why didn’t I think of invoking Freya’s help with Hunter before now?”

“Kitten, you must remember that it would be highly unusual for Freya to materialize and speak with you. Abigail devoted herself to Athena, yet the goddess only appeared to her a very few times. It is not the role of our goddesses to tell us what to do, or to give us easy answers. Were that true we would no longer have free will. You must invoke Freya’s aid, but look for her response in omens and symbols rather than words.”

“Well, yeah, of course. But Freya is super wise. She’ll be able to let me know what I need to do to make things better, even if it’s only in a symbolic way. Xena, she must have some advice that will help.”

“Let us hope so, kitten…”

By the time Mercy had changed out of her funeral clothes and collected the sacred items she would use to call on Freya, the morning had turned into early afternoon. Mercy was glad that so much of the day had already passed that by the time she invoked her goddess school would be out.

“It’s weird not to like school anymore,” Mercy told Xena as the two of them walked slowly along the well-worn path that led to the enormous old apple tree that guarded the Norse Underworld.

Xena, in cat form, trotted beside her. The feline looked up at Mercy and chattered and mewed in the distinctive way Maine coons vocalize to their humans.

“Welp.” Mercy swung her wicker spellwork basket and grinned down at Xena. She’d felt so, so much better ever since they’d made the decision to invoke Freya’s aid. “Unlike Abigail, I can’t understand you, but I’m going to believe that you didn’t just chastise me and instead said that I’m too cool for school anyway.”

Xena made a very human-sounding snort, which caused Mercy to laugh.

“That feels good,” Mercy said. “Laughing feels good. Xena, I’m so tired of being sad and worried and stressed all the time. I’m going to remember to laugh more. Sod it! I’m going to start doing things that make me happy again.”

Xena chattered at her.

“Oh, I know, I know. I still have trees to save and gates to close—and a sister who has lost her mind. But does that mean I have to be Debbie Downer for the rest of my life?”

Xena’s response was a rolling rrrrow.

“Right? I don’t have to be screwed up just because my twin is.”

Xena’s answer was the feline version of a grumble.

The path emptied into the grassy clearing that surrounded the enormous apple tree. It was framed by maturing corn that had already grown as tall as Mercy. She stopped and wrapped her arms around herself as she gazed at the tree.

“It’s beautiful and bittersweet.” Mercy spoke more to herself than Xena. “The last time I was truly happy was here—when we were all together.” Tears burned the back of her throat and Mercy swallowed quickly. No more tears today! “Okay, I’m going to get everything ready. Are you sure you don’t want to zap yourself back to human form and help me?”

Xena hissed.

Mercy grinned cheekily at the cat. “Well, you could be naked.”

The feline’s slant-eyed look clearly said that she was already naked.

“Okay, fine. I’ll do it myself.” Humming a wordless tune Mercy put her basket on the ground. First, she took out the huge bouquet of happily blooming daisies—a favorite of Freya—from Abigail’s garden and placed it at the base of the apple tree, just below the heart that had been seared into its bark by her mom’s sacrifice. She’d tied the bouquet together with a velvet ribbon the blue of clear spring skies and Freya’s eyes, taking special care to make a beautiful bow.

Mercy returned to the basket and shook out the quilt she’d folded on top of her spellwork items. She lay it on the ground a few yards in front of the tree where the roots weren’t so gnarly. Then she slipped off her shoes. The sparse grass felt cool under her feet as she placed her five candles. The white candle went at the top point of the mini-pentagram just a few inches off her quilt. She placed the other four candles, brown and green to symbolize the earth, around her quilt at the points of the pentagram.

Next Mercy took out the velvet bag she’d filled with salt. She moved with confidence as she traced the shape of the pentagram to connect the five candles—with her quilt in the center. Satisfied, she pulled out the two remaining items in her basket—her small incense holder that was shaped like a miniature cauldron and her box of ritual matches. Mercy left the cauldron in the center of the blanket and strode to the white candle at the top of the pentagram.

“In the name of the Norse Goddess of Love and Beauty, my Freya, I open this pentagram!” Mercy lit the candle and then walked to the next point of the pentagram and the green candle waiting there. “I set this pentagram of power in the name of the Norse Goddess of Fertility, my Freya.” She lit the green candle and moved on to the brown candle that waited its turn at another point on the pentagram. “I set this pentagram of power in the name of the Norse Goddess of War, my Freya.” The brown candle blazed as she touched the flame to the wick, which made Mercy grin fiercely. She hurried to the next candle, the second green one. “I set this pentagram of power in the name of the Norse Goddess of Wealth, my Freya.” The candle caught easily and Mercy completed the pentagram at the second brown candle as she said, “And now this pentagram of power is complete in the name of the Norse Goddess of Divination and Magic, my Freya!” The brown candle flamed even brighter than the others.

Mercy returned to the quilt and the cauldron in the center of her opened pentagram. Xena sat beside the cauldron watching her with knowing eyes. Mercy seated herself so that the little cauldron was in front of her and she faced the apple tree. Then she lit the small charcoal circle she’d already placed within her cauldron. It sizzled and sparked, and within a few heartbeats smoke lifted from the paste-like mixture of myrrh and dried apple blossoms Mercy had smeared on the burner when she packed the basket.

As the fragrant smoke rose around them, twining among the fruit-laden boughs of the old tree, Mercy said, “Freya, I am Mercy Anne Goode, Green Witch newly accepted into your service—though since I was a little girl I’ve understood that I belonged to you. I know that you are with me—that you have seen my losses and my hurts. It—it feels like my world isn’t really mine anymore.” Mercy paused as she searched for the right words. She’d never formally invoked Freya before, and reading the grimoires of other Goode witches gave her very little guidance about how to do it. Apparently, calling on one’s goddess was so highly personal that, as Constance Goode wrote in 1911, I shall only write that I invoked my goddess. All else must be written only on my heart. Mercy drew a deep breath and continued. “Freya, I’ve lost my mom and now it feels like I’m also going to lose my sister. The gates are crumbling and I have no one to turn to for help except you. So I ask humbly, with love and respect, that you send me a sign or omen as to what I should do next. I—I’m lost, Freya.” Mercy caught her breath on a sob and had to wipe an escaping tear from her cheek before she finished. “Please help me.”

Mercy had intended to sit there and meditate—open to receiving any signs or omens from Freya—until the charcoal turned gray and the sweet invocation smoke dissipated. But almost immediately the smoke shifted. It poured from the little cauldron and lapped against the trunk of the apple tree. It engulfed the bouquet of daisies and wound around and around—as if Mercy was circling the tree with a thick stick of dried herbs

While she stared at the tree, almost forgetting to breathe, the bark began to shimmer like a light from within it had been suddenly switched on. And then the glistening surface rippled and Freya emerged from the tree. The goddess wore a golden helmet decorated with Valkyrie wings. Her hair, so blond it almost appeared silver, cascaded to her waist. She was dressed in a surprisingly simple robe of blue silk—the same color as her eyes, and wrapped in a cloak made of falcon feathers. She carried a sword with a pommel that glittered with jewels.

The shock of seeing her goddess in person was so overwhelming that Mercy could barely speak, but she did collect herself enough to bow so deeply her forehead brushed the quilt as she said, “Great Goddess! I greet you!”

You may rise, Mercy Anne Goode, Green Witch sworn to my service.

Mercy straightened and had to blink several times to accustom her eyes to the luminous presence of her goddess. “You came!” she blurted—and then Mercy pressed her hand against her mouth, shocked that she’d said something so obvious.

Freya’s laughter made fireflies—that should only have been visible on a summer night—appear in the air around her—shining with a goddess-touched light so that they blazed like living diamonds.

Yes, daughter, I heard your heartfelt call and I came. Freya’s robin’s-egg-blue gaze turned to Xena, who immediately bowed her head respectfully. Ah, Xena, it is good to see you—loyal familiar to the Goode family. You remind me of my own felines.

Xena’s purr rolled around them.

The goddess’s attention shifted back to Mercy. So, it is guidance you ask for, my young Green Witch?

Mercy clutched her hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling. “Yes, Freya.”

But I have been guiding you, Mercy Anne Goode, since the day you first heard Grandmother Oak breathe.

Mercy blinked in surprise. Being able to feel trees breathe was something she had been able to do since she was four years old. The summer day she’d touched the old oak in their backyard and felt it inhale and exhale was one of her earliest memories.

“You were there then? When I was just a little girl?”

I have always been here.

“Wow! That’s so awesome!” Mercy grinned—and then quickly sobered. “But I’ve felt so lost recently. The trees are sick—you know, the ones that guard the gates. And Hunter, my twin sister, is changing. Or has changed, and not for the better. I don’t know which and I don’t know what to do about it—about any of those things. Freya, I feel like I’m drowning.”

Yes, I am aware that the gates crumble and the trees sicken. And I know your sister, though she is not in my service.

“Will you help me? Will you tell me how to fix the trees? My magic works just fine unless I aim it at the trees. Then it just, I don’t know, fizzles. And Hunter—there’s something really wrong with her. I think—I think I caused it when I made her reject her god. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong! I thought the fact that she chose Tyr instead of a goddess was why the trees weren’t healing. Please help me, Freya.”

Daughter, it is the destiny of Goode witches to guard and nurture the trees that hold the gates to the Underworlds. Not even I can alter fate for you.

“But I don’t want it altered! I’m ready to fulfill my destiny. I just don’t know how.”

That is something I cannot tell you, as it involves choices you make freely, without the coercion of even your goddess. It is a thing the Goode sisters must discover for themselves.

“But Freya, Hunter and I aren’t doing anything together!”

Exactly. It is destined that you and Hunter have your own paths to follow—and in finding those paths you shall also find the answer, which will heal the trees and save the gates.

“I don’t understand. How are we supposed to fix the trees when we’re not even talking?”

Find your path, daughter, and you will find the way.

Mercy resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. “Can you help me with my magic? Help make it work better on the trees—to at least make them strong enough to hold on until I figure out whatever I need to figure out?”

You have been granted ample magic to do what needs be done, daughter. I cannot gift you with more without upsetting the natural order of things. Beware! What you do in this world is far-reaching—for good and ill! Abruptly the bright spring afternoon darkened and the boughs of the tree whipped as if a storm brewed. The Goode sisters must be careful where they seek power.

A cold shiver of foreboding fingered its way down Mercy’s spine. “I’ll be careful. I promise!”

As quickly as the darkness blanketed the sky the goddess’s smile chased it away. I do not doubt your fidelity, daughter. But ’tis a warning you need to hear. I shall reward your devotion with omens. As you discover your path I shall send you signs of my approval.

Mercy bowed her head again. “Oh, thank you, Freya! I’ll watch for your omens. I—I’ll try really hard to make you proud.”

Daughter, I have been proud of you since the day you opened yourself to Grandmother Oak. I believe in you—and in the woman you shall become. Now, in return for your gift of my favorite flower and the sweet scent of myrrh and apple blossoms with which you so lovingly invoke me, I leave you with a gift in return. The goddess pressed her lips to her hand and then blew the kiss at Mercy.

Mercy felt a jolt of warmth, like she’d been wrapped in a blanket newly taken from the dryer. Then, before she could say anything else Freya pulled the cloak of feathers around her. Light exploded from within the cloak and a huge falcon, more magnificent than any mundane bird, appeared in the place of the goddess. It flew low over Mercy—so low that its wings made her hair lift—and then it circled and dived for the center of the scorched heart and disappeared back within the tree.

The instant the goddess was gone the charcoal in Mercy’s cauldron turned gray, the fragrant smoke dissipated, and each of the five ritual candles blew out—closing the pentagram.

Mercy felt oddly light-headed. She wiped a hand across her face and looked at Xena, who was still staring at the apple tree.

“Oh. My. Goddess. That was amazing! Freya was here, Xena! My goddess actually came to me!”

Xena turned wide yellow eyes on Mercy and chattered at her—but inside Mercy’s head—Xena’s human voice echoed. Oh, kitten! It was quite the honor!

“I know, right? I didn’t think she’d actually…” Mercy’s words trailed off as she stared at the cat. “Wait, did you just say it was quite the honor?”

Xena blinked twice, slowly, then mewed, Indeed I did, kitten.

“Freya’s gift! She gave me the ability to hear you! Just like Abigail did!”

Chattering with excitement Xena rubbed against Mercy. Blessed Freya! What a lovely gift to bestow upon us.

“It’s so cool! It means Freya will help me! Even if the help is in the form of omens—which kinda bites because, you know, they’re symbols and such and can be misinterpreted. But I guess the more I get used to them, the easier they’ll be to understand.”

Xena’s chattering became tearful words floating through Mercy’s mind. You know what else it means, kitten? It means that I am now your familiar—connected to you until your death.

Mercy stroked the huge Maine coon’s silky fur. “Really?”

Really, my own sweet Green Witch. Xena curled up on Mercy’s lap as Abigail’s daughter put her arms around the cat and held her close.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the Green Witch, with her familiar close beside her, made their way home. Mercy’s steps were lighter than they had been since before Abigail had died. “Xena, I vow that I will be worthy of Freya’s love. I will find my path. I will fix the trees. I will even figure out what the bloody hell is wrong with Hunter.” Mercy opened the back gate to their yard and the Green Witch and cat gasped together in surprise.

The entire backyard was filled with daisies in full bloom.

“Now that’s an omen I do understand!” said Mercy happily.

Indeed, kitten! Xena chirped. I find that I am famished! Shall we—meaning you—open a can of lovely albacore and pour some cream to celebrate?

Mercy looked down at the big cat who rubbed against her legs as she purred loudly. “Are you always going to be inside my head like this?”

Of course, kitten! Is it not wonderful?

Mercy grinned cheekily down at her familiar. “Welp, it’s something, that’s for sure…”

Thirteen

Hunter’s hangnail wouldn’t stop bleeding. She’d stuck the gnawed edge of her index finger in her mouth, pressed her thumb against it, and flapped her hand under her desk, but the scarlet bubbles persisted. Each droplet slipped down her finger and splatted against the dark blue dress Kylie had insisted she borrow. Finally, she wrapped her finger in the cotton and squeezed.

Her blood was powerful. Powerful and uncontrolled. The last thing she needed was for it to drip onto the desk or the floor or anywhere else in this glorified daycare. She didn’t know what would happen if she got mad. Scratch that—when she got mad. These days, rage was a common occurrence.

With a sigh, she squeezed the wadded-up fabric around her finger and, again, let her attention slip to the right side of the room and land on her sister who she hadn’t seen since Mr. Parrott’s funeral the day before. Mercy’s long hair spilled over her shoulders and covered the back of the plastic desk chair. Hunter untangled her hand from her dress and combed her fingers through her own wavy black lengths. Maybe she would dye hers pink or blue or purple.

Mercy spun around in her seat. Hunter froze and her heartbeat skipped the way it had all those times she’d been caught pawing through her sister’s closet. Mercy narrowed her gaze, tilted her head to the side, and flipped her hair in perfect Mag fashion. She was no doubt thinking about what a disappointment Hunter was and how she, the ultra-important and wonderfully magical Green Witch, would heal the trees and figure out who was copying Polyphemus’s horrid murders. Hunter’s teeth creaked as she clenched her jaw. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t already thought about herself. But she would be the one to fix the trees and figure out a way to bring the copycat killer to justice. Even if Mercy didn’t believe her, Polyphemus was gone for good, but what if something had come through the disintegrating gate while she’d been dealing with the Cyclops? Hunter crossed her arms over her chest. She could defeat another monster. She had the perfect weapon. She had Amphitrite.

Mr. Cormican wrapped his knuckles against the whiteboard. “Hunter, you with us?”

Hunter’s breath hitched as she blinked and swept her gaze around the room. Mercy wasn’t the only person watching her.

She cocked her head and flipped her hair the way she’d watched her sister do only moments before. “Unfortunately.”

A few stray chuckles as Mr. Cormican pursed his lips and scratched his dark, closely cropped beard. “You want to tell us how speech and silence play a role throughout the text?”

Hunter glanced down at her desk and the large tree and clear blue sky on the cover of her unopened copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God. Like most of their assigned readings, she had read Hurston’s novel long before she knew what themes meant or that a book could have more than one. She’d had every intention of rereading it for class, but then her mom lit herself on fire, her sister became even more of a selfish brat, she betrayed her god, moved out, and discovered the power of blood magic. She’d left a few things out, but that just proved her point. She didn’t have enough time. Not that she could tell Mr. Cormican about her new goddess or that she’d recently cast a spell on two of her three friends.

She looked up at the clock and let out a relieved sigh. “Can I get a raincheck?” With a shrug, she pointed at the glowing red numbers. “Looks like we’re out of time.”

“Give me five, Miss Goode,” Mr. Cormican said without looking at his watch.

“Crap.” The word hissed between Hunter’s teeth. Mr. Cormican had never asked her to give him five, which was the same as telling her she was going to have detention, and he’d only ever called her by her last name at the beginning of the semester when he’d had a difficult time telling her apart from her sister.

The low ooh of her classmates was quickly drowned out by the sharp chimes that signified the end of the school day and the beginning of freedom.

Instead of cutting through the cluster of desks that filled the center of the classroom and passing by Hunter, Mercy took the long way around. As she and their other classmates filed out of the room, Hunter sagged into her chair and rested the back of her head on the stiff plastic. She wanted to be different, but she didn’t want to be different at the expense of her grades, and she definitely wasn’t interested in spending mind-numbing minutes in after-school detention.

The door closed before Mr. Cormican left his position at the front of the room. He straightened the desks on his way to Hunter’s and slipped into the seat in front of her.

“I’d rather do before-school detention,” Hunter blurted. Every night, when the lights were off and she was left alone with nothing but her thoughts and scratchy sheets to comfort her, she couldn’t keep herself from drifting back to that night at the apple tree—to the smell of burned flesh and the glow of orange flames. The scene of her mother’s sacrifice and death playing over and over and over. Waking up early wouldn’t be a problem.

Mr. Cormican’s smooth forehead creased. “You’re not in trouble, Hunter.” His gray eyes searched the concrete wall behind her and the laminated Playbills and Shakespearean quotes that had strands of hot glue stuck to them like spiderwebs.

“When I was a kid, I had this bunny, Wookie Wabbit. She would hop around the backyard and come when I called her. We would lie on the floor of my bedroom together and listen to CDs and stare at all of the posters I’d sticky-tacked to the wall. She was the small dog of rabbits.” His grin lifted the corners of his eyes and highlighted the thin wrinkles that had begun to crease his clear skin.

“I came home one day and found her in the middle of the street in front of our house. She’d gotten out of the backyard and someone had hit her with their car.” He tugged at the top button of his plaid button-down and stared out the narrow windows at the students milling about in the courtyard.

“No one could console me. I was devastated, but more than that, I was mad.” He set his arm on Hunter’s desk as he turned his attention back to her. “Like, pissed on a whole other level. I ran inside, smashed my stereo, tore all my posters off the walls, and ripped them to shreds. Nineties poster confetti was everywhere. And it felt good to get that rage out and to see how much I could destroy. How much power I had. But that feeling faded and was replaced by more sadness. Not only had I lost my best friend, but I had also ruined the things I cared about.”

Hunter shrugged away the twinge of guilt that sputtered to life in her chest as she twisted her silver crescent ring around her middle finger. “I didn’t know you were going to go all allegory on me, Mr. C. I feel like there’s an inspirational montage waiting for me in the hall.”

He searched her face before tapping his fingers against the desk. “I didn’t think I had it in me, either. Guess it comes with the mortgage and the teaching certificate.” His hand stilled and he pursed his lips, his gray eyes once again inspecting hers. “But Hunter, really, if you need someone to talk to—”

“I know. I know.” Hunter swiped her binder and book from the desk as she stood. “Your door is always open.”

He hiked his shoulders and resumed drumming his fingers on the desk. “I was going to say that I know a good therapist, but sure, my door is always open.”

A smile broke through Hunter’s gloom as she cut through a row of desks and pushed open the door. “Thanks, Mr. Cormican.”

The door closed behind her and Hunter fished her phone from the dress’s droopy side pocket. She had six texts. Three from Jax, two from Kylie, and one from Em. She opened Jax’s first as she walked on autopilot to her locker.

Waiting for you in the plot.

Pking lot. Abbreviation fail.

The last message was a photo of Jax and Kylie with their cheeks puffed and eyes crossed.

The corner of Hunter’s lips slid into a half smile. She clicked on Kylie’s texts. Two more silly photos. Hunter’s spell had definitely worked. If their relationship lasted, she was sure they’d be the couple sending silly holiday photo cards to everyone in their contacts. Finally, she hit the text from Em.

Talked to Mag about a Rite of Release spell for my dad. At the lake tomorrow 1p. Come! Pleaseeeeee

Without a second thought, Hunter replied.

For sure!

It didn’t matter that Mercy would be there. This wasn’t for Mercy. This was for Emily. And healing from her father’s gruesome murder was more important than the Goode sisters’ issues.

Hunter turned down the hall to her locker as three dots pulsed above the keyboard while Emily typed out her reply. She glanced up and jerked to a stop. Kirk-the-quarterback-Whitfield leaned against her locker with his ankles crossed and his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his letterman jacket. The poster boy for preppy douchery.

Hunter let out an exasperated sigh that blew strands of her wavy hair from her face. “I don’t know where Mercy is.”

Kirk shrugged. “I’m not here for her.”

Hunter put her phone back into her pocket and cradled her book and binder against her hip. “Well, what have I done to deserve the pleasure of you blocking me from my locker?”

“I know about the body.” He said the words like he’d asked her for the weather.

Hunter tightened her hold on her books and forced her breaths in and out, steady and sure. What body? she wanted to ask but knew the question would spur more problems than answers. How much had Mercy told him about the Cyclops?

Giggles erupted from the other end of the hall and shoes squeaked against the tile. Hunter didn’t look to see who owned the now hushed voices. She kept her gaze locked with his. A silent battle that she would lose if her attention shifted. She wouldn’t look away, wouldn’t assuage her curiosity and give Kirk the satisfaction of thinking he’d won. Unlike her sister, she wouldn’t give Kirk Whitfield anything.

Kirk’s heavy gaze didn’t falter as he pushed himself away from Hunter’s locker. “I know about the body,” he repeated, louder this time, restarting his performance now that he had a suitable audience.

The incomers’ overlapping whispers fell silent, but their steady footfalls matched the quickened beat of Hunter’s heart. But, from the outside, Hunter remained a fortress, her secrets locked behind her stony features.

Shoes squeaked closer this time and Hunter felt bodies surround her, Kirk’s sycophants come to watch him capture his prey.

Kirk removed his hands from his pockets. “Did Abigail know about you and your sister?” He stepped toward her. “Did she know that you’re both murderers?”

Hunter twisted the ring around her middle finger. She could control her anger. She would control it.

“Is that why you killed her?” He inched closer and the scents of sweat and leather filled Hunter’s nostrils. “I should burn you at the stake … just like you torched your hippie whore of a mother.”

Hunter tightened her hand into a fist and swung. Her fist slammed into his cheek with a low tack. Bolts of pain arced from her closed fingers, through her hand, and up her forearm. Gasps erupted around her as Kirk’s hand flew to his face and blood oozed from the jagged trench torn across his cheek from her ring.

Hunter’s breaths swirled in and out of her like swifts on the rising currents of her rage. She had to get away before she completely lost control. She spun around. Tiffany, Heather, Jarod, and Dillon closed in. They’d soon replace their slack-jawed shock with cold-eyed revenge. Hunter clutched her books to her chest, shouldered her way between Tiffany and Heather, and ran. Tears clung to her eyes. Open classroom doors and milling students were a blur as her legs carried her to the place where she’d hid and cried countless times before.

The old brass hinges creaked as Hunter pushed open the bathroom door. She dropped her books onto the ledge of the expansive mirror opposite the sinks and ran into the open middle stall. Acid washed up her throat as she puked into the toilet. Hunter sank to her knees and gripped the edge of the toilet bowl as she heaved again.

Clean yourself up, Witch.

A gentle spray of salt dusted Hunter’s cheeks as she brushed the back of her trembling hand across her lips.

No mortal should bring you to your knees.

Hunter peered under the stall’s partitions. Sure she was alone, she pushed herself to her feet and cleared her throat. “Where were you?”

As I have said, I am always with you.

Hunter’s wobbly legs carried her to the row of sinks opposite the door and the large mirror certain girls would flock to to check their contour and reapply their gloss after lunch.

“But you usually say something.” Hunter averted her gaze from her reflection in the small mirror over the sink and depressed the faucet knob. “This time, you were silent. You just—” Hunter’s words caught in her throat as she stared down at the blood smeared across her knuckles. Her ring glinted scarlet in the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights as she lifted her hand to inspect the crescent. A torn chunk of skin hung from the pointed tip of the sickle-shaped moon.

I’ve offered my assistance before, and you have never taken it. I know when I’m not wanted.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

Hunter’s chest tightened as she stared in the mirror at Kirk’s reflection. He’d lost his jacket and his smooth forehead glistened with sweat. The gash across his cheek wept a stream of blood that dotted his white T-shirt and the toes of his clean white trainers brilliant red. This was the second time she’d ruined his shoes, and the second time she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends. From the way his jaw tightened and his clenched fists trembled at his sides, Hunter knew he’d come to deliver her punishment.

“You little bitch!” he cawed, spittle flying from his lips. “Look at my face!” He pointed to the split skin and trails of blood. “Look at what you’ve done.”

As she turned to face him, Hunter swept her hair from her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest. “You called my dead mother a whore, and me a murderer.”

He stalked closer. His shadow overlapped hers and the air between them heated with his anger.

Hunter tilted her chin to look up at him. “Sure you should get so close? I thought I was a danger.”

Kirk’s throat tightened with a thick swallow. “I’m sure I should stop you before you get your hands”—he peeled his lips from his teeth and bared his perfect ivories as he glowered down at her—“or spells on someone else.”

The corners of his lips twitched with a grin as he lunged forward. His fingers pressed against her arms while he shoved her backward. Hunter’s head smacked the mirror. Her vision danced and the back of her head ached as shards of glass rained onto her shoulders and cool porcelain dug into her back.

“I’ll make sure people know what you are.” His grip on her biceps tightened, and his fingers dug into her skin like she was a ripe peach. “You and your slut of a sister will be chased out of this town.” He growled hot against her cheek.

Hunter tried to pull away from the shattered mirror and the boy who’d once been welcome in her home, but Kirk had pinned her arms and legs. He was too strong to escape.

Her swirling vision stilled, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted to the opposite wall. Amphitrite was right. She looked weak, powerless. But that was far from the truth.

“Let go,” Hunter hissed through clenched teeth, anger rising.

“Have you learned not to cross me?” The bitter scent of his hate hung in the air like smoke.

Rage prickled beneath Hunter’s bruised skin. “Let me go.” She spit each word against his ear.

He squeezed her tighter. “Have you learned your lesson?”

He expected her to be scared. More than that, Kirk wanted her fear. To feel it flutter against his skin like butterfly wings. No doubt he’d savor it. Wrap his hands around her terror and pull it from the inside out until it consumed her. But Kirk underestimated the powers of a woman. He underestimated the powers of a witch.

Amphitrite, I’m ready when you are. Hunter called on her goddess with a simple thought.

Oh, Witch, I thought you’d never ask.

Heat coursed through Hunter’s limbs as the steady crash of waves roared against her ears. Glass slipped down the back of her shirt as she relaxed into the rage and the power mounting within her like a storm. Blue mist coated Hunter’s skin. It hissed and popped against her bloody knuckles and erased all trace of scarlet from her flesh.

I accept your offering, young witch.

The back of Hunter’s throat tickled. She opened her mouth and Amphitrite’s screech of laughter rang from between Hunter’s lips in bursts of cerulean fireworks.

Kirk’s hands snapped to his sides and he stumbled backward, the reflection of the otherworldly sparks exploding in his wide-eyed gaze.

Salt stung the tip of Hunter’s tongue as she licked her lips. “Unfortunately, Kirk, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson.” Her hair floated off her shoulders in an invisible current as she held up her right hand and spread her blue-coated fingers wide. Kirk shuffled backward as she bent her index finger. A wet crack echoed off the walls. Kirk let out a pained shout and clutched his hand against his chest. Hunter bent her thumb next. Another crack, another scream, and his thumb hung limp. One by one, she brought each of her fingers to her palm. One by one, Kirk’s digits snapped. His anguished shrieks popped against her skin like dry rubber bands. As she lowered her pinky, Kirk crumpled to the floor.

Still aglow with Amphitrite’s power and the surge of energy that came from finally striking backing instead of cowering, Hunter lifted the hem of her dress and stepped over him. “Looks like your football career is over.” She licked the final bits of salt from her lips as the otherworldly blue drained from her skin. “Such a shame.”

The bathroom door’s worn hinges creaked once again.

Take his blood and end them! All of them! Amphitrite’s roar sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Hunter’s body. More blood, Witch!

It was Kirk’s group, his minions—they’d come to finish what he had tried to start. This time, Hunter would do what she should have done at Dominic Parrott’s funeral. Her fingers twitched with the promise of more power as she reached down to press her palm against Kirk’s blood-crusted cheek. She’d burn his sycophants to the ground. All she needed was more blood.

The refreshing sweetness of grapefruit splashed against Hunter’s senses.

“Oh god! What happened?”

Hunter snatched her hand back to her side and whirled to face Kylie. Her golden-strawberry hair fell in tangled waves around her shoulders and glowed so brightly in the harsh light that, for a moment, Hunter thought she was another goddess come to life.

The crash of ocean waves ceased, and the salt turned to vinegar on Hunter’s tongue.

Kylie rushed forward, pulled Hunter to her feet, and enveloped her in soft citrus. She didn’t hear the hinges creak as Kylie pushed open the door, but the rush of air brought goose bumps to her arms.

Hunter peeked over Kylie’s shoulder as she squeezed Hunter against her side and ushered her down the hall toward the exit. Kirk was in the doorway hunched over his mangled hand.

“I’ll burn you for this, Witch!” His shriek was a fourth person in the corridor. It tore down the hall and crashed against lockers with the force of a summer cyclone.

Kylie picked up the pace and nearly shoved Hunter out of the double doors and into the sun-soaked parking lot.

Kirk’s promise burrowed into Hunter’s back and wriggled, sticky and sharp, into her lungs.

What had she done?

Hunter gulped down one breath after the other, but it wasn’t enough. Black speckled her vision and her feet slid across the pavement like melting butter as emotion overwhelmed her. Jax was there. His clean peppermint scent and strong arms replaced Kylie’s, and Hunter’s feet no longer touched the ground.

The fires of anger and revenge, stoked by Amphitrite’s otherworldly magic, no longer raged within her chest. Hunter was drained, emptied. Except for the guilt that wrapped its cold hands around her throat and made it a struggle to breathe.

As Jax laid her in the back of Kylie’s convertible, Hunter saw black birds circling overhead. Great, all I need is another murder of crows.

Fourteen

Mercy closed her locker, hefted her backpack with a sigh, and headed out the side door of the school that led to the student parking lot. She kept her gaze forward and walked quickly, like she didn’t notice the side-eye looks classmates were throwing at her or the whispers. She had on her favorite pair of jeans—the ones it had taken her months to freehand embroider with flowers down the sides and around the hem. She’d paired the jeans with a simple turquoise-green crop top that matched the color of her eyes and the ivy that wound around the flowers. The outfit usually made it impossible for her to feel down.

It hadn’t worked. Not even looking super cute could brighten her day.

A group of cheerleaders heading from the girls’ locker room to the football field cut through the parking lot not far from where Mercy waited for Emily to meet her. Their animated chatter stopped the moment Mercy came into view. Not one of them looked directly at her, but their voices dropped so that all Mercy could hear was witch.

Mercy straightened her spine and focused her gaze on the group. She didn’t say anything. All she did was stare at them as she thought how ridiculous it was that just last week these same girls had pretended to be her friends—until she and Kirk broke up.

As if they were marionettes being controlled by one brain, the group turned to gawk at her.

Mercy smiled wickedly, lifted her hands, and said, “Boo!” as she flicked her fingers at them. At that same moment a cluster of big, black birds lifted from a nearby tree, croaking angrily like she’d banged a gong and disturbed them.

The marionettes became scared little hens. Hastily they turned their backs to Mercy. Throwing the retreating ravens worried looks, they scuttled the rest of the way across the parking lot.

Mercy’s satisfaction at their obvious fear didn’t last long. An’ ye harm none, do what ye will played through her mind in her mother’s voice. She sighed again and her shoulders slumped. It really didn’t matter that she hadn’t actually hexed the cheerleaders. Scaring them into thinking she did—or even would—wasn’t cool.

It was just that everything felt so wrong. Mercy had never considered herself one of the popular girls, but until recently her classmates had seemed to honestly like her. Even before she dated Kirk, Mercy had felt included; she was laughed with not at. Being with Kirk had just solidified the fact that she was accepted. But her messy and super public breakup with Mr. Football Star had ended all of that. Mercy had been fun! She loved to dance and hang out and party a little. Now she just wanted to stay in bed with her covers over her head.

Mercy fished her phone from her purse and quickly texted Emily. Where are u? I’m on the sidewalk by the west parking lot.

A car’s engine gunned and Mercy just caught a glimpse of Hunter in the convertible that sped past. She felt a jolt of surprise. That was Kylie York’s car. She was a cheerleader who usually hung with the popular crowd. Jax was with them as they drove past her and didn’t even bother to look her way like none of them had one bloody buggering care in the world—like she didn’t even exist.

Mercy felt like her wounded heart might break into irreparable pieces. She couldn’t decide if she should scream after them for Hunter to be my sister again! Or if she should just sit down right there in the middle of the sidewalk and sob. She didn’t do either. Instead she took a couple steps back so that she was hidden behind a big, ugly concrete column, though they’d already left the parking lot.

How can she not miss me—miss us? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand her.

“Mercy! Oh good. I’m glad I ran into you.”

Mercy jumped in surprise and turned to see her biology teacher, Mr. Carmody, coming around the sidewalk from the front of the school.

“Oh, uh, hi, Mr. Carmody.”

“I finished grading the botany test and I am very proud to tell you that you made a perfect score.” Mr. Carmody’s kind face crinkled into familiar laugh lines as he beamed a proud smile at her.

“That’s great.” Of course I made a one hundred. It was a plant test.

Mr. Carmody clasped his hands in front of him as his expression became serious. “Hey, I want you to know I’m here for you if you’d like to talk. You’ve had a tough time recently and I’ve noticed you and your sister, well, you aren’t spending much time together—at least not at school.”

Mercy shuffled her feet. “Not anywhere, really.”

His kind brown eyes looked sad. “Well, if you need to talk, know that I’m here for you, and if you’d rather speak with a counselor I can facilitate that, too. Remember, people grieve in all sorts of ways. And time does ease pain. I promise.”

“OMG, Mag! Sorry I took so long to—” Emily barreled around the corner of the school and almost ran into the biology teacher. “Oops, didn’t see you there, Mr. Carmody.”

“No harm done, Emily. Well, see you girls tomorrow in class. Keep my offer in mind, Mercy.” Mr. Carmody awkwardly patted Mercy’s shoulder before he disappeared into the school.

“Bloody buggering hell, can we get out of here, please?” Mercy began marching to Emily’s car without waiting for a response.

“Hey, what was that all about?” Em scrambled to keep up with her friend.

“Can we go first? I’ll tell you in the car.”

Emily’s brow furrowed, but she nodded, unlocked the car, and turned the ignition of the old Thunderbird as Mercy slid into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door. She slumped dejectedly, clutching her backpack in her arms like it was a security blanket. Em put the car into gear, took a right out of the parking lot, and then glanced at her friend.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s right would be a quicker answer.”

“Okay, start with Mr. Carmody. Was he being weird?” Em asked.

Mercy shrugged. “Nah, he was trying to be nice. He was telling me that I got a one hundred on the botany test and—”

“One hundred! That’s awesome!”

