Zoe pushed herself to her feet with a half-smile. “I’ve already got a meal ready, if you guys are hungry. It’s a bit early for dinner, but I figured you’d be starving by the time you woke up, Cricket.”
“You’re a genius.”
“I can bring you up a plate, if you want--” Zoe began, but I was already shaking my head.
“No,” I replied. “I’ve been in bed long enough. It would be good for me to stretch my legs, I think.”
I shoved the blankets aside, relieved but somewhat surprised to find I was dressed in clean jogging pants and a hoodie.
“You were covered in blood so we stopped at Walmart and grabbed you some clothes,” Zoe said, holding out both hands to me and helping me get to my feet as the others filed out of the room. I took a second to lean into her.
“Thanks. And thanks for rescuing me. That was a close one,” I murmured. “I was so afraid they’d caught you, too…that--”
I broke off as tears clogged my achy throat.
“I’m fine. We’re both fine, okay?” she said, squeezing my hands more tightly. “Now get it together, Crick, because we have to keep it that way.”
I nodded and sucked in a shuddering breath. She was right. We were safe for the moment, but we’d only cleared the first hill. There was still a mountain in front of us to conquer. I could fall apart later…if we survived.
Pushing that thought aside, I straightened, which seemed to ease the pain in my torso. After a couple of wobbly moments, I was able to make it to the first floor with my cousin’s assistance.
I hobbled into the dining room to find Patrick had a chair pulled out for me. He laid a steadying hand on my lower back as I gingerly slipped into the seat. Dimly, I noted Greg watching, his brow furrowing in suspicion as the muscular handyman took a seat beside me. Greg glanced down and sucked in his own stomach before giving a derisive sniff and reaching for the nearest tray. The rest of us followed suit and dug in. As awkward as the situation was, it might just have been the best dang food I had ever eaten.
Fried chicken with buttery, flaky biscuits and mashed potatoes. Green beans gleaming with olive oil, and a fresh, green salad topped off our feast. In spite of the pain in my stomach, I found it nearly impossible to stop eating. The whole time I stuffed my face, though, I was aware of the fireworks between Greg and Patrick, which went beyond contemptuous looks; they both seemed eager to help me get whatever I needed, nearly tripping over themselves to keep my glass full and the dishes within reach. At one point, I caught a glimpse of Greg flexing his non-existent biceps as he reached for the tray of chicken again and I had to struggle not to roll my eyes. He’d never given a crap about impressing me when we were married. Heck, he’d barely even noticed when I was in the room, and now he was suddenly trying to impress me?
Men.
When we’d finally finished our food, Zoe excused herself to take a call from her husband, Phil, who was out of town on business, per usual. I had no idea what she was going to tell him about this whole mess, but surely he’d be in danger if he went back to their house after his trip?
I was still wondering how Zoe was going to handle that conundrum when Mee-maw piped up.
“Greg,” she said, shooting me a glance from across the table, “how about you and I clean up some of these dishes?”
Greg looked like he wanted to protest, but the no-nonsense expression on my grandmother’s face stopped him short. He stiffly got to his feet, taking one last glance at Patrick before collecting an armful of plates and walking out of the room. Mee-maw followed him into the kitchen, leaving me and Patrick alone in silence.
Despite a full belly and the aspirin taking the edge off my pain, I could already feel myself getting angry again. I opened my mouth, ready to rip him a new one, but he raised a hand to stop me.
“Before you say anything,” he said, sounding like he was choosing his words carefully, “there’s something you need to know, Cricket.”
“Do tell,” I shot back with a raw chuckle. “Is it about how you were just using me this whole time? How your dad is the leader of some insane sect of witch-hunters hell-bent on murdering me? Heck, why stop there? Is Patrick Byrne really even your name?”
His lips thinned and he inclined his head. “I understand that you’re angry,” he said, “and you have every right to be. I’ll tell you everything I know and you can ream me out once we leave this place and have more time alone. But there’s something I need to tell you that I haven’t spoken to the others about.”
