“What is that?” I ask.
“I’ve done more digging on Watson and her group, put out feelers to a couple contacts.”
“Did they find something?”
“One of the Algon Corporation’s shell companies, funded by the Air Force, is using towers in Alaska to analyze the ionosphere there. The last is no longer active, but there was a second group that sprung up in Texas not long ago. Conspiracy theorists kept staging different events at the towers, claiming the Air Force and the government were messing with the weather.”
Weather magick? “They can do that with these?”
“The ionosphere is where radio signals are transmitted. If the government can control even a small bit, they could indeed create different weather patterns, and even cause natural disasters. There are people who believe some of the recent ones we’ve experienced have been due to something like this.”
I lean in closer and read. Although much is covered, the shell company is listed as an acronym—our government does love those—and there’s a note about why the towers in Alaska closed and how the information contained in an attached file is top secret, not to be distributed to anyone outside the group. From what I can read, I gather that the attached file is missing, and I wonder exactly what it would tell us.
Quinn fiddles with his cup. “If they can create natural disasters, they can use them as weapons to take out our enemies.”
“So Algon Corp is part of this group, and they’re looking at our little section of Oregon to put up some of these towers, in order to weaponize the weather?”
“It gets worse. Fiddling in the ionosphere with radio waves can actually control people’s minds, especially those close to the towers.”
And I thought zombies were a problem. “Sounds pretty space age to me.”
“Me, too. If it wasn’t for something else, I’d completely laugh my butt off about it.”
He’s dead serious, and I’m sure whatever he’s going to tell me next will make everything worse. “What?”
He rubs his eyes. “PNR Labs. The government says Charlie was killed in Afghanistan, but I discovered he was much closer to home, and may have been working with them. On what I don’t know, but possibly this.”
I glance at the screen, seeing the report again, and certain details begin to fall into place. “He was in Alaska where the towers are.”
“He was working secret missions, and the government was using Afghanistan as the cover. What if he uncovered something to do with this corporation? Maybe that’s why they shut down the towers. I checked the timelines. They match—Charlie’s death and the closure. Worse, maybe he was part of this group, trying to figure out a way to control people or use the weather as a weapon.”
“You know better. Charlie would never be involved with anything like that. He was killed because he found out.”
“Sounds farfetched, doesn’t it?”
My stomach tightens. This group is trying to buy properties here, especially those with hills, in order to install towers along the coastline. “Is there any way to prove it?”
“Watson and her group are purposefully trying to drive out my family, but they’re also looking for something that belonged to Charlie.”
The ninjas from the other night. “He had evidence about what was going on, didn’t he?”
“I’ve been through all of the belongings sent home after he was killed, and I didn’t find anything significant, but there has to be something. I have a sneaking suspicion that what happened to my dad was no accident, and he might have been caught in the crossfire when Watson sent her first snoop to look for whatever evidence Charlie had. We need Dad to remember where he was and what he was doing when he fell.”
“That I can help with,” I tell him. “There’s a simple spell for memory recall.”
He studies me skeptically. “It won’t cause you to accidentally raise the dead again?”
He’s halfway serious, but there’s a note of teasing in his voice. “You’ll be happy to know, I’ve used it before on myself and others, and there’s been no serious side effects.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says. “Meantime, you need to be very careful if Watson and her group shows up at your shop, okay? Obviously, she hasn’t found what she’s looking for yet, but if she’s part of PNR Labs…”
“I know, and don’t worry. The Whitethorne sisters can handle anything she dishes out.”
He checks on his mom, feeds Sirius a slice of bacon, and drives me and my familiar back to Conjure. We say goodbye, and I clean up, before I go to help my sisters with the biggest day of the year for our shop.
17
The majority of folks buy pumpkins and assorted Halloween items ahead of time, but there’s always a rush for those last-minute shoppers.
All day, we are extremely busy, a constant stream of customers and noise. There’s no time to fill my sisters in on Quinn’s theories.
To help, Dad stays at the cash register, checking people out as Spring bags up the items. He’s come as a medicine man—no costume needed.
Summer, dressed as a vampire queen, works the floor with me. I’m wearing my favorite dress…a rich orange satin ball gown with embroidered leaves along the bottom. I’ve done my hair on top of my head and loaded on jewelry to look like an aristocrat from the 1700s, complete with a matching fan and gloves. Even my pumps are a satiny orange.
Storm runs back and forth to the storeroom to restock shelves as they clear or to find a particular item someone requests that we don’t have on the floor.
Winter and Ronan are outside selling pumpkins and hay bales and assorted other crafts we have on the porch. The area makes a nice second sales point, and Winter walks around with a little tool apron filled with change so they can take care of those customers out there.
“She’s just scared,” Summer murmurs when she catches me watching the two of them.
It’s amazing to see my aloof sister interacting with Ronan. She’s trying to keep him at a distance, but his smooth, charming way is getting under her skin. “Of what?”
“What else? Falling in love,” Spring as she skips by the two of us, helping a customer bring her purchases to the counter. She’s dressed up in a fairy costume.