Mercy shrugged again. “Em, plants are super easy for me, remember? A one hundred on a geometry test would be awesome and miraculous.” Mercy sighed. “Right before he told me about the test, Hunter and her new cheerleader best friend and Jax zoomed out of the parking lot like they were heading for a big party or whatever. I looked so pathetic standing there, even clueless Mr. Carmody felt sorry for me. I just—” She had to pause and blink rapidly to keep tears from leaking from her eyes. “I just want my old life back.”

Emily didn’t say anything for several minutes, but she did reach over and squeeze Mercy’s hand. At the next stop sign Em turned in her seat to face her friend. “I know. I totally get it. Nothing feels normal for me, either. But I’m here, Mag. I’ve got your back.”

Mercy clutched her one remaining friend’s hand. “Spend the night tonight, ’kay? We’ll order pizza and I’ll sneak us some of Abigail’s strawberry wine. We can have a Pride and Prejudice–athon. Hell, Em, we can even get Xena to call the school tomorrow and tell them that we both have a stomach bug. We could sleep till noon and then go to Goode Lake and bask in the sun like the goddesses we are!” As Mercy spoke, her voice became more and more animated, until she was practically bouncing in her seat.

“Mag, I’d love to. Seriously. But my mom isn’t doing so great. It’s not like before.” She hurried on when Mercy frowned. “She quit with the double Xanax and the constant crying, but interring Dad yesterday really hit her hard. I can’t leave her tonight. I’m sorry.”

All the excitement that had built within Mercy at the thought of a girls’ night with Em and cutting school evaporated to leave her deflated and empty. “Okay. Yeah. You gotta be there for your mom.” Mercy let loose Em’s hand and picked at her lip instead as she stared out the passenger’s side window.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

Mercy shook her head. “Nah. I get it. If Abigail was alive and needed me I’d be there for her, too.”

“How about I tell Mom that I’m gonna spend the night at your place tomorrow? Hey, we can even take the train to Chicago Sunday morning and go to that place you love so much for brunch.”

“Native Foods Café,” Mercy said.

“Yeah, that’s it. And then—shoe shopping! What do ya think?”

“Okay, sure.” Mercy turned from the window to attempt a smile. “Sounds good.”

“Cool! I’ll let Mom know. I’m sure it’ll be okay to—” Behind them someone lay on their horn, which caused both girls to jump. “Oh, shit. Sorry!” Emily waved an apology and pulled forward. “Sheesh. Talk about impatient.”

“Right?” Mercy said automatically. Her eyes stared sightlessly out the window as Emily talked about the pop quiz her French teacher had pulled on them that day. Mercy made the appropriate sounds and responses, but all the while felt like she was crumbling into pieces.

It didn’t take long to get to the big Victorian house at the edge of town that had been home to Goode witches for more than two hundred years. Emily stopped in the driveway and waved to Xena, who was sitting in the porch swing swathed in Abigail’s bathrobe as she lapped at something in a teacup.

“Do you think that’s tuna juice?” Emily asked.

“I hope not.” Mercy shuddered. “Hey, thanks for the ride home. I really need to get around to taking my driver’s test so that I can drive myself to school without getting in massive trouble.” She put her hand on the door latch, but Em’s voice stopped her.

“Mag, are you okay?”

Mercy forced her lips to tilt up as she lied. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Don’t worry. I’m just bummed today.” She met Emily’s gaze and saw such worry and sadness there that her self-pity dissolved. “Em, I’m really sorry. I’m being a super crappy friend. Your dad’s funeral was yesterday. I know you’re hurting. I’m here for you, too.”

“I know, Mag. Hey, are you still up for doing the release ritual for my dad?”

Mercy’s smile was a lot less forced. “Of course I am. Whenever you’re ready.”

Emily’s fingers worried the leather ties on her old-school steering wheel cover.

“I asked Hunter to join us.” She hurried on before Mercy could say anything. “You’re my bestie, but Hunter and I have always been close, and I’ve been thinking that if everything was normal between you two she would definitely perform the ritual with you. So, maybe if she does, things might start to get back to normal for my twins.”

Mercy felt like the air had started to solidify and was pressing down on her. Finally, she cleared her throat and answered her best friend honestly. “That sounds logical, but Em, you didn’t see what happened yesterday at your dad’s visitation.” She met Emily’s gaze. “Hunter was mean. To me. In front of kids who were already being shitty to me. She’s changed. It’s like we’re not sisters anymore.”

“Oh, Mag! It won’t be forever. Hunter’s just trying to figure out how to stop hurting.”

“She’s taking it out on me,” said Mercy.

“It’s a cliché, but it’s true—the more we love someone, the more we can hurt them. Remember that, ’kay?”

“’Kay,” Mercy said. “And I can prepare everything for the release ritual for your dad. I’d be honored to.”

Em smiled with relief. “Awesome! How about tomorrow afternoon about one-ish? We can go out to Goode Lake. Remember when Dad used to take all of us out there and we’d rent paddleboats?”

Mercy grinned at the memory. “Yeah, and he’d buy us so much cotton candy from the refreshments stand that we’d get super sick? Good times!”

“Great times!” Emily agreed. “The lake has so many awesome memories I thought that it would be nice to do the ritual out there.”

“That’s a good idea, Em. I’ll gather the ritual things I need and have them ready to swing by and get after school tomorrow.”

“Do I need to bring anything?”

Mercy nodded. “Yes, something small that reminds you of your dad—or belonged to him. You’re going to burn it, though, so be sure it’s not something you want to keep.”

Emily’s forehead furrowed for a moment, then she grinned. “I know! I’ll bring some of his pipe tobacco.”

“Perfect!”

“Emily, kitten, would you like to stay for dinner?” Xena called from the porch.

Em shouted through the open passenger’s door. “Not tonight. I can’t. But thanks, Xena!”

“We’ll be eating soon!” Xena shouted back. “I am quite famished!”

“Uh-oh,” said Mercy as she got out of the car.

Emily laughed softly. “She’s hangry. You better go.”

“See you tomorrow at the lake.” Mercy turned and spoke through the open window. “Hey, sorry I was so selfish earlier.”

“No problem. Love you!”

“Love you, too!”

As Em drove away Mercy’s shoulders slumped again. She hefted her backpack and trudged up the stairs to plop down next to Xena on the porch swing. Thankfully, the cat person was only lapping cream from the porcelain teacup.

“Hello, kitten.”

“Hey there, Xena.”

The swing carried them smoothly back and forth, back and forth. Mercy tilted her head and stared at the ceiling of the porch, which Abigail had painted with delicately shaded triple moons, and thought about nothing but the warm afternoon breeze and the scent of growing crops it carried to her.

“Your spirit feels heavy today, kitten,” Xena said after she’d finished licking the last drop of cream from the teacup.

“Feels?” Mercy asked without taking her gaze from the triple moons.

“Now that I have formally been awarded the gift of being your familiar I can feel things about you—just as I could about my Abigail.”

“Huh,” Mercy said. “That’s weird and kinda cool.”

“It is the calling of a familiar to support her witch,” Xena said simply. “What is it, my Mercy?”

“I want my old life back!” Mercy blurted. With her head still tipped back, tears leaked onto the swing.

Xena turned to her and gently stroked her hair. “I know. But you will adapt and find a new life.”

“I—I don’t think that life will include Hunter,” Mercy said brokenly.

“I hope it does, kitten, but if not you have the strength of generations of Goode witches in your blood. You will survive.”

“What if surviving isn’t good enough? I’m just so, so sad, Xena.”

Xena continued to stroke her hair. “There is one good thing about your sadness.”

Mercy dug into her purse for the ball of wadded tissues always there and wiped almost viciously at her nose and eyes before she sat up and looked at Xena. “What could possibly be good about sadness?”

“Your ability to feel sadness proves that your sister did not take grief from you. Her spell worked just as she intended—it allowed you to move forward and not be paralyzed by your emotions. Remember that, my Mercy, and continue to move forward as we hope that, someday, our Hunter joins us.”

Mercy felt something loosen inside of her as Xena held open her arms. With a sigh she was engulfed in Abigail’s bathrobe and her familiar’s embrace. “I don’t know how I’d do this without you, Xena.”

“Hush, kitten. You shall never be without me.” At the same moment thunder boomed deafeningly and the sky opened to dump cool spring rain on Goodeville.

With her head still on Xena’s shoulder, Mercy said, “I really hope that isn’t one of Freya’s omens.”

“Well, kitten, I believe you said it best yesterday—omens bite.”

Fifteen

“Bloody buggering sodding hell!” The words exploded from Mercy as she dropped the needle that had just pricked her finger, pushed the pair of jeans she’d been attempting to sew lace panels into off her lap, and hurried into the kitchen to hold her bleeding finger under cold water.

Xena, who had been eating cannabis truffles and bingeing Love Island, UK on the couch beside Mercy followed her into the kitchen and perched on the edge of the counter. She didn’t say anything, but watched as Mercy dried her finger and wrapped another Band-Aid around it.

“What?” Mercy asked after she threw away the bandage wrappers.

“Well, kitten, if you keep sewing whilst you’re this emotional you are going to run out of bandages.” She fluttered her fingers at Mercy’s three swathed digits. “Or fingers. Also, choosing to work with the antique lace Hunter gave you for your birthday is really just adding to your upset.”

Mercy frowned at her wounded fingers. “You’re probably right about that.”

“Of course I am right. Why do you not put aside the sharp objects, make some lovely cocoa, and watch the TV with me? Love Island is quite fascinating.”

“It’s brainless reality show garbage, Xena.”

“Kitten, that is exactly the point.” Xena sighed. “But it does not seem to work for you, so I recommend that you take a ride.”

“A ride?”

“Yes, in Abigail’s car. Perhaps you might like to drive to the park and take a brisk walk to get rid of your restlessness. And then on the way home you could be a dear and stop by that lovely little sandwich shop with the odd name and get me a tuna sandwich.”

“You mean Goodeville Sammiches?”

“Yes, that is the odd name. Tell them they may hold the bread. And the lettuce.”

“So, basically, you just want tuna?”

Xena nodded enthusiastically, which made her thick, untamed hair bounce around her shoulders. “Yes, but I also like the things they mix into it.”

“Mayo, onions, and celery?”

“Oh, no. Just the mayo. I lick around the onions and celery. Vegetables are entirely too crunchy for something I didn’t have to kill to eat.” The cat person shuddered delicately.

Mercy ran a hand through her hair. “Okay, but I’m still confused. You want me to drive to the park and then go to the sandwich shop?”

“Kitten, you are emotional and lonely because you miss your sister. Our Emily must be with her mother, so she cannot be here, and even though I am an excellent familiar my company alone is not what you need tonight. But I believe the Egyptian boy would brighten your mood, would he not?” Xena raised her brows and looked very pleased with herself.

“Khenti?” Mercy’s cheeks heated. “He’s probably busy.”

“Did Khenti not tell you that he was often lonely?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then perhaps you will do him a favor by calling on him tonight.” Xena shrugged. “And if he is busy then you could still walk briskly around the park. Fresh air is good to clear the mind—and work up an appetite. You hardly ate anything today.”

Mercy blew out a long breath. “I suppose that’s not a bad idea. I did tell Khenti that I’d let him know how my magic test went. I could stop by real quick and check in with him.”

“It would be doing him a kindness,” Xena said with only a hint of slyness glinting in her yellow eyes.

Mercy nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll go for a drive to the park and then stop by Goodeville Sammiches on the way home. Good idea, Xena!” She grabbed the keys from the kitchen table and hefted her purse over her shoulder, but Xena’s voice halted her before she started for the door.

“Kitten, you’ll need a black taper candle and ritual matches.”

“Huh?”

“Or you could cast another rain spell, but that would make for a very soggy visit, especially as it already rained this afternoon—and it wouldn’t ensure your privacy. Some people will still exercise in the rain—though it is a ridiculous thing to do. Why would anyone—”

“Oh, I get it! I can cast a quick cloaking spell and not worry about people seeing Khenti and me. Xena, you’re a genius!” Mercy hugged Xena quickly and then disappeared into the pantry. She took a black taper from the basket of spellwork candles and grabbed a box of ritual matches. She shoved both in her boho bag and waved at Xena as she hurried out the door.

“Do not forget my tuna!” echoed after her.

Mercy checked the dashboard clock before she pulled out of their driveway. It was almost eight o’clock, which meant sunset wasn’t far off. It also meant that she had about an hour before Goodeville Sammiches closed.

“Well, that should be enough time. Khenti is probably busy and I want to be his friend, not that annoying witch who keeps bothering him,” Mercy muttered as she put the car in gear and took a right to circle around town. “I have got to remember to get my bloody license!”

Mercy rolled down her window and breathed deeply of the scent of the verdant fields surrounding Goodeville. The air was rich with green, growing things, which soothed Mercy’s frayed nerves like a cup of honey-drenched chamomile tea. The sky had cleared from the brief afternoon shower and the setting sun blushed pink and orange and yellow watercolors. By the time she’d wound around town to the park Mercy already felt less on edge and more like herself. Not that her sadness had decreased. Hunter’s absence was a wound—a raw sore that felt a little like an emotional toothache. Mercy found she had a hard time letting it alone, but kept pressing on it and causing herself more pain.

“So stop it! Stop thinking about Hunter! I’m pretty damn sure she’s not thinking about me.” Mercy pulled into Goode Park’s paved lot and studied the green space in front of her. One of the baseball diamonds was lit up and two teams were in the middle of a softball game. The tennis courts were also busy, though they were on the other end of the park. A group of suburban moms in yoga pants were speed-walking around the track. Basically, it was a pretty busy night at Goode Park. “But my familiar is a very smart kitty.” Mercy slung her purse over her shoulder and got out of the Camry. She’d parked in the far corner of the lot near the stately white oaks, and she hurried to their concealing shadows.

At the oaks Mercy retrieved the black taper from her purse and the ritual matches. The cloaking spell wasn’t particularly difficult, but it did take concentration, power from the ley lines, and shadows. Luckily for me, I have all three things right here. Working quickly and confidently, Mercy grounded herself by drawing and releasing three deep, cleansing breaths. Then she reached down, down, down to find the thick ley line of pulsing green power beneath her feet. It was super easy to hook into the earth power in the park. The palm trees in the middle of the park had been conjured to their position atop the convergence of two strong lines of power to create one of the points of the pentagram that enclosed Goodeville.

Mercy tapped into the power and then lifted her candle. She lit the match and touched it to the dark taper. It caught fire easily and Mercy spoke the familiar words to the ancient spell.

“Come, shadows, cloak me from prying eyes

With the night I am disguised

In darkness you cover me

Neither seen nor heard shall I be!”

After she said the final words of the spell Mercy imagined pulling the power of the ley lines up through her body and into the taper she held. Then she blew out the candle. Immediately the shadows under the trees thickened, stirred, and then surrounded her. Had Mercy been a different kind of a girl, one who hadn’t been raised with magic and witchcraft, it would’ve been creepy to be surrounded by shadows, but Mercy was the product of generations of powerful witches. She smiled at the concealing darkness and felt herself relax. The shadows were like a weighted blanket meant to quiet anxiety, not cause it.

Mercy put the snuffed candle carefully in her purse with the matches. To close the cloaking spell she would light the candle again and release the shadows. Until then Mercy Anne Goode would be indistinguishable from the gloom of dusk. She enjoyed her invisibility as she slowly made her way to the cluster of palms.

I wonder what would happen if I never released the spell. Would anyone even notice that I was gone?

Mercy shook herself mentally. That was a ridiculous way to think. Xena would freak if she was gone, and Em would be super upset.

Would Hunter care?

Mercy pushed that thought from her mind and buried it in the wound her twin’s absence had left.

At the cluster of four trees that made up the doum palm, which guarded the gate to the Egyptian Underworld, Mercy went directly to the center of the group of trees where Khenti had appeared to her twice before. She was nervous, but performing a little witchy housekeeping would settle her. Mercy faced the tree and lifted both of her hands, concentrating on the shadows around her. Using a scooping motion, Mercy’s hands sifted through the concealing darkness—a lot like she was finger painting—and she spread the shadows until they also engulfed that side of the trees. Mercy smiled as she surveyed her work. It seemed she stood in the middle of a dark bubble. She could see through it easily, but Mercy knew that her spell was set. Anyone who glanced at the trees wouldn’t see more than lengthening shadow, or hear anything more than the soughing of the wind, even if they walked close by.

Her palms still tingled with the magic of the cloaking shadows when she pressed them to the dry bark of the center palm. Mercy closed her eyes and readied herself as she opened to the tree. Sadness engulfed her, followed by a deep, flu-like ache in her joints.

“I know,” Mercy murmured to the palm. “I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting. Let me see if I can help—even a little.” She reached down, down, down again to tap into the powerful ley lines that converged beneath her feet and imagined pulling the earth energy up, up, up through her body. Mercy felt the rush of power as a tide of warmth. She gritted her teeth and with all of her witchy might sent the invigorating energy from herself, through her palms, and into the tree.

The power surged. Mercy felt that easily, but as every time before, it fizzled when it should have poured into the tree. She grunted with the effort, not willing to give up, and was rewarded by a slow leak of heat that dripped into the tree. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, forcing warmth and energy into the cluster of ailing doums, but when she finally broke the ley line connection she felt the tree draw a deep breath—in and out, in and out—and knew that, even if it wasn’t permanent, she’d helped the tree feel a little better.

“I’ll do this again, soon,” she promised the palms. And I’ll also go to the other sick trees. It’s not much, but it’s something. Maybe I can Band-Aid the problem long enough to buy me enough time to figure out how to fix them for good.

Mercy stepped back and wiped the sweat from her face. She stumbled and almost tripped as dead grass crunched under her shoes. Dizzy, Mercy looked down. “Ugh,” she muttered. “I didn’t even notice that the grass all around the trees is dead.” Mercy stared at the ground. Like sludge-filled arteries pumping from a diseased heart, blackened grass extended from the doums. “Gross. It’s spreading.” Mercy sighed, feeling so exhausted that only then did she realize the effort it had cost her to force energy into the trees. “Worth it,” she said resolutely. “It’s totally worth a little tiredness.” Her hands were shaking and she was glad for her giant boho bag from which she fished out a bottle of water. Mercy gulped it down and felt a little better. Next time I’ll send some healing power into the grass. Can’t have any attention drawn to the palms. She flipped back her hair, and then held the thick length off her neck and fanned herself to dry the sweat. Her hands had stopped trembling, so she took a couple steps back, smoothed her crop top—yay for her super cute outfit from school!—then she straightened her shoulders, cleared her throat and called, “Khenti? Are you there? It’s me, Mercy.”

Nothing happened. No luminous swirling oval of color materialized. No warrior’s roar sounded from within the trees.

When Mercy tried again she decided to use his formal title—there was magic to a person’s true name, no matter what world they were from.

“Khenti Amenti, son of Upuant, Guardian of Osiris’s realm, it is Mercy Anne Goode, Green Witch and Guardian of the Goodeville gates. I call to you!”

A hum resonated from the center of the palms and then with the sound of a woman’s sigh, the glowing gate between worlds became visible. On the other side of the barrier Mercy could just make out a figure striding quickly toward her. As he got closer she could see that it was Khenti. His reptile head looked magnificently fierce, and he held a long, sharp-tipped spear, but as soon as he caught sight of her he shifted from otherworldly guardian to boy.

“I greet you Gatekeeper and Green Witch, Mercy!” He smiled and bowed.

“And I greet you, Khenti.”

Khenti squinted as he peered past Mercy. “Has another creature escaped into your realm?”

“Oh, uh, no! Nothing like that. I was just, um, passing by and I thought I’d say hi. So, hi!” Mercy lifted a hand and waved. Then she wanted to take that same hand and smack herself. I was just passing by? Could I sound any more awkward? She hurriedly added, “And I remembered that I promised to let you know how my magic test went.”

Khenti’s response made the heat in her cheeks cool. Even through the glistening barrier between them, his smile flashed. “This is a welcome surprise. I was just thinking of you.”

“You were?”

He nodded. “Yes, I hoped that you were well and not as sad as last time we spoke.” He cocked his head and studied her. “How are you, Mercy?”

Mercy bit her lip and didn’t say anything for a moment. Isn’t it wrong to dump my problems on him? I don’t even really know him …

As if he could read her mind, Khenti stepped closer to the opalescent barrier. “Mercy, please, you may share your feelings with me. We are friends, are we not?”

“Yeah, we are.” Mercy moved her shoulders restlessly. “So, the truth is that I wasn’t passing by, and didn’t just come to tell you my magic test went well. Really well. The truth is I’ve been sad today and Xena—um, she’s my familiar. Do you know what that is?”

Khenti nodded. “A creature that is a gift from the gods.”

Mercy smiled. “That’s a great description. I’ll have to share it with Xena when I go home. Anyway, Xena thought that it would make me less sad to say hi to you. So, here I am. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”

Khenti put the blunt end of the spear he carried against the ground and leaned on it. “Not at all. It pleases me that your familiar thought to send you to me, and I am also pleased to know your magic is well.” He paused and cocked his head as if listening to a whisper. “The gate feels less ill. Not well. But not as sick as earlier today when I was forced to burn healing incense to stop the rot that spilled from it. Is that because of a spell you cast?”

“Sorta. Before I called you I tried to channel some earth power into the trees.” She let out a long sigh. “It didn’t work great, but I could tell that the trees felt a little relief.”

“That is something,” said Khenti. “So, your magic is well and good.”

She nodded. “It’s really good when I cast any spell that doesn’t involve the trees, which is super frustrating because that’s when I need it to work most.”

“It is a puzzlement,” agreed Khenti.

“I spoke to my patron goddess, Freya, and she basically told me that I have to find my path, and when I do then I’ll find the way to fix the trees.”

“Was your goddess no more specific than that?” Through the swirling barrier Mercy could see his brow furrowed with concern.

“No. Freya is big on free will, which means I have to figure stuff out on my own.”

“Ah, yes, the complexities of free will. Father and I were just discussing that subject last night.”

“Are you for or against?” asked Mercy.

“I am my mother’s son and most definitely for. My father, Upuant, is a complicated demi-god.” Khenti looked away as he spoke about his father. “He tends to be cynical. I champion mortals. He is of the mind that most mortals are too limited in their understanding of the world to do well with free will.”

Mercy thought about how ludicrous Hunter was acting and muttered, “I can’t say he’s entirely wrong. My sister is exercising her free will to be a total bitch.” She sighed and mentally shook herself. “Anyway, Freya didn’t give me specifics, but she did make me realize that I have to stop obsessing about what Hunter is or isn’t doing, and focus on myself—on my path. Oh! Freya did gift me with the ability to communicate with Xena, though, so that’s pretty awesome.” Mercy smiled as the memory of Xena’s voice echoed through her mind.

The young warrior blinked in surprise. “Xena! Is she the human who was here just a few days ago? She was part of a ritual casting, and she hissed at me.”

Mercy’s smile widened to laughter. “Yeah, that’s Xena. Only she’s not really a human. She’s only taken human form since my mom died. She’s really a cat.”

Khenti grinned. “Now the hissing is much more understandable! Is your familiar a demi-god? The only felines in my world that can take human form are gods or demi-gods.”

“Well, until recently I would’ve said no, bloody hell, no Xena is not a demi-god—she’s just a really, really old cat, but now I wonder … Though I’m not sure I actually want to know.”

Khenti nodded. “Demi-gods can be a handful.”

“More proof that she’s probably one.” They laughed together. “Well, Xena was right. You’ve already made me feel better.”

“And you me.”

“Were you having a crappy day, too?” Mercy stepped a little closer as she struggled to get a clear view of Khenti, though looking through the shifting barrier was frustratingly like trying to watch a pixelated TV screen.

Khenti shrugged his broad, bare shoulders. “Lately it has been difficult here. The gods and goddesses are unusually restless and demanding. And there was more to my conversation with my father than just discussing the free will of mortals.” Khenti sighed. “I often wonder how he could have ever been with my mother, as she is mortal and he has such disdain for them.”

“I’m sorry. ’Rental problems can be tough.”

Khenti cocked his head to the side. “’Rental?”

“Oh, sorry. Short for parental units. Mothers and fathers.”

“Ah, indeed, very true.” He squinted and looked past Mercy again. “Your world appears odd tonight. I can usually see trees and greenery behind you, but this night all I see is darkness.”

“Oh, that’s just my cloaking spell. It’s sunset here and this gate is in the middle of a busy park. It was either cast this conceal spell or make it rain. Again. And this seemed like the better of the two choices. Plus, I didn’t want to get soaked.”

Khenti’s dark eyes gazed up and down the length of her. “It would be a shame to soak your unusual, but beautifully adorned clothing.”

“Oh, thanks! I embroidered the jeans myself.” Mercy made a little flourish and bowed.

Khenti leaned forward so that his face almost touched the barrier between them. “I wish I could see the design better.”

“Well, I wish I could see what’s behind you better. All I can make out is a bunch of colors.”

Khenti straightened. “Then cross over! I would very much like to welcome you to my world.”

A wave of excitement washed over Mercy. “Really? I can just come over?”

“Yes!” Khenti shuffled his feet and looked down. “I hope you do not mind, but I made an inquiry since last we spoke. You may cross the barrier between our worlds and visit here for no longer than from one mark of the sundial to another without any ill effects.”

“Seriously?”

His gaze trapped hers. “I will never lie to you, Green Witch Mercy.” Khenti lifted his hand and held it out to her. “Come. It is simple. Take my hand and let me show you the colors of my world.”

Mercy didn’t give herself time to think. She was done thinking and overthinking and thinking again. She pushed her hand into the barrier. Like before, it didn’t feel like much of anything. But this time Khenti didn’t just press his palm against hers. He grasped her hand and pulled, very gently. Mercy held her breath and stepped into the glistening maelstrom of light as she allowed Khenti to guide her through the glowing barrier.

Sixteen

“You may open your eyes now.”

Mercy had to blink several times—the light and color of Khenti’s world was a jarring contrast to the dusk and shadows she had just left. When her vision finally cleared she gasped in delight. “Oh, Freya! This is amazing!” She realized she still held Khenti’s hand, which she quickly dropped.

“Welcome to Osiris’s realm, the Land of the Dead.” Khenti bowed deeply to her and as he straightened his smile beamed.

Mercy stared at him. With no barrier between them she realized that, minus his dragon head, Khenti wasn’t freakishly tall. He was basically normal height—just a few inches taller than her five-foot-seven. His mostly bare body was in amazing shape, but what was most striking were his dark, compassionate eyes. But not even Khenti’s gorgeous eyes could keep Mercy’s gaze from shifting around them. She turned in a slow circle, breathing deeply of the spicy-sweet incense, hardly able to believe the splendor that surrounded her. “What is this? A palace?”

“Yes, I suppose you could describe this part of the Land of the Dead as a palace, though temple is more accurate—one that stretches on infinitely. Within this temple’s walls the dead arrive and are judged and sorted, according to the lives they have lived and the writings in their Books of the Dead.” Khenti’s gaze followed hers. “There are parts of the temple that make this chamber look rather simple, though.”

“Simple? That’s hard for me to believe. I mean, this place is gorgeous!” She tore her gaze from the room to find Khenti smiling at her. “Is it okay if I walk around?”

“Of course! I will note the time and be sure you do not stay overlong.”

Khenti gestured to what Mercy had on first glance taken to be another piece of art in a room filled with exquisite treasures. She walked to it and realized it was a sundial made of gold that sat on top of an intricately carved pillar of luminous blue marble. Mercy reached out hesitantly to touch it, and a little yelp of shock escaped her lips as she saw that her hand and her arm had turned a pale gray color. “Bloody hell! Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here? I mean, I’m definitely not usually gray.”

“You need not worry. It’s normal for the color of your skin to change. It will not cause your body harm unless you stay beyond the allotted time.”

“Promise?” Mercy met his gaze.

“I give you my sacred oath, Green Witch Mercy Goode. You may trust me.”

“Okay, I will.” Mercy breathed a sigh of relief and purposefully turned her gaze up—well away from her weird-colored skin. Above the sundial, through a round opening in the distant domed ceiling, light streamed down. Mercy squinted and blinked and tried to catch a glimpse of the sky above them. “Is it daytime here?”

“It is always both day and night in the Land of the Dead.”

“Sounds confusing,” Mercy said as she wandered to the closest wall, which was covered with a spectacular mural of bejeweled goddesses and mighty gods accepting offerings from a long line of incredibly beautiful people.

“Only when I am trying to sleep,” said Khenti.

Mercy’s gaze went to him and she realized his grin said that he was joking with her. “Well, next time I visit I’ll bring you what we call a sleep mask. That should fix you right up.”

“A sleep mask changes day to night?” He joined her by the wall mural.

“Yep. It’s mortal magic. You’ll love it.” On the gleaming limestone floor below the mural sat jar after jar—one more exquisite than the last—all painted with bright colors and trimmed in gold. “What are these?”

Khenti followed her as she moved from jar to jar. “These are canopic jars.”

Mercy’s brow furrowed as she tried to place the word. “Canopic? Does that have something to do with funerals?”

“Yes. They are part of the mummification process. Within the jars rest the viscera of the dead. They are entombed with the body. The preservation of the organs helps to ensure a flourishing afterlife.”

Mercy was astounded by the artwork. The jars were huge—many reached from the floor to the middle of her chest. Lifelike carvings of the heads of animals capped each of them. Some jars had scenes depicting more gods and goddesses wrapped around them. Some depicted painted animals—beautiful and fierce—and a whole section of them were decorated with the same golden symbol over and over. “I know that one! It’s an ankh.” Mercy’s finger delicately traced the symbol that looked a little like a cross, but was looped on top.

“That’s correct. It is our symbol for life, especially sacred to the goddess Hathor. These jars are the divine originals, which are copied by mortals. In much smaller, more subdued versions, of course.” Khenti reverently touched the nearest jar. “All of the jars in this chamber were created by the goddess Qebhet, who brings water to soothe the souls of the dead as they await judgment. No mortal artist could ever be her equal.”

“Right?! I’ve never seen anything so lovely.” Mercy’s gaze moved from the jars to the life-sized statue of a goddess carved from stunning lapis lazuli. On her head was a crown that looked like an exquisite column—one that could hold up the world. A black bird shaped like a hawk, but made of a glossy ebony stone, perched on her shoulder. “Who is she?”

“That is Nephthys. She is one of the goddesses who protect the souls of the dead.”

Mercy studied the goddess. “Why does she have a column on her head?”

Khenti smiled. “That is the hieroglyph for house.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked from the statue to Khenti.

He laughed softly. “Don’t think of it as a literal house. It’s symbolic of Nephthys’ protective nature—just as a house protects its occupants.”

“Oh, I get it. That bird—it looks like a hawk, but hawks in our world aren’t black.”

“Egyptian hawks are not black, either,” Khenti explained. “Unless they’re one of Nephthys’ hawks. Then they’re black to show that they belong to a goddess who watches over souls on their way to the Land of the Dead.”

“She does look fierce. I believe she’s a good protector,” said Mercy.

“She is,” Khenti assured her. “Though Nephthys is also filled with compassion—especially for the newly dead.”

A sudden thought struck Mercy. Excited, she turned to Khenti. “Nephthys’ hawk reminds me—lately I’ve noticed black birds, ravens mostly, which is weird because ravens aren’t really a thing in Illinois. It’s like they’re following me. I thought they were positive omens, sent by Odin All-Father. He is the father god of my goddess, Freya’s, pantheon, and closely tied to ravens. But then one died at my feet, which really doesn’t scream good omen. What if the black birds are being sent as omens of death?”

Khenti drew a long breath and let it out slowly as he considered. “Black birds, especially carrion eaters, do tend to symbolize death, but perhaps your black birds are simply omens sent by your goddess to lead you here, to the Land of the Dead. Maybe here you will find something to help you solve the mystery of why the gates have sickened.”

“That’s a good point.” Mercy glanced around and then lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think omens are super confusing and annoying.”

Khenti lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Probably because the gods and goddesses can be confusing and even annoying.”

Mercy snorted a laugh. “You get to talk to goddesses a lot?”

Khenti shrugged. “And gods as well.”

“You have a really cool job,” she said.

He grinned. “Job? Is that what you call being a Green Witch?”

“Nah, that’s more of a calling—or maybe destiny.”

“Exactly.” He caught her gaze and held it. “Destiny. I am glad we are both believers in destiny.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to be much of a witch without that belief.”

“Nor much of a demi-god Guardian of the Underworld,” said Khenti.

They exchanged a smile that had Mercy’s stomach flip-flopping. To cover the sudden blush that heated her cheeks she continued to walk around the magnificent room. She stopped before another statue—a woman with the head of a cow. The bovine head should’ve made the figure look bizarre and awkward, but the opposite was true. The cow’s eyes were arresting with their intelligence and the goddess, because she had to be divine, had an elegant grace that was extremely attractive.

“That is Hathor. She is Goddess of Joy, Love, and Women. She guides the souls of the dead here, to this temple.”

“What is that?” She pointed to a thick golden necklace the goddess wore.

“That is the sun held within Hathor’s horns. All of Egypt recognizes her sacred symbol.”

“She’s so beautiful!” Mercy reached a hand out to touch the jewel-laden statue, but drew it back, afraid to cause offense.

“She is,” said Khenti. “You may touch her image if you wish. Women often touch statues of Hathor when they leave her offerings.”

“But she isn’t my goddess.” Mercy stared up into the wise eyes of the statue.

“That matters not at all. You are a woman. Hathor’s benevolence extends to you.”

Slowly, Mercy lifted her gray-tinged hand to touch the incredible jeweled collar that decorated the statue and gasped. “She’s warm!”

Mercy didn’t have to look at Khenti to know he was smiling. “That is a sign of her pleasure. She greets you.”

“Wow, I’m honored.” Mercy paused and then shifted her purse and opened it. “Wait, I have something for her. Here it is!” Her fist closed on the little crystal tube that was firmly corked and rested in the side pocket of her almost bottomless bag. She pulled it out and held it up so that the flickering light from the flaming wall sconces made the liquid within glitter.

“What is it?” Khenti asked.

As she bent to place the vial at Hathor’s sandaled feet, Mercy said, “It’s the perfume I make for myself. I mix oil and the essence of lilac blooms with a little pure vanilla—and, of course, I add some bippity boppity boo to it.” She straightened and bowed to the statue. “I hope Hathor likes lilacs.”

Around the statue the air shimmered and suddenly a shaft of brilliant yellow light illuminated Mercy.

Lovely … the whispered word made the beam of light glow even brighter before it disappeared.

Mercy turned quickly to Khenti, who was still smiling at her. “Did you see that? Hear that?”

“I did! Hathor accepts your offering.”

“That’s so cool!” Mercy grinned up at Khenti and the two of them stood there, just smiling at one another.

Khenti broke the silence first. “Might I smell the perfume you gave to Hathor?”

“Sure. I mean, if she doesn’t mind I don’t mind.” But before Mercy could retrieve the little vial, Khenti stepped close to her, bent, pressed his face near her neck, and breathed in deeply. His breath sent ripples of electricity from her neck throughout her body.

He straightened slowly. His gaze caught hers. “It is as Hathor said—lovely.”

“Thanks,” Mercy whispered.

“I am very glad you called on me tonight.”

She couldn’t look away from the heat in his dark eyes. “Me, too.”

“Is your sadness better?”

She tossed her hair back, not caring one damn bit that Em would say she was being super flirty. “Absolutely. How ’bout you?”

“Absolutely.”

Mercy felt as if she could fall into his dark eyes.

“Tell your familiar that she may send you to call on me anytime,” he said.

“Xena! Bloody hell! What time is it?” Mercy quickly pulled the phone from her purse. She definitely had no service, but it told her the time was eight-forty. “Oh, crap! I have to go.”

Khenti’s brow furrowed and he looked back at the sundial. “You still have time. You need not leave yet.”

“It’s not that. I promised I’d pick up dinner for Xena and me, and the sandwich place is going to close soon.” Side by side, she and Khenti walked slowly toward the glowing barrier. “Sorry I have to rush off like this. I’ve loved being here.”