I swallowed hard, my hands balling into fists under the table. Part of me wanted to tell him to stuff it where the sun didn’t shine, but the other part remembered the guilt on his face back in the car.
“Fine. What is it?”
“Look, magical abilities like this…they aren’t random,” he said carefully. “Witch powers tend to be hereditary, which means that covens are often family-based.” He cleared his throat, meeting my gaze. “You and Zoe both have the gift. You have Maude as your conduit, and we have to assume the cauldron is hers,” he continued. “Covens are comprised of at least three witches, not including the Everlasting Conservator. Now, I can’t say for sure, but I think it’s pretty clear who the third is—the one you need to make up your coven of three and bring you all into your full power eventually. Are…Are you following me, Cricket?”
“Who’s down for some ‘nanner splits?” The sound of Mee-maw’s booming voice in the doorway pulled my attention away from him, and I turned to see her scrutinizing us from under her helmet of steely gray hair, overflowing bowls of ice cream in hand.
My eyes went wide as I turned back to face Patrick, the whole world seeming to grind to a halt around us.
“Holy schnikeys, y’all look like you just saw a Sasquatch. What gives?”
What “gave” was that, not only were my cousin and I both witches being hunted down like dogs, but if Patrick was right? Our octogenarian, conspiracy theory-loving grandmother was one, too.
God help us all.
Chapter 2
“Is it just me, or was Greg making eyes at you back there over dinner?” asked Zoe, downing the last of the iced tea in her glass and leaning back in the glider. She gave me a pointed look, and I shook my head.
“Come on,” I muttered, avoiding her eyes and taking a sip of my own tea. “You’re seeing things.”
“Nuh-uh,” Mee-maw butted in from her rocker in the corner of the porch. “Zoe’s right, Cricket. He was climbing you like a tree. Except with his eyes.”
“Mee-maw!” I protested, flushing a little. “Greg’s just one of those people who only wants what he can’t have. I could remarry him tomorrow and by Friday he’d be treating me like a piece of furniture again.”
Mee-maw muttered something under her breath, glancing over her shoulder back into the darkened kitchen. Greg had spent most of his time after dinner watching TV in the living room while Mee-maw, Patrick and Zoe had played Scrabble. I’d passed on game night under the pretense of lying down again, but I hadn’t been feeling tired. I’d just wanted some time to process everything. So much had happened so quickly, I’d been too distracted to really think about the crone’s coven lore once Zoe had stolen the cauldron, what with being kidnapped and nearly murdered, but now it was all I could think about. I’d spent hours pacing in my room, wishing I could go get Maude to see if she could help. But surely if I was spotted lugging it in, Greg would wonder why I’d gone hiking and brought a massive typewriter along with me.
More than that, though? I wasn’t ready to reunite with old Maude yet. Something had happened during the ceremony. Something bad, that I still didn’t feel strong enough to face quite yet. I could still sense her presence…still feel the pull of her teasing my fingertips, but the urgency? The crazed need to type and that pulsing thread between us?
It was gone.
“Factum.”
The word echoed in my mind even as my stomach wound throbbed. Memories assailed me in an all-consuming rush. The prison guard
and the pain he’d wrought with his necklace from hell. Finneas standing over me, chanting words he forced me to repeat under the threat of Mee-maw’s life. Me, parroting them in a daze of pain and terror. The keen slice of the blade, and blood splattering out onto my typewriter. Our bond trembling…stretching…the fibers snapping, one by one, each occasion a fresh agony until all that remained were a few thin, gossamer strands connecting us. Then, sickly green lightning filling the room as power crackled in the air. The cultists had cheered, dragging me roughly to the gallows, forcing my head through the noose--
I swallowed a strangled cry, sweat popping out on my upper lip as I shoved the memories aside. Replaying that trauma could do me no good. Not now, at least. Maybe someday, I could relive it and try to work through it. But first on my to-do list? Keep it from happening again. To me. To Zoe. And, apparently, to Mee-maw.