Ronan, for his part, follows our eldest sister around, taking orders from her, and loading customers’ cars with their purchases. He jokes and teases, and once, as I’m helping Mrs. Garner and her husband with a selection of candles, I glance out the window and see Winter smile at him.
Shortly after noon, Kirk brings another load. He claims they’re having a banner day as well, and I suspect half the town is turning out to support Mr. and Mrs. Harrington after their run of bad luck. It makes me proud.
At five, we finish helping the final customers, then close up. We have an hour before we reopen to hold our Halloween party for the festival, sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. Parents bring their kids on the Spook Walk to trick-or-treat in a safe environment, and we hand out tons of candy and other things, like rubber spiders and pencils with pumpkin erasers.
The grown-ups get to put their name into a drawing for a basket of our goodies, and everyone enjoys the “blood” punch and ghost cookies Spring made.
During the break, the four of us and Dad bring an offering to the woods. The sun is long gone, and we must light our way with flashlights, nocturnal animals keeping us company as we move deeper into the forest. I changed into my normal clothes—a skirt and sweater, boots and a jacket. I feel the eclipse like a hand on the back of my neck as a slice of the full moon turns dark.
Hale, Storm, and Ronan accompany us. They give us space, allowing our family to lead the way to the first leg of the pentagram.
We’re keeping an eye out for fallen tree branches and furry creatures—not to mention zombies—and as we near the first altar, my pulse kicks up.
“Stop,” I say, pointing. “What is that?”
Dad puts a hand out as he steps forward to investigate. My heart feels like it’s bea
ting in my throat. “Be careful, Dad.”
He flashes light across it, and we gasp in unison when we see what—who—it is.
A woman who looks very much like our mother, except she’s taller and her features are a bit different.
“Stars above.” Summer’s voice falters as she grabs my hand. “That’s not… Mom…is it?”
The eclipse, far above us, cuts off another slice of moon. The figure simply stands, pale and glowing in the shadows. She wears a hood over her hair, and Dad turns with curiosity as heavy on his face as the forest shadows. “It’s your grandmother,” he says with reverence.
The four of us exchange glances, and Winter steps forward. Our grandparents were dead before we were born. I sense she’s reaching out to the spirit, to see if she can communicate with it, but the figure doesn’t move.
“By the goddess,” I say. “That’s one of them.”
“Who?” Spring whispers.
Dad nods at me. “The people you raised last night. One of your ancestors.”
We venture closer, and I try to speak to the figure. She doesn’t respond.
“Does she even see us?” Summer asks, waving a hand in front of the woman’s face.
“She’s guarding the altar.” Winter lowers her flashlight as she walks around her. It’s like staring at a mannequin or a wax figure frozen in time and space.
“From what?” I ask. “The demon?”
Dad motions at my bucket. “Let’s make our offering and move on. Leave her be.”
We follow his instructions, leaving some of Mom’s favorite foods, tea leaves, and sesame seeds. We infuse the line of the pentagram here with protective magick.
At the next, we find a second figure. This one holds less resemblance to Mom, and yet, still seems familiar.
Maybe it’s the slant of her eyebrows, or the high cheekbones. Again, she makes no moves, doesn’t seem to notice us in the least.
We encounter the same at each point of the pentagram, all these guardians appearing to be relatives in our mother’s ancestral line.
As the eclipse becomes total, we reach the final altar resting at the top. After making the last of our offerings, Dad says a prayer, asking those in the lower and upper worlds to lend their help and guidance to assist our mother and guide her soul to the other side.
We leave the forest, the sisters holding hands and walking behind our father. Our companions, who’ve kept a respectful distance, make no comments about the figures.
The night is growing cold. Our ancestors guarded this forest once; it seems they have returned to help our quest.
We discuss it briefly at the edge of the forest, once more dark from the absence of our flashlights and the blotted out moon. No one has any other ideas on it, and so we must return to the shop and get ready for the trick-or-treating.
We’re approaching the back of Conjure, where our familiars sit on the porch waiting for us. Along with them is an unexpected visitor.
Quinn.
He rises from a rocking chair as we approach and greets each person as they file into the shop, waiting for me as I bring up the rear.
“Hey,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
It’s a dumb question, but he nods. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“About what?”
He looks me in the eye, and even under the soft illumination of the light, I see the eagerness in his gaze. “I want you to perform the memory spell.”
18
Winter appears next to me. “Your brother’s not dead,” she says to Quinn.
We both turn, startled, to find she’s hanging near the door.
“I’ve reached out a couple times to his spirit, and it’s not there.” She’s adamant in what she’s saying. “He’s alive.”
I’m not sure Quinn believes her, but I do. She knows her stuff.
“They never recovered the body,” he half argues. “If he is, why haven’t I been able to find him? Why hasn’t he been in contact?”
These are answers neither Winter nor I have. She gives him a sad expression. “I don’t know everything, but I do know he must be alive somewhere.”
She walks into the shop, leaving the two of us alone.
I grip his arm. “That’s good news, Quinn. If Charlie’s alive, I can find him. There are things I can do to figure out where he is. Magickal options you haven’t been able to try.”