“Then allow me to gift you with something to remind you of Osiris’s realm.” Khenti strode to the line of canopic jars that were decorated with golden ankhs. He stood before one of them, bowed his head, and as he spoke words Mercy could not understand, his fingers swept down the jar and over the ankh. When he lifted his hands and turned to face her Khenti was holding a necklace made of tiny jet beads from the center of which dangled a small golden ankh. “This is for you.”

“Oh, Khenti! It’s beautiful!”

“May I put it on you?” he asked.

“Yes!” Before she could turn and move her hair out of the way Khenti stepped forward and placed the necklace over her head. Gently, he lifted her hair so that the ankh settled intimately between her breasts. Mercy touched the golden symbol. “It’s warm.”

Khenti nodded. “It will always be warm. It carries a very small piece of the Land of the Dead within it. Now, let us return you to your world.” He took her ash-colored arm and guided Mercy back to the glowing gate.

Mercy paused there and made a gesture that took in the treasure-filled chamber. “I’ll never forget this.”

“Then return. Soon.” Khenti took her hand in his.

“I’d like that.”

Khenti held her gaze as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “As would I.”

At the touch of his lips against her skin electric sensations zapped through her body again, and Mercy had to force herself not to fidget. Khenti squeezed her hand and then released it. Mercy felt the absence of his touch like a cold shower.

“How, um…” She had to pause to get her thoughts in order. “How do I get back?”

“As easily as you arrived. Simply step through the barrier.”

She looked down at herself. Her arms were completely gray—as was her skin beneath the warm golden ankh, but the little sliver of belly showing between her crop top and jeans looked almost normal. “Do I need to do anything to make my skin go back to its regular color?”

“Just cross over to your world. It will immediately flush back to cream.”

Their eyes met. Mercy had to swallow several times before she found her voice. “Okay, well, bye. I’ll see you again soon. And thank you for my gift.” She touched the ankh lightly.

“You are most welcome. Farewell, Green Witch Mercy.”

“See ya later, Khenti, Guardian of Osiris’s realm.” She dropped into what she hoped was a cute curtsy, and then drew a big breath, held it, and stepped through the barrier.

Seventeen

Crickets chirped and a soft breeze blew through Hunter’s bedroom window. She pushed her sheets aside and opened her eyes to darkness. She sat up at the airy whoosh of the front door and the sudden blaze of the living room light. She draped her legs over the side of her bed and squinted through her open bedroom door and into the glow.

Kylie’s pigtail braids swayed back and forth as she walked toward Hunter’s room. “You’re awake!” she chimed and turned on Hunter’s bedroom light.

Jax jogged into the room, his flip-flops making quick slap slaps against his feet.

Hunter wrapped the comforter around herself and blinked. “How long was I out?”

Jax shuffled past Kylie and plopped onto the bed beside Hunter. “A few hours. Makes sense with the trauma you went through.”

Hunter shivered and tightened the comforter around her. “Trauma?” This was it. Her reckoning. The one Kirk wasn’t able to provide. Her friends now knew her true power and their fear would lash out and strike her down before she even had the chance to explain.

“Kyles told me everything.” He leaned forward and grabbed the cheerleader’s hand and pulled her onto his lap. “She also had to keep me from busting into the hospital and obliterating Kirk. Fuckin’ bag of shit.”

Kylie draped her arms around his broad shoulders and brought her face inches from his. “Violence is not the answer.”

The words needled between Hunter’s ears and sent acid washing up her throat. Violence had never been the answer before—all the Goode witches lived and swore by “An it harm none do as ye will”—but today it was. And today, it had felt right.

Jax shrugged. “He would’ve been in the ER anyway. They could’ve stopped the bleeding, no problem.”

Kylie rested her hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “I’m so relieved you got out of the way and Kirk hit that mirror. If he would’ve hit you, instead…” Brow furrowed, she squeezed Hunter’s shoulder.

Jax clenched his hands into fists. “Let’s just say, he got what was coming to him. Coach knows now, too. Even if Kirk heals up quick, he won’t play for Goodeville.”

“But enough of the negative.” Kylie clapped and leapt to her feet with ease. “The new Lupita Nyong’o movie is out. We should go!”

Hunter remained silent, scared that if she spoke, this illusion would vanish and be replaced with the truth—that she had injured Kirk, broken every finger in his hand with magic she’d borrowed from her goddess. That she’d broken her oath to do no harm. And, although guilt pecked at her heart, she couldn’t say she wouldn’t do it again.

Jax cupped his hand around his ear. “I hear Sour Patch Kids and Sour Skittles calling your name.” He dropped his hand and nudged Hunter with his elbow. “They’ll destroy your mouth, but it’s worth it.”

She couldn’t pretend things were normal. The comforter slid off Hunter’s shoulder and she shimmied back inside the warmth of her protective cocoon. “I think I’ll stay here.”

Her intention was never to lie about what happened with Kirk. To be honest, she hadn’t thought about what she would say, but Hunter was now in too deep. For hours, Kylie had been running with this story, this version of the truth. Who was Hunter to say that that couldn’t have happened? Kirk was violent. If Amphitrite hadn’t been there to help …

Another shudder and Hunter stretched the blanket taut around her. “Alone time sounds good.”

Jax wrapped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her against him. “Text me if you need me,” he whispered and rubbed his knuckles against her head.

Hunter pushed him away and sat silently as he and Kylie walked, hand in hand, from the room.

“I’ll bring you back some candy, H!” Kylie called from the entryway before the gentle whoosh of the door signaled their departure.

Hunter pulled the blanket over her head and groaned. “My life would be so much easier if you hadn’t let me do that.”

Invisible waves lapped against Hunter’s bare feet. He attacked you, and by extension, me. You did the right thing, Witch. Rest assured, I would never steer you wrong.

“You don’t think it got, like, a tiny bit out of control?” Hunter shrugged out of the comforter and padded to her dresser.

The mortal got exactly what he deserved.

Hunter opened the top drawer and pawed through her underwear. The white-and-red ombre spellbook wriggled with excitement and purred against her fingers as she lifted it from the dresser drawer.

He should know not to mess with a pure-blooded witch.

Hunter chewed her bottom lip. That was the second time she’d been told that Kirk had gotten what he’d deserved. Even though Jax didn’t know the real story, he knew the real Kirk.

She set the spellbook on top of her dresser and patted its furry cover before she crouched down to open the bottom drawer. She pulled out a pair of black leggings and a faded black DARE T-shirt and tossed them onto her bed.

“Even if it was justified, it still wasn’t completely right. And ye harm none, do what ye will.” She repeated the phrase her mother had preached to her for as long Hunter could remember.

Take off their head before they take yours. The air turned thick and salty around Hunter as she slipped the dress straps from her shoulders. It might not be as fancy as yours, but it’s served me quite well.

“We won’t be removing any heads,” Hunter said as she shimmied into her leggings. “But I do need your help with something else.”

And I need more blood.

Hunter plucked her shirt off the bed and paused. “No, it’s not like it was with Kirk. I don’t want to do anything like that again.”

But it felt good, didn’t it? That kind of power is … A briny gust swirled through Hunter’s hair. It’s intoxicating. I can show you how to command it. How to wield it without it burning through you as it did earlier.

Hunter shoved aside the questions that bubbled within her. Amphitrite was a goddess. Goddesses had different rules. But Hunter wouldn’t be pushed into doing something she didn’t feel was right. Not after what happened with Tyr.

“Before you sent Polyphemus back to Tartarus, he murdered people and took their eyes.”

Ate their eyes. To free him from his curse.

Hunter grimaced and tugged her shirt over her head. “Well, the Cyclops is gone, but the same thing is still happening. Minus the eating … I hope.” She frowned and shook her head. “Anyway, I thought I could use a spell from the book to find out where to look for the killer, but it hasn’t given me anything useful.” She pulled her hair from the collar of her shirt and went back to her dresser for her spellbook. “I think I need my tarot. The cards told me who Polyphemus was. They’ll tell me who this is.”

The tarot will speak to you in symbols and riddles. I can tell you the truth. I only need payment.

Hunter took survey of the small room with the nearly empty dresser, twin-sized bed, and nightstand that held her journal and pink Lamy pen. “I don’t really have much. Maybe if I went home—”

Blood, Amphitrite insisted. I only need blood.

Hunter stared down at the scabs that puckered against her palms and arm, constant reminders of internal wounds that may never heal.

Not yours, Witch. I already have plenty. The invisible waves returned, brushing over Hunter’s feet and sending a chill up her spine. I need new blood. Fresh blood.

“That’s not an option.” Hunter shoved her feet into her boots and grabbed her spellbook off the dresser. “I don’t have a problem deciphering my tarot. I’ve been doing it for years.” Hunter switched off her bedroom light and clomped through the small living room. “I’ll just sneak into my house, somehow avoid Mercy and Xena, and—”

Stop!

Waves thundered against Hunter’s ears, and her feet stuck to the floor. Was it fear that kept her from moving or Amphitrite’s magic?

The waves subsided and the goddess’s voice mellowed into the gentle pulse of water licking the shore. I will guide you to a place that has what I ask. Then, I can receive my payment and you can receive your answers.

“I d-don’t want to hurt anyone.” Hunter ground her teeth, hating the way her voice trembled. Hurt anyone else. But she needed to find out who was taking people’s eyes, and get enough power to heal the gates, as soon as possible.

Hunter took a deep breath and her shoulders relaxed. With Amphitrite’s help, she’d bring the killer to justice and tip the karmic scales back in her favor. Then, she’d turn her attention to the trees. She didn’t have the payment Amphitrite desired, but the goddess was helping her with this. Hunter could figure out a different form of payment, some otherworldly IOU. She glanced at the clock glowing green from the microwave. She had more than enough time to accomplish both tasks tonight. And after she fixed everything … Tomorrow, Mercy would come, tail tucked between her legs, and lay her white flag at Hunter’s feet.

Hunter clutched her spellbook against her chest and smiled. “The crownless again shall be king.”

Eighteen

Two miles didn’t sound like a long way. In a car, it wouldn’t have been, but Hunter only had two legs to carry her. Two stumpy short legs that would definitely benefit from a lunge or two.

Faster! Amphitrite’s voice slipped between Hunter’s ears and prodded her for the hundredth time.

Hunter picked up her pace as she passed the Coffee Spot’s darkened widows. This section of Main Street closed down hours before the rest. It seemed no patrons were interested in visiting the coffeehouse, crêperie, bagel shop, or butcher shop late into the night, which was fine with Hunter. She preferred to be alone. She caught her reflection out of the corner of her eye and her breath hitched as she slowed. With her hair down, she looked so much like her sister.

Just there!

Amphitrite’s excitement was an icy hand against Hunter’s back. She shook all thoughts of her sister from her head, adjusted her grip on the spellbook, and dashed across the street to the shimmer of otherworldly blue that glistened in the alleyway between Suzette’s Creperie and Main Street Meats, the butcher shop that had been a part of Goodeville for as long as Hunter could remember.

“This is going to be so gross.” Hunter groaned and trudged toward the giant green dumpster that was sandwiched between a sewer drain and the butcher shop’s back door. “Do you want me to open the lid so you can dive in and—” Hunter whirled around as a strangled yowl sounded from deep within the dead-end alley.

“A cat,” she told her frayed nerves. “It was just a cat.”

Help the creature, Amphitrite urged.

Hunter shuffled deeper into the black, her hands sweaty as she clutched the spellbook to her chest. “Here, kitty kitty.” She squinted, but the alley was a cave, a maw that consumed light and left nothing but darkness.

The sharp call of a raven echoed overhead as Hunter inched into the dark. “Here, kitty—” She swallowed her words as another wail sounded. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at Main Street and its bright white lights that flooded the sidewalk and vanquished all shadows.

You do not wish to help the innocent? Amphitrite asked.

Hunter clenched her jaw. She’d be devastated if Xena was in need and the only person who could save her didn’t because they were afraid of the dark. Gritty cries of the ravens rang out again as she charged forward. She wouldn’t let something so silly keep her from doing the right thing.

Heavy breathing stole her burst of confidence, and she slowed as liquid squished beneath her boots.

“Hello?” Hunter called into the dark.

The light over Suzette’s back entrance crackled and flickered to life.

The adrenaline that told Hunter to run also nailed her feet to the ground. She couldn’t blink, couldn’t move, as the yellow light filled in the scene before her. Two men were on the ground, one flat on his back, the other hunched over his torso.

Another gurgling yowl, and a twitch of the prone man’s legs. The noises … they had never been from a cat. Creatures in agony all sounded alike.

“Stop.” Hunter wasn’t sure if she’d said the word aloud. Wasn’t sure if it had gotten past the stickiness that tacked her tongue to the back of her teeth.

The squatting man tucked his long hair behind his ear and craned his neck to face her. Blood splattered his cheeks and stained the creases of his mouth. “It’s you.” He breathed. A knife blade glinted in the flickering light as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his dirty flannel shirt.

Hunter tightened her grip on her spellbook and forced herself to take a step back. It was Creepy Chuck. Yes, he was never groomed, always yelling about the Rapture, and a little strange, but this?

Black feathers glinted silver in the light as ravens stared down from the power line.

“Stop,” she repeated, sure this time the word had left her lips.

Slowly, Chuck stood. “It’s you!” He cheered and took a step away from the man on the ground. The man had stopped twitching. Stopped wailing. The stillness of his legs and the glistening pool of deep red that spread around him like ivy made Hunter’s knees quake.

“A-Amphitrite.” She whispered through clacking teeth.

Chuck’s wrinkled forehead smoothed, and his eyes glistened with tears. “I have seen Her in my dreams glowing like the sea, and now She is here. In the flesh. Praise all that is holy!”

Chuck took another step away from the body, and Hunter choked on a scream that clung in her throat on barbed wire.

The bottom of the man’s button-down shirt was ripped, and a knife wound parted the skin, leaving it like an oozing mouth, puckered and open. Bloody handprints painted his shirt and crimson streaked his neck and cheeks and shined slick and wet in the hollow pits where his eyes had once been.

The blade of the hunting knife gleamed red and silver as Chuck inched closer. “Many days She has spoken to me.” His smile curled at the ends and the dried blood around his mouth cracked and flaked as he shuffled toward her. “Has She spoken to you? Has She told you that they cannot see?” He shook the knife at the man behind him. The man that he’d murdered. Tears carved tracks through his blood-crusted cheeks as he stared at the empty space behind Hunter. “I have followed your instructions.”

Hunted jolted backward. She slammed into the building and winced as her bruised arms and the knot on the back of her head struck the brick.

“Amphitrite!” she shouted.

Bricks tugged on Hunter’s shirt and scraped her arms as she scurried along the wall away from Chuck. “Amphitrite! Help me, please!” Air rushed from her lungs and the spellbook flew from her hands as she slammed into metal. With sweaty palms, she groped the garbage bin, using it to steady herself as she bolted into the center of the alley.

Chuck continued toward her. “It is your time.” He wrapped his hand around the blade and held the knife out to Hunter. “She has chosen you. It’s your time to make them see.”

Salty spray dusted Hunter’s back and wrapped around her like fog. Blue light pooled around Hunter’s feet and the sound of crashing waves brought goose bumps to her skin.

“God is here! God is everywhere!” Chuck bolted forward. He prodded the air with the hilt of the knife and reached out to the darkness that pressed against Hunter’s back like granite. “They were blind, and now they see. It is your turn!”

Hunter stumbled backward into Amphitrite. The goddess’s cold hands gripped Hunter’s shoulders and her skirts tangled around the witch’s legs.

Wings flapped and a single black feather floated to the ground as the dark birds cackled and croaked overhead.

“I have done what She asked,” Chuck shouted, his eyes wide and wild. “I am Her servant! Praise be to Her!”

He was inches away. Hunter pressed herself against the great queen of the sea and squeezed her eyes shut as she waited for the explosion of power that was sure to come.

The bitter heat of Chuck’s copper-tinged breath spread against Hunter’s cheek as he spoke. “Take it.” He jabbed her clenched fist with the blunt end of the knife. “It’s your turn. Your duty now. Make them see.”

Tears fell from Hunter’s closed eyes. “Amphitrite,” she sobbed.

The goddess’s cold hands slid between Hunter’s shoulder blades. Hunter’s head snapped back as Amphitrite shoved her forward. She slammed into Chuck. There was a sound like boots squelching into mud, and he collapsed onto Hunter, draping his arms over her shoulders. Warm liquid gushed over her hands and squished sticky hot between her fingers.

“The poison. It’s spreading. Make them see,” he whispered against her ear. “Praise be to Her.” His body fell away from hers like an old coat as the knife clattered to the pavement between them.

The ravens screeched, their wings like thunder as they soared from the alley.

Hunter held out her trembling hands and backed away, whispering, no, no, no until it was nothing more than a steady pulse against her lips.

Again, Amphitrite was behind her. The goddess covered Hunter’s arms with her own and gripped the witch’s shaking fingers.

“You pushed me.” Hunter’s voice quaked as water poured from Amphitrite’s palms and washed the blood from Hunter’s hands. “You pushed me,” she said, tears hot against her eyes.

“I tried to funnel my power into you.” Amphitrite’s words were a cleansing sea spray against Hunter’s warm cheeks. “It did not work as it had before.” Her wet hands fell from Hunter’s as she glided to stand between the young witch and the men on the pavement as still as mannequins. With damp fingers, Amphitrite lifted Hunter’s chin. “But now you have what you need.” She nodded toward the dumpster. “Get the book.”

Hunter wrapped her wet hands around her stomach. “We have to call someone. We have to do something.” She couldn’t keep her voice from hitching or her tears from streaming. “The sheriff’s department.” She sniffled. “I’ll call the sheriff’s department.”

“I am your goddess, your protector. You do not need mortal aid. You need only me.” Amphitrite rode invisible waves and knelt down next to Chuck. She held her glowing hands over his chest and her lips moved with a silent command. Droplets poured from the goddess’s hands and spread like a liquid skin across Chuck’s body. “Get the book, Witch,” she instructed once more as the last beads of water fell from her fingers.

Hunter tripped over her own feet as her quaking legs carried her to the spellbook. Amphitrite was her protector. The goddess had saved her when Kirk had pinned Hunter to the sink and nearly beaten her with his hate. Trusting Amphitrite had been a mistake. A huge mistake.

But Hunter couldn’t fix the gates without a powerful spell, one she couldn’t conjure on her own.

“Bring it to me,” Amphitrite instructed as Hunter picked up the book and dusted bits of gravel from its cover.

Maybe this was a necessary evil. Chuck was bad and Amphitrite had ended his murderous spree.

Hunter hugged the book against her chest before handing it to her goddess. “What will you do with it?”

Amphitrite didn’t answer. Instead, she stroked the spellbook’s furry spine and pressed her moving lips against its soft cover. The book shuddered as she nuzzled her glowing blue nose against it. She placed it on the ground next to Chuck and motioned for Hunter to scoot back.

Hunter did as she was told as Amphitrite extended her pointer finger and poked the fluid layer that encased Chuck. It popped like a water balloon and Chuck spilled against the concrete. Hunter’s stomach lurched. Amphitrite had turned him into liquid that lapped against Hunter’s boots on its way toward the sewer drain.

Amphitrite’s skirts brushed against Hunter as the goddess glided to her side.

“Να αρχίσει,” she said and nodded at the spellbook.

The cover rippled and the book lifted from the ground and hovered above the pavement. Overlapping whispers brushed against Hunter’s ears as the spellbook opened and the pages fluttered. Blood slithered like a snake from where Chuck had been and reached up from the concrete to touch the magical tome. A sound like water sucked through a straw, and the book drank in the crimson streams. The cover bulged and glowed the deep red of plum flesh as it fed. When nothing was left, it slammed shut and dropped to the ground.

Amphitrite combed her fingers through Hunter’s hair. “It will give you what you need. A spell for the gates and the realms.” She pressed her hand against Hunter’s back, the same way she had minutes before, and urged Hunter forward. “Collect the book and perform the spell at my gate tonight, Witch.”

Hunter picked up the book. She cradled it in her arms, warm and fat like a baby. “What about him?” She motioned toward the man Chuck had killed in the name of God.

“Leave him for the mortals. I have taken care of what’s important. There is no longer a sign that you were here.” Amphitrite lifted her slender hand and snapped her fingers. The light above Suzette’s back exit flickered and went dark. The goddess was gone. Only the scents of salt and sand lingered as evidence she had intervened.

Nineteen

Kirk couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this pissed. That witch bitch had sent him to the ER—where not one fucking person had believed him when he’d tried to tell them what had happened. Not one. They all believed the shit story that pussy Jax had told Coach—that he’d tried to punch Hunter after he’d followed her into the bathroom—she’d ducked—and he’d smashed his fist into the mirror.

Not. Fucking. True!

But no one would listen to him, including his dad, who had told him to shut the hell up about that made-up witch garbage then turned his back on his son and shot questions at the doctor. Nothing had gone right since then. The doc had been Mr. Doom and Gloom. He’d actually said Kirk’s career as a quarterback was over—like a damn doctor could know that! His dad had blown a fuse. He’d stormed out of the ER before they’d immobilized and set Kirk’s five fingers, each neatly broken at the joint, and stitched up the gash in his face the witch’s ring had gouged.

The ER doc and the orthopedic dude who he’d consulted with had explained that surgery might be needed, but he’d have to see a specialist in Chicago for that. They’d also said Kirk would never be able to grip a football and throw it with accuracy again in his life.

They were full of shit.

Kirk wasn’t giving up football because there was no damn way he was going to end up like his has-been dad. It’d suck if he couldn’t throw a ball. He liked being quarterback, but he could beef up and be a linebacker with no damn problem. He was tall. He already had to run his ass off to stay lean. It’d be no big thing to muscle up—especially if he took a page outta his buddy Derek’s playbook and snagged himself some ’roids.

With one hand Kirk awkwardly shook a Percocet out of the pill bottle, tossed it in his mouth, and washed it down with beer. His dad had left him at the ER, but that was fine with Kirk. He’d driven himself there anyway. After they’d wrapped up his hand and sewed up his face he’d stopped by the Pink House, a bar/liquor store in a little shithole of a town named Ogden where they served anyone with a pulse, bought a sixer of PBR, and driven out to Goode Lake to do some thinking. Alone.

Being a leader was tough. Being team captain was even tougher. Everyone wanted to be Kirk Whitfield—star quarterback on his way to a Big Ten university, a fraternity where he’d make friends who would have his back for decades, and then a cushy white-collar job in Chicago where he’d get himself a wife as hot as she was brainless. But he’d lose his position as team leader, his free ride to college, his entire future if he listened to the assholes. No damn way was he going to let this injury stop him from the life he was entitled to. With his good hand he smashed the empty can against the side of his Jeep and then tossed it into the lake.

A little unsteadily he slid off the hood of the Jeep and got behind the wheel. The fucking Goode sisters—they were responsible for all of his problems. Hell, they were probably responsible for all of the town’s problems.

“I shoulda never even looked at Mercy Goode.” Kirk burped loud and long. He’d killed the six-pack of PBR trying to get himself together—trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do. He put the SUV in gear and threw gravel as he headed away from the lake and continued to talk to himself. “Good thing beer makes me think better—and drive better. Add Percocet and I’m golden!”

Kirk’s one-handed grip on the steering wheel left greasy marks on the leather wrapping, and he automatically drove with his knee so he could rub his palm on his jeans. Just thinking about losing football and his future had him sweating. “Gotta stop it. I’m not some nervous pussy. Those Goode bitches caused this. The little sluts aren’t gonna get away with it.”

Kirk turned onto Main Street, surprised that the streetlights were on. He hadn’t realized he’d spent so long at the lake, but it’d been worth it. His head was clear now. He was only a junior. The season was over and he had all summer to bulk up. When school started in the fall he’d be ready. He’d impress the hell outta those scouts and get his scholarship. Kirk braked at one of the two stoplights in town. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as his mind worked. Jarod and Dillon had said that Hunter had basically told Mercy to fuck off at the Parrott funeral, so they weren’t just pretending like they were pissed at each other. “Too damn bad they hadn’t been fighting when the slut and I were dating. I definitely could’ve gotten more than just a bj from her without Hunter around. But it’s perfect that they’re fighting now. Bitches don’t know about divide and conquer, but I do!”

Kirk had to stop himself from gunning the Jeep’s engine as the light turned green. He definitely wasn’t drunk—he was thinking way too clearly for that—but Goodeville cops weren’t exactly known for their smarts and the last thing he needed was to have one pull him over and smell beer on his breath.

“Fucking small-town pigs,” Kirk grumbled. “It’d be just like one of them to hassle me when they should be hauling in those witches and grilling them about the murders that just happened to start the day their mom burned up.” He drove slowly down the heart of Main Street as he continued to talk to himself. “But the cops don’t see the truth—just like Coach and my dad and the docs. Because they’re not smart like me! They’re clueless old assholes. I need to make them see. I gotta make them see.” Kirk braked at the second stoplight on Main Street and glanced in his rearview mirror at the sound of squealing tires.

A girl was waving an apology at someone in a truck who had almost hit her as she sprinted across the street, clutching something in her arms. Kirk instantly recognized her. He kept watching in the mirror. Yeah, she was definitely alone.

“Divide and conquer, just like a general—or better, a Navy SEAL. Yeah, that’s me, a Navy SEAL,” Kirk muttered to himself. “Mercy has no damn backbone anyway. Hunter is just a freak—a mean dyke witch. Now that I get what she can do I’m ready for her.” He flexed his uninjured hand so hard his knuckles cracked. “Dad gets some things right, and one thing he’s for sure right about is that bitches need to know their place.”

The light changed to green and Kirk took a right so that he could go around the block and park down the street where she wouldn’t be able to see him until it was too late.

Kirk pulled his Jeep into a parking space a block or so away from where he’d seen her cross the street. He grabbed his Mustangs ball cap from the backseat and pulled it down low and kept to the shadows as he made his way slowly along the sleepy stores. It was almost nine o’clock and fully dark. Most of the Main Street stores closed up at nine or before. Kirk glanced up and down the street. The wine bar at the other end of Main was pretty busy and, of course, Kingpin Lanes had the usual geriatric crowd of retired losers filing in and out with their ugly league shirts on and their bowling shoes over their shoulders. Other than that hardly anyone was around, which was very good for Kirk—and very bad for the witch.

He heard a weird sound somewhere behind him—maybe coming from one of the alleys that held big blue trash bins and designated smoking areas for Main Street shop employees.

What the hell kinda noise was that?

Kirk stopped and listened hard for another few moments, but didn’t hear anything else. “Probably a fucking cat,” he said under his breath, which gave him another excellent idea. I should take out that evil damn Goode cat—that’d show those two bitches. The thought made Kirk grin and when he turned his attention back to the street in front of him he saw her! She was on the sidewalk and had paused to pull out her phone and text something.

Still hugging the shadows, Kirk moved with athletic quickness so that as she sprinted across the street he followed her and caught her at the door of her car. Too damn bad for the witch that she hadn’t parked under a streetlight, so her car was in a pool of shadow. Kirk didn’t hesitate. He shoved her from behind so that she tripped and fell heavily into the silver Camry. He put his good hand on one side of Mercy and pushed his forearm against her neck, trapping her. Then he shifted and pressed his body into her so he could push her harder against the car.

“Ouch! What the bloody hell?” Mercy regained her balance and pressed the hand that wasn’t holding her to-go bag against the side of her car so she could push back against him.

“You’re not going anywhere, bitch.” He breathed the words into her ear. Her body felt good against him and he loved how she tensed when she realized it was him.

“Kirk? Get off me!” She shoved against him again.

“What’ll you do if I don’t? Zap me like your fucking sister did and break my other hand? Good thing I’m onto you two now so you won’t get the chance, you whore.” He still spoke low and into her ear. Her long, dark hair tickled his nose, but he ignored it—though it was more difficult to ignore the hardness between his legs that pressed against her tight ass.

“Break your hand? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get off me!” She struggled against him again.

“Keep wiggling that ass. Feels real good.” He panted in her ear.

Mercy froze. “What do you want?”

The second she asked him the question he knew his answer—his real answer. The one that would solve all of his problems. “I want you to tell that fucking sister of yours if she doesn’t fix what she did to me that I’m coming after both of you. I’m gonna tell everyone about the shit I watched Hunter do that night at your house. About the spell you did at the football field to make me look like a fool. About the freaky fucking trees that shouldn’t exist in Illinois and what they do. And especially about the murders—the eyeless murders I know you two witches are behind.”

Mercy remained frozen, but her words were filled with heat. “You’ve lost your bloody buggering mind—what’s left of it. Hunter hasn’t done shit to you. We literally want nothing to do with you.”

“Riiiiight.” He drew the whispered word out in her ear. “Your bitch of a sister did this to me!” He pressed his body even harder against her so that he could shift his arm from her neck and she could see his splinted hand. He felt the jolt of shock that went through her. “That’s right! She broke all five of my fingers with that blue witch light shit!”

Mercy was completely still against his body. Then she drew a breath and hurled her words at him.

“Okay, so you are crazy. The first rule of being a witch is that we are to harm no one. Hunter wouldn’t break your hand. Now, get the fuck off me you drunk moron!” Before Kirk knew what she was doing, Mercy stomped on one of his feet. She wore a pair of wooden wedges, which totally smashed through his Nikes.

Kirk staggered back. “You bitch! You could’ve broken my foot!”

Mercy didn’t so much as glance back at him. She grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open, but Kirk hurled himself forward so that he body slammed the door shut before she could sneak away. He raised his good hand to knock some sense into the bitch when a car pulled up beside them.

“Everything okay here?” asked Deputy Carter as he rolled down his window.

“No!”

“Yes!”

Kirk and Mercy spoke at the same time. Then Mercy’s shoulder rammed into him and she dodged past him to the deputy’s car.

“He attacked me!” Mercy told Deputy Carter.

The deputy instantly got out of the car and Mercy moved so that she stood beside him. “He did what?”

Kirk slouched against the Camry and shrugged. “I didn’t do shit. I was just playing. Not my fault if she can’t take a joke.”

Mercy turned to the deputy. Her face was flushed. Tears and snot tracked down her face, but her voice was strong and clear. “Kirk Whitfield is a liar. He pushed me against the car and threatened me. If you hadn’t stopped he was going to hit me.”

“Tell him why!” The words exploded from Kirk. “Because your sister did this to me!” He pointed to the ten stitches that held the gash in his cheek together as he lifted his splinted hand. “And worse than that—they have something to do with the murders. You want to figure out who’s doing all the killing in town? Lock up the Goode witches and I’ll bet it stops.”

Deputy Carter shook his head. “What are you talking about, Whitfield? And what the hell happened to your face and hand? Football accident?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Kirk’s finger pointed at Mercy like it was an aimed gun. “Her sister did this to me. She’s a witch. They both are. I’ve seen them cast spells. The murders started the night their witch of a mom died. They had something to do with it—I know it!”

Deputy Carter’s gaze went from the six-two, almost two-hundred-pound football player to Mercy—who was almost a foot shorter and half a person lighter. His brows lifted sardonically. “So, a girl—exactly Mercy’s size—beat your face and broke your hand.”

“Yes! Because she’s a fucking witch!”

“He’s such a liar and almost as disgusting as he is drunk,” Mercy said. “I’ll bet he’s driving, too.”

“You fucking whore!” Kirk started forward but Deputy Carter blocked him from getting to Mercy.

“You need to calm down. Now!” Carter said. He sniffed at Kirk. “You stink like a bar. Looks like I’ll be giving you a Breathalyzer and calling your dad.” He grabbed Kirk firmly by his arm. “Get in the cruiser.”

Deputy Carter ducked Kirk into the rear of the sheriff’s car and slammed the door firmly behind him. Kirk was too shocked to say anything. No cop had ever manhandled him before—no cop had ever called his dad. He was the captain of a victorious football team—Goodeville’s hero! He’d never even gotten a speeding ticket! His thoughts were suddenly jumbled and his palm was sweating again. He wiped it on his jeans and listened incredulously through the open window as Mercy got away with every fucking thing she’d done.

“You okay, Miss Goode?”

Mercy nodded, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and shifted the sandwich shop to-go bag to her other arm. “Yeah, now I am. Thank you so much, Deputy Carter.”

“Can you drive home, or do you want to call your aunt?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Really. You saved the day.” Mercy glanced at the cruiser, but didn’t look at Kirk. “What’s gonna happen to him?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said the deputy.

“Oh, I’m not worried at all. Nothing that jerk does could worry me. But I do want you to know that if Kirk Whitfield doesn’t stay away from my family we’re going to get a restraining order against him.”

“Fuck you, you bitch!” Kirk shouted.

“That’s enough from you, Whitfield!” barked the deputy before he turned back to Mercy. “There’ll be a record of this, so you won’t have trouble getting that restraining order, but I’ll talk with his dad. I doubt Kirk will bother you again.”

“Thanks, Deputy Carter. I appreciate you.” Mercy got in the car, put on her seat belt, and then drove away.

Kirk stared at her from the backseat of the cruiser. This isn’t over, you witch. I promise you that. This is not over.

Twenty

Hunter’s swollen spellbook purred against her arms as she carried it down the gravel road toward the olive tree. She’d been walking for more than an hour. Her arms ached under the weight of the blood-filled book and her legs felt like bags of mashed potatoes, but she would’ve kept walking right out of Goodeville if it meant freedom.

“After tonight…” She nodded to herself. Soon, freedom. First, she had to go to each gate and perform the spell that Amphitrite had told her would seal the realms and fix things for good. It would work, and the last few hours would have been worth it.

Hunter focused on grounding herself, and channeled what was left of her energy up, up, up, until it bathed in the light of the moon.

A chorus of croaking screeches bellowed overhead—the same as the alley—as Hunter clicked on her phone’s flashlight and swept the beam of light toward the sky.

Ravens. We don’t have ravens in Illinois …

Magic had taught her many things, and one of them was that coincidence was rarely ever by chance. This was an omen. It had to be. But of what?

Bile burned the back of Hunter’s throat and she forced it down with a tight swallow as she waded into the tall grass that surrounded the ancient olive tree. She was tired of seeing flames and blood when she closed her eyes, and now the hot slick of blood had branded her fingers with the memory of Chuck. Tonight, more than ever, she didn’t want to feel anything. She wanted to ignore this omen and what had happened in the alley and be devoid of all emotion. She could live her life like that, hollow and empty. This world, her magic, they weren’t made for people like Hunter, people who felt too much.

I sense your guilt … your pain. Amphitrite slipped into Hunter’s thoughts with the ease of a shark through water. It wasn’t your fault, Witch. That mortal was unhinged, demented. No mortal can hear any god. Laughter punctuated her words. But not the usual shriek that set Hunter’s teeth on edge. This was a barren chortle that itched the inside of Hunter’s ears.

She adjusted the book in her arms and followed the path she’d worn into the tall grass only days before. “Chuck killed that man. And now he’s dead, too.” She shuddered under the memory of his dying body sagging against hers. She wiped her hand over her ear, trying to scrape away the wet pop of liquid skin that had turned him into water that had rushed over Hunter’s boots and down the drain without a sound.

Better him than you.

Hunter’s hand tightened around her phone. “You pushed me!”

I tried to lend you my power!

“I killed him!” Hunter’s hands shook and sent the beam of light swaying against the grass.

A hard lump cracked beneath Hunter’s boot. She guided the light to the ground and set her book in the grass as the T-shaped pendant glinted in the beam. Her heart stilled inside her chest as she picked up Tyr’s pendant that she’d ripped off her necklace when she forsook her god and called upon Amphitrite. It had been days since she’d last worn it or felt the presence of her former god. Hunter’s knees buckled and hit the ground with a thump. Tyr …

I have guided and aided you more than Tyr ever did.

“Shut up.” Hunter spat. She ran her finger over the opalescent stone that had once swirled purple and pink beneath her touch. Her throat tightened with a sob as it swirled for a moment before turning black.

Your emotions are high—

“Get out of my head, Amphitrite!” Hunter shrieked, her eyes blurry with tears.

Gather your wits and return to me. I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.