I was still reeling from the bombshell Patrick had dropped on me. I didn’t know where he was right now, and frankly, I didn’t care; I still hadn’t gotten my head around his theory about Mee-maw. And as much as I hated listening to the others speculate about Greg’s feelings for me, the only thing I would rather do less was tell them Mee-maw was likely a witch, too.
It made a horrible kind of sense, especially if witchy powers were genetic, as Patrick had affirmed, but that was one can of worms I wasn’t ready to open yet. We barely had any idea how my own powers worked, much less how to properly harness them. And Zoe had only just discovered an attachment to the cauldron she had found at Connie’s place the evening I’d been kidnapped. The last thing we needed right now was Mee-maw trying to alakazam things when we didn’t know for sure she was a witch—or what her magical item might be if she was part of the coven.
Deep down, I knew that the issue wasn’t going to go away, and that I would have to address it sooner or later, but we had bigger fish to fry right now. The others seemed to know it, too, and I watched as Zoe’s expression turned serious and she cleared her throat.
“Enough about Greg. We need to talk about Lizzie and Jack…”
I leaned forward, pinching the bridge of my nose. Right before going to bed, Greg had delivered some news that had made my stomach drop: the kids were coming to visit him tomorrow, and that meant we needed to be as far away from here as humanly possible. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them; on the contrary, spending some time with them would probably have been just what the doctor ordered. But the risk to their safety was too great. Sure, I was still a little bitter that they had rallied behind Greg in the aftermath of our divorce, but they were my kids. Our kids. And I loved them more than life itself. The divorce couldn’t have been easy on them, and I knew that they weren’t intentionally taking sides. Still, the fact that they seemed to be coming over to Greg’s place every weekend when I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them since moving in with Mee-maw had hurt.
“Cricket?”
I started when I realized Zoe had asked me something and was waiting for a response. “Sorry,” I said, blinking. “What was that?”
“I know you’re worried about the kids. I am, too, but I doubt Finneas and his posse would be able to find us here that fast. Maybe we could stick around just another day or two?” Zoe exchanged a look with Mee-maw, who gave a grim nod. “I’m no doctor, but I think you could use some more time to heal.”
“You don’t need to be a doctor to have common sense,” Mee-maw said. “That Finneas guy damn near carved you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. You need bed rest, not a road trip.”
“Nope,” I replied, crossing my arms. “No way. That’s not even a discussion.”
“Cricket,” Zoe began, reaching out to touch my arm, “I really think that you should consider--”
“No,” I insisted, and could feel my jaw setting. “We all have targets on our backs, and I don’t want to put the kids in the line of fire, too.” I shook my head. “We’re leaving before they get here, and that’s final. We can figure out the rest later. And besides…” I glanced down at my stomach, which was still tender and inflamed to the touch, but not nearly as bad as I’d have expected. Patrick was clearly a skilled nurse. “I feel better after some rest and a good meal.”
“Actually, you feel better because of your magic,” came a low voice from the back door. I turned to see Patrick pulling it slowly shut before coming to stand in front of us, his hands on his lean hips. His dark hair was damp and curly from the shower he’d just taken, and I found myself struggling not to ogle his toned torso under his threadbare t-shirt.
“What are you saying?” I asked him, confused. “That I’m healing myself, somehow? I haven’t even touched Maude since--”
“It’s not specific to you and has nothing to do with your conduit, except that you had that initial connection with it,” Patrick replied. “It’s an aspect of witch powers in general. Once they’ve been awoken by the bond with your magical item, your body slowly changes. You’ll get sick less often, enjoy heightened vitality, and—ideally—live longer. You’ll also heal faster than a normal person.”
“Like a superhero,” Zoe said, clapping excitedly. “Nice.”
I put a hand to my throat beneath the collar of my hoodie, where a faint, yellowing ring of bruises from the noose still remained. Seemingly on the same wavelength, Patrick nodded, meeting my gaze.