His face contorts, then smooths out once more. “Okay, then. That’s great. Let’s deal with Dad first, and then we’ll try to find Charlie.”
“There’s no trying,” I say with a smile. “We will.”
I check in with my sisters, making sure they’re okay with me taking a few minutes to work some magick on Quinn’s father. They shoo me off and tell me not to worry.
Mama Nightengale arrives, dressed in a pirate outfit to help hand out candy. Hoax, Spring’s irascible mockingbird, hops onto her shoulder, shouting curses at me.
“He’s perfect,” Mama N says, cackling at his horrid manners. “Who needs a parrot?”
Quinn and I rush to the parking lot and his truck. He helps me in, Sirius joining us. “I know the timing is bad, that you need to be here, but I appreciate you doing this tonight.”
Time is the domain of Saturn. People see that energy as restrictive, weighted with responsibilities. It’s true we need limitations. Deadlines. Obligations. Otherwise, we might never get anything done.
“My sisters have plenty of help, and this won’t take long.”
Lights from oncoming cars, heading to the shop, reflect on his face. “There’s something not right about Dad’s amnesia. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it in my gut.”
“I’ll figure it out. Your father doesn’t believe in magick, so I’ll have to do the spell surreptitiously, and I’ll need your assistance to pull it off.”
As he drives, I tell him about the zombies, now stationed at the altars of the pentagram. “I don’t think we have anything to fear from them.”
His mother greets us at the front door. She has the porch light on and a big bucket of candy ready for trick-or-treaters.
The light catches her gold cross. She greets me with a warm hug, and I sense her energy level has risen. Having her husband home makes her happy. “Thank you again for helping Quinn save the trees. He said your sisters were here, too. Please pass on my gratitude.”
“I will. They were happy to do it.”
“It really is a miracle,” she says, motioning Sirius inside. “We’re so blessed.”
“Autumn wants to talk to Dad a minute, to check on him,” Quinn tells her. “We’ll be upstairs if you need us.”
Mrs. Harrington hands me a miniature candy bar. “Take this to him, will you? These are his favorites.”
Upstairs, we enter their bedroom where Quinn’s dad lies on the bed watching TV. He smiles at his son and pulls himself up when he sees me.
“Didn’t know I’d be getting company,” he says. “How are you, Autumn?”
I sit next to him where he pats the edge of the bed, and take his offered hand. His white hair and pale skin make him look older. He and his wife have been through a lot lately.
“I’m doing just fine,” I tell him. “The question is, how are you?”
The subject matter is sensitive, and if Quinn’s correct and there is something unusual about Mr. Harrington’s amnesia, I need to be very careful how I approach opening what his mind has closed off. I ask him to tell me about the day of his fall, and as he does so, I mentally go over the memory spell in my mind.
Hear me Goddess Mnemosyne
Keeper of lost memories
Power and emotions tied
Inside this man the truth does hide
Help him through his agony
Bless him with his memory
So shall it be.
The direct contact via our hands allows the magick to flow into him. “Quinn told me you were cleaning out gutters.”
He nods, hesitantly. “Guess I was up on the ladder, but I don�
�t remember.”
“Kirk was here, wasn’t he? Do you think there was a reason you didn’t have him clean them for you?”
His fingers twitch. “Kirk just cleaned them a few days before. I honestly have no idea why I was up there. I hung lights on the front porch because Mabel wanted me to for Halloween. But out back?” He shakes his head, and I can see in his eyes he’s remembering that day.
I can also sense he’s not telling the whole truth. There seems to be a block in his mind; of his own making or placed there by someone else?
“Sometimes I go from one room to another without remembering what I was doing,” I tell him, sending another stream—truth be told—from my hand to his. In my mind’s eye, I see it traveling up his arm, connecting to his spinal cord, and rising into the brain.
The spell is moderately weak, and only helps to open blocked areas, but I have the feeling I don’t need it. “Was someone else here with you?” I ask, searching.
“No, just me and Kirk. I think…”
The memory spell reverses, sending a flash of something from his mind through our connection into mine. I see a hooded figure, a face. There’s no ladder. I’m on the back porch, I’m arguing with someone. Then I’m falling.
My head hits against one of the steps. Darkness.
I realize Mr. Harrington is staring at me, his intense eyes wary. He senses there’s something going on, that I’ve seen what’s behind the block. He withdraws his hand and reaches for the candy on the nightstand. “Guess we’ll never know,” he says, his fingers just out of reach of snagging the treat. “That’s okay. I’m on the mend and that’s all that matters.”
I instinctively follow his grasping fingers and hand him the candy. There’s a beautiful golden globe on a tripod sitting on the nightstand and it captures my attention.
Something about the globe tugs at me, like the echo of a song I can’t quite remember the words to. I motion at it. “That’s beautiful,” I say, pointing to it. “I’ve never seen one quite like it.”
The wrapper rips and he gobbles down the chocolate. “Charlie gave me that. A Father’s Day present. Arrived a few days before…”
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