Leaves rained down as black birds restlessly hopped from branch to branch, their yaps and caws scraping against Hunter’s frayed nerves.

“Go away!” she screamed.

The ravens let out a final screech as they fled the tree and disappeared into the night.

Hunter clutched the pendant to her chest. “Tyr!” she choked out between sobs. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. A huge mistake. I never should have cast you aside. I never should have listened to Mercy.” She wiped away her tears with the bottom of her shirt. “Amphitrite … she scares me. There’s something wrong. I just—” She shook her head. “I don’t know what it is.” She pressed the pendant against her lips. “I need your guidance. Please, Tyr, talk to me.”

The grass bent and swayed around her as she waited for the god’s response. Silent moments passed and her feet feel asleep and her head ached from sobbing, but Tyr never gave her a sign. When her tears dried and her phone’s battery flashed red, Hunter gathered her spellbook and began her trek back to her apartment. She would close the gates another day when she had more of herself to give away.

Twenty-one

“Witch.”

The word was a cold, damp breath against Hunter’s cheek. She swatted the air in front of her face and rolled over. Her arm draped over the side of the bed and her fingertips dusted the thin beige carpet. “It’s okay.” She ran her jagged nails along the rough fabric and grumbled to the dizzy space between awake and asleep. For the first time in a long time, she dreamt of nothing. “It’s okay…” Drool slipped from her parted lips and soaked into her scratchy pillowcase as her breathing deepened and she surrendered to sleep.

“Witch!”

The comforter was snatched off and an air-conditioned gust blew across Hunter’s bare legs. She sucked in a breath and snapped awake. Algae-green eyes and a crown of orange starfish and blush-pink seashells met Hunter’s bleary-eyed gaze. She blinked away the sleepy haze that clouded her vision and squinted up at the glowing azure goddess.

“I turn my back for one night and you forsake me?”

Hunter’s jaw bobbed, but her cloudy mind couldn’t find the words to calm the enraged sea queen.

Amphitrite’s nostrils flared and her skirts tangled around her ankles in an invisible current. “You have nothing to say for yourself?”

Hunter pushed herself up and folded her naked legs against her chest. “I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry?” Amphitrite’s hair cascaded down her back in a Sargasso-brown waterfall as she tipped her chin toward the ceiling and laughed.

Hunter clapped her hands over her ears as the howl punched through the small room like a tornado siren. The goddess closed her mouth and the sound ceased, leaving behind a ringing shadow that tumbled through Hunter’s ears.

“You are mine!” The unseen raging current tossed the goddess’s skirts and pushed her from the dresser at one end of Hunter’s small bedroom to the nightstand at the other and back again. “I am always here for you. Always watching.” Water splashed as she smacked her blue palm against the top of the dresser.

Goose bumps exploded across Hunter’s flesh and she hugged her legs tightly against her body. She’d gotten good at being small and invisible, but no amount of silence could keep her from Amphitrite’s ire.

“But Tyr…” A sigh rushed from between Amphitrite’s lips with a spray of salt as she wiped her hand along the dresser and brushed invisible specks of lint from her fingertips. “He is nowhere to be found.”

Hunter held her breath as Amphitrite opened the top dresser drawer.

“It’s clear he never cared for you the way I do. Yet you still call to him.” With a flick of her slender blue wrist, Hunter’s socks and underwear leapt from the drawer and landed in a pile at the goddess’s feet. “What have I done wrong? What am I lacking?” She reached inside the nearly empty drawer and Hunter clutched her legs closer to keep from lunging forward. “Shh, shh,” Amphitrite whispered into the drawer and pulled out the swollen and bloated crimson spellbook. “There, there my sweet.” She cooed and nuzzled the kitten-belly-soft cover against her cheek before taking a deep breath and narrowing her gaze on Hunter. “I have given you everything, Witch.” She stroked the book’s scarlet spine as she spoke. “And like any keeper, I can take it all away.” Water dripped from Amphitrite’s hand, painting the book’s soft fur a deep, brick red. “Is that what you want?”

Panic galloped through Hunter’s chest. She’d seen the power of water, the power of her goddess. Hunter couldn’t sit back and watch that book end up a puddle on the floor. It contained a way to cure the trees, to stop the next creature from entering Goodeville. It had to. Hunter dug her jagged nails into her skin and pressed her teeth against her bottom lip. If she’d only performed the spell last night. She could remember it and cast it again at the remaining three trees. But how could she focus after what she’d seen last night? After what she’d done.

Hunter shook her head as bile exhaled a bitter breath against her tongue. “I’m sorry,” she blurted again. “I was upset. That man, he—” Acid pricked the back of her throat and she clamped her mouth shut.

“That man was a gift.” Amphitrite floated to Hunter and set the book on her nightstand. “All mortals are gifts. Like fruit.” She twirled her fingers through the air. “To be plucked and consumed for our enjoyment and nourishment.”

Hunter’s spine stiffened and she relaxed her hold on her legs. “My friends are mortals. Jax is mortal.” Once again, she shook her head, her tangled hair brushing against her shoulders. “I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Amphitrite sat on the edge of Hunter’s bed and ran her hands over her skirts. “With time, Witch, you will learn.”

“No. I won’t.” Hunter rested her legs against her sheets and forced her chest to rise and fall with slow and steady breaths. “People aren’t fruit. What happened last night won’t happen again.”

Amphitrite leaned toward Hunter. “What happened last night was a mistake.”

“Was it?!” Hunter’s body shook, not with fear but with anger. She should have fought harder, and never forsaken her god. “You brought me there. You pushed me! We could have helped Chuck. We could have stopped him without more death.”

Amphitrite slithered closer. “You expect the trees to cower to the ants? You expect your precious Mother Moon to bow to the tide?” Water leaked from her skin and dappled the sheets. “Mortals are vessels of want and need and seduction and lies. Help them?” Her lips twisted into a grimace as she eyed Hunter. “Your kind has mingled with theirs for too long.”

A chuckle rolled across Hunter’s tongue. “You’re still mad, aren’t you?”

Amphitrite’s face stilled, her features wet and unreadable.

Hunter combed her hand through her hair and tilted her chin. “I mean, your anger was on full display when you snatched Polyphemus from this realm and locked him back in Tartarus, but I wanted to put that behind me. I wanted to fix the gates and heal the trees and move on with my life, but you…” Hunter brushed away droplets of water that hadn’t yet soaked into the sheets. “You don’t want the same thing. You like your pain.” Water rained from Amphitrite’s glowing skin and dripped off the side of the bed. “You want to keep punishing mortals because you can’t punish your husband.” The invisible rapids returned around Amphitrite’s legs and tossed cool spray into the air around them. “He’s a cheater. He’s a liar. He’s a horrible snake bastard, but you have to let it go. You have to—”

A frigid spike pierced Hunter’s chest. The familiar cold burn sucked the air from her lungs and wrapped her heart in ice. Her eyes flew to her chest and Amphitrite’s slender arm plunged through her sternum like a stake.

“Do not speak of my husband. You are the sand beneath his feet. Small. Worthless.” Water sprayed Hunter’s face as Amphitrite hissed the words through clenched teeth. “No one speaks ill of Poseidon, the god of the sea!”

Flashes of white burst across Hunter’s vision as she grabbed her goddess’s forearm. Hunter yanked and briny water sprayed between her fingers, but Amphitrite’s grip on Hunter’s heart did not loosen. Swirls of glowing blue and spots of endless black painted Hunter’s sight as she collapsed against the bed.

“You will learn, Hunter Goode.” Amphitrite was a salty storm thundering overhead. “You will learn your place and you will thank me when I’m through.”

Hunter choked and sputtered on the salt water that flooded her mouth, but the pressure in her chest kept her from coughing. This was another lesson taught with hate and fear and pain. Amphitrite, great goddess of the sea, was no different than the mortal Kirk Whitfield.

Hunter’s hands and feet tingled, and her breaths twitched in and out of her lungs, sharp and short. The pain in her chest was like the burning sun. She could no longer fight it. She’d been at war since her mother died. This small apartment had been her only safe space, and Amphitrite had destroyed it.

Hunter stopped the battle. Her arms splayed at her sides, her right hand smacking her bedside table. Her ring clinked against the wood and her fingertips dusted the warm and fat cover of her spellbook. Adrenaline spiked beneath her skin as she walked her hand up the cover and dug her fingers into the bloated heat.

Amphitrite’s wet hair brushed Hunter’s cheeks as the goddess brought herself closer to Hunter. “Yes, Witch. Stop your fight.” The torrential sea rain had given way to a light sprinkle as Amphitrite’s voice softened to a purr. “Give in and your pain will end, and we can start anew.”

Hunter plunged her hand deeper into the cover. Blood gushed around her fingertips, still warm from the magic of the book. It bubbled against her skin and a hot ache of power rolled through her body as she noiselessly whispered to the blur of rain and cerulean above her.

“Tell me again, Witch.” Amphitrite leaned closer, her pink eyelashes dancing in an unseen current. “Did you say surrender?”

Hunter pulled the rage from the pit of her stomach where it slept like a dragon. “Inferno!” Flames erupted from her skin in a wild blaze.

Amphitrite’s scream was the screech of tires as she tore her hand from Hunter’s chest and flew backward. The splash of an anchor into the sea, and Amphitrite vanished, leaving behind thick clouds of white steam. Hunter clutched her chest and sucked in breath after breath before she smoothed her hands over her skin. Satisfied the roar of magic had left her undamaged, she pushed herself from the bed.

Blood dripped from her fingertips and its metallic tang clung to the steam-filled air. Hunter smeared red across her nightstand as she pawed through the white clouds. Her fingers found the Lamy pen, its smooth sides and metal nib. She followed the trail of red back to the book and sank the pen into the crimson pulsing from the cover. She lifted her wet shirt and balled the fabric in her hand as she fished the pen from the blood.

“Begone Amphitrite!” Hunter screamed and stabbed the pen’s metal point into her left hip. Blood trailed down her legs as she carved a line to her sternum and down to her right hip bone. “I call upon the strength of my blood, my ancestors, to banish you!” Tears streaked her face and dotted her feet while she sliced the arm of the pentagram across her stomach. “I banish you from my body. I banish you from my mind. Begone Amphitrite!” Blood painted her flesh as she tore her skin and closed the pentagram. “You have no power over me!”

The pen fell from Hunter’s trembling fingers as she reached through the steam for the book and plunged her hand into its warm depths. She cupped her hand and lifted a pool of scarlet from the fleshy cover. Blood dripped from between her fingers and soaked the carpet as she brought the handful to her stomach. “As I command it, so mote it be!” Hunter clapped her palm against her etched flesh. White light burst from the wounds. Hunter released a guttural shriek as her skin sizzled.

The white blaze ceased, and the sulfuric scent of burnt hair and flesh twisted in the steam. Hunter let out a shuddering breath and, with shaking fingers, traced the pentagram, now a painless ropy scar, bright pink against her fair skin. As much as she yearned to collapse onto the firm mattress and wet sheets and close her eyes until tomorrow, she knew she couldn’t. Her body was once again safe, as it had been with Tyr, but her home …

The steam began to dissipate as Hunter grabbed the spellbook and stepped up onto her bed. The blood warmed the book, swirling and burbling from the cover each time Hunter dipped in her fingers. She flattened her palm against the wall and started to draw the same pentagram she’d carved into her flesh.

“Begone Amphitrite. I call upon the strength of this mortal’s blood and his ancestors to banish you. I banish you from this room. I banish you from this—”

“Satan!”

Hunter whirled around. The book slid from her blood-soaked hands, bounced off the bed, and landed at Jana Ashley’s feet. Blood splattered across the lace hem of Jax’s mom’s floral-patterned housedress and stained her fluffy yellow slippers with splotches of red.

Hunter froze. She hadn’t heard Mrs. Ashley come in or thought about what the past half hour must have sounded like from outside of the small apartment.

The color drained from Jana’s cheeks as she clapped her hands over her mouth and muffled another scream of Satan! Mrs. Ashley scrambled backward. Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, yet her feet kept striking the ground, kept trying to move her far, far away from the young witch who stood motionless in a room dripping with blood.

Hunter wiped her hands on her wet shirt, but only managed to spread the crimson farther up her arms. “Mrs. Ashley.” She stepped off the bed and held her hands up as she approached. “I can explain—”

Jana clutched the gold crucifix around her neck. “Stay back, Satan!” She pressed her body against the wall and turned her head from Hunter and the partial pentagram painted in blood on the wall. “Please, Lord God, protect me! Fill me with Your holy presence. Protect me from this evil, O God.”

Hunter stepped forward and Jana pinched her eyes tightly shut. “I am safe in Your shadow, Lord God. I am safe in this home built with Your love.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she brought the cross to her lips and muttered against it.

Hunter’s stomach tensed and a brick lodged in her throat. Jana Ashley had only wanted to comfort her. And in return, Hunter had done this. All of this. She stared down at the blood crusted under her fingernails and flaking against the backs of her hands. If this got out …

Hunter grabbed her backpack and stuffed it with clothes, her phone, and the healing spellbook before shoving her feet into the nearest pair of boots.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Mrs. Ashley.

Hunter ran from the room, through the open front door, and into the morning sunlight.

Twenty-two

Ivy tickled Hunter’s back and the sharp thorns of a rosebush scratched her thighs as she crouched, next door to Jax’s, in Barbara Ritter’s foliage. Hunter wiggled out of her blood-soaked clothes and into the mismatched black-and-red-checkered shorts and blue pinstriped tee she’d grabbed from her room before bolting. No, it wasn’t her room anymore. Not after what Jax’s mom had walked in on.

“Jax.” Hunter breathed as she took a half-empty water bottle from her bag and poured the contents onto her still-damp sleep shirt. She’d lose her best friend for sure. He wouldn’t understand what she’d had to do to keep herself safe, and she could never explain all the blood. But more than that, this was evidence. They would point to it and call it proof that Hunter wasn’t a harmless kitchen witch who mixed herbs and spices and only told people what they wanted to hear. They would say Hunter was a real witch, a bad witch, a Satanist, and a murderer. The type of evildoer that altered minds and perverted hearts and would snatch babies if they got too close.

Kirk would get the chance to burn her after all. And after what she’d done …

Hunter swallowed past the lump in her throat as she scrubbed the dried blood from her body and peeked through a gap in the bushes at the garage apartment and its open front door. If only she could get back in there and scrub the room from baseboards to ceiling until it sparkled in all of its beige glory like it had the day she’d moved in.

An idea fluttered in Hunter’s chest. She squatted down and dug through the front pocket of her backpack until she found the small silver pouch her mother placed in her backpack at the beginning of every semester. She opened it and dumped the contents into her palm. Dried cloves and calendula blossoms piled in her hand on a wave of spice.

Hunter’s heart longed for her mother. She would know just what to do. Hunter brought the handful to her nose and inhaled the woodiness of the dried plants. If her mom were here, none of this would have happened. She closed her fingers over the cloves and calendula. But there was no use in thinking about what didn’t exist. The only thing that mattered was here and now. She’d clean up her mess before Mrs. Ashley gathered her wits and tore out of the house, revitalized by the wrath of God.

With her free hand, Hunter brushed the shriveled leaves and rose petals from the ground in front of her and drew a pentagram in the soft dirt. She poured the cloves and calendula from her palm into the middle of the five-pointed star and took the warm book of blood from her backpack.

“The rest is for the trees,” she promised herself before she pressed her fingers into the healed cover. Red spurted around her nails and she tipped the book over to dribble a stream of blood onto the dried plants. She dabbed her fingers into the puddle and painted her palms with crimson that sizzled and popped as it coaxed the magic from her skin. It wasn’t lost on her that the very thing she’d needed to erase from her room had the potential to energize the spell. That was life—full of contradictions.

Hunter held her palms over the inactive spell and chewed on her bottom lip. Clove was for … purification? She shook her head. That wasn’t right. She should have paid more attention when Mercy blathered on and on about plants and their properties. That’s what she really needed—help from her sister. It was second to her mother’s, but her mother was no longer here.

Again, she peeked through to the garage apartment. No change.

“Think, Hunter, think.” She closed her eyes and imagined her sister. Mercy’s encyclopedias of plants, the cleaning spells they used to attempt in order to get out of chores, and all the times Mag had bored Hunter to tears reciting everything she knew about—

Hunter’s eyelids fluttered open and a grin lifted her cheeks.

Clean up my mess. Set the room right. Clean up my mess. Set the room right.

Her intention played on a loop in her head as she swept her hands in a counterclockwise circle over the pentagram.

“Clove, please drive away

What I did today.

Clean this hostile energy,

And take it far away from me.”

As Hunter cast her spell, the small pool of blood bubbled and stretched. It slid from the center of the pentagram and flooded the lines of the star. Hunter continued. Her heartbeat quickened as her palms heated and the edges of the cloves and calendula blossoms started to smolder.

“Calendula is purity,

I beseech you, hear my plea.

Scrub this mess I’ve made, make it sparkle, make it free

From blood and pain and all negativity.”

Smoke drifted from the burning plants. It followed her hands, swirling under them like a tornado. As she stood, the smoke thickened, and the funnel grew. It stretched from the earth to her waist. She continued to sweep her hands in a counterclockwise motion over the gray cyclone as she lifted them above her head. The smoke swelled until it eclipsed Hunter and blew away the blossoms from the nearby roses.

“As I command it, so mote it be!” With a forceful flick of her wrists, she threw the smoke in the direction of the apartment. The funnel barreled toward the converted garage and slipped noiselessly through the open door.

Jana Ashley shrieked and shouted another prayer for her lord to protect her from evil. Hunter crouched down behind the bloom-less roses as Mrs. Ashley burst through the front door. She screamed and waved her hands above her tousled hair as she raced to the main house. Her muumuu billowed behind her and her fuzzy slippers beat the pavement. But they were clean. Scrubbed free of blood.

Relief filled Hunter as she dragged her foot over the pentagram and the clump of charred plants, erasing the evidence of her spell. One problem solved. A million more to go.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Kylie’s number while she stuffed her things back into her bag. She needed to get her thoughts together before she talked to Mercy. Luckily, she had time to do so before they met at Goode Lake to help Em.

Kylie answered on the third ring. After a few muffled words and a deep sigh, she sleepily mumbled, “Jax?”

Hunter tossed her backpack over her shoulder and peered out around the rosebushes before jogging to the sidewalk and speed-walking toward the neighborhood’s main entrance. “It’s Hunter.”

“Hey, H.” She yawned. “Is Jax okay?”

“Unless he’s having a nightmare…” Hunter pinned a cheerful smile to her lips and waved at an early-morning jogger before she turned down one of the neighborhood’s winding streets.

“I should call him,” Kylie said, a little more alert.

“I need your help first.” Hunter adjusted her backpack strap and peered over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t followed. “Can you pick me up from the Gas-N-Go down the street from Jax’s neighborhood? I just got kicked out of the apartment.”

Blankets rustled, and a few seconds later Hunter heard the click of a light switch.

“Kirk, that shriveled little prick.” Kylie seethed. “I knew it was only a matter of time until his puckered asshole of a father convinced Jax’s mom to throw you out. Tiffany and Heather were group texting about it yesterday. I told Jax, but he said his mom would never listen to Michael Whitfield. Bunch of dicks.”

The sick feeling was back. It kneaded Hunter’s stomach and coated her throat in sick. “Yeah, bunch of dicks,” she repeated, the words like BBs in her mouth, chipping her teeth as she shot them out.

A muffled rush of water and Kylie was back on task. “I’ll be there in ten. We can go by Sunnyside Up and get some eggs, or whatever you vegetarians eat for breakfast.” The water stopped and she spoke with her mouth full. “And you can stay with me, if you want. Be there soon.”

The phone went silent, and Hunter slipped it into her back pocket as she neared the bed of purple-and-yellow pansies that framed the stone entrance to Jax’s neighborhood. She hadn’t really lied to Kylie. She also hadn’t lied the time before when Kylie shoved words into her mouth about Kirk’s hand. It wasn’t Hunter’s fault that she kept tripping and falling face-first into a decent, albeit incorrect, version of the truth.

Hunter looked up and down the sleepy two-lane street before she jogged across and headed down the sidewalk that passed the Gas-N-Go. This was part of her problem. These half-truths and veiled lies had to end. She needed to stop trying to be so different and go back to what worked, what she trusted, and what had never hurt her. In her haste to flee her sister, she’d left behind her tarot—the tool she’d once thought of as an extension of herself. Like Tyr, she’d cast her deck aside in the name of a more powerful magic. But power came at a price.

Hunter hissed in a breath and pressed her hand against her fresh scar as a salty breeze brushed over her. She spun around, but the goddess was nowhere to be seen. Hunter picked up her pace and jogged down the sidewalk. Before she could come clean to her friends, she needed to heal the gates, and with the help of her sister, banish Amphitrite for good.

Twenty-three

“Kitten! Did you remember the boughs of evergreen for the release ritual?” Xena’s voice drifted from the kitchen up the stairs to Mercy’s room.

“Yes! I cut them a couple days ago so they could dry a little and make it easier to light them.” Mercy hurried down the stairs, her giant bag slung over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen to collect her spellwork basket. She was wearing a long, cream-colored tank dress that had ivory vines embroidered along the bodice. She usually paired it with her bright pink fringed vest, but that would’ve been super inappropriate for a release ritual—so that day her pink ballet flats were her only splash of color.

Xena studied Mercy closely from her perch at the kitchen counter. “That white dress is quite fetching on you.”

“Fetching? Exactly how old are you, Xena?” Mercy teased.

“Let’s just say I’m old enough to be very wise,” said the cat person. “Are you quite sure you’re up to this ritual? I am still appalled at what that horrible boy did to you last night!” Xena wrapped Abigail’s fluffy bathrobe more securely around her as if it was a defense against the Kirk Whitfields of the world.

Mercy went to the pantry and brought out the spellwork basket she’d already loaded with a ritual robe, white candles and long, wooden matches, ritual goblets, and a bottle of rich red wine. She looked up from the items to smile at her familiar. “I’m okay. Really. Though I’m still super confused about what that ass was talking about. He seriously accused Hunter of breaking his fingers and cutting his face. That’s just crazy.” She paused before adding, “Isn’t it?”

Xena licked the back of her hand and smoothed her hair. “I would be shocked if our Hunter did harm to him, though…” Her words trailed away and she moved her shoulders in a small shrug. “She has not really been our Hunter since my Abigail left us.”

Trepidation fingered its way down Mercy’s spine and she shuddered. “I know she hasn’t been herself. Actually, Hunter has been a real bitch, but I just can’t believe she’d break anyone’s fingers—not even Kirk’s. Or, if Hunter did have something to do with Kirk’s injuries I’ll bet they were in self-defense.”

Xena nodded slowly. “Well, self-defense is a gray area in the Witches’ Rede. The old words say, ‘Live and let live. Fairly take and fairly give.’ Which some interpret as—if someone hurts us we may retaliate in kind.”

“So, you think Hunter did it?” Mercy remembered Kirk’s five splinted fingers and the stitched-up gash on his face. Her stomach felt sick as she thought about it. Not because she was upset—Kirk had looked like he’d totally lost a fight. She felt sick because Abigail had lived by the one true law that had ruled Goode witches for centuries: An’ it harm none, do as ye will. She’d raised her daughters to live by that law of compassion and fair play, too.

“I think that is a question for Hunter to answer,” said Xena. “Has she responded to you at all?”

Mercy sighed. “I texted her last night and told her I needed to talk to her. That it was real important. She hasn’t said shit back to me.”

“Kitten, did you not tell her that Kirk accosted you?”

Mercy tucked a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear. “No! If she can’t bother to even text me, then why should I tell her anything?”

Xena shook her head sadly. “Do not let stubborn pride come between you and your sister.”

“It’s not pride! I’m just—I’m just pissed. It’s like Hunter doesn’t care about us anymore. I guess I figured she wouldn’t care that Kirk pushed me around.”

“Perhaps after you finish with the ritual for Emily’s father you and I should go to Jax’s home and insist Hunter speak with us.” Xena gnawed on the side of one perfectly pointed fingernail before adding, “Though I do not want to make her any more defensive than she already is. I worry, though, about leaving her alone too long. It is not good for a witch to suffer alone.”

Mercy snorted. “She’s not alone. She has Jax and her new bestie, Kylie. They sped out of the school parking lot yesterday like they were heading to a party or something.” One I wasn’t invited to, she added to herself silently. Just the thought was like fingernails on a chalkboard to Mercy’s nerves. “No. You know what? I’m going to focus my intention on the ritual for Em’s dad and stop worrying about Hunter. It’s super clear she’s not worried about me.” Mercy ducked out the back door quickly where she’d hung the fluffy green pine boughs to dry.

“Well, kitten, I shall worry about the two of you.”

Mercy circled the boughs around the candles in her basket and smiled at Xena. “Thanks. You’re an awesome familiar.”

“I am, indeed, my Mercy kitten. Is Emily on her way to get you to drive you to the lake?”

“No, she had to go with her mom and grandparents to that little restaurant in Ogden, Sunnyside Up, for brunch. She did manage to get out of going shopping with them in Champaign, though. She said she’ll meet me at Goode Lake, over by the cabins on the far side of the lake at one o’clock.” She fished her phone out of her purse. “It’s twelve-thirty. Perfect timing!”

“Those cabins are lovely little homes. Slightly too rustic for my liking in my human form, but still—passably nice.”

“Yeah, Em’s dad loved to take her out there when she was in grade school. Remember when Hunter and I would go with them?”

Xena smiled. “You kittens called it camping, which always made Abigail laugh.” The cat person nodded appreciatively. “That is a good spot for Emily kitten’s release ritual for her father. There are many good memories there imprinted into the earth.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Okay, I’m ready. Hey, don’t be surprised if I’m not home until late—or if Em comes over for the weekend. That is okay, right?”

“Oh, kitten, of course. As I said, being solitary and sad is not good for us. I shall not worry if you and your friend wish to stay out, nor if she would like to come to our home for however long—or you hers for that matter.” Xena studied her pointed fingernails. “Actually, kitten, I shall slip back into my feline skin and do some lovely hunting. I have missed the stalk and kill.”

Mercy shuddered. “Xena, seriously. Please do not bring any dead birds into the house. Again. It’s super gross.”

“Oh, kitten, not to worry. I shall eat any bird I kill outside.” Xena hugged Mercy tightly. “Blessed be, my sweet Green Witch.”

Mercy hugged her tightly back. “Blessed be, my awesome familiar.”

The morning clouds had cleared, and it was a gorgeous Saturday afternoon in Illinois. The sky was bright, birthday cake frosting–blue with giant, puffy clouds drifting lazily around to create Winnie-the-Pooh images. Mercy breathed deeply, loving the springtime scent of green, growing things. She put her spellwork basket on the passenger’s seat with her giant purse, and quickly texted Em as they’d already planned. OMW to the lake!

She put on her seat belt and started the Camry, and her phone bleeped with Em’s text reply. Me 2! See u soon! Mercy smiled at the phone, put it in the cup holder beside her, and began to meander along the old state road that took her around town to Goode Lake. Her phone synced automatically with the Camry and began to play a TLC song—one of Hunter’s favorite oldies.

Mercy frowned. Why couldn’t Hunter just text her back? Up until just last week the twins had barely spent a weekend apart for their entire lives, and now Hunter wouldn’t even speak to her. The sharp pain of missing her twin made Mercy’s shoulders bow and the fragrant, springtime air no longer seemed so blissful. She felt the humidity that promised a hot day that would bring out the mosquitoes and maybe even a storm later. Mercy chewed her lip. Hunter was being such a bitch!

“No!” The word exploded from Mercy. “Hunter is not going to mess up today like she messed up Mr. Parrott’s funeral. No, no, no!” She grabbed her phone and changed the song. The sweet voice of her mom’s favorite singer, Tina Malia, replaced TLC and instantly Mercy’s mood shifted as Malia sang of Avalon and the beauty that awaited in the Summerlands of the goddess. “Thanks for sending me an omen that doesn’t bite, Abigail,” she whispered to the listening air—and put Hunter out of her mind.

Emily’s T-Bird was a cherry red beacon that easily drew Mercy to the sleepy cabin her dad had always preferred to rent. Em sat on one of the four wooden rocking chairs that dotted the porch of the unoccupied cabin. She stood and waved as Mercy parked beside the T-Bird.

“Hey, look! The rocks are already all set up for a campfire.” Emily grinned as she skipped down the porch steps. She was wearing a white maxi dress trimmed in pretty yellow daisies.

Mercy grabbed the spellwork basket and met Emily in front of the cabin. Her bestie hugged her. “Did you have any trouble getting away?”

“Nah, Mom and Grandma are getting along really well. They were headed to the opening of some boutique called Sundance in Champaign. Grandpa said he’d go with them, but wanted to wait somewhere he could get a beer. I have no clue what Sundance is, but they seemed super excited.”

“I know what it is—boho clothes for old people.”

“Oh shit. They’ll probably buy me something.” Em sighed.

“Yep, but you can say it doesn’t fit and then we’ll take a trip to Champaign to ‘exchange’”—Mercy air quoted—“whatever broom skirt and cardigan set they buy you. It’s a pretty pricey store—Abigail used to love their catalogue—which means we’ll have money to treat ourselves to an awesome lunch.”

“Girl, it’s a plan. So, what’s in your magic witchy basket and what do you need me to do?” Em peered at the pine boughs that curled over the white candles.

“Well, you did the first thing perfectly. Your dress is great—white symbolizes the new beginning of crossing over to the Summerlands, and as a Green Witch in the service of Freya I can say the daisies are a great choice. And you’re right. The campfire that’s already set up will definitely work.” Mercy and Em headed to the soot-marked ring of stones a few yards from the front of the cabin. “Okay, make a nest of these evergreens inside the stones and sprinkle your dad’s pipe tobacco over them. Place the fattest of the white candles in the center of it, and then put the other four smaller white pillars around the stone circle about equal distance apart.” Mercy paused to quickly get her bearings. “The lake is right over there, to the south, so place the first of the four candles there,” she pointed to the correct spot, “on the northernmost point of the circle. While you do that I’ll open the wine.”

“Oooh! There’s wine? Pagan funerals are way better than regular funerals.”

“Well, yeah, but this is really just a release ritual, not a full funeral like we did for Abigail, but I promise it’ll work, and it’ll be nice.”

“Hey.” Em touched her best friend’s arm gently. “I know. I trust you. Totally.”

Unexpectedly, tears filled Mercy’s eyes and she had to wipe at her cheeks.

“Mag, what’s wrong?”

Mercy shook her head. “No, now is not for me—it’s for you and your dad.”

“It’s Hunter, right? And the rumors about Kirk.”

“What do you know?” Mercy shot the question at her.

“I didn’t want to say anything to you ’cause it’s just gossip,” Em said.

“Kirk’s saying Hunter hit him and broke his fingers.” Mercy’s voice was flat.

“You know?” Emily’s hands stilled as she reached for the fifth candle to place around the circle.

Mercy blew out a long breath. “I was gonna tell you later because right now we’re supposed to focus on your dad.”

Em put the last candle in place and fisted her hands on her waist. “We can multitask and set our intention in a sec.”

Mercy couldn’t help but smile through her tears at her friend. “You’re starting to sound like a Goode witch.”

“If only! Tell me.”

“Last night I was getting sandwiches for Xena and me late, just before Goodeville Sammiches closed, and Kirk snuck up on me.” As Mercy quickly recapped what the douche had done, Em’s fawn eyes got huge.

“Oh. My. God! That ass! He fucking attacked you!”

“Well, he tried. Deputy Carter stopped him and hauled him away. Good riddance.”

“Yeah, Whitfield has lost his damn mind. It’s all over Insta that he said something awful to Hunter at school—she punched him, lots of people saw that—and then she ran into the bathroom. Apparently, he followed her and then the story gets super cray. He says she used magic to break his fingers. Kylie and Jax are saying that he tried to punch her, she ducked, and he smashed his hand against the bathroom mirror.”

“Oh, Freya!” Mercy’s stomach heaved. “That’s what he was babbling about when he held me against the car. He was super drunk and not making any sense. Is Hunter okay?”

Em nodded. “Yeah. She’s totally fine. Or that’s what Jax and Kylie have been saying. Hunter hasn’t posted anything.”

Mercy flushed hot. “So, she’s hanging with Jax and her new friend and can’t bother to tell her twin, who Kirk attacked, that’s she’s okay—or even give me a damn heads-up that I might need to look out for a rampaging ex-football star ex-boyfriend out for revenge. Great. She just left me out there clueless—the perfect target.”

Em shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry Mag.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Mercy drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Well, okay. Now I know what happened and I can quit thinking about it. So, let’s set our intention and create a lovely ritual of release.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Emily asked softly.

Mercy forced herself to smile. “Absolutely. I’m going to open this bottle of wine and fill our goblets, and while I do that you stand there, in front of the southern candle facing the fire pit.” Emily took her position. “Think about your dad and a super happy memory of him, and I’ll do the same.”

Mercy pushed Hunter—and all the swirling emotions surrounding what had or had not happened with Kirk—from her mind. At the very bottom of her spellwork basket was Abigail’s favorite white silk ritual cloak, the same one Xena had worn as she presided over the Kitchen Witch’s funeral. Mercy slipped it on. She loved the way it slid over her bare arms, and her mother’s faint scent of cinnamon and spice still lifted from the silk. The robe helped Mercy ground herself and be present. She felt much more prepared as she filled the two goblets from one of Abigail’s favorite bottles of red wine, then picked up the long box of wooden ritual matches and positioned herself before the northern candle, facing Emily.

“All set?” she asked Emily, who nodded solemnly. “Okay. Now we begin.” Mercy drew one long, slender match from the box.

The sounds of gravel crunching under tires followed by a car door slamming made Mercy pause before she lit the match to begin the ritual.

“I checked. No one rented this cabin this weekend.” Emily’s voice sounded very young, and filled with disappointment.

“Hey, don’t worry. We haven’t started yet.” Mercy looked around, trying to see where the car noises had come from, but the old willows that surrounded the cabin made for excellent cover, one reason Em’s dad had liked the privacy they offered so much. Then there were more tires-crunching-gravel noise, which quickly faded. Mercy smiled in relief at Em across the campfire circle. “See—it was probably just someone who took a wrong turn. Okay, so, we’ll begin again now by—”

“Oh, good! I got here in time.” Hunter stepped through the wall of trees as she spoke. She batted at a spiderweb, readjusted the backpack she carried over her shoulder, and rolled her eyes. “I forgot how stuck back in the trees this cabin is. Sorry I’m late, but you would not believe all the crap that’s happened.”

Twenty-four

Emily recovered her voice before Mercy could make a sound. “Oh, hi, Hunter. You’re actually not too late. We were just starting.”

“Why are you here?” Mercy shot the question at her twin.

“Uh, because Emily asked me to be here. I thought you knew.”

“I told you I invited her, remember?” Em said softly.

Mercy lifted her chin and squared her shoulders before she faced Hunter. “Yeah, I remember, but I didn’t figure you’d show. You’re not even wearing white.”

Hunter looked down at the maxi dress she was wearing that was emerald green decorated with tiny pink flowers. “Well, this isn’t mine. I didn’t exactly have access to my clothes this morning and had to borrow this from Kylie. Mag, we need to talk. Like, now. Some really crazy shit has gone down, and I need—”

“You need?” Mercy kept herself from yelling at her sister, but she couldn’t keep the sarcasm from filling her voice. “This isn’t about you. This is about Emily’s dad.”

Hunter nodded. “Right. I know.” She approached the circle of rock and candles.

“Have you even set your intention?” Mercy frowned at Hunter.

“I’ve been pretty busy,” said Hunter. “Hi, Em. Sorry, again, for being late. I had to—”

“Whatever you had to do isn’t important right now unless it involves Mr. Parrott,” snapped Mercy. “Step away from the ritual circle, ground yourself, and set your intention. If you can do that quickly we’ll wait for you. If not, go sit on the porch or whatever until we’re done.”