“Most people wouldn’t be up and about the day after being hanged,” he said, “or stabbed, for that matter. I’m willing to bet that your neck will be fine by tomorrow morning, and in another few days, your stomach will be like new.”
Mee-maw startled me by bursting out into high-spirited laughter, slapping her knee. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” she exclaimed. “That’s not too shabby of a side effect, Cricket!”
“No,” I agreed, chewing my lip in thought. “It’s not.” It made sense, though. In the few hours since getting up, I had already started to feel better, to the point where I could walk around unaided. It was an interesting change of pace from the old days—three weeks ago—when sleeping the wrong way could have me feeling creaky and sore all day.
“Does this mean no more wrinkles?” Zoe asked, an excited gleam in her eye. “Not that it’s important in the scheme of things, but just curious,” she rushed to explain.
“To my knowledge, your skin will age more slowly, along with the rest of your body, but any wrinkles there now will remain,” Patrick replied, barely sparing her a glance as he took a tentative step toward me, indicating the space beside me. “Do you mind if I sit with you?” he asked.
I hesitated but then sighed and nodded, scooting to the left to make room for him. He settled in, his jean-clad leg brushing up against mine, and I found myself stiffening at his touch.
“Cricket’s right,” he said, running a hand through his damp hair. “It’s risky to leave, but if we stay here, it’s only a matter of time before they show up. I’m not willing to gamble. Not now, when I’ve seen up close and personal what they’re capable of. If you don’t want your kids involved, then we need to leave before they get here. The Organization has deep pockets. Their connections are widespread, and their resources are practically limitless. They’ll have probably taken a day or so to regroup after we set off the bomb, but make no mistake: they will find this place if we stay.”
Mee-maw snorted. “‘The Organization’?” she said. “I guess they realized how stupid the Illuminati sounded, huh?”
Patrick gave her a thin smile. “Maybe,” he replied. “Although, I’m pretty sure the Illuminati doesn’t exist. The Organization, on the other hand…they are very real, and very dangerous.”
“What’s this ‘they’ stuff? Don’t you mean ‘you’?” I asked, shooting him a glare. “I mean, you were working for them…or have we all just suddenly forgotten about that?”
Patrick sighed, rubbing his hands over his knees before responding. “I won’t make excuses for my father or his acolytes,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But being the leader of the Organization is a heavy burd
en, and it’s easy to scapegoat the group that’s trying to keep order.”
“Keep order?” Mee-maw asked incredulously. “Since when do kidnapping, hanging, and voodoo count as ‘keeping order’?”
Patrick grimaced. “They don’t,” he acknowledged, “and that wasn’t the original mission of the group...it certainly wasn’t my mission. But you need to understand that despite all the romanticizing of witches in folklore and movies, they have historically caused a great deal of pain and trouble.” I bristled at that, but he pressed on. “Try to imagine what it was like centuries ago,” he said. “The terror of having a curse put on you. Being coerced into doing things you didn’t want to do, by unseen forces. Some witches started plagues, used black magic, caused natural disasters…” His muscular throat worked as he caught and held my gaze. “The Organization wasn’t always what it is today. Its original purpose—my reason for staying—was to make sure that no one could use magic to subjugate or hurt anyone else. Clearly, the balance has shifted.”
“Lovely,” I muttered, shaking my head. “So now they’ve become the very thing they fought against, is that it?”
Patrick didn’t meet my eyes as he spoke, his voice going quiet. “It’s ugly,” he said, “but a lot of people would say that that oversight was necessary at points. That’s probably hard for you to believe, but it’s true. I’m not going to make excuses for what happened to you, Cricket. There is no excuse, and that’s why I stepped in. But not everyone is like you. The type of power that comes with magic can…change people in ways you can’t even imagine. Trust me on that.”
I peered over at him in the dim light of the porch, searching for any signs of dishonesty, but I found none. Whether what he was saying was true or not, he believed it. His face was drawn, his eyes had gone dark, and he looked like he wanted to say more but couldn’t bring himself to.
Brewing Trouble Page 2