Hunter shook her head. “Mag, you don’t understand. If you’d just let me tell you—”

“And you call me selfish?” Mercy rolled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me for days. You can’t even bother to text me—or Xena—and let us know you’re okay. Or that Kirk is on the fucking rampage. Thanks for nothing, H. I found that out myself.”

“Wait, what?” Hunter took a step toward Mercy.

Mercy held out her hand like a stop sign. “No. Don’t even pretend you give a shit.”

Hunter narrowed her turquoise eyes. “I have been dealing with things you can’t even imagine by myself.”

Mercy snorted. “You mean by yourself by your own choice, don’t you?”

“Mag—Hunter, come on. You’re sisters. Twins. This stuff that’s going on between you isn’t right.”

“What isn’t right is that our issues are getting in the way of your dad’s release ritual,” said Mercy. “Hunter, ground yourself and then join us, or not. Choose. Now.”

“You’re so fucking wrong and you’re too self-absorbed to see it,” said Hunter.

“Then leave! Go away! I don’t need your help!” Mercy repeated the words that Hunter had struck her with at Mr. Parrott’s first funeral.

“No problem. I’m better on my own anyway. Sorry, Em.” Hunter turned and disappeared back through the wall of willows.

The little clearing was unusually quiet after Hunter left. There wasn’t even the sound of her sister’s shoes on gravel. The wound in Mercy’s heart was raw and felt like Hunter had stabbed it with her words and her latest abandonment.

Emily cleared her throat. “Maybe you should go after her.”

Mercy shook her head. “No. I’m not going to let her mess this up. Let’s ground ourselves together and then we’ll do the ritual.”

“But…” Em began and then she moved her shoulders. “Well, okay. If that’s what you want.”

“Absolutely. Breathe with me in and out three times to a three count and let’s both think about your dad. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mercy led Emily in the breathing exercise that would ground them, and as she did she closed her eyes and closed out the pain and anger her sister seemed to carry around with her like an extra backpack. Mercy reached down, down, down to the ley lines that pulsed deep in the earth. They weren’t as strong here as near any of the five gatekeeper trees, but she could still tap into their emerald power. She pulled it up into her body and—temporarily—let its warmth wash away Hunter and the hurt she caused. When she opened her eyes she was invigorated. She smiled at Emily and repeated, “And now we begin.”

Mercy drew one long, slender match from the box. “O elements of air, fire, water, and earth, my friend, Emily Parrott, and I call you to us today to aid us in our farewell of Dominic Parrott, beloved father to Emily.” She struck the match, touched it to the white candle on the eastern side of the stone circle, and invoked, “Air, grant Emily release from pain. Flow through her in this more lonely world and carry her sadness away.”

Mercy lit the candles working clockwise, ending with the candle in front of her. “Earth, grant Emily release from pain. Ground her in your nurturing lap. Let her know strength in remembrance without the winter of grief.”

Then Mercy blew out the match and took two new matches from the box. She kept one and handed the other across the circle to Emily, who watched her closely. Mercy raised her arms. The silk sleeves of Abigail’s white ritual robe moved gently, soothingly, in the soft morning breeze.

“O Freya, Goddess of Love and War, I do call on thee.

Be with us here at this time of great loss.

We of the Olde Ways know that when a person dies
it is only their body that is lost—never their soul
their immortal soul

For we know the soul shall return to earth.

That is a tenet of loving faith

Taught since long before history began.

Our lore tells us another mother shall give birth

And the soul—dressed in new flesh

With sturdier limbs and brighter brain

The old soul shall return to life again … again.”

Mercy met Emily’s watchful gaze.

“O daughter of beloved Dominic Parrott, I do call on thee
to speak before us and the goddess.

To show honor and love for he whom you have known

Who has passed beyond.

Tell me, Emily Parrott, what memory will you share of he?”

Emily cleared her throat. When she began to speak her voice was hesitant, but as she relaxed into the memory her words became as bright as the afternoon sunlight. “I’ll always remember how Dad took me camping here. It was our special place. Just for Dad and me—and lots of times you, too. We toasted marshmallows here. We swam in the lake. We laughed and sang songs. We made memories I will never, ever forget and someday when I have kids I’ll bring them here and tell them about their grandpa.” Emily’s gaze left Mercy’s and lifted to the sky. “We’ll make memories that include you, Dad. And a whole new generation of kids will remember you and know you. I promise.” When her eyes found Mercy again they were filled with tears, but she was smiling.

“That was perfect, Em,” Mercy said. “And now we’ll light Freya’s candle together.” They touched their long matches to the candles in front of them, and then as one they leaned forward and their two matches lit the thick white pillar of the goddess.

Mercy lifted her arms and spoke to the sky. “O gracious Freya, we do thank thee for releasing Emily’s grief and for guiding her father to your beauteous Summerlands. We ask that you convey to her father the love and good wishes sent to him by his daughter, Emily, and her friend—your servant—Mercy Goode. And we ask that he will blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” murmured Emily.

“Now we’ll light your dad’s symbolic pyre.” Together Emily and Mercy crouched. Mercy tilted the center goddess candle so that it caught the pine boughs, and soon the candle began melting with the greenery and the flames crackled cheerfully as they burned.

Mercy picked up the two goblets of wine she’d already poured and passed one to Emily. They stood and lifted the goblets. “I propose a toast,” Mercy said. “To Emily’s dad, who has been freed of this world!”

“To Dad!” Emily lifted her goblet, clinked it against Mercy’s, and then the girls drank deeply as the flames grew. And as they drank the sweet, tobacco-scented smoke rising from the burning pyre turned the purest of white, swirled, and took the form of a beautiful dove, one that lifted up and up to meet the sun in the Caribbean blue sky.

“Hey, thanks again. That was a really great ritual.” Emily leaned against her T-Bird while Mercy put the repacked spellwork basket in the passenger’s seat of the Camry. “I do feel better. A lot better, actually. Somehow, I don’t really know how to describe it except that I’m lighter.”

“That’s a perfect description and I’m glad, Em. Also, I’m really sorry Hunter almost messed everything up.”

“She didn’t, though. Hey, maybe you should go find her. I mean, we heard a car drive away, so someone dropped her off. She must be walking and she did seem upset. Hunter said she needed to talk to you, and it musta been important for her to come to you, Mag, especially right now,” said Emily.

“If what Hunter had to say was important enough to interrupt your dad’s ritual—then she knows where I live and she can come find me.” Mercy slammed the passenger’s door.

Emily moved her shoulders and looked down. “I really hate that you two are fighting.”

“I really hate that everything has to revolve around Hunter.”

Emily nudged a rock with her foot and sighed. “Yeah, I get that you’re upset. So, you want to have a mini-vacay at my house this weekend? We can order pizza, watch one of The Real Housewives, and judge them for being so damn crazy. And I promise—not one word about Hunter all weekend.”

Mercy made herself smile. “That sounds really good. Let me drop off my spellwork basket at home and tell Xena where I’ll be—or leave a note for her. I think she’s hunting.”

Emily wrinkled her nose. “Like for real? With a gun?”

“Oh, goddess, no! With her paws and claws.”

“Is that better or worse?” Em said with a little laugh.

“I’m actually not sure. But I did tell her she’d need to leave the dead bird outside the house this time.” Mercy shuddered.

“Oh, gross! What’d she say?”

“That she’d be sure to eat it outside.” Mercy’s laugh was almost authentic.

“Okay, now I’m super grossed out. That cat person licks her hand and my face and puts her dead bird spit on me!” Emily slid into the driver’s seat of her T-Bird.

“Yeah, but she does it with love,” said Mercy.

“I think I could do with a little less cat love,” said Em. “Okay, so, I’ll see you pretty soon?”

“Yep, as soon as I put away my spellwork things, change, and tell Xena what’s up.”

“Awesome! And bring the rest of that bottle of wine. Mom won’t care if we drink it as long as we don’t go anywhere.” Emily put the car in gear and waved.

Before Mercy left she checked the fire pit one more time to be sure the dirt they’d covered their mini-pyre with had extinguished everything. Satisfied she wouldn’t be responsible for burning up Em’s favorite cabin, she got in the car and drove slowly around the lake. She didn’t actively think about looking for Hunter—but she did do a lot of gawking out her open window.

But there was no sign of her twin. Not that Mercy expected there to be. She wasn’t driving the most direct route home, and the truth was chances were whoever had dropped Hunter off had probably stuck around to give her a ride back. No, Mercy was not going to worry about her sister. Like she’d told Emily—Hunter knew where she lived.

Mercy parked in the driveway of her beloved Victorian house. Xena wasn’t on the porch swing, and as she opened the door and plopped her spellwork basket down on the kitchen counter she called, “Xena! You here?”

No feline padded into the room and no cat in a human suit answered her, so Mercy jogged up the stairs, changed her white dress for a short T-shirt dress covered in happy sunflowers, though she kept on her pink flats. The ankh Khenti had given her rested warmly between her breasts. With a smile Mercy pulled it out from under her dress so that the gold of the symbol complemented the sunny yellow flowers. She’d been wearing the necklace since Khenti had given it to her, but she’d hidden it under her dress during Mr. Parrott’s ritual, and was looking forward to seeing Em’s face when she finally showed it to her and told her the amazing story about her quick visit to the Egyptian Underworld. Even Xena had been impressed by the golden ankh. Emily was going to flip out!

Mercy put PJs, a pair of jeans and a tee, and her toothbrush in her backpack and skipped down the stairs. She hurried to the kitchen and had just finished putting away her spellwork items—and stashing the bottle of wine in her backpack—when the back door opened and Xena, completely naked, walked into the house.

“Oh, hi kitt—” she began and then coughed violently, twice, before she pulled a small feather from her mouth. The cat person licked her lips and grinned at Mercy. “Sparrow! My favorite.” She tossed the feather in the air and batted playfully at it. Then she wrapped herself in Abigail’s robe, which she’d left on the back of one of the breakfast nook chairs.

“So, I’m assuming your hunt went well?” Mercy tried not to sound as completely grossed out as she actually was.

“Oh, yes, kitten! Superbly. You should have seen me stalk the silly bird—so clueless—and my pounce! It was sublime and appropriately deadly.” She coughed again and another tiny feather floated from her mouth. “How was your ritual?”

“Great—no thanks to Hunter who showed up and tried to ruin everything.”

Xena’s brow furrowed as she took her usual perch on the corner of the kitchen bar. “Hunter came to the ritual?”

“Yeah.” Mercy grabbed a crystal wineglass and quickly filled it with heavy coconut cream from the fridge. She placed it in front of Xena and then slouched against the opposite counter. “She marched in all entitled and mouthy, saying how she just had to talk to me about something oh, so important. She wasn’t even dressed for the ritual.”

“What was it she wanted to talk with you about?”

Mercy shrugged. “No idea. She kept trying to make everything all about her and whatever she wanted. When I wouldn’t let her mess up Em’s ritual she had the nerve to call me selfish and say I didn’t understand. So I told her what she’d said to me at the funeral. Go away—I don’t need you. Then she did what she seems to do best—she left.”

Xena said nothing. She watched Mercy with wise yellow eyes.

Mercy picked at the strap of her backpack. “What?”

“Kitten, I am your familiar. I love you. You know that, do you not?”

“Well, yeah, of course.”

“Then know I say this with love. Shame on you, Mercy Anne Goode.” Xena didn’t raise her voice, but the disappointment that filled her words weighed heavily on Mercy. “For the past several days—no, since your mother’s untimely death—you have been asking your sister to talk to you. To share with you. To not shut you out. And now, today, Hunter finally comes to you. She reaches out in front of your best friend, which I am quite sure was difficult for our proud Hunter, and instead of showing her the compassion you’ve wished so desperately she would treat you with, you did what?” Xena didn’t pause, but answered herself. “You threw her ill-considered words back at her and rejected her—your sister—your twin.” The cat person shook her head. “I am disheartened by this, my Green Witch. Worse, Abigail would be ashamed of you.”

Mercy’s stomach felt awful—hollow, but hot and sick at once. She blinked hard to keep from crying. Instead of allowing the wound Xena’s words had caused to hemorrhage and destroy her, Mercy got mad—really mad. She straightened and hefted her backpack over her shoulder. Her voice was cold, like she didn’t even know Xena. “You should be on my side.”

“I shall always be on your side, but that does not mean that I will not speak out when you are wrong, and you are wrong about this, my kitten.” Xena spoke slowly, as if she measured each word. “You need your sister. Your sister needs you. It is past time the two of you end this estrangement.”

“I’m gonna spend the weekend at Emily’s house. If Hunter shows up don’t call me. I’m turning off my phone. I’m sick of everything being about poor, grieving, misunderstood Hunter. Have a good weekend, Xena. Maybe by Monday you’ll be over your disappointment in me and remember you’re my familiar—not Hunter’s!” Mercy strode past the cat person, grabbed her purse from the table, stomped out of the room, and slammed the front door behind her.

Fighting back tears, Mercy sat in the car as she tried to collect herself. She expected Xena to rush out after her, say she was sorry, and wrap Mercy in a hug that smelled like Abigail and home—she more than half wanted her to. But when no one followed her—no one in cat or human form—Mercy’s anger bubbled in her sick stomach. She started the car and was just putting it in gear when her phone chimed. Instantly, Mercy felt a rush of cool relief. Xena was probably texting her to please come back. She lifted the phone eagerly to see that the text was from Emily.

Mom called. She heard about another murder in town last night! What if that’s what H was trying 2 tell u??? We should find her Mag!

“Bloody buggering hell!” Mercy hurled the words out into the empty car. “Hunter! Hunter! Hunter! I’m so damn sick of my familiar, my best friend—everyone freaking out about Hunter! She left! I stayed! She’s off doing goddess knows what while I’m the witch stressing about the trees. All by myself—without Abigail or Hunter I’m still trying to do my best!”

Anger made Mercy’s hands shake so hard that she had to try several times before she wrote the reply to Emily.

X and I had a fight. I’m staying home. Talk at school Monday.

And then Mercy did what she’d told her familiar she was going to do. She turned off her phone and dropped it onto her lap. Without thinking about where she’d go, Mercy drove away from her home.

Twenty-five

Mercy hadn’t intended to drive to Goode Park. It was like the Camry had a mind of its own, because all of a sudden there she was—pulling into the parking lot. It was way less busy than usual on a sunny Saturday afternoon, but then she remembered that the Mustangs were having a late-spring scrimmage—varsity versus junior varsity—which meant the entire football-worshipping town would be paying homage to douchebags like Kirk Whitfield at the stadium.

Thinking of Kirk fueled the fire inside Mercy. At least that asshole would be benched. For a moment she considered driving to school to witness his humiliation firsthand, but then she remembered the nasty looks and the whispers that had followed her around school all week. No, bloody hell, no! She didn’t want anything to do with Kirk or the football-obsessed who would no doubt blame her for whatever had happened to their star quarterback’s hand.

“It’s not like they can ever tell Hunter and me apart anyway,” she grumbled to herself as she put the car in park. “As usual, Hunter did whatever she wanted to do without bothering to think about how it would affect anyone else.” Mercy’s anger continued to build. “I don’t need this shit. I’m tired of trying to do the right thing—to make up for Mom’s death—heal the sodding trees—worry about Hunter. Fuck that! When will someone worry about me?”

Mercy got out of the car and slammed the door—and her phone clattered against the asphalt parking lot. “Shit! That’s all I need. A broken phone.” She frowned at it as she bent to pick it up, brushed off the undamaged screen, and slid it into the pocket of her sunflower dress. Then she tromped through the spongy grass. Mercy headed straight to the clump of doum palms without even telling her feet to take her there, but as she got nearer to the trees her feet slowed. Beneath her the grass, which was a vibrant green carpet in the rest of the park, was shriveled and blackened.

“It’s worse,” Mercy murmured as her gaze followed the veins of dying grass that fingered their way out from the clump of doums. Mercy glanced around her. No one was close to her—no one would notice. She went to her knees and breathed in and out several grounding breaths. Then Mercy closed her eyes and searched for the ley lines far below. She found the emerald rivers of power easily—and just as easily reached down as she whispered, “Come to me—use me as conduit for your healing. Banish all sickness and restore the grass to health. So I have spoken; so mote it be.”

Mercy felt a stirring beneath her knees as she released the earth energy into the sod. She opened her eyes in time to watch dead, blackened grass being replaced by new growth that shot up eagerly.

“Thank you.” Mercy patted the ground affectionately before she stood and brushed dead grass off her knees as she continued on to the palms. She reached up. Her fingers traced the ankh. It radiated comfortable warmth that reminded her of sand and sun and the brilliant colors of Khenti’s world.

He said I could come back. He invited me. We’re friends.

“And I am absolutely sick of my bloody buggering world,” she muttered.

Instead of stopping in front of the group of palms, Mercy walked the circumference of the trees—slowly, absently, as if she’d just been out for a stroll. When actually, walking the circle allowed her to look all around Goode Park. There were some grade school–aged kids playing a game of softball on a distant diamond. Two men were batting a tennis ball back and forth on the only court that was occupied. But no one jogged the track that framed the park—those people were probably at the scrimmage. By the time Mercy had completed her circle of the trees, she felt confident that no one was paying any attention to one teenager standing in the shadow of the palms.

Mercy went to the center tree and pressed her hand against its bark. It felt dry, like the skin of a really old person. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I greet you, doum. How are you today?”

Under her hand the tree shivered, and Mercy felt the cold that chilled the doum pass through it to her skin. She shivered in response. “I know. I feel it. I’m sorry. Let me see if I can help again.” Mercy closed her eyes and reached down, down, down. She barely had to concentrate. The converging ley lines thrummed with power and glowed like a stream of liquid emeralds. Mercy tapped into that stream and pulled it up into her body. She was flooded with warmth that instantly chased away the ailing chill of the trees. Then Mercy gritted her teeth, put both hands firmly against the bark, and then whispered, “From me to thee, warmth, power, strength. From me to thee, from me to thee—three by three by magical, mystical three—send from the earth to the trees warmth, power, strength. So mote it be!”

Though it was more than the quick healing she’d done for the grass it wasn’t really a spell—wasn’t really a full casting—but sluggishly the power oozed from her body into the trees. It was like pouring molasses on a cold day, and too soon Mercy had to break the contact so she could gasp for breath and wipe the sweat from her brow. Then she patted the skin of the bark affectionately. “I hope that helped.”

The bark did feel warmer. As she smiled in relief two men’s voices drifted to her. Not wanting to be seen, Mercy pressed herself closer to the concealing clump of palms.

“There’s nothing like a total sweep!” one of the men said. His voice was filled with good humor.

The other man said nothing. Mercy peeked around the doum to see that the two middle-aged men who had been on the tennis court had finished their game and were taking the path past the palms to the parking lot.

The first man gave the second a friendly shoulder shove. “Come on, man. You usually win every game. No reason to be a sore loser the one time I get lucky.”

The men were close to the palm—so close that Mercy could see the anger in the silent man’s eyes as he rounded on his friend.

“I’m no sore loser, but I fucking hate a cheater.”

The first man’s eyes narrowed. “Stan, are you seriously calling me a cheater?”

“If the shoe fucking fits!” said Stan.

“Yeah, well, if the fist fucking fits, too!” The first man, who had been smiling and happy, reached back and punched Stan in his face.

Mercy had to cover her mouth to stop her gasp of shock. She’d never seen grown men fight, but here were two totally grown men—just a few yards away from her—throwing punches like teenagers. She was thinking that she should probably call 911, but before she had a chance to punch the numbers, the men had gotten farther from her and closer to the parking lot—and it looked like they were actually laughing together. She shook her head and turned her back to them in disgust. I do not think I will ever understand men. Why the bloody hell do they have to hit each other to bond?

Then the center of the group of trees began to shimmer and an oval, as luminous as a fire opal, appeared. Behind it stood a warrior with the head of a dragon and the body of a god.

“Khenti!”

“It is you! When I felt the gate strengthen I had hoped it was my friend, the magnificent Green Witch Mercy. Have you found a way to heal the trees and fix the gates?” As he spoke he lifted his hand and as it passed in front of the ferocious reptilian visage that was his face, his skin shivered and shifted into the familiar lines of her young Egyptian warrior friend.

Mercy sighed. “No, I didn’t heal anything. I didn’t figure out anything. All I did was just channel some warmth into the palms. I’m a failure.”

“What has happened? You look as if your world rests on your shoulders.” The oval that separated them swirled and changed from opal to mother of pearl.

“I had a crappy day. Another crappy day. Sorry. I probably sound like a crybaby.” She shook back her hair and lifted her chin as she tried to hold on to some of the anger that had fueled her thus far.

“Is it your sister again? The Cosmic Witch Hunter?”

“Yeah, she and my familiar and my best friend. I’d say it feels like my whole world’s against me right now, but I get that that sounds pretty pathetic and self-pitying.” Her fingers found the ankh and she absently traced the cross-like shape.

“Well, then, perhaps you would like to hear some good news.” Khenti flashed a smile at her that even the barrier between them couldn’t dim.

“Good news would be awesome!”

“I spoke with Hathor. The goddess was pleased with the offering of your perfume—so pleased that she granted me a boon.” His grin widened.

“A boon? Like what?” Mercy wished that ever-present barrier wasn’t between them.

“The great goddess Hathor has gifted me with a spell that will allow you to visit our realm and remain in your true form!”

“What? Ohmygoddess!” Then she added, “You mean without me turning gray and having to come back here within an hour?”

“Exactly! Hathor gifted me with a life-giving spell. When I cast it on you, you will be marked by her sign in henna.”

“Her sign? The moon and the horns?”

“Exactly! You may remain here, in your own body, without any side effects until the henna disappears.”

“That sounds fantastic!” Mercy bounced up on her toes. “Any clue how long it’ll last?”

Khenti shrugged his broad shoulders. “It is difficult to say as time moves here in a different stream than in the mortal world.”

Mercy chewed her lip and then grinned as she realized what she could do. “I know! I can bring my phone.” She pulled it out of her pocket and flipped it on, though she made sure it was muted. It was almost fully charged. Mercy held it up so Khenti could see it. “The one part of this thing—it’s called a phone—that will definitely work in your world is the clock. I can set it to tell me when a certain amount of time has passed.”

His dark brows went up. “Time according to your world!”

“Exactly.”

“Well.” Khenti cleared his throat and suddenly looked adorably shy. “Mercy Goode, Green Witch and Gate Guardian, would you do me the honor of visiting my realm again?”

Mercy felt a thrill of excitement. “Would I? Hell yes! A vacay is exactly what I need.”

“Now? Would you come now?”

“Absolutely. Everyone here is so busy chasing after my sister that they won’t even notice I’m gone—and if they do wonder where I am it serves them right. They should worry about me for a change, instead of me always trying to make sure everyone else is okay.”

Khenti nodded in understanding. “You do need a break, and I would appreciate the company. My day hasn’t been pleasant, either.”

“Problems with the gods?” Mercy asked.

Khenti moved his broad shoulders. “Demi-god, actually. My father is still visiting Osiris. I mentioned before that our relationship is rather difficult.”

Mercy snorted. “I totally understand. Rather difficult also describes my family.”

Khenti lifted his hand and offered it to the swirl of color that separated them. “Then take my hand, Mercy, and let us leave the troubles of both of our worlds to others for at least a short time.”

Before she raised her hand to press through the barrier she said, “Hey, we don’t know how long Hathor’s magic will let me stay, but I really can’t be gone too long. I gotta be back at school Monday. I’m pissed, but I don’t want people to think I ran away.” Like Hunter, she added silently.

“How long does that give you?” Khenti asked.

“The rest of today and all of tomorrow. As long as I’m back early the following day I’ll make it to school just fine.”

“Then two days it shall be. Join me, Mercy.” He extended his hand.

“Gladly, Khenti.” Mercy stepped forward, reached through the barrier between them, grasped his warm, calloused hand—and stepped through the glowing divide.

She drew a deep breath the moment she was completely in Khenti’s world. The fragrance of exotic incense already seemed familiar, as did the vibrant colors that filled the beautiful chamber.

“Welcome to the Land of the Dead.” Khenti smiled and bowed to her.

“Why, thank you ever so much!” Mercy tipped her head in her impression of a queenly nod. Then she caught sight of her arm, which was already beginning to turn gray. “What do you need for the spell that’ll make this”—she pointed to her ashen skin—“go away?”

“That’s easy. I have everything here that we need. Come to Hathor’s statue.”

Mercy walked with him to the statue of the kind-eyed, graceful goddess. She bowed, this time deeply and respectfully, before Hathor. “Hello, Goddess,” she said. “Thank you so much for your gift. It’s exactly what I needed today.” The air around the statue swirled and the fragrance of lilacs and vanilla filled the room. Mercy gasped. “That’s my perfume!”

“Hathor wears your fragrance. It pleases her greatly,” said Khenti.

“Well, I’ll definitely give her more. I always have some in my purse.” Mercy automatically reached for the big fringed boho bag that was usually slung over her shoulder. “Uh-oh. I left it in my world.”

“Do you need to return for it?” Khenti asked.

“No! I’ll be fine without it.” She internally cringed at the thought of someone stealing her precious purse filled with everything, but she was in the ancient Egyptian Land of the Dead, and didn’t want to waste one moment of her impromptu vacay. “What do we do now?”

“All you need do is to face Hathor’s statue. I will conjure the spell. As soon as the henna appears the spell is set,” said Khenti.

“Okay.” Mercy turned from Khenti to face Hathor’s statue. “Um, is it gonna hurt?”

Khenti stepped into the space behind her. He rested his hands gently on her shoulders. He was close enough to her for his breath to rustle her hair and make her shiver. “Have you never been hennaed, Green Witch?”

“No. There’s not much of that going on in central Illinois. Ask me about beans and corn and football and I’m a pro.”

“I will have many questions for you, but right now you should just look into the goddess’s eyes,” said Khenti.

Mercy pressed her lips together and nodded. She lifted her gaze to Hathor’s eyes. They rested in the head of a cream-colored cow. Mercy was struck anew by the grace and intelligence of this image of the Egyptian goddess. As she stared, Khenti spoke the simple words of the spell.

“Lovely Hathor, Goddess of the Sky, of Women, of Fertility and Love

I collect the boon you granted me

From your domain—below and above

Allow Green Witch Mercy to truly be

Here with me, here with thee, here to see

The Realm of Osiris as you so decree!”

Khenti lifted his hands and brought them together in a deafening clap above her head. A shockwave of fragrant air flowed down against Mercy’s body. Her vision, still trained on Hathor’s eyes, was suddenly obscured. She thought it was a little like being caught in a spiderweb, or maybe a giant funnel of cotton candy, but it wasn’t painful or unpleasant. The air shivered over her body. It made her skin tingle with warmth.

And then the gossamer threads of magic that had swirled around her evaporated. Mercy blinked quickly as she tried to clear her vision. “Did it work?” she asked Khenti.

From behind her he laughed joyously. “Yes! Absolutely! Look at yourself, Mercy.”

Mercy blinked several more times before she was able to focus. Her gaze shifted from the goddess to herself and she gasped. “Oh, Freya! This is beautiful!” Somehow in the middle of the magical threads, Hathor had changed Mercy’s clothes. Instead of her sunflower dress she was wearing a brilliant turquoise blue linen gown. It was floor length and felt so soft against her skin it could have been made of water. A jeweled belt wrapped around her waist, highlighting her curves. The bodice was sleeveless and was cut deeply to show off her golden ankh—as well as another symbol—one that was newly drawn in rust-colored henna. It decorated her chest, with the curved tip of each of the goddess’s horns reaching up to her neck. The large, center sun disc perfectly framed Mercy’s ankh. Golden bracelets stamped with images of the bovine goddess clattered musically together as Mercy’s fingers traced the pattern of the sign of Hathor’s magic. “It’s incredible! This is so, so much more than I expected.”

Mercy stepped forward. She kissed her fingers and then touched them to the statue of Hathor. She bowed again, deeply. “Thank you, Goddess. I’ll never forget your kindness. When I return to my world I’ll burn incense to honor you, and I know my goddess, Freya, will be grateful for your kindness to her servant, as well.” Then she straightened and turned to face Khenti—whose eyes widened as his mouth flopped open. “What?” She glanced down at her gorgeous goddess-given outfit to be sure her boob hadn’t slipped out or anything. “Is something wrong?”

“No! There are many things that are right. Come, observe the rest of Hathor’s gifts.”

Khenti motioned for her to follow him to a golden plate that hung on one of the walls of the chamber. It was obviously supposed to represent the sun shining over a mural of a wide river. Khenti moved aside so Mercy could stand in front of the plate. She stared, not recognizing herself for a moment. And then she laughed with joy.

“Ohmygoddess! She did my makeup!” Heavy kohl framed her eyes and made them look bigger, highlighting their color, which the goddess had matched perfectly with the dress. Her lips were stained the blush of her cheeks. Golden scarab beetles dangled from her ears. “I feel kinda like Cinderella at the ball.”

“Is that a good thing to be?” asked Khenti.

She grinned at him. “I’ll tell you at midnight. Oh, crap! My phone!” Mercy looked around frantically and then felt a thump against her thigh. Her magnificent linen dress just happened to have a deep pocket, inside which was her phone. “Whew! Hathor doesn’t miss anything, does she?”

“Not usually,” said Khenti. “Now, I have only one thing left to do, and then we may leave this chamber.”

Khenti returned to the rear area of the room where the glowing orb still swirled opal and mother of pearl. Resting against the wall beside it was his long, razor-tipped spear, which he retrieved. He lifted the spear high and then spoke a single word, “PROTECT!,” that battered Mercy’s ears so that she cringed and stepped back as he brought the spear down on the marble floor. There was a thunderous boom! Khenti stepped back beside Mercy. His spear was stuck in the floor. It shuddered and then a sound like the wings of a flock of birds filled the chamber as the spear multiplied until it formed an intimidating wall that stood between them and the entry to Mercy’s world.

“Now we may go.” Khenti paused and added, “I apologize, Green Witch. I did not ask if you needed to perform a protective spell to watch the gates while you are not in your world.”

Mercy’s face flushed hot. She hadn’t even thought about the gates! Then she mentally shook herself and met Khenti’s dark eyes. “I don’t need to worry about the gates. My sister keeps telling me that she can take care of them by herself—so this weekend they’re all hers.”

Khenti smiled. “Then, come. Allow me to show you my world.” He offered her his arm.

Mercy took his arm. “I’m all yours! At least until Monday.”

Twenty-six

“Why the hell are you going to the Booster Club’s BBQ? You’re not even on the team.” Kirk’s dad’s sarcastic words echoed in his mind as he parked his Jeep at Goode Lake.

It hadn’t mattered that Kirk had corrected him. He was definitely still on the team. Sure, he couldn’t play. Yet. And of course that bitch had gotten him in so much trouble that he had fucking detention until school was out at the end of the month. But Coach hadn’t said shit to him about not being on the team. Kirk Whitfield was still a Mustang.

“Dad, I’m going to the BBQ. I’m the team captain. I gotta be there.”

His dad, already well into what he liked to call his Sunday case of beer, slurred a laugh. “Whether Coach Jamison has given you the bad news yet or not, boy, you’re no damn captain. But go ahead. Go out there. Just stop with that witch crap you keep trying to shovel on everyone. You already look like a big enough fool. When you gonna learn that if you have to teach a broad a lesson you do it without leaving any marks and you sure as hell don’t break your hand in the process?”

Kirk hadn’t said anything. There wasn’t a damn thing he could say. He hadn’t really expected his dad to believe him. The only thing his dad believed in was touchdowns and applause—and reliving through his son what he and Springsteen liked to call their glory days.

Kirk stepped on the emergency brake, opened the glove box, took out the bottle of pills he’d stashed there, and popped a quick Percocet. He swallowed it dry, ran his good hand through his hair, and then got out of the Jeep and followed the sounds of laughter and shouts to the picnic area—the same place they’d had the birthday party not long ago for the Goode bitches. Kirk’s teeth ground together. He’d give anything to be able to go back to that night and break up with Mercy then and there.

“Whitfield! Get over here!” His buddy Derek’s voice boomed across the picnic grounds and heads turned to gawk at Kirk as he headed to the volleyball net where the team and the varsity cheerleaders were dividing up to play.

Kirk pretended that the stares were what they used to be—envy and adoration from his town, his fans. He smiled and nodded at the parents who watched him with narrowed eyes. He was going to show them all that he wasn’t, as his drunk of a dad had said, shoveling that witch crap on people. He was telling the truth. All he had to do was to get someone to listen to him. Then he’d figure out how to prove it.

Coach Jamison stepped into his path. “Mr. Whitfield, glad you showed.”

Kirk stopped and forced an amiable smile on his face. “I wouldn’t miss it, Coach. Anything for my team.”

“Which means you’re going to go to that anger management class I recommended.”

Kirk pushed his uninjured hand into his jeans pocket to keep from balling it into a fist. “Sure, Coach,” he lied. “Soon as school’s out for the summer. Like I said—anything for my team.”

The coach stepped closer to Kirk and lowered his voice. “I’m glad, son. Hitting a woman is unacceptable behavior. How’s the hand feeling?”

Kirk lifted his splinted, bandage-swathed hand. “Doing just fine. Hardly hurts at all. Hey, Coach, I wanted to talk to you about an idea I have. I’ve been thinking that I should bulk up this summer. Really focus on lifting. I can come back in the fall a lot bigger, and could kick some serious butt on the line.”

The coach wouldn’t meet his eyes. “We’ll see, Whitfield. You just focus on healing that hand and those anger management classes. You know, son, there are a lot of things more important than football—your integrity for one.”

“I know, Coach. I totally agree with you.”

“Excellent, Whitfield, good talk. I gotta go get ready for the big cake auction. We need all the cash we can get if the team’s going to have new uniforms next season.” Jamison patted Kirk on the shoulder and walked away.

Kirk was damn glad he’d popped that Percocet. Not only did it help the throbbing, unending pain in his hand, but it took the edge off of his anger enough that he didn’t feel like he needed to grab the nearest picnic table and throw it at the coach’s clueless head.

“Whitfield! Come get in this game!” Derek shouted.

How the fuck am I supposed to play volleyball with my left hand? Kirk waved his one good hand at Derek and motioned at the table of refreshments. “Go ahead and start. Gotta get something to drink!” Without hanging around to hear Derek whine at him any more, Kirk turned his back to his friend and headed for the table where moms were pouring lemonade and handing out burgers and hot dogs. Too damn bad there’s no beer.

“Well, hello there, Kirk.” Jarod Frazier’s mom gave him a tight smile. “Would you like some lemonade and maybe something to eat? Good idea to keep your strength up so your hand can heal.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Frazier. Got any dogs left?” Kirk took the plastic cup of lemonade she offered him and made himself take a big swig of the sour crap.

Mrs. Frazier looked over her shoulder at the grill, where members of the Booster Club were flipping burgers and dogs. “Fred, are more dogs ready yet?”

A man with a gut that swallowed his belt lifted long grill tongs. “Be just a few more minutes, Evelyn!”

“I’ll get you that dog soon, Kirk.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Frazier. I’ll wait over here in the shade and drink your delicious lemonade.” He flashed his signature smile at the frumpy, middle-aged woman. But unlike usual, she didn’t respond with a blush and a giggle.

“I’ll give you a shout when it’s done” was all she said.

Kirk saluted her with his plastic cup before he backed into the shadows between two big oaks not far from the grills. He poured the disgusting lemonade on the ground and dropped the cup behind him. What the fuck is wrong with everyone? It’s like they actually think I did something wrong!

The breeze shifted and brought grill smoke to him. Kirk coughed and ducked back behind one of the oaks, out of the hot dog–smelling cloud, and gossipy mom voices drifted to him.

“He was going to hit her! The principal’s secretary, Mrs. Anthony, told me she saw the mirror. It was completely shattered.”

“It’s just awful. Well, you know his father is an abuser. It’s hardly a surprise. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“But it’s crazy, isn’t it? My Sarah told me she saw him chase that poor girl into the bathroom. And those twins just lost their mom.”

“You want to know what’s really crazy? Jana Ashley. Have you heard the insane stories she’s telling?”

“No! What?”

“Well, I heard from Doris Sanders that she’s saying that Satan has possessed her garage apartment.”

Kirk held his breath, straining to hear their whispery voices.

“Is she serious?”

“As a heart attack. She went on and on about blood being everywhere. Apparently, she was hysterical.”

“Well, I’ve always said she has those crazy eyes. Where is she?”

“Over there by the dock. Poor Jana. Cathy, her eyes are not crazy. We shouldn’t judge her. Or at least not until we get the full story. I know. Let’s invite her over for girls’ night.”

“Oh, good idea! We do need to hear the truth from her and then…”

Their voices faded as the wind died, but Kirk had heard everything he needed to hear. He quickly circumvented the refreshment table and headed to the dock where a lone woman was sitting in a director’s chair that had MUSTANG FOOTBALL blazed on the back of it.

Kirk walked a little past Jax’s mom before he stopped and stared out at the lake. He sighed loudly, bowed his shoulders, and swiped at his eyes.

“Kirk? Are you okay?”

Kirk jumped and turned quickly. “Oh, Mrs. Ashley! Sorry. I—uh—I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Mrs. Ashley rubbed the large gold crucifix she wore around her neck nervously between her thumb and forefinger.

“No problem. Actually, it’s funny. I was just thinking about you.”

“Me? Are you sure you don’t mean my son?”

“No, I mean you, Mrs. Ashley. I was wondering about something, but I don’t want to seem disrespectful, so I’m not real sure I can talk to you about it.”

Mrs. Ashley sat up straighter. Her dark hair was cut in a graying mom bob and she was wearing khaki capris and a GOODEVILLE MUSTANGS T-shirt, which she tugged at with the hand that wasn’t worrying her cross. “What is it, Kirk?”

“Well, I guess I’m just kinda shocked that a good Christian woman like you would let a witch live in your garage apartment.”

Mrs. Ashley’s muddy brown eyes widened. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Hunter Goode is no longer welcome in my garage or my home.”

“Whew.” Kirk blew out a long, exaggerated breath. “That’s a relief. I really don’t want you—or Jax, of course—mixed up with her. Mrs. Ashley, I just found out some stuff that freaked me out pretty badly.” He looked around to be sure no one was close to them before he continued. “I think she worships Satan.”

“Oh, Kirk! I believe you are so right. Please! Tell me everything.”

Kirk squatted next to her. “Okay, so, you know what everyone’s saying about me punching the mirror and breaking my hand? Well, that’s not what happened at all…”

Twenty-seven

The Land of the Dead was the most beautiful place Mercy had ever been—and so far they hadn’t even gone outside the never-ending temple. Just when she thought there couldn’t be anything more gorgeous than the room they’d just left, Mercy would turn a corner with Khenti and they’d come to another chamber, like the huge, domed room dedicated to the queens of Egypt, and she’d be blown away by its magnificence. Mercy felt as if she could’ve stayed in the temple forever, wandering around and gazing at wonders. Khenti even allowed her to peek into the incredible chamber where the newly dead waited to be judged. An endless line of people, who looked totally alive, stretched in a long, somber queue that snaked around a room where Mercy actually got to see the lovely ostrich goddess, Qebhet, as she tenderly brought the dead fresh water and kind words.

As she and Khenti were crossing a wide hallway made of polished golden stone a woman draped in see-through white linen whose skin was completely covered in golden scales stopped them. She nodded to Mercy before she asked Khenti, “Gate Guardian, are you not going to attend the Beautiful Feast of the Valley Festival this season?”

“Thank you for the reminder, Hatmehit. That is one of my favorite festivals. My guest, the Green Witch Mercy and I will attend.” He bowed to her.

The fish woman nodded magnanimously and turned to Mercy. “Well met, Green Witch Mercy.”

“Hello,” Mercy said. She followed Khenti’s lead and bowed. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The woman’s pouty, fishlike lips tilted up and she continued past them to disappear into one of the decorative chambers.

“Is that a fish goddess?” Mercy whispered.

“Yes.” Khenti smiled. “She is widely worshipped in the Mendes Delta. I rarely see her here, but of course she would be attending the festival—the river does play an important part in it. Are you hungry?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m starving.” Mercy took the phone out of her pocket and was shocked to see that it was Sunday afternoon. “Wait, I’ve been here for an entire day?” Quickly, she looked down at the henna sun disc and horns on her chest. None of it had faded, which made Mercy breathe a long sigh of relief.

“Time does pass differently here,” said Khenti as he led her toward an opening in the golden hallway from which warm air fragranced with jasmine caused floor-to-ceiling curtains to billow. “Sometimes slower—sometimes faster—than in the mortal worlds.”

“Worlds? Have you been to other worlds than Egypt?” Mercy breathed deeply of the perfumed breeze as they parted the curtains and left the temple to enter a courtyard filled with a riot of blooming jasmine that covered the walls, as well as an exquisite water feature that held purple lotus blooms the size of dinner plates.

“No, though I would love to.”

“It’d be great if you could visit my world, although it’s really nothing like…” Her words ran out as they moved from the fragrant courtyard to the landing at the top of a wide staircase made of creamy limestone. “Wow!” Mercy had to remind herself to close her mouth. The view that stretched before them was every bit as incredible as the endless temple. In Mercy’s mind she’d imagined ancient Egypt, or at least Khenti’s Underworld, to be sandy and hot—basically a desert. She’d been absolutely wrong.

To their right a wide river meandered lazily past the enormous temple. Both banks were lined with greenery—palms (doum!) and grasses and trees that were less familiar than the doum. Across the water colorful linen streamers waved like the wings of enormous, exotic birds. Framing the mighty river were homes built of clay stained sunset colors that ranged from sandy yellow to burnt orange. The homes all had rooftop gardens filled with flowers and more greenery. At the foot of the temple a wide limestone street was lined with open-air shops that were a cacophony of color. Flowers were everywhere! Mercy felt like a frustrated butterfly because she longed to flit between jasmine and chrysanthemum, poppy and rose, lotus and daisy—as well as many flowers she couldn’t name.

Even from their perch above it all delicious scents of baking bread lifted to mingle with spices and the sweetness of blooming flowers. Among everything were people! The women were dressed in diaphanous dresses in the same style as Mercy’s goddess-gifted clothes. Their jewelry caught the light of the brilliant sun and twinkled and winked enticingly. Their eyes were heavily lined like Mercy’s, too, though many had additional swirls and symbols painted all the way to their temples. The men wore either long, pleated skirts or shorter, more military versions in leather like Khenti. Also like her companion, they were mostly bare chested or wore open, linen vests. They, too, often lined their eyes with kohl and many wore heavily bejeweled neck collars.

When Mercy finally tore her gaze from the wonders she found Khenti watching her with a knowing smile. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I don’t have enough words to describe how wonderful it all is. I want to go everywhere at once—look at everything at once!”

He laughed. “And you’re hungry?”

She grinned at him. “Starving! What’s for dinner?” She paused and added, “Um, I don’t eat meat. I hope that’s okay here.”

“Absolutely!” They made their way down the stairs as Khenti continued, “How does flatbread stuffed with dates, raisins, honey, and goat cheese sound to you?”

“Super yummy!”

“Then come, my favorite bakery is just down the street.” Khenti offered her his arm again. She threaded hers through his. She liked touching him. His arm was strong and warm, and even though he’d offered it to her frequently during her tour of the temple, he hadn’t tried to slip his arm around her, or stared at her boobs, or done any of the number of invasive, annoying things someone like Kirk Whitfield would continually try.

Mercy felt safe and relaxed with Khenti—and she liked both feelings.

She also liked how the people of this realm interacted with him. Everywhere they went, men and women greeted him with respectful bows, but they also smiled at Khenti and called his name. If Khenti paused to speak more than a simple hello to anyone, he introduced her like he had to the fish goddess, as Green Witch Mercy—or sometimes as my friend, the Green Witch Mercy.

She could tell by the smiles and warm hellos they turned on her that Khenti was well liked and that they were comfortable around her demi-god friend.

“Khenti.” She lowered her voice and he tilted his head to her so that he could hear her. “Are all of these people, um, dead?”

Khenti’s laughter had the people within hearing distance smiling in response. “Yes.” He kept his voice low, though it was filled with good humor. “That is why this is called the Land of the Dead.”

Mercy stared around them. No one looked dead. No one. There were even children playing in a fountain from which a jeweled phoenix looked as if it could take flight at any moment, but instead of flames shooting around it water danced musically against the blue basin from which it perched.

“Well, I know that, but everyone looks so alive,” she whispered.

“That is because the Underworld is alive. It is simply a different realm than the mortal one. These people you see around us—they wrote in detail in each of their Books of the Dead exactly how they wanted to spend their eternities. That is why you see such color and joy and vibrancy. They asked for this, for their city by the Nile, and were judged worthy. The result is an infinite mixture of beauty, which can only be echoed in the mortal world, though never matched.”

“That’s lovely,” said Mercy. “But, um, what happens if they aren’t judged worthy? Is there, like, a bad part of the Land of the Dead?”

His dark eyes stopped sparkling with humor. “There is. You will never see Duat. It is a place of chaos, inhabited by demons who torment those who lived evil mortal lives.”

Mercy shivered at his intensity. “Sounds like Hell.”

“Yes.” His expression relaxed into his familiar smile. “But you shall never know it. Ah! Here we are. I believe you will love this stuffed bread. And beer? You must try our beer!”

“Definitely! I want to try everything. Well, except exploring Duat, of course.”

“Of course,” Khenti agreed. He quickly got two thick, warm pastries that reminded Mercy of hand pies, and two big, clay mugs filled with cloudy beer that tasted rich and tart and went perfectly with the pies. As they nibbled on the food and sipped beer they made their way down a winding limestone path that led to a large patio that looked out over the amazingly decorated river. There, with a dozen or so other people, they sat on a trestle table and ate as they gazed out at the water.

“Is that really a copy of the Nile?” Mercy asked.

“Yes. Well, it would be more accurate to say that the river that exists in the mortal world is a copy of this one. Everything in mortal Egypt originated here—the food, the art, the rivers, even the temples. They are all just lesser versions of that which the gods created and passed on to mortals through dreams and omens that inspired them to attempt to mimic what flourishes in the Land of the Dead,” Khenti explained. “For instance, that jeweled belt you’re wearing cannot be found in mortal Egypt. What could be found is a dyed or beaded version inspired by it.”

“That’s amazing. Does it go both ways? Do things that happen in mortal Egypt influence anything here?”

“Yes, but not always in such a positive manner.” He glanced to their right where a beautiful barge was just coming into view. On it there was a raised platform where a tall, muscular man stood. His skin was russet and gleamed in the sun. His head wasn’t human—it was a ram, with alabaster fur and golden horns that curled majestically. Beautiful women, clothed only from their waists down, waved wide, feathered fans. More bare-breasted women played a kind of instrument that looked like decorative rattles and sounded like wind blowing through water reeds. All along the river people cheered and tossed chrysanthemum petals into the water. “That is Amun, God of the Sun. This is his festival. He will ride down the river to the Valley of the Dead, where he will feast with his subjects until sunrise tomorrow, then he will return to this temple. In the mortal realm they mimic this festival—and sometimes Amun joins them—in disguise, of course. But should mortals forget Amun’s Beautiful Feast of the Valley Festival, and not honor the god properly, Amun would know. It would displease him, and the consequences of his displeasure would be felt throughout the land.”

Mercy washed down her last bite of pie with beer before asking, “Two questions. First, you mean if Amun is pissed he’d do something awful to mortal Egypt?”

Khenti nodded somberly. “Yes, he could hide the sun and make crops fail.”

“That’d definitely be awful. Second question, you said sometimes Amun joins the mortals during his festival, but he disguises himself. Why? I thought Egyptians were used to people who have the heads of animals and such.”

“Oh, his visage is not why he disguises himself. It is often not wise for mortals to mix with the gods.” His grin turned sardonic. “Believe me—I am the product of a demi-god mixing with a mortal.”

“But you seem to have turned out okay,” said Mercy.

Khenti shrugged. “You should tell my father that.”

Mercy spoke automatically. “I totally would!”

Khenti’s expression lost all lightness and humor. “No, Mercy. If you ever meet Upuant, which you will not, it would be best to bow and say nothing.”

Mercy touched his arm. “Is he really that bad?”

“He is.” Khenti spoke softly. “Upuant is unhappy, so he makes those around him unhappy. I believe it is because he has never accepted the fact that his mother was mortal.”

“But your mom’s mortal, and he married her, right?”

“He bedded her and conceived me. He did not marry her.” His voice was tight and his jaw clenched and unclenched. “He expected my mother to give me up at birth—to surrender me to the gods as his mortal mother did him—but Meryt refused.” His voice changed and filled with warmth. “She loved me and insisted on raising me. It was only after she died that I was presented to the gods and came to be Gate Guardian in the Land of the Dead. Even now that my mother and I both reside in this world, he forbids me from seeing her. He will not even allow me to know where she is.”

“I’m sorry,” Mercy said softly. “My dad has never been in my life, but like you, my mom made up for it. She was everything.”

Khenti’s hand covered hers. “I understand that completely.”

“Thanks for explaining all of that to me.” Mercy paused and took another sip of her beer. “It’s so amazing that what happens here is more or less echoed in your mortal realm—and vice versa. It’s cool that everything is so connected that—” Mercy’s words cut off as realization flooded her with images—the ravens, Creepy Chuck getting worse and worse, Kirk’s out-of-control anger, the dead grass expanding from the doums, and finally the two grown men who were suddenly so angry that they had a fistfight, but only when they were close to the palms that she had just tried to heal. “Oh, Goddess! All the changes—all the bad stuff that’s been happening since Mom was killed and the gates have started to crumble…”

“What is it, Mercy? What are you saying?” Khenti’s dark eyes were filled with concern.

As the words exploded from Mercy she felt the rightness of them, like a puzzle piece finally falling into place. “I think whatever is wrong with the trees and the gates is seeping out into town! So, so much bad stuff has happened and keeps happening. Shit! It’s like you just said—the influence goes both ways. This might even be the reason Hunter and I have been so pissed at each other. Khenti, I have to go back. Now! I have to tell Xena and Hunter. This is so, so bad!”

Suddenly there was a commotion around them as the people who had been sitting rushed to stand. They quickly turned from the river, and bowed low. Those who were standing hastily joined them. Until that moment the atmosphere had been celebratory. Men and women, like Mercy and Khenti, ate and drank, laughed and cheered on the approaching barge. But as the crowd bowed and went silent, the air became charged with tension—like how it feels just before an ominous sky releases thunder and lightning and rain. Mercy looked around the crowded patio, trying to see what had caused the change.

A man, several heads taller than anyone else in the crowd, strode onto the patio. He was wearing golden armor and carried a wicked-looking spear that had razor-tipped points on both ends. He was massive—thick muscles bunched under terra-cotta brown skin. Between his shoulders was the ferocious head of a jackal in shades of tan and rust and red. His eyes were dark, with red pupils. He was followed by two rows of warriors who were heavily armed. They appeared human, but each of them wore the mask of a red jackal.

Beside her she felt Khenti’s body tense. “Stand. Bow. Say nothing,” he whispered urgently as he stood. “I shall get you back to the palace as soon as he is gone.”

Reluctantly, Mercy stood beside him as the jackal-headed god’s ruby eyes searched the crowd, landing on Khenti, who bowed low. Mercy joined him, holding the bow as long as Khenti. When he finally straightened, she did as well—and found herself looking up into the bestial face of the demi-god.

“Khenti! I went to the gate chamber to speak with you and found your post abandoned. And here you are, reveling with commoners and—” The creature leaned forward toward Mercy. His nostrils flared as he breathed in her scent. “What is a living mortal doing at the side of my son in the Land of the Dead?”

Khenti stepped protectively closer to Mercy. “Upuant, Right Hand of Osiris, I present to you the magnificent Green Witch Mercy, of the mortal realm called Goodeville.”

Mercy bowed deeply again. When she straightened she forced a friendly expression on her face, even though Upuant was terrifyingly close—and huge—and clearly super pissed. “It is an honor to meet Khenti’s father.”

The jackal’s lip lifted in a sneer. He said nothing in response, but skewered his son with his red gaze. “Khenti, explain yourself!”

Twenty-eight

Hunter had spent the weekend being smothered by Jax and Kylie when the only thing she’d wanted to do was go, alone, to each of the trees and cast the REALMS spell from her spellbook. She could have snuck out of Kylie’s at night, and she almost had, but fear strangled that idea the moment it took root. Amphitrite was still near, still watching, and darkness provided the perfect cover for the unhinged goddess. Hunter was afraid she wouldn’t be able to fight off the queen of the sea again.

So, Hunter let her friends hold her hostage in the basement of Kylie’s McMansion surrounded by the IGA’s entire junk food aisle. They kept her mind off things with board games and movies and a vintage Nintendo that Kylie’s mom had had since she was a kid.

Jax opened a bag of Cheetos and plopped down onto the sectional next to Kylie. “H, I have to tell you something.” He and Kylie shared a look Hunter couldn’t quite place before he continued. “It’s about my mom, and, uh, what she says happened the other day.”

Hunter’s insides went cold and the beanbag made a loud shh shh as she shifted her weight.

Kylie tugged on the zipper of the blue onesie she’d insisted she and Hunter each wear. “Just know that we don’t believe any of it. Not a word.”

The tips of Hunter’s fingers were ice as she rested her hands against her legs. “What did she say?” she asked, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering.

Jax looked down at the open bag of Cheetos. “I’m just going to say it and then it’ll be out there, and we can all move on.”

Kylie wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed.

“My mom said that she heard noises coming from your place and, when she went out to check, you were standing on the bed, covered in blood and drawing satanic figures on your body and the walls.” He finished recounting his mother’s tale and looked up. “I’m so sorry, Hunter. I don’t know why she’d make up such a twisted lie.”

Hunter pressed her palm against the scar that rested just beneath her onesie. “Oh.” She breathed, unsure of what to say or how to get her tongue to form the truth.

Kylie smoothed her braid between her fingers. “We definitely don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay.” Hunter wasn’t sure if she’d spoken, but Jax’s grip tightened on the bag of snacks.

“It’s not okay.” The bag crinkled under his hand. “If she didn’t want you there, she could’ve said no when I asked her. She didn’t need to make up something so crazy.”

Kylie absentmindedly picked at the fuzzy pillow next to her as she spoke. “I’m telling you, it’s all Mike Whitfield’s fault. He and Kirk are so desperate to blame someone for Kirk’s ridiculousness, and they’ve set their sights on Hunter.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “This town is full of sheeple.” She bit her lip and frowned. “No offense, Jax.”

“No, I agree with you.” He hung his head and stuffed a Cheeto into his mouth. “My mother is a sheeple.”

Hunter couldn’t move. She was a cold spot, the prelude to a ghost.

Footsteps pounded the stairs behind her, and Hunter craned her neck and offered a polite smile to the woman who’d saved her.

Kylie’s mom’s round cheeks dimpled as she returned the grin. Then, her dark brown eyes focused on her daughter. “Time for Jax to leave.” The air conditioner switched on and the ruffled hem of her shorts fluttered around her full legs. “And, girls, you have school in the morning. Try not to stay up too late.”

“Thanks, Ms. York.” Hunter waved as Kylie’s mom padded up the stairs. She hadn’t hesitated when Kylie had told her that Hunter would be staying with them for a while. She’d simply looked up from the mountains of paper that covered her desk and asked what they wanted to order for dinner. According to Kylie, when her hotshot lawyer mother left her skeezy personal injury attorney father and moved her two daughters from Chicago to Goodeville, she’d built this giant house for her kids and their friends. Having Hunter stay with them wasn’t odd. To Ms. York, it was expected.

Hunter rested her head against the beanbag chair and stared at the planked wood ceiling while Kylie and Jax exchanged giggles and saliva. Moments later, a shadow fell over her, and Hunter refocused on Jax as he kicked the side of the beanbag.

“I really am sorry, H.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and dug the toe of his shoe into the side of the beanbag chair. “I’ll make this right. Promise.”

“Yeah,” Hunter whispered to his back as he headed for the stairs. “Me too.”

Eventually, Hunter and Kylie made their way upstairs and into Kylie’s bedroom that was filled with cheer awards and the pale-yellow glitter paint she’d chosen when she was nine. The redhead had stuffed herself under her fluffy down comforter and Hunter crawled onto the air mattress and under the soft blankets they’d carried in from the guest room, true sleepover style as Kylie had put it. Hunter spent the next hour lying on the air mattress on the floor next to Kylie’s bed listening to her new friend go on and on about Jax and how perfect he was and how she’d never imagined she could feel so strongly about someone so quickly. It didn’t bother Hunter. Her spell was partially to blame. It had found Kylie’s desire to make Hunter’s best friend her beau and pulled it to the surface like a sunken treasure chest.

As Kylie’s excitement blurred into the slow, deep breath of sleep, Hunter rolled to her side and nuzzled the soft blankets under her chin. Tomorrow was school, and right now, school was freedom.

Twenty-nine

Hunter had nearly made it through her first day back at school since she’d magically broken Kirk’s hand and splashed blood all over herself and her room like something out of Carrie without anything horrible taking place. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Whispers flew around her as she drifted like a wraith from class to class, itching to get through her final period and to the freedom that football and cheer practice provided. She would have skipped, but with the Goodeville High School policy being as terrible as it was, she and Mercy were quickly running out of absences that wouldn’t force them into summer school. Like anyone should be punished for exceeding the predetermined number of absences related to a family member’s death. But sure enough, that line was in the Goodeville High handbook and enforced by a principal as empathetic as a pencil sharpener.

Shuffling down the hall on the way to her English class, Hunter slid her hand into the faux leather crossbody bag she’d borrowed from Kylie. She stroked the soft fur cover of her spellbook. Its swollenness had gone down after she’d banished Amphitrite, and the cover had faded from beet red to a light cardinal, but there was still more than enough blood to perform the spell at each gate.

As she walked into her English class, Hunter kept her eyes fixed on the gray scuff mark on the toe of her boot and tried her best to ignore the hushed comments that bit at her ears like fleas. She plopped the purse onto her desk and only looked up after her legs had disappeared under the wood. Her gaze swept over Mr. Cormican, who sat at his desk mindlessly scratching his dark beard with one hand while he tapped at his keyboard with the other. Her sister’s seat was empty. Hunter looked over her shoulder at the open classroom door. A few students hurried past in their rush to beat the bell, but not Mercy.

Hunter pulled her phone from the pocket of her shorts and checked her notifications. The group text with Jax and Kylie had blown up toward the end of last period. Hunter ignored the alerts and opened the chain of messages she shared with her sister. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find. At the lake, Mercy had made it clear that she didn’t want anything to do with Hunter’s problems. But it was odd for her twin to miss school. Not only did they have few remaining no-show days, but Mercy was also the queen of Goodeville High social hour. Maybe not so much now since Kirk had poisoned the waters against the Goode twins, but she still had friends and a need to socialize that Hunter would never understand. At the very least, she expected Mercy to send her some self-involved text about needing a mental health day. Hunter could almost hear her sister’s long-winded explanation for ditching school.

You have put me through so much, Hunter. I just need a day alone to sort through my feelings. Self-care doesn’t just benefit me, you know. It helps heal all of my relationships.

“Whatever,” Hunter grumbled to the imaginary version of her sister and slipped her phone back into her pocket. Mercy could pout all she wanted. Hunter didn’t have time to baby her sister’s ego. She was the one in actual danger. She was also the one who would seal the gates and fix the trees. Now those were real reasons to skip school.

Thirty

The last school period felt like years. Hunter’s legs bounced under her desk and she chewed on what was left of her nails as she stared at the clock and ignored the lively debate around her on the responsibilities of literature in the twenty-first century. Hunter had enough responsibilities for this century and the next combined. Thankfully, she’d cross a big one off her list as soon as she made it to her house and collected the tarot cards she never should have left behind.

Finally, the clock flashed 3:15. Hunter was out of her seat before the bell rang. Her classmates gave her a wide berth as she leapt from her desk and raced to the door, her footsteps punctuated by the shrill ding ding ding ding of the final school bell. She jogged toward her locker as she sent a quick message to Jax and Kylie.

Have to stop by the house. See you after practice.

Luckily, she didn’t need to wait for a ride to her house. The sparks of adrenaline that zapped every inch of her legs could carry her for miles. Plus, the Goode’s ancestral home wasn’t a long walk from the school.

She turned down the hall to her locker and exhaled the anxiety that had hardened her lungs. Kirk and his gang were nowhere to be found. Even if they didn’t believe Kirk’s account of what had happened, maybe they’d all learned to leave her alone.

Hunter brushed past her locker neighbors and spun the dial on the narrow metal box. She’d had the same locker combination, the date she and Mercy were born, and the same locker since eighth grade when she’d finally been assigned a locker on the top row instead of the bottom. Hunter dug through the purse for the papers and pens she could dump back into her locker as the metal door groaned open. She froze, a handful of highlighters poised for deposit. The highlighters clattered against the floor as she sucked in a breath and slammed her locker shut.

Alex Feretto, who’d had the locker next to hers since freshman year, tapped Hunter’s elbow. “Dropped these,” she said, shaking out her blond bangs as she held up the highlighters.

Hunter cleared her throat and offered a smile that was more a slight twitch of her lips as she grabbed the neon writing utensils and stuffed them back into her purse. Alex said a few more words that Hunter couldn’t hear over her own hammering pulse before Alex tossed her backpack over her shoulder and disappeared around the corner.

Hunter’s breath stored in her chest as she waited for the last person to abandon the wide hallway and the steady squeak squeak of shoes against the tile to vanish behind the loud clink of the school’s heavy metal doors. She let it out in a slow hiss as she faced her locker. With trembling fingers, she pulled the latch and winced at the door’s ominous groan. Hunter bit down on the inside of her cheek as the contents of her locker met the harsh hallway light. A naked Barbie stood in the center, its feet melted and affixed to a small square of wood. Red and orange construction paper flames twisted around its partially melted, ash-streaked legs. Hunter pressed her fingers against her lips as she read the words scrawled in black Sharpie across its bare torso.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. And you’re next.

Hunter’s eyes stopped on the doll’s face. Its long black hair was hacked off and singed around its pointed chin, and its expression melted into an unreadable blur of soot.

She closed her locker and took a step away from the wall of metal and the threat that someone had hidden inside. No, not someone.

“Kirk.” Hunter breathed.

I’ll burn you for this, Witch.

Once again, his words echoed through her mind as she raced down the hall and away from campus. Hunter’s chest burned and her shins ached with each hard thump thump of her boots against the pavement. She’d made it all the way to the alley behind Main Street before she slowed to a stop. She covered her face with both hands and screamed into her palms.

Pain needled against her fresh scar as sea breeze dusted her neck and raised the hairs on the backs of her arms. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a tight spot.”

Hunter clutched her purse to her chest and whirled around. Amphitrite leaned against Glitter and Glue’s painted brick, her cerulean skin aglow in the afternoon sun.

Hunter took a step back. “You can’t be here.”

“I can be wherever I’d like,” she said with a flourish of her thin hands.

Hunter’s fingers found the thick scar beneath her shirt as she chewed on unspoken words.

“Don’t worry, Witch. The mortals cannot see me.” Amphitrite flicked droplets of water at a fly buzzing near her head. “I won’t allow it.”

“You and me in an alley behind Main Street.” Hunter nearly choked on a laugh. “Other people seeing you is the last thing I’m worried about.”

“It shouldn’t be. With everything you’ve been up to, truly the last thing you need is to be seen with a creature as dazzling and otherworldly as I.” The goddess pressed herself away from the white brick and walked past Hunter as if they were friends out for a stroll. “I suppose it wouldn’t be great if you were spotted talking to yourself, either.”

Hunter whipped her head from side to side and stared up and down the length of the street. No employees were outside, but Hunter took out her phone and pressed it against her ear for safe measure.

“We were getting too close.” Amphitrite continued as she glided down the sidewalk. “I see that now.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder at Hunter. “You taught me a valuable lesson, Witch. I only hope that I can return the favor.”

Hunter kept her distance from the goddess while she spoke into her phone. “I’ve experienced how you teach lessons. Not interested.”

“I suppose I was a bit harsh.”

Hunter stopped in front of a dumpster and gawked at Amphitrite and the magical waves that propelled her into the middle of the narrow street. “Harsh? You could have killed me.”

A car sped down the alleyway and through the invisible goddess who stood in the middle of it. Water burst against the windshield. Hunter clapped her hand over her mouth. Amphitrite was gone. Red brake lights illuminated, and the car screeched to a stop. The door opened, and the car rocked as a man Hunter didn’t recognize climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“You think throwing water balloons at cars is funny?”

With her phone gripped in one hand, she held both of them out as evidence. “I didn’t throw anything.”

His cowboy boots knocked against the concrete as he walked to the back of his car. “What are you hiding in there?” He hooked his thumbs around his belt loops and jerked his stubbled chin toward Hunter’s purse.

Hunter crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s none of your business.”

He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his bald scalp, and tugged it back on. “Well, I do see how that would be an invasion of your personal space. My apologies.” He waggled his finger in her direction and added, “Try not to be a menace, there, young lady. You have your whole life—” He coughed, and water dribbled from between his lips. It splatted against the pavement as another round of wet coughs sent his hands around his throat. Water spurted from his mouth like a firehose.

Amphitrite slid out of the open car door. Her laughter was trains crashing as she drifted over to the man. His knees slammed against the wet pavement and water continued to spew from his open mouth.

“Stop!” Hunter screamed. “Let him go!”

“I want something in return.”

Hunter shook her head.

Amphitrite looked down at the man and hiked her narrow shoulders. “Then he dies.”

“What?” Hunter bit out.

Amphitrite cupped her hand around her ear and leaned forward as the man’s hands splashed into the growing puddle.

Heat built within Hunter and her palms itched for the power of the blood that waited in the purse pressed against her side. But she needed that blood for the trees. Without it, she didn’t have a hope of sealing the gates.

“What do you want, Amphitrite?” Hunter shouted.

“A nicer tone, to start.” She adjusted her crown and brushed her hair over her shoulders. “And you, Hunter Goode, my young witch.”

“You have me.”

Amphitrite lifted her skirts and stepped over the man, kicking his ball cap as she passed. “Yes, but there’s a distance now.” She motioned toward Hunter’s stomach. “I know I can’t be allowed back in as this type of banishment spell is nearly impossible to undo, but I want to be included. Let me help you with the realms.” She pressed her palms together as if praying. “Please, Witch. I will use my power to assist. The only payment I require is you. Don’t turn your back on me, Hunter.”

Hunter’s heart pounded in her throat and her gaze rested on the man behind Amphitrite. His lips had begun to turn blue and the color had drained from his cheeks.

“Yes!” The word tore from her dry throat as a harsh bark. “Just let him go!”

Amphitrite snapped her fingers and the rush of water ceased. “Meet you at the cherry tree. Go back on your word again and I won’t be so forgiving.” Another snap of her fingers and the puddle vanished.

The man stood. He pressed his hands against his chest and slid them down the front of his body.

“Are you okay?” Hunter rushed forward, but he jerked away.

Tied to Amphitrite, this was now her fate. She’d forever walk this earth alone, destruction and fear in her wake.

He said nothing as he ran to his car and skidded away. Hunter picked up his ball cap and set it on top of the dumpster. Whether he knew it or not, she had saved him. She should feel good about that. Instead, a piercing ache sat in her stomach like broken glass.

This didn’t change Hunter’s plan. Until she found a way to banish Amphitrite for good, the vengeful goddess would always be watching. No, this didn’t change her tactic one bit. She quickened her pace and rounded Honey Bees Children’s Boutique, the final Main Street business, and started through the small field of wildflowers that separated her house from the bustling section of the street.

Hunter brushed her fingers along the delicate petals of white and purple daisies as she finalized what she would say once she got to her house. She paused as a grasshopper leapt from one side of the path to the other. Actually, Amphitrite had changed her plan. The goddess had made it better. How anything Amphitrite touched could come out improved was a mystery to Hunter, but somehow it had.

“Double trouble,” Hunter whispered to the wind and ran toward her driveway.

Thirty-one

“Father, as you are aware, I have never abandoned my post,” Khenti said. “You were there, so you saw that my spear shields the gate in my absence. I would know should any being try to breach it and I would return immediately.” He gestured at their table. “Come, join us. I’m sure Mercy would like to hear stories of Amun from the mighty Upuant, who has known him for uncounted generations.”

Mercy wasn’t as sure. Though she was surprised—and horrified—by how expressive the jackal face was. The demi-god’s disgust was undeniable in the glance he gave her before he turned his massive body so that she looked at his broad back.

“I have no time for such frivolities. How is she here, in our realm?” Upuant shot the question at his son.

“Mercy is here as a guest of Hathor. You see she is clearly marked by the goddess’s divine symbol.”

Mercy had to resist the urge to shrink behind Khenti as his father’s eye raked over her body, stopping to focus on her chest and the sun disc between mighty horns that rested there.

“Hathor.” Upuant growled the name. “That goddess meddles too much.”

“Hathor does not meddle,” Khenti corrected. “She is Goddess of Women—Mercy is a woman, and a powerful witch in her world. That she has found Hathor’s favor is not surprising.”

“I suppose it is no more surprising than my son simpering after a goddess when he should worship a god like the divine Amun or the powerful Osiris.”

Around them the people pretended to return to their food and merriment, but the more Upuant spoke of Hathor, the more Mercy noticed that the women began to whisper to one another, and though the men didn’t look directly at the demi-god they frowned and were stonily silent.

“I must protest the disrespect you show Hathor.” Khenti’s words were clipped.

Upuant moved his hand as if brushing away something dirty. “Hathor is unimportant. What is important is that my son uphold his duty as Guardian of the Gate.”

“I have never shirked my duty,” Khenti said. “Nor will I ever.”

Mercy stood close enough to Khenti to feel his body tense. She wanted to reach out—to touch his arm and comfort him. His dad was clearly as horrible as he’d described—and most definitely a misogynist as well as a bully, but she was not in her world. Upuant, no matter how much of a jerk, was a demi-god here and right hand to the god who ruled the entire Land of the Dead. So she chewed her lip to keep her mouth shut and silently hoped Upuant would go away. Soon.

Upuant’s bark of laughter was cruel and devoid of humor. “That is what you do now. You choose revelry and dalliance with a mortal whore instead of your duty.”

“Hey! I am not a whore!” The words spilled from Mercy before she could stop them.

Slowly, the jackal’s head swiveled to pierce her with his reddened gaze. “Did I grant you leave to speak, mortal?”

Before Mercy could respond Khenti stepped between his father and her. “You insult my friend and Hathor’s guest. There is no reason for your rudeness. I only attend the festival, as is my right as a citizen of the Land of the Dead.”

Upuant towered over his son as he shouted at him. “I brought you here. I made you Gatekeeper, but your mother spoiled you—made you more human than god. I knew I should not have left you with her so long. Weak! Her emotions made you weak!”

Khenti’s face drained of color. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward, which forced Upuant to shuffle back. “You will not disrespect my mother. She taught me things you are incapable of understanding—like that love and compassion aren’t weakness, but an integral part of a life fully lived. Without them a person becomes cruel, shallow, bitter, and lonely—without them a person becomes you, Father.”

The people on the patio now stared openly at Upuant. Some whispered. Some shook their heads. Other turned and walked away as they sent the demi-god disgusted looks over their shoulders. Mercy watched the jackal head. She saw his red eyes flick around at the crowd. When he’d arrived he’d been oblivious to the watching dead, but no more. Now he realized that his exchange with his son was being observed—and public sentiment was clearly on Khenti’s side. Upuant’s lips lifted as he bared his teeth at his son and Mercy braced herself. It did not surprise her that Upuant was a god who wouldn’t tolerate being embarrassed—especially not by the son he so clearly disliked.

“You dare speak to me thus!” Upuant stepped forward, almost bumping his muscular chest into his son. “I have made you everything you are! Given you everything you have!”

“Not true!” Khenti stood his ground as he glared up at his father. “My mother made me who I am, and Osiris fulfilled my destiny by naming me Guardian of the Gate. The only thing you’ve ever given me is a spark of immortality and the misery of knowing no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I will never be the son you wish you had.”

“I should have done this long ago when I first observed your mortal weakness.” Upuant lifted his enormous spear and something dark blotted out the brilliant yellow sun. It was like boiling tar in the air, rolling and twisting around the demi-god’s weapon. “I deny you, Khenti, son of Meryt. Henceforth you are no child of mind. I take my blood from you—and with it that spark of immortality you shun.”

Mercy gasped in horror as Khenti doubled over, as if his father had punched him in his stomach.

“And because you are no longer a demi-god, I strip from you what Osiris gifted you with—henceforth, you are no longer Gatekeeper of the Land of the Dead!”

Khenti’s body jerked in agony again and Mercy wrapped her arm around his waist, lending him her strength so that he didn’t crumple to his knees. She looked up at the malevolent jackal-headed demi-god and was filled with rage and arrogance. She didn’t pause to think—Mercy only acted. She focused and felt the warm limestone under her feet and thought of the verdant plants that filled the city and framed the immense river. She was rewarded by a zap of power she drew up through her feet. It sizzled along her spine. She lifted the hand that wasn’t supporting Khenti, and in a voice filled with power she did something she’d never done and before that moment had believed she would never have to do—Mercy Anne Goode hexed someone.

“Three by three by mystical, magical number three.

Land of the Dead—hear my plea

Green Witch I am, Gate Guardian I be

Return to Upuant the harm he dispenses with such glee

Three times three return it to he

Three times three return it to he

Three times three return it to he

Upuant, hexed you shall forevermore be!”

Mercy coiled the power lent to her by the green growing things all around them. Emerald light shimmered in the palm of her hand, and like it was a magical, glowing baseball she threw it at Upuant.

Upuant roared as it struck his jackal face, and he staggered back. Then he raised his spear higher and roared, “Witch and son no more, in the name of divine Osiris thou art banished!” The demi-god drove his spear down so that it hit the limestone with a thunderous crack, which opened to expose a maw of darkness. With a motion so quick it blurred, Upuant leapt across the darkness, and shoved Khenti, so that his son, along with Mercy, fell into the pit.

Mercy clung to Khenti as they fell. She had never been so completely terrified in her life—not even when the Fenrir had torn from the tree and attacked them. She hadn’t realized that night that she would lose her mother, hadn’t understood the danger she’d been in. But then, the moment she fell with Khenti, Mercy was completely aware that her world, her entire life as she had known it, had ended.

It seemed they fell a long time—or maybe only a heartbeat—and then they hit sand and Mercy could do nothing but fight for breath and try to blink her eyes clear of tears so she could see.

“Mercy!” Khenti lifted her so that she rested half in his lap, half on warm sand. “Mercy! Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and coughed, finally able to gulp air. She wiped her eyes. Her voice shook almost as hard as her trembling body. “I—I d-don’t know!”

“Breathe, just breathe with me. Look at me, Mercy. In and out … in and out.”

Mercy focused on Khenti’s dark, compassionate eyes and she breathed with him. Her vision cleared and she was able to sit by herself. She stared at a world drastically different than the land they had just left.

Nothing was green. Dunes waved around them, like the sand was water swept forward by a never-ending tide. The sky above them was bruised, as if a Midwest thunderstorm brewed, but there was no hint of rain in the hot air, though humidity pressed stickily against her skin.

“Where are we?”

Khenti took her shoulders in his hands. “Upuant has banished us.”

“Well, yeah, I heard him. But to where?”

“Duat,” Khenti said.

Mercy’s stomach clenched and she had to swallow several times before she could be sure she wasn’t going to puke. “But Duat is your Hell.”

Khenti nodded somberly. “Yes.”

Mercy pushed away from him and stood. “No! I can’t be in Hell! I’m not even dead. Plus, I haven’t been perfect, but I’m not a bad person. When I die Freya is going to welcome me to the Summerlands. My mom will be there. My sister will be there. My damn cat will be there. I don’t belong here! Plus, I have to get home! I have to tell Hunter and Xena what’s going on—that the sickness the gates have is poisoning our town!” Mercy realized she was hyperventilating when she couldn’t yell anymore, when she couldn’t say anything at all.

Khenti stood and took her into his arms. He held her tightly as he murmured, “I know, Mercy. I know. I will fix this. I will make this right. I will get you home. Trust me. Please, please trust me.”

Mercy clung to him. He was solid and warm and strong. This is his world. He can get us out. Mercy’s breathing slowed and became normal. Gently, Khenti released her.

“Better?” he asked.

“Are we still in Hell?” she quipped.

His lips twitched. “You are better.” Khenti looked around them. “We cannot stay here. We must find shelter.”

“Shelter? There’s shelter in Hell?”

“Yes, so that the people condemned here may hide. It is more enjoyable for the demons if their prey are a challenge to hunt.” Khenti started to climb up the closest dune. “And we must find Anubis.”

“Anubis? He’s a god, right?” Mercy scrambled up the dune beside Khenti.

“Yes. He is the Guardian of the entrance to Duat. I will explain to him that you do not belong here.” Khenti stopped suddenly and turned to Mercy. He stared at her chest and breathed a long sigh of relief. “Hathor’s mark is still there.”

Mercy looked down at the henna and frowned. “The horns are fading.”

“But the rest of her mark remains.” They trudged up the dune. “Anubis will see that you are a living mortal. He will recognize Hathor’s mark. All he need do is speak to the goddess and you will be returned to your world. My father is only a demi-god. His power rests in Osiris, but he is not Osiris. Anubis should be able to reverse your banishment.”

“Mine? What about you?”

Khenti didn’t speak for several breaths and when he did he would not look at Mercy. “My father has disowned me and banished me from the Land of the Dead. Osiris will not overturn his general’s command. And I am no longer a demi-god.”

“But what does that mean?” Mercy grabbed his arm as she slipped in the sand. He pulled her to her feet and they continued, hand-in-hand, to climb up.

“It means I am fully mortal. I will age normally and I can be killed here, which is the only way I will escape Duat. My heart will be weighed against the feather of judgment, and I believe I will be found worthy to enter the Land of the Dead. Then Osiris will have to grant me the afterlife promised in my Book of the Dead.”

They crested the top of the dune. Mercy struggled to catch her breath as she tried to comprehend what Khenti had just told her. “Wait, you mean the only way out of Hell is for you to die?”

“Yes.” He smiled at her. “It is not that terrible. Well, the death part will undoubtedly be unpleasant, but then I will be welcomed back to the Land of the Dead, and eventually rejoin my mother and spend eternity joyously.”

“But you’ll be dead.”

His smile slid from his face. “My alternative is to remain alive, but here.” Khenti gestured around them. “And I do not wish to remain here.”

They’d reached the crest of the dune. Mercy stared around them at a desolate land lacking in beauty or plant life. She shuddered and felt terribly weak.

“What is it?” Khenti held tightly to her hand as if he could transmit reassurance by touch.

“I’ve never been anywhere without plants. Khenti, I get my magic from green, growing things. Without plants I feel worse than naked. I feel abandoned and powerless.”

He touched her chin and lifted her face so that she looked into his dark eyes. “But plants are anchored to the earth, correct?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then the earth is also the source of your power. Remember that beneath your feet is an ancient earth. It does hold power for those who know how to access it. I believe you accessed it when you hexed my father.”

She nodded shakily. “I did, though I also pulled energy from the plants around me. Sorry, I’m usually not so whiny. I’m just—not myself right now. This is my first time in Hell.”

His lips lifted. “Mine as well. Do you think it is too much for a second date?”

Mercy couldn’t help smiling at him. “Yeah, you went a little overboard, but you get points for effort.”

He made an exaggerated show of wiping his brow. “Whew! I was worried it was not going well.”

“How about we find this Anubis guy and see what he has to say, and then you can check back in with me about how date number two is going—but fair warning, if it ends in death for either of us that’s an automatic bomb.”

“Noted,” he said. “Anubis guards the entrance of Duat—and there is only one. So, he must be close.”

“What do we look for?” Mercy put her hand over her eyes to stop the glare of the angry sky against the sand and looked around them.

“A jackal-headed god.”

Mercy stared at Khenti. “But your dad’s a jackal-headed god.”

Khenti nodded. “Yes, because Upuant is a son of Anubis.”

“Oh, shit. That can’t be good.”

Khenti shrugged. “It is not bad. Anubis is also my grandfather.”

“Point taken. Um, does he like you?” Mercy asked.

There was a crackling beside them. Khenti whirled and pushed Mercy behind him as he lifted his hand over his head and shouted, “To me, ramah!” Instantly, his long, razor-pointed spear appeared in his hand and Khenti held it at the ready as he faced the darkness that swirled before him.

From the middle of what looked like a billowing black cloud come to earth an enormous man strode toward them. His skin was dark umber. He was dressed all in black leather and carried a huge sword. His head was similar to Upuant’s, only this jackal was larger, more ferocious, and as dark as rich, newly plowed earth.

Khenti dropped to his knees and bowed so low his forehead almost touched the sand. Mercy quickly did the same, though she also peeked up, trying to see if the giant god was going to skewer them.

The god stopped and rested the point of his sword against the sand. The jackal’s fierce expression softened. “Ah, grandson! There you are. Please, rise. Your companion may rise as well.”

They stood as Khenti said, “Grandfather, I greet you! I would like to present to you my friend, Green Witch Mercy Goode, Gate Guardian of Goodeville.”

Mercy bowed again. “It’s nice to meet you, Anubis.”

“Hathor told me my grandson had made a friend from a mortal realm. I did not imagine that I would meet her. I would say I am pleased, but your situation is not, how shall I put this, ideal.”

“So, you know what Father has done,” said Khenti.

Anubis nodded his massive head. “I am immediately aware of all banishments from the Land of the Dead. I was saddened by Upuant’s decree, though not entirely surprised. His temper has always been mercurial. I went to him the moment I felt the banishment.”

“Then you know how unfair this is,” said Khenti. “Even had I died, I have not lived an evil life and would not be sentenced to Duat.”

“And I’m not even from here,” added Mercy.

“Yes, it is unfortunate,” said Anubis.

“But you can fix it, right?” said Mercy. “Zap us back to where we’re supposed to be?”

“I wish I could, young Green Witch. I can easily rescind any of my son’s commands. He is only a petulant demi-god with limited powers. But when Upuant banished the two of you he did so in the name of Osiris. My brother and I have an agreement. I do not interfere in the Land of the Dead, and he does not tamper with Duat. I cannot reverse Upuant’s banishment.”

Mercy felt like she was going to puke. “Then what are we supposed to do? How do we get out of here?”

“It is quite simple. You die,” said Anubis.

Thirty-two

Hunter stopped in the middle of the driveway where the Camry should have been. But the car was gone. She adjusted the thick purse strap over her shoulder and stomped to the closed garage. Mercy had to be there. She couldn’t just skip school and go gallivanting around Goodeville in a car she wasn’t legally allowed to drive. This wasn’t a party. This was life or death—saving the town, the planet, or letting it perish at the hands of otherworldly monsters.

She grabbed the garage door’s metal handle and hefted it open. The wheels squealed against the rusted track before abruptly stopping. Hunter tried to tug the door down then back up, but it was no use. The heavy door was stuck. She tipped her head back and sighed. She just wanted one thing to go her way. Apparently, that was way too much to ask.

She bent over and peered into the musty garage. No car. Only the matching pair of bicycles their mother had gotten them when they’d turned eleven, and the rickety old shelves covered in cans of paint and boxes puckered and wrinkled with age.

The purse slid down Hunter’s arm and she jerked it back over her shoulder. Of course Mercy wasn’t home. Anytime Hunter needed her sister, Mag made herself unavailable. Hunter had wanted to grieve at their mother’s funeral in a different way than her sister had organized, and Mercy had made sure Hunter didn’t feel welcome. Before arriving at Goode Lake for Mr. Parrott’s Rite of Release, Hunter had practiced what she’d wanted to say to Mercy over and over again. Her sister had kicked her out then, too. And now, when Hunter was hours away from fixing the gates for good, when she needed her sister the most, Mercy was gone. Poof. Vanished.

Whatever. She didn’t actually need her sister. Hunter could and would do it all on her own. She did everything on her own anyway. Double trouble had ended a long, long time ago.

Hunter’s jaw pulsed as she walked around the front of the house and stormed up the porch steps. As she yanked open the screen and barged through the front door, Xena leapt off the arm of the couch and landed on the balls of her feet, hands raised in the air, and teeth bared.

“Kitten!” She relaxed onto her heels and scooped Hunter into a hug.

Xena’s wild puff of hair tickled Hunter’s nose and made her eyes water, but the cinnamon and spice that drifted from her mother’s bathrobe made Hunter’s eyes water for another reason. Hunter pushed away from Xena and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She wouldn’t let emotions cloud her judgment or keep her from her goal. She was fixing the gates—with or without Mercy.

“Where’s Mag?”

Xena’s smooth brow furrowed. “School.” She tapped a pointed nail against her lips.

“School’s over.” Hunter adjusted her purse and brushed past Xena through the living room. “She wasn’t there, anyway.” The scent of tuna wafted over her as she entered the kitchen. Multiple cans in different stages of being opened were spread across the counter. “Did she bail on you, too?” Hunter asked, nose wrinkled.

“We had a tiff.” Xena slid onto the kitchen counter. Tuna juice sloshed onto the quartz as the cat person batted the half-open can. “She spent the weekend with Emily, but I expected her back after school.”

Hunter opened the pantry and took out the rusted step stool. “Looks like she’s fully into her self-care routine.” She gritted her teeth as each step creaked and her gaze washed over her mother’s basket of Kitchen Witch accouterments. This house was too full of memories, too full of comforts. She needed the turmoil of her current life. It kept her awake. It kept her alive. It kept her ahead of her feelings.

“I’m worried about her, kitten.” Xena’s voice was small and hushed. “She hasn’t returned my messages, and I can no longer feel her.”

Hunter grabbed her tarot deck from the top shelf and slipped the blue velvet satchel into her purse. “I haven’t been able to feel her in weeks.”

Xena jumped off the counter and met Hunter in the pantry doorway. “But I am her familiar. I should be able to—”

Hunter put her hand on Xena’s arm and guided her back into the kitchen. “I get that you’re worried, but I’m not. Mercy is doing what she does best, selfishly seeking out the most attention she can possibly get. It’s an old, tired story, and I’m not here for it.” She closed the pantry door behind her and headed back into the living room.

With a hiss, Xena stomped her foot on the ground. “There is something wrong with my Mercy kitten!”

Hunter stopped at the front door as a growl struck her back. “I can’t do it again, Xena.” Exhaustion coated her words as she turned to face the creature that had been looking over the Goode family for decades. “I can’t let Mercy railroad me into another bad decision. I can fix the gates. For real this time.” She clutched her purse against her side and pushed open the screen door. “When I’m finished, I’ll help you find her.”

Xena’s pointed chin quivered and she wrapped the bathrobe tight around her chest. “You will never forgive yourself if you leave now and something tragic has truly befallen your sister.”

“I think I can handle it,” Hunter grumbled as the screen door slapped against the doorframe and she charged down the stairs and into the driveway.

If Mercy had been where she was supposed to be instead of out on a pay attention to me bender, Hunter wouldn’t be relegated, again, to walking all over town to solve their problems. As soon as she fixed the gates, she was getting a job so she could pay for a Lyft whenever she needed one. Who’d ever heard of a superhero who walked from crime fighting gig to crime fighting gig? It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s a pedestrian? Hunter groaned and shifted the purse strap when a purple glimmer pulled her attention to the half-open garage.

A smile plumped her cheeks. Yes, Hunter Goode could handle anything.

The purse thumped against her side as she ran to the garage and ducked under the door. Glittery purple and yellow tassels hung limply from the handlebars of her old bike and sparkled in a narrow beam of sunlight. She wheeled the bike out of the garage. The dirty white plastic snap-on beads that decorated the spokes clacked as the wheels turned. Hunter adjusted the purple seat and handlebars before she dropped her purse into the basket and balanced on the bike she hadn’t ridden for more than three years. No, it wasn’t the Batmobile or even a flying broomstick people so often associated with witches, but it was faster than her two feet alone. She pedaled down the driveway with the same fury she’d possessed as an angsty preteen and skidded onto Main Street.

A bronze-and-white sheriff’s car flashed its headlights as she zoomed past, but she couldn’t be bothered to stop and discuss the biking rules of the road when the safety of the town hung in the balance.

Hunter relaxed into the burning ache that spread through her legs and lungs as she pedaled away from Main Street and through neighborhoods on her way to the cherry tree. She left thoughts of her sister and Xena, Kirk and Amphitrite on the sun-soaked breeze and replaced them with focus and intention.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

Thirty-three

When Khenti said nothing in response to Anubis’s bizarre announcement Mercy blurted, “No! That’s not a thing. I’m sixteen—barely. I have lots of years left to live. I am not dying now.”

“Yet in your world you have a patron goddess, do you not?” Anubis asked.

“Yes, Freya, Norse Goddess of Love and War,” said Mercy.

“She will call your soul to her when you die. You will be returned safely to your goddess, though early for your afterlife.” The god spoke nonchalantly, as if he talked about showing up early for a random appointment.

“No, no, no! I have to get home. Alive. The fate of my world—or at the very least my town—depends on it,” said Mercy.

“That is unfortunate,” said Anubis.

“There must be another way,” said Khenti. “I do not mind dying, though I wish I had lived a fuller life, had a mate and children.” His gaze found Mercy. His smile was sad. “But this is my fault, not Mercy’s. She shouldn’t have to pay for my father’s anger. And more than that, her world shouldn’t have to pay.”

“It saddens me,” said Anubis, “but I cannot cross Osiris and disrupt the balance of our world, though if Green Witch Mercy discovers a way to return to her world alive I give you my oath that I will do nothing to stop her.”

“Even if that includes getting Khenti out of here alive, too?” Mercy shot the question at the god.

“I will not be an obstacle to anyone leaving Duat who has been wrongfully banished here,” said Anubis.

“But you won’t help us?” Mercy wanted to scream in frustration.

“I cannot help you leave. I will not force you to stay” was his evasive answer.

“Can you advise us?” Khenti asked.

“Ah, that is the correct question. My advice is to flee the storm and when the hooded figure beckons—go to her.” Anubis raised his sword. It gleamed black, like ice on a dark pond. “Go with my blessing, grandson and his Green Witch companion.” Then he brought the sword down once more and the swirling cloud he’d materialized from engulfed him. A gust of wind blew the darkness away and there was nothing left of the great god Anubis except his slowly filling footprints in the never-ending sand.

“I used to wish I could hang out with Freya and my mom’s goddess, Athena, and even my sister’s ex-god, Tyr,” Mercy began.

“Ex-god?” said Khenti.

“It’s a long story. Anyway, now I’m pretty sure that it’s better not to be too damn friendly with immortals.”

“I am beginning to agree with you.”

Mercy brushed sand off her dress and as she did she noticed both of her henna horns had faded to nothing. “Oh, crap. Time passes differently here, too?”

“I imagine so, but as this is my first time in Duat I can only speculate…” He shrugged.

“Uh-oh!” Mercy reached into her pocket and breathed a relieved sigh when her hand closed around her phone. She lifted it out and checked the screen. “Bloody hell, now it’s Monday afternoon. I missed school! Xena is gonna kill me, and my cell doesn’t have much power left. Wait! Xena!”

“Your familiar?”

Mercy nodded enthusiastically. “She and I are connected. Hang on, let me see if I can feel her.” Mercy closed her eyes and grounded herself with three deep breaths in and out. Then she thought about Xena—about how magnificently big she was in feline form and how motherly and kind she was in human form—how she’d been completely devoted to Abigail, and now was similarly devoted to Mercy. She also thought about how pissed she’d been that Xena had chastised her for being harsh with Hunter … tears leaked down Mercy’s cheeks as she tried to find her connection with her mama cat who had probably been right about Hunter. I’d give anything to go back there—to say sorry and let Xena pull me into a mom hug and surround me with love and Abigail’s robe. Mercy opened her eyes and wiped at her cheeks.

“Did you feel her?” Khenti asked.

Mercy couldn’t speak. She only shook her head and looked away.

Khenti took her hand. “Do not despair. Perhaps she is asleep. She is a feline—they do sleep a lot.”

Mercy sniffled. “Yeah, Xena definitely sleeps most of the day.”

“You shall try again later. And we must find shelter.”

“Which way do we go?” Mercy stared around them. Everything looked the same—endless wavy dune after endless wavy dune. It was like they were in a giant cat box which, ironically, her familiar would love.

“Does that sky seem darker to you over there?” Khenti pointed behind them.

Mercy studied the dreary sky. “Well, yeah, I think so. I mean, it looks muddier than the sky in front of us.”

“Could be a storm, and Anubis did say to flee the storm.”

“So, the opposite direction it is.” Mercy put her phone back in her pocket. Her other hand rested firmly in Khenti’s as they began to descend the far side of the dune. “I wonder who the hooded woman is your grandfather mentioned. Do you have any idea?”

Khenti shook his head. “The only spirits who are sent here are those who lived such terrible lives that their hearts were weighted down with the darkness of their evil deeds. It’s difficult to believe anyone sentenced to Duat would grant us aid.”

“You don’t think Anubis would—”

“Wa-hu! Wa-hu!” A horrible barking sound echoed around them.

“Mercy! Return to the top of the dune!” Khenti surged back up the sandy hill.

Mercy tried to keep up with him, but Khenti was stronger—faster—and he practically pulled her arm out of its socket as he hauled her with him.

“Wa-hu! Wa-hu!”

The snarling bark bounced against the sands making it impossible to trace where it came from. Khenti crested the dune with Mercy, who fell as her foot tripped on the hem of her dress. She was on her hands and knees when the thing scrambled to the top of the dune just a few feet in front of them.

It was a creature of nightmares. It was the size of a baboon or monkey—and had the hunched shoulders of that kind of an animal, but it looked all wrong. Its flesh was rotten. Big hunks of brown fur were missing from its diseased coat. But beneath the hunks of putrid flesh were corded muscles and it moved with a deadly grace. Khenti raised his spear just as it bared two rows of glistening fangs and charged, racing toward them on all fours, while it barked eerily. “Wa-hu! Wa-hu!”

Khenti moved with blurring speed. He lunged to meet the creature, whose red eyes widened with surprise as the spear skewered it through its chest. Still the thing barked and strained and kept coming! It reached long, knifelike claws for Khenti as it impaled itself, driving the spear farther and farther through its body in its manic quest to reach him. Khenti dug his heels into the sand and leaned back, yanking the spear free from the thing’s bloody body. Using the momentum of the movement he pivoted and sliced the blade across its neck. Scarlet spouted and the thing gurgled and staggered. Khenti spun and kicked the creature so that it rolled down the side of the dune where it left a rust-colored trail before it finally collapsed, motionless, and then it dissolved into the sand leaving only a red stain to show it was ever there.

Mercy struggled to her feet and ran to Khenti. “Are you hurt? Is it dead? What in all the bloody fucking hells was that?”

Khenti pulled her into his arms and they held each other tightly. “I am uninjured. I defeated it, but an In-tep demon cannot be killed by anyone but an immortal. It will return, and probably not alone. We need to move.”

“It was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.” Mercy stepped out of his arms and ran a shaky hand across her face. “It looked like a monkey on crack.”

“I do not know what crack is, but an In-tep is a demon who possesses and then changes into a baboon.”

Mercy shuddered. “It was vile.” She sniffed and then covered her nose with her hand. “And it reeks.”

“In-teps cannot possess humans. The closest they can come to us is to infest a baboon, and their infestation kills the poor beast so that the demon can then reanimate it.”

“Zombie baboons—it’s like we’ve been dropped into Jumanji.” Mercy gazed around them, terrified of what might come after them next. “What other kind of demon does this—” Her words broke off as she stared at the sky over Khenti’s shoulder. “Shit!”

Khenti turned. “Sandstorm! Run, Mercy! Run!”

Khenti took her hand and began to sprint away from the encroaching wall behind them that looked like it was filled with mud. Mercy cursed her beautiful, goddess-gifted dress as she tripped over it again. She yanked her hand from Khenti’s and quickly wrapped the diaphanous skirt up and tucked it into her jeweled belt like it was a diaper, then she scrambled after him. The two of them slid down the other side of the dune, Khenti took her hand again, and they raced along a narrow path of hard-packed dirt. Behind them the sandstorm gained on them. As it got closer and closer the air battered their backs and howled like a living being.

Everything was getting darker and darker. Khenti stopped and bent so that he could shout into her ear. “The skirt of your dress! I must cut it. If we wrap our faces and huddle together we may survive.”

“May?!” Mercy shouted.

“It is the only chance we have!” Khenti changed his grip on his spear and dropped to his knees as he reached to tug her skirt out of her belt.

“Here! Come!” The voice bounced from the dunes.

Khenti and Mercy looked wildly around as they tried to follow the voice.

A cloaked figure seemed to step from the inside of a dune just yards in front of them. The person gestured for them to come.

“It’s what Anubis said!” Mercy yelled against the thunder of the wind. “A hooded woman!”

Khenti nodded. Though he kept his spear raised and ready, the two of them ran to the hooded person, who turned, still beckoning, and disappeared into the dune.

Mercy didn’t hesitate. She rushed into the strange entrance with Khenti close behind her. The sound of the storm was too loud for speech, so the hooded figure kept gesturing for them to follow deeper and deeper into the dune until finally they turned a corner that led to a circular chamber where a fire burned in a small hearth. The hooded figure moved behind them and loosed a thick length of linen so that it covered the entrance, then dropped to her knees as she quickly began placing rocks, the size of loaves of bread, along the bottom of the covering to secure it. As she did so, her hood fell back, exposing long, dark hair. When the rocks were all placed she stood and then turned slowly to face them.

All the air rushed from Khenti’s lungs in a loud “Oof!” like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He swayed and would’ve fallen had the woman not rushed forward and wrapped him in her arms as she sobbed. “Son! My son!”

Mercy felt like an interloper as Khenti and the woman who had to be his mother wept in each other’s arms. To give them some semblance of privacy she turned her gaze away and was astounded by the beauty in the simple room. Wall sconces flickered around the chamber, lighting everything in a soft, yellow glow. Though it had been miserably hot outside, Mercy realized that it was many degrees cooler in this room. Between the sconces the walls were filled with colorful hieroglyphics, murals, and tapestries that depicted scenes from a happy life—a mother on the beach of a wide river with her child—the same mother making bread as the child played with a round, leather ball—the mother and child, a son, walking through a flower-filled marketplace—Mercy looked closer and realized the son was Khenti! These are scenes from his life. Everyday things he and his mom used to do together. Tears blurred her eyes. Mercy understood the love and longing in the murals, and the beauty of remembering simple, daily routines. She would always remember the small things she used to do with Abigail and Hunter when they were a family—when they were happy. I miss her so much. I miss Mom, and I miss Hunter. I have been a sodding fool.

“Mercy!” Khenti’s voice was filled with joy and tears.

She turned from studying the wall art and wiped her eyes. Khenti had his arm around his mother’s slim shoulders. He made no move to hide the tears that still washed his face. He motioned for her to come closer and she was able to get a good look at his mom.

She was so pretty! Khenti had her kind, dark eyes and her high cheekbones. Her skin was lighter than her son’s, but the same burnished color. Her cloak had opened to reveal how petite she was—small and delicate and graceful. Her hair was still mostly the black of a raven’s wing, but it had one silver-white streak that ran from her right temple down to where the length of it waved around her slim waist. Her smile, which she beamed first up at her son and then at Mercy, was almost identical to her son’s.

“Mother, this is my friend, the Green Witch Mercy, who is a Gate Guardian from Goodeville. Mercy, this is my beloved mother, Meryt.”

“It’s so great to meet you!” Mercy said. “Khenti has told me a lot about you.”

“Oh, my dear!” Meryt moved forward and took Mercy’s hands in hers. “Blessings to you.” Then she paused and looked closer at her. “You are not dead!”

“No.” Mercy smiled. “And neither is your son.”

Meryt turned quickly and touched her son’s cheek. “Oh, Tee! I should have noticed before—you, too, are alive! Why are you here? How are you here?”

“Father banished me to Duat, and Mercy with me,” Khenti said.

“Then that makes the three of us, my darling.”

Thirty-four

Khenti explained quickly to her mother the events that led them to Duat. She listened carefully as she motioned for them to sit on colorful cushions that rested against the side of the circular chamber. From an urn she took from a cabinet-sized hole in the wall, Meryt poured cloudy beer much like the drink Khenti had already introduced Mercy to into wooden mugs for them. When Khenti was finished speaking, Meryt shook her head.

“That is why I kept you from him. Upuant rejected love and laughter and joy as frivolity. I was so young when I first met him that I believed my love could show him how to be happy, could erase his sadness. I was a fool, which I realized not long after I discovered I was to bear him a child. I kept him from you and refused to let him take you away to the Land of the Dead because I would not allow him to taint you with his gloom and misery.” She paused and stared into her own mug of beer. “Hathor aided me. That is the only reason I managed to keep you in the mortal realm. I would have kept you there your entire life, but Upuant found a way to circumvent even the goddess.”

“How? What did he do?” Khenti’s eyes darkened with rage.

Meryt looked up and met her son’s gaze. “He killed me, effectively ending the pact I made with Hathor at your birth. I would dedicate my son to her service as long as you were allowed to remain with me. I thought I would live long enough that Upuant would father another son and leave us in peace. I was wrong.”

“Oh, Muta. I am so sorry.” Instead of being filled with anger, Khenti deflated. His shoulders bowed and he bent in defeat. “I caused this. You would still be living in the Valley of the Kings surrounded by your family had I never been born.”

Meryt went to her son and crouched before him. She took his face between her hands. “Listen to me, my precious Tee. You did not cause this. Upuant is responsible for my death; no one else. He is also responsible for giving me you—and I have loved you fiercely and completely since the moment you were conceived. You are the single thing I am most proud of in my life. I would spend a million lifetimes in Duat to know one as your mother.” She kissed him gently on his forehead and stood. “Now, sit up straight, wipe your tears, and let us figure out how the two of you are going to get out of here.”

Khenti straightened and wiped at his eyes. “We go nowhere without you.”

“But we will figure out how to get out of here,” added Mercy. She gestured at the comfortable, beautifully decorated room around them. “This doesn’t seem very Hell-like.”

Meryt returned to resting on the cushion she’d placed between her son and Mercy. She smiled at Mercy. “That is because Hathor still cares for me. She could not overturn Upuant’s banishment, like you and my Tee have already discovered, what Upuant commands in Osiris’s name cannot be overturned, not even by another immortal. But my goddess is loyal and merciful. Upuant burned my Book of the Dead. When Hathor realized that I was not in the Hall of Judgment she knew Upuant had to be responsible, so she slipped into his chamber and discovered he had burned my Book. Thankfully, Hathor rescued several pages from his brazier. I was never judged and sent to Duat because of the evil in my heart, so there is no immortal law against allowing me that which was listed in my Book.” She gestured around her. “I am quite comfortable here, though it is rather lonely.”

Khenti shook his head. “I do not understand. Why were you not judged?”

Meryt sighed wistfully. “It was my own folly. Upuant found me while I waited in line to enter the Hall of Judgment. He said he was sorry that he had killed me—that he had been too impetuous, and he regretted his anger. To prove his remorse Upuant said that if I went with him, he would take me to you, my beloved Tee, so that we could say our farewells until the time when you would join me in my afterlife.”

“Instead he burned your Book and banished you to Hell,” Mercy said.

“Indeed,” said Meryt.

“He is vile.” Khenti’s words were filled with sadness. “And to think of the years that I spent trying to win his approval.”

“You are a good son.” Meryt patted his hand. “But it is not possible to win Upuant’s approval. He loathes himself too much to care about anyone else.”

“Don’t worry,” Mercy said. “He’ll get what he deserves.”

“If only that were true,” said Meryt. “But Osiris dotes on him and refuses to see his flaws.”

“Oh, that won’t matter,” Mercy explained. “I hexed him.”

“Yes, I do remember that clearly,” said Khenti, almost smiling. “What exactly does it mean to hex someone?”

“Well, it’s something that Goode witches rarely do. We don’t believe in using the dark side of the Craft—ultimately it taints the witch who wields it. But every generation learns how to safely hex someone, even though it’s basically a last resort. A normal hex is never cool to cast, like say I hexed my ex-boyfriend, Kirk, because he’s a total jerk. So, I get mad and hex him to get fat and bald. He would definitely get fat and bald, but that hex would return to me times three.”

“Do you mean you, too, would become fat and bald?” asked Khenti’s mom.

Mercy nodded. “Yeah. Three times as fat and bald as Kirk.”

“Oh, I know what you did differently to Upuant,” said Khenti. Mercy nodded encouragement, and he continued. “You hexed him by cursing him with his own actions. ‘Return to Upuant the harm he dispenses with such glee—Three times three return it to he.’” Khenti quoted Mercy.

“Ah, I see,” said Meryt, sitting up straight with excitement. “You didn’t wish outside ill upon him. You only wished his own actions returned to him.”

“Yep, three times three. Which also means that I need to pay really close attention to my actions for the rest of my life, especially when something I do causes me glee.” She shrugged. “The flip side of the hex is that if Upuant changed, if he somehow began to treat Khenti with kindness, then those good things would return to him multiplied by three as well.”

“It is an excellent curse,” said Khenti.

“I agree with Tee. You must be a wonderful witch,” said his mom.

“Well, I try. I had a really good teacher. My mom was the very best.” Then she grinned at Khenti. “You didn’t tell me you have a nickname.”

When he looked at his mom Khenti finally smiled. “She has called me that since I was a baby.”

“And he has called me Muta since he first began to babble words.” Meryt touched his cheek gently. “Oh, my Tee, I hate that you are here—and yet I love that you are here.”

He covered her hand with his. “I am glad of it. Now I can ease your loneliness. The only thing that saddens me is that Mercy was caught up in Upuant’s wrath.”

“Nope, we’re not doing this,” Mercy said firmly. “None of us are staying in Hell. No bloody way. I have to get home and like you said, Meryt, I’m a wonderful witch. Like Khenti said earlier, even though there is nothing green living here, I can still draw power from the earth. And, like Anubis said—he won’t stop us from leaving if we can figure out a way out. So, I’m going to get us some help from my world, and believe me—when my sister and my familiar find out I’m stuck in Hell, they are going to rescue me, and that means you two as well.”

“I appreciate your positive attitude,” said Khenti. “You make me believe we can escape.”

“Did you say that green things help your powers?” asked Meryt.

“Yeah, I’m a Green Witch, and that means I have a special connection to plants.”

Meryt’s brilliant smile blazed as she stood. “Well, then, Green Witch Mercy, I have something to show you.”

Mercy looked at Khenti. He shrugged and grinned as they stood and followed his mom to a section of the circular room that held a lovely tapestry of the goddess, Hathor. Meryt brushed aside the richly embroidered fabric to expose an arched doorway that led to an enormous room that was lit by a glowing summer sun, though as Mercy stared up at the ceiling of the chamber she saw that it wasn’t open to the sky at all, but across its domed expanse was painted a sun and a perfect cerulean sky—and the sun glowed like a summer day in Illinois.

Mercy had to blink her eyes clear of sunspots before she could focus on what was in the room, and with a happy cry she rushed forward. The perfume of flowers and the scent of green, growing things engulfed Mercy, and she had the urge to burst into tears of joy and relief. In the middle of a wide expanse of new wheat, she turned in a circle with her hands caressing the tops of the growing plants gently.

“This is amazing!” Mercy stared around her. “Jasmine! It smells so wonderful! And you have avocado trees! Ohmygoddess, there are artichokes—I love artichokes! And, ooh, your lettuce looks fantastic! And cucumbers! Holy crap! There’s even a stream.” Water bubbled over smooth stones through the center of the room. Mercy went to it, crouched, and touched the crystal surface, which was icy cold. She stood and met Meryt’s amused gaze. “Hathor?”

“As I said, my goddess is loyal. She fashioned this cave for me. It hides me from demons. I also have an embarrassingly opulent bedroom chamber, but that was something I wrote into my Book when I was quite young. Will this do, Green Witch? Can you draw power from my garden?”

“Absolutely!” For the first time since Upuant had pushed them into the pit to Duat, Mercy felt a rush of hope.

“What do you need to send a call to your sister?” asked Khenti.

“Just this.” Mercy’s arm swept around her to take in the garden chamber. “I’ll ground myself and see if my link to my sister can stretch from one world to another.”

Khenti went to her, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed her skin gently and then his warm, brown eyes smiled at her. “She is your twin. You shared a womb. Forget the recent strife between you. You will reach her. I believe in you and your powers, Magnificent Green Witch Mercy, Guardian of the Goodeville gates.”

Meryt joined her son. “If my son believes in you, then I do as well. You cursed a demi-god. You can definitely do this, mighty Green Witch.”

“I can do this.” Mercy looked around and decided on a spot in the middle of the room beside the stream where it was surrounded by daisies—Freya’s favorite flowers. She sat, cross-legged, and rested her hands on her thighs.

“Shall we leave you?” Khenti asked.

“No, actually you can help, if that’s okay.”

“I will do anything I can to help you,” said Meryt firmly.

“Awesome, just sit next to me. I’m going to close my eyes and ground myself by breathing deeply three times in and out.”

“We can do that with you,” said Khenti as he and his mother sat on either side of her.

“Yes, good,” said Mercy. “Then, after we’re grounded we set our intention. That means I want you to think of nothing but getting a message to my sister.” She looked at Meryt. “Her name is Hunter. She looks exactly like me. I’m also going to think of my familiar and hope she gets the message, too. Her name is Xena and she’s a huge Maine coon.”

Meryt’s brow creased. “Maine coon?”

“It is a feline,” explained Khenti.

“Oh, wonderful!” Meryt clapped her hands like a girl. “I adore felines.”

“This one is really big and has lots of black and brown and white fur, with long black tufts on her ears.”

“She sounds lovely,” said Meryt.

“If she was here she’d tell you herself that she is a magnificent feline.” Mercy grinned. “And she wouldn’t be wrong. So, just concentrate on our intention. Then I’ll tap into all this great green power around us and send a message back home.” She looked at Meryt. “Ready?”

“Yes, I am ready.”

Mercy’s gaze shifted to Khenti and she lifted a questioning brow.

He grinned at her. “Ready!”

“Then let’s breathe.” They followed Mercy’s lead and drew in, then released three long, slow breaths. “Now, set and maintain your intention.”

Mercy closed her eyes. With that extra sense that each Goode witch had passed from mother to daughter for hundreds of years and generation after generation, Mercy reached around her and was instantly rewarded by eager plants, bursting with joy. Her lips tilted up as she felt the strength of their happiness, which at first baffled her. They were in Hell. How could they be so happy?

We serve Hathor! And Hathor’s most favored servant! That fills us with joy!

“Well, that makes sense.” Eyes still closed, Mercy murmured to the plants around her. “I need your help. Will you aid me?”

Meryt wishes it and you have been marked by Hathor, so we will happily aid you!

“Thank you. All you need do is lend me some of your growing power. I give you my word not to take so much that you’ll be harmed.”

As you wish, friend of Meryt—friend of Hathor.

Immediately, warmth washed through Mercy with such verdant intensity that she had to grit her teeth together to hold it within her body—though she didn’t keep it for long. With everything inside her, Mercy channeled that green power to the invisible third eye that rested in the center of her forehead.

“Find Hunter!” she commanded and she shot the power from her forehead up, up, up and out, out, out while she concentrated on her twin—on how much she loved her, on how much she missed sharing her life with her—on how much she needed her sister, now and always. And, mostly, how sorry she was that she’d let anything come between them. Xena had been right. She’d been wrong to turn away from Hunter. With a jolt, Mercy felt their connection! It was stretched thin, like a rubber band about to break, but it was there and it was still intact. Mercy focused on that connection as she channeled as much energy from the plants around her, and the ancient, magical earth below her, as was safe and then she drew a deep breath and channeled the power up along her spine, to her neck, and finally she shot it out of her third eye as she called, “Hunter Jayne Goode! I’m stuck in Egyptian Hell and I’m going to die unless you and Xena help me!”

Her eyes were still tightly closed, but with her third, magical eye, Mercy saw her call take form and shoot along their connection like a bullet. Then the power fizzled and like a snuffed candle, it went out. She opened her eyes, blinking them into focus, to find Khenti and Meryt staring at her, wide-eyed.

“What? Did you see something?” she asked.

Khenti reached for her and took her into his arms as his mom laughed happily. “Yes, you amazing Green Witch! We saw power!”

“You did it, my dear! I believe you did it!” Meryt’s arms went around them as the plants beside them swayed in response and their laughter echoed off the walls of the goddess-touched room.

Thirty-five

Hunter steered her bike from the road and over the bumpy field to the cherry tree. She hopped off and hefted her purse from the basket before she leaned the bike against its kickstand. Leaves crunched and worms squelched beneath her boots, but she didn’t let it distract from her intention, her purpose.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

She silently chanted as she combed her fingers through her hair and swept it into a high ponytail.

Her phone rang in her bag once, twice, three times before it went silent. Hunter wouldn’t check to see who called. She had more important things to do. Just because she had a phone didn’t mean she had to be available all the time. They could leave a voice mail or a—

Her text tone sounded in rapid succession. A machine gun assault on her focus. She definitely wasn’t going to answer now.

Cold gusts blew off the water that surged through Sugar Creek as if they’d had a weekend of heavy storms. Hunter swallowed, her intention drowning in a sudden burst of fear as pain gnawed on the scar that covered her stomach.

“Took you long enough.” Amphitrite appeared in the middle of Sugar Creek, a scowl etched into her smooth features. Before Hunter could answer, the goddess waved her hands in the air. “It’s no matter. You’re here now.” She floated to the shore on the back of a surging wave.

Falling leaves tickled Hunter’s bare arms as she gingerly parted the boughs and slipped under the cherry tree’s decaying canopy.

“Do you have the book?” Leaves rained around Amphitrite as she forced her way under the branches.

Hunter took a deep, cleansing breath and restarted her intention as she bent over and placed the book and her tarot at the base of the tree.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

“Witch!” Amphitrite thunderous roar shook loose more leaves from the branches.

Hunter brushed the sea spray from her neck and shivered as a gust pressed her wet shirt against her back. “I’m trying to maintain my intention,” she said as she kneeled onto her empty purse and opened her spellbook. Her fingertips tingled as she thumbed through the pages to the spell entitled REALMS.

Amphitrite glided closer. Her skirts brushed Hunter’s arm and left a trail of sand in their wake. “I am here to help. Remember our agreement.”

Hunter reread the first line of the spell’s instructions. She grimaced as she stood and flicked a squished worm from her knee. “I remember you almost drowning a man,” she said while she dug the toe of her boot through the layer of rotted leaves and writhing worms to fresh dirt. She kicked the earth, moist under the decay, until she’d made the point of the pentagram needed to begin the spell. She needed a trowel, and could get one if she had the car, but no, Mercy had to go off and—

She bit the inside of her cheek. She had to focus. She wouldn’t let this spell fail because she was too caught up in sister drama.

“I had no other way to get your attention. You banished me.”

Hunter didn’t answer. Instead, she continued to plow the dirt with her boot and repeat her intention until it coated her insides like peritoneum.

“Move aside, Witch.” The goddess pressed her glowing blue fingers against Hunter’s arm and ushered her away from the start of the pentagram. Amphitrite snatched her hand back as water popped and hissed against Hunter’s skin. She spat a curse through clenched teeth and a spray of water burst from her mouth.

The corner of Hunter’s lips lifted. “Hence from Verona art thou banishèd.”

Amphitrite twirled her sizzling fingers between the waves of her skirts and again lifted her hand and shooed Hunter backward. She knelt next to the rut Hunter had dug and pressed her hands against the ground. Hunter strained to hear the words the goddess whispered to the earth, but the unfamiliar language only twisted against Hunter’s ears.

Behind them, Sugar Creek’s pulsing waves surged into a roar. Its whitecaps writhed and the water splashed onto the banks.

Amphitrite’s kelp brown hair lifted around her as she buried her hands in the earth. She ushered a final command and water swelled up from the ground. It swirled around the dirt and brittle leaves and fetid worms and pulled them down into the earth.

Hunter pressed her fingers against her lips and shuffled backward. The water had carved a pentagram into the dirt.

Amphitrite washed her hands in her skirts and stood. “Water is powerful,” she said as she adjusted her crown and combed her fingers through her hair.

Hunter’s ponytail slid off her shoulder as she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the goddess. “Water is dangerous.”

Amphitrite pursed her lips. “We are fated to be together, Witch. It’s in the stars you hold so dear to your heart.”

Hunter stared up through the sparse leaves that clung to the branches. The sun still bleached out the sky, hiding the stars from sight. She couldn’t agree or disagree with Amphitrite. It’d been too long since she’d called on Mother Moon or the power of the stars and the cosmos. She no longer knew what the universe had in store for her.

She pushed back the sadness and the loneliness that had crept in between blood spells and lies, sister fights and goddess troubles, and knelt down beside her book. She read the next line over and over but couldn’t get the words to stick in her head. She’d strayed too far from her path. She was a lost sheep in need of a shepherd. She’d thought Amphitrite was that leader, that she was the luckiest witch who’d ever lived that her goddess deemed her worthy of the privilege of so many visits. But the queen of the sea wasn’t a leader. She was a wolf. And if Hunter wasn’t careful, the goddess would eat her alive.

Amphitrite hovered behind Hunter. She could no longer touch or slither into the young witch’s thoughts, but she would never be far. She’d pin herself to Hunter’s shadow before she’d let her go.

“A thank you would be nice.”

“Thank you,” Hunter muttered automatically as she closed the book and dug her hands into the cover before she got back to her feet. With a pool of blood in her palms, she stood at the tip of the pentagram and faced the tree.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

“Counterclockwise.” Amphitrite’s interjection was a saw through Hunter’s focus. “You started to turn to the right. You want to go in the opposite direction.” She motioned to the arm of the pentagram that pointed toward the road and Hunter’s bike. “You are trying to close something, not open it.”

Hunter glanced down at the blood warm in her hands, the crimson liquid swirling. “You know the spell,” she said more to herself than to the goddess. “You know all the spells.”

Amphitrite clasped her hands and rested them against her skirts. “It is my book.”

“This whole time you knew how to stop the trees from dying—how to close the gates for good—but you let me run around feeding that book.” Blood sloshed over her fingertips as Hunter gestured in the spellbook’s direction. “Waiting for it to give me an answer you already had.”

“I give no handouts in this realm or any other. You must earn your way, Witch.”

Hunter thrust her hands forward. Blood spilled over her fingers and dripped onto the ground. “But you would have done it for the right payment.” She tipped her hands over the point of the pentagram and walked, counterclockwise, in a circle around the five-pointed star. “The great goddess Amphitrite will do anything for a price.” The blood didn’t sink into the earth. Instead, it shimmered and pulsed against the ground, one end of the circle swallowing the other like an ouroboros.

“The great goddess Amphitrite is here for you, Hunter Goode. Helping you, Hunter Goode. Saving you, Hunter Goode.” Cracks marred her smooth, blue skin and her skirts swelled and writhed around her feet. “You may not like my methods, but I come from a realm of heroes. You live in a realm of manufactured empathy, performance activism, surface hope, follow for a follow.” Blue light beamed from the fissures that turned her skin into puzzle pieces. “I have saved worlds, crushed evil with my bare hands.” Her skirts dipped and curled around new slopes as the goddess swelled in size. “I have earned the right to name my price. You have only earned your breath.” Tentacles slid from beneath her dress. They caressed her arms and snaked around her shoulders. “And do not fool yourself, Witch, for I can still take that away.”

“Then do it!” Hunter shouted. “Stop with the threats and kill me.”

Amphitrite’s tentacles carried her forward like spider’s legs.

Hunter planted her feet, her toes curling in her boots. She was part of this land. Her ancestors had protected this town and their bones fed this earth long after they were gone. Yes, Amphitrite was a goddess, but this was not her realm and Goodeville was not her home.

Hunter’s hands tingled and the blood coating her palms fizzed and crackled as she tapped into the power of the ley lines.

“You will regret this, Witch!” Amphitrite screeched as she lunged forward.

Hunter held up her hands. Energy sizzled through her veins as she channeled the well of power that had led Sarah Goode to this place more than three hundred years ago,

“Begone Amphitrite!”

Magic exploded from Hunter’s palms and struck the goddess. Amphitrite shrieked as her skin burst apart and light flooded the field.

Hunter flew backward, air wheezing from her lungs as she hit the tree.

She blinked through the bright spots staining her vision. Amphitrite was gone.

Hunter pushed away from the tree and peered at Sugar Creek. The water had quieted back into a lazy, steady trickle.

“I know you’re not gone. Not for good.” She whirled around to face the pentagram. “Getting rid of you won’t be that easy.”

Hunter swallowed back the rush of certainty that had come from accessing a piece of her power that had gone undiscovered and wiped her hands before she plucked her spellbook from the base of the tree. It nuzzled her palms, delighted to be free of the worms and the rot that coated the earth beneath the gatekeeper of the Japanese Underworld.

Hunter stepped over the circle of shimmering blood and around the sunken point of the pentagram and into the middle of the five-pointed star. Withered leaves drifted down from the branches like ash as she settled back into the spell and refocused her intention.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

She faced the ancient cherry tree and held her spellbook out in front of her. “Realms,” she read the title aloud. “Locked, secured, shielded.” She buried her nerves in the pit of her stomach and reread the last line of directions. “Read the spell, let your declaration be known, and revel in your power.”

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

“This will work.” Her fingers searched for the pendant she used to wear around her neck.

She inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and did her best to pronounce the Greek spell with a magical power that spawned unfaltering confidence. “Ξεκλειδώστε, εγκαταλείψτε, καταστρέψτε.” Her tone deepened and an otherworldly vibration tickled the back of her throat. “Αυτό που αποφασίζει η μάγισσα, το αντίθετο θα είναι.”

The waters of Sugar Creek burbled and splashed, but Hunter remained focused.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

Another inhale. “χάος ελευθερωμένο από σένα.”

The spellbook heated and the edges of the page flapped against Hunter’s palm.

“Heal, strengthen, close!

Lock, secure, shield.

What I decree, so mote it be!”

The ring of blood burbled and hissed around her and white smoke drifted up from the pentagram.

Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate.

“Ακούστε την εντολή της και κάντε το”

Flames shot up from the burbling scarlet as Hunter shouted the last line of the spell. She clutched the open spellbook against her chest and shielded her eyes from the roaring flames. She squinted through the fire and tried to get a look at the tree. Sweat popped against her forehead and rivulets cascaded down her back as she struggled to capture a view of the guardian of the gate. But the flames were too high, too thick, too ferocious.

The spellbook heated against her chest and red smoke drifted from the pages. She dropped the book and blew on her tender palms. The red smoke curled around the pentagram and settled in the hollow nooks of the carved star. Hunter blinked back the sweat burning her eyes and wiped her brow as the flames settled and the tree came back into view. Black feathers encircled the trunk. Hundreds of ravens soared, up, up, up through the branches, croaking and cawing as they flew around the tree.

“Close the gate. Close the gate. Close the gate,” she chanted to the wind that twisted around her and swept the charred and acrid air from the pentagram.

The ravens seemed to stop midflight, gliding on an unfelt rush of air. Whispers tickled Hunter’s ears as the birds sailed into the sky as one and dove down toward her. Her gaze shot to the base of the tree and the blue velvet pouch that held her tarot. She jolted forward and the unkindness of ravens flew after her. Birds swirled around her and choked out the sun. Hunter opened her mouth to speak, but only a pained wheeze escaped. She dropped to her knees as screeches and cackles tore at her ears and feathers scraped against her bare arms and legs.

This evil was wild and dark—the stuff of stories. But Hunter was stronger than any character in any storybook. Hunter Goode was a witch. A witch whose ancestors lived in her blood, and the earth beneath her feet, and the cosmos above. Hunter closed her eyes and reached up. She was a giant inhaling stardust, cradling Mother Moon, and comforted by the black that stretched on for eternity. This was her power—not wrath, not blood, not a goddess—but the cold, unending dark of forever and the burning fires in between.

Hunter’s eyelids snapped open. She rose to her feet and stared up through the whirling black feathers. She could see everything.

She spread her arms wide and called on the power of the stars that blazed overhead like ignited cherry bombs. “Close the gate! Close the gate! Close the gate!”

She challenged the spell, the unkindness, the very air around her to defy her wishes.

“What I decree, so mote it be!” Lines of power shot from her fingers like lightning. They clawed through the ravens with the force of cannon fire. Feathers exploded in the wake of her power and rained against the earth as black ash.

Hunter’s chest throbbed and her skin ached. She collapsed onto the scorched earth and stared up at the specks of otherworldly ash, the canopy of branches, and the last of the leaves that still clung to life. She’d done it. She’d defeated whatever evil had broken the gate in the first place. She, Hunter Goode, Cosmic Witch, had won.

Tears pressed against her eyes and swirled her vision. It wasn’t the grand surge of rightness she’d hoped for. This success was hollow and barren and a spotlight on her loneliness.

Hunter’s back prickled with energy and the leaves overhead seemed to … sparkle? She pressed her hands against the thrumming earth and squinted up at the tree. The leaves were green. Really green. Lime green, frog green, sour candy green. Living, thriving green. She sat up and brushed away the lazy tingling that crawled on the back of her arms like ants as she continued to stare at the tree and its Technicolor foliage. Power spiked through her fingers and she stared down at her hands. Thin strips of green light floated up from her palms like dental floss. She jumped up and whirled around. Green light sprouted from the back of her body. It followed her as she spun and leapt and flapped her arms, creating emerald light trails in her wake. This was it! Proof that her spell had worked! Proof that she had vanquished the evil and—

Pain sawed through Hunter’s head and blared static against her ears.

“Hunter Jayne Goode!”

Hunter cupped her hands over her ears and shook her head as her name echoed through the ache.

“I’m stuck…”

There was a familiarity about the voice that Hunter couldn’t quite reach through the fire that scalded the backs of her eyes.

“Hunter Jayne Goode! I’m stuck!”

Green continued to shoot from her skin. The green of the ley lines. The green of her sister.

“Mercy?” Hunter breathed through clenched teeth.

“I’m stuck in Egyptian Hell and I’m going to die unless you and Xena help me!”

The pain vanished and stole with it the echo of her sister’s voice and the light that coated her skin and the cherry tree.

“Mercy?!” Hunter’s gaze swept over the burnt earth and the tree, Sugar Creek and the road Hunter had taken to get there. “Mercy!” she shouted again as her phone chimed. Hunter ran to her purse at the base of the tree. Her hands shook as she dug for her phone.

“Xena!” Hunter was breathless as she answered. “It was Mag. I heard her! I heard her in my head. She used the ley lines, Xena. She’s trapped.”

“I know, kitten.” Xena’s voice was rushed and frantic. “I heard it, too. I felt it. She’s terrified, Hunter. She will die if we don’t find her.”

“We won’t let that happen. Meet me at the palm.” Hunter pinched the phone between her ear and shoulder as she stuffed the spellbook back into her bag. “And, Xena, run.”

Hunter grabbed her tarot off the ground and paused. A thin loop of rope had fallen out of the satchel’s opening. She tugged on it. Tears sprang to her eyes and her breath stilled inside her chest. She ran her fingers over the rope cord and choked out a sob as she grazed the symbol of Tyr. The T-shaped opalescent pendant was shiny and new and swirled purple and pink beneath the energy of her fingertips. She slipped the necklace on over her head and tucked her tarot cards into her purse. Tyr had sent this to her. He was back. She was back. And she would save her sister.

Thirty-six

Amphitrite had watched as the Goode witch completed the ancient spell, and had almost intervened when the chaos it had released tried to claim her as its first victim, but the goddess had thought better of stepping in to rescue Hunter from yet another mess. Too many times Amphitrite had attempted to steer the witch down the correct path, the easy path, to no avail. Youth was, indeed, wasted on the young. Plus, the goddess had no need for a witch who could fall prey to a faceless and unorganized evil such as chaos. No, Amphitrite needed a stronger witch than that, and it seemed that Hunter Goode was on the right track.

Tentacles the shiny white of a fish belly twirled around Amphitrite’s arms and stroked the lengths of her hair. She smoothed her hands over the writhing appendages that made up her true legs before lifting the end of her thin skirt.

“Away with you,” she commanded, and eight of her ten tentacles receded under the gauzy fabric. There, they shimmered and twitched before resettling into the glamour that they wore when outside of her realm, and resumed their appearance as layers of full and undulating skirts. Her two longest tentacles settled against the silty bottom of Sugar Creek and morphed back into the slender, blue-tinged legs that suited the mortal realm and its narrow-minded views much better than her true form.

She left the cool creek waters and glided on the steady push of her camouflaged tentacles to the old and wilted guardian.

“You are ill.” She frowned and flicked shriveled leaves from her skirts as she parted the boughs and approached the strong trunk. “Such a shame.” She bent down and pressed her palm to the scorched pentagram. Blood pulsed just beneath the surface of the charred earth. It had waited for her. She brushed off her hand and stood in the middle of the pentagram. “I didn’t lie when I told the young witch that she and I were fated.” She faced the trunk and spoke to the guardian as she would an old friend. After all, it had once been powerful. Not as powerful as she, but strong enough to protect the mortals who scurried about this realm like roaches. “As you know, what comes next was written in the stars. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.”

The branches creaked and groaned in response.

“Well, maybe I could tweak things a bit. But where’s the fun in that?” She held her arms out by her sides and shivered as energy rushed to her fingertips. “After all, mortals are only good for one thing.”

She let loose her power and water poured from each finger like a hose. It splattered against the earth and rushed to the blood that encircled the pentagram and waited just beneath the dirt. It bubbled and spurted as it fed from the blood, absorbing it until the cerulean waters turned scarlet.

Amphitrite grinned as she held her hand beneath her lips and exhaled a perfect orb of glittering blue liquid. She pressed her lips to the bubble and whispered a command before she tossed the sphere into the air. The crimson ring of water surged up from the ground and collided with the glittering orb. Beneath the tree limbs, the air exploded into burgundy rain.

A moan escaped Amphitrite’s lips as she tilted her head back and let the water drench her face. She licked her wet lips and stared down at the current of water that rushed against the base of the tree trunk. Imbued with her magic, it carved out a hole in the once great guardian. Again, the boughs creaked and groaned with the tree’s complaints.

Amphitrite pressed her finger against her cool lips. “Shh. It won’t be long now.”

The rain ceased and the last of the water snaked into the dark hole at the base of the tree.

“I’ll be seeing you,” she whispered to the limbs that trembled overhead before she narrowed her gaze to the tunnel her magic had carved in the trunk of the cherry tree. “A goddess doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

A shriek of laughter tore from her lips as Amphitrite snapped her fingers and vanished.

Thirty-seven

“Mercy, my dear, how long before your sister and your familiar arrive to take us away with them?” Meryt asked as she poured Mercy and her son fresh mugs of thick, fragrant beer.

Mercy shrugged and smiled at Khenti’s mom. “I don’t know, but Xena and Hunter are pretty impatient—and they’re really smart. I imagine they’re going through grimoires, making notes, and figuring out spells right now. It won’t be too long.”

“But long enough for me to fix Tee’s favorite meal?” Meryt smiled lovingly at her son.

Beside Mercy, Khenti had been lounging against the curved side of his mother’s luxurious cave. He sat straight up. His grin lit up the homey room. “Stuffed bread with garlic and cheese?”

“Of course, sweet boy.”

Khenti cut his gaze to Mercy. “I know you must leave—soon. We all must, but…” He looked at her beseechingly.

Mercy laughed. “Abigail, my mom, used to say that a man’s heart could be found in his stomach. Until this moment I thought she was being sarcastic.”

Meryt nodded. “Your Abigail was a wise woman.”

“She absolutely was. Well, we might as well eat.” Mercy grinned at Khenti. “And if the cavalry arrives too soon we’ll just take it to go.”

Meryt’s brow furrowed. “And that means?”

“That I shall get my favorite meal, no matter if we—”

Khenti’s words were interrupted by the terrible sound of “Wa-hu! Wa-hu! Wa-hu! Wa-hu! Wa-hu! Wa-hu!” which echoed eerily all around them, drawing ever closer.

Meryt’s slender hand pressed against her throat. “No! Hathor bound the In-teps, as well as all other demons, from finding me!”

“What’s happening?” Mercy’s stomach roiled as the cries of the In-tep demons mixed with shrieks, snarls, and roars of other creatures—all growing louder, all getting closer.

Khenti stood and took his mother into his arms. “Muta, forgive me.”

“My dear, there is nothing to forgive!”

“Yes, Mother, there is. You are protected by Hathor. Mercy and I are not.”

“Oh, shit! The demons followed us here.” Mercy’s heart pounded so loudly in her chest she thought it would explode. She glanced down at herself, sure that she would see it thumping against her skin—and she felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her pale and terrified. “Khenti.” She spoke softly, but his gaze instantly found her. Mercy pointed to her chest where Hathor’s sun disc had faded so much that only a slim crescent was still visible. “I—I think I’m going to die here.”

Epilogue

Nure-Onna was brought abruptly out of the stupor-like existence she had fallen into unnumbered eons before by a scent she thought at first was a cruel dream sent to torture her. She uncurled her thick, serpentine body and slithered to the murky stream she burrowed by—as she could never be far from water. Her crime demanded it. Her sentence required it.

The serpent woman’s forked tongue flicked between her scarlet-stained lips to taste the brackish stream. She shuddered with distaste. No, the enticing scent wasn’t coming from there. Her powerful reptilian muscles contracted as she glided along the muddy bank following the scent. Just as she was about to give up—to believe the aroma was nothing more than a fever dream—she discovered the source of it. From a hole in the bank of the fetid stream poured a luminous liquid. Nure-Onna hardly breathed as she lifted her human torso up, rested her long, white arms on either side of the weeping hole, and flicked her forked tongue out to taste.

Salt water and blood! Human blood—mortal human blood. She smacked her thin lips and rolled the liquid around in her fanged mouth like it was a fine wine she savored. The blood was not fresh, but it had been so, so long since she’d tasted of the copper succulence that it hardly mattered. She dipped her head and lapped more of it, almost drunk with ecstasy as it filled her mouth and spilled from the corners of her lips to stain the ancient kimono that was all she had left of the distant life she had once lived.

Nure-Onna’s scaled body quivered with equal parts need and excitement. From the hole, that widened even as she continued to lap from it, came another odor—that of living things, greenery, fertile earth, clear skies, and mortals filled with fresh, delicious blood. The perfume of life beckoned as the bloody conduit before her continued to expand. Even in Jigoku, the Hell she had been sentenced to so many centuries before she had lost count, earth eventually surrendered to water.

Nure-Onna smoothed back her perpetually wet, long, dark hair. Before one of Emma-Ō’s minions could stop her, she dived into the tunnel and wriggled against the delicious red tide up and up and up, until her head broke the surface. Using her human arms and hands, she pulled herself from the hole and was astounded to find herself in a world where the sky was clear and as heart-achingly blue as Lake Mashū in the summer. Behind her was a weeping cherry tree that could have grown in her family’s garden, though its scent was odd and its leaves withered—but Nure-Onna had no time for trees and skies. Water drew her as surely as did blood. Her forked tongue flicked out, tasting the breeze, which was ripe with a freshwater creek. Moving in an undulating motion, she followed the breeze to the creek. She sighed in pleasure and slithered into the water, submerging herself completely to wash away the foul scent of Jigoku. Underwater, Nure-Onna allowed the creek to guide her. It flowed swiftly, musically, over rocks and sand until it emptied into a lovely lake, framed by greenery. Nure-Onna swam along the shore while she delighted in the freedom she had somehow, miraculously found.

Finally, she surfaced, flung back her long hair, and breathed deeply of the world.

“Living humans!” The perfume of mortals drifted to her on the lazy breeze. Her nose quivered and her forked tongue flicked in and out, in and out, tasting the air.

There were humans close, which is all Nure-Onna needed to know. She must quench her hunger. She must. Silently, she swam toward a gentle shoreline. Once there, she contracted the muscles of her massive serpent body. Her torso lifted and her sodden kimono fell to the ground giving her body the appearance of a woman. She glanced down and smoothed the kimono and frowned at the gray tint that had begun to stain her beautiful porcelain skin and blue-green scales. I do not have long to feed. I must be swift.

She held out her arms and whispered to the wind, “Come to me, child.”

A bundle materialized, swaddled and weighted exactly like her son had been that day—that terrible day. Nure-Onna began to sway back and forth and weep brokenly.

“Julie, are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help you clean up this mess?” The middle-aged woman paused with the driver’s door to her BMW open. “I don’t mind at all.”

Julie waved her friend away. “No, Marge, you go on home to Frank and get dinner set out for those hungry boys of yours. We got most of this cleared up yesterday, but the Booster Club just can’t leave cups and cans around the picnic site like this or the city will start making us pay a cleanup fee to use the Goode Lake grounds. I’ll make one more sweep around the BBQ grills, and down to the beach, and then head home myself. My Katie just texted me and said she’s making spaghetti dinner for the family tonight, so I’m in no rush to get home.”

“You sure raised those kids right, Julie! See you at the PTA meeting Wednesday night!” Marge waved as she pulled out of the gravel parking lot.

Humming her favorite Backstreet Boys song, Julie meandered around the empty picnic grounds as she picked up discarded plastic cups and an occasional paper plate. Satisfied that the site was up to her standards of cleanliness, she headed to Goode Lake’s sandy beach—and that’s when she heard it. A woman was crying.

No, not just crying. A woman was sobbing as if her heart was broken.

Julie picked up her pace. Someone clearly needed her help—and Julie loved to help. The year before she had even been voted Goodeville’s Top Volunteer, something of which she was inordinately proud. As she broke through the row of willows that lined the beach, Julie saw a solitary figure standing at the very edge of the water. She wore a long, silk robe that was tied with a wide cloth belt around her waist. The poor woman was drenched. Her dark hair dripped down her back and though she was turned toward the lake, Julie was sure she held an infant in her arms. Her head was bowed over the child and she wept with such intensity her slender shoulders quaked.

Julie didn’t hesitate. She dropped her garbage bag of trash and jogged onto the beach. “Excuse me, are you okay? Do you need help?”

The woman didn’t look at her, but she nodded frantically. Between sobs she said, “Yes! My child!”

Her voice broke Julie’s heart. She had a terrible feeling that when she reached the woman she would discovery a tragedy. Oh, please don’t let the baby be dead! Julie hurried to the woman’s side. A strange scent came from the woman—like water had diluted meat that was rotten, but Julie shook off the foreboding prickle of warning her intuition tried to give her. “What’s wrong? How may I help?”

The woman straightened and Julie could see that she did clutch what appeared to be a swaddled infant in her arms, and there was something wrong with the child. She could only glimpse the top of its little head, but the color was strange—a sickly blue-gray. Then her gaze caught the flesh of the woman’s arms where her silk robe had fallen back. They, too, were the same dead gray color.

Dead …

Julie shivered and took a small step back. “Honey? Should I call 911?”

In answer the woman finally turned to face her. Terror froze Julie’s feet. She stopped breathing. She wanted to run—wanted to scream—but her body refused to obey her as the creature captured her with its reptilian gaze. It slithered to her. Its tongue flicked out—forked and red like new blood. It licked the skin of her neck.

“Yessss, you may help me.”

Gray-tinged arms that Julie had sworn had been cradling an infant wrapped around her as the creature opened its mouth to expose long, hooked fangs that dripped with saliva. The thing reared back like a cobra and then it struck Julie’s neck with such force it opened an enormous gash from which the serpent began to feed—and Goodeville’s Top Volunteer screamed and screamed and screamed until she knew no more.

Acknowledgments

Thank you so much to our awesome Team Cast: Our agents, Ginger Clark and Steven Salpeter, our lovely longtime editor Monique Patterson, and the rest of our very talented team at Wednesday Books/ Macmillan, especially Jennifer Enderlin, Anne Marie Tallberg, and our incredible cover art team, marketing, and production staff. We heart you!

Also by P. C. Cast and Kristin Cast

SISTERS OF SALEM

Spells Trouble

THE DYSASTERS

The Dysasters: The Graphic Novel

HOUSE OF NIGHT

Marked

Betrayed

Chosen

Untamed

Hunted

Tempted

Burned

Awakened

Destined

Hidden

Revealed

Redeemed

The Fledgling Handbook 101

Dragon’s Oath

Lenobia’s Vow

Neferet’s Curse

Kalona’s Fall

About the Authors

#1 New York Times and #1 USA Today bestselling author P. C. Cast was born in the Midwest, and after her tour in the USAF, she taught high school for fifteen years before retiring to write full time. P. C. is a member of the Oklahoma Writers Hall of Fame. Her novels have been awarded the prestigious Oklahoma Book Award, YALSA Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, Booksellers’ Best, and many, many more. Ms. Cast is an experienced teacher and talented speaker who lives in Oregon near her fabulous daughter, along with her adorable pack of dogs, her crazy Maine Coon, and a bunch of horses. You can sign up for email updates here.

Kristin Cast is a #1 New York Times and #1 USA Today bestselling author who was born in Japan and grew up in Oklahoma where she explored everything from tattoo modeling to broadcast journalism. After battling addiction, Kristin made her way to the Pacific Northwest and landed in Portland. She rediscovered her passion for storytelling in the stacks at dusty bookstores and in rickety chairs in old coffeehouses. For as long as Kristin can remember, she’s been telling stories. Thankfully, she’s been writing them down since 2005. You can sign up for email updates here.

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Contents

1. Title Page
2. Copyright Notice
3. Dedication
4. Map
5. Prologue
6. One
7. Two
8. Three
9. Four
10. Five
11. Six
12. Seven
13. Eight
14. Nine
15. Ten
16. Eleven
17. Twelve
18. Thirteen
19. Fourteen
20. Fifteen
21. Sixteen
22. Seventeen
23. Eighteen
24. Nineteen
25. Twenty
26. Twenty-one
27. Twenty-two
28. Twenty-three
29. Twenty-four
30. Twenty-five
31. Twenty-six
32. Twenty-seven
33. Twenty-eight
34. Twenty-nine
35. Thirty
36. Thirty-one
37. Thirty-two
38. Thirty-three
39. Thirty-four
40. Thirty-five
41. Thirty-six
42. Thirty-seven
43. Epilogue
44. Acknowledgments
45. Also by P. C. Cast and Kristin Cast
46. About the Authors
47. Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the United States by Wednesday Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

OMENS BITE. Copyright © 2022 by P. C. Cast and Kristin Cast. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

www.wednesdaybooks.com

Cover design and illustrations by Leo Nickolls

Map by Sabine Stangenberg

The Library of Congress has catalogued the print edition as follows:

Names: Cast, P. C., author. | Cast, Kristin, author.

Title: Omens bite / P. C. Cast, Kristin Cast.

Description: First edition. | New York: Wednesday Books, 2022. | Series: Sisters of Salem; 2 | Summary: Torn apart by grief and anger, twin witches Hunter and Mercy Goode go their separate ways until Mercy’s focus on the Egyptian Gate and Khenti, the guardian of its Underworld, lands her in the kind of trouble from which only Hunter can save her.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021048559 | ISBN 9781250765666 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250765673 (ebook) | ISBN 9781250865212 (international edition)

Subjects: CYAC: Witches—Fiction. | Sisters—Fiction. | Twins—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Mythology—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.

Classification: LCC PZ7.C2685827 Om 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021048559
eISBN 9781250765673

Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

First Edition: 2022