by E. Latimer
As they passed under the stretching branches of the oak, there came a peculiar croaking from overhead, and Dayna tilted her head back to peer into the branches. There was a single glossy-feathered raven perched on a branch halfway up. It tilted its head, black eye following the group as they proceeded to the parking lot.
Dayna said nothing, but she kept glancing back as they walked, keeping an eye on the raven all the while it kept its eye on her.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
MEINER
In the weeks that followed, Meiner found herself able to enter the farmhouse’s kitchen again. At first she couldn’t walk in without noticing the empty chair where Bronagh should have sat and the spot on the floor where Gran had died. She’d kept picturing it the way it had been. The cupboards thrown open, cutlery and shards of plates and bowls scattered across the tiles.
And Gran’s body, broken on the floor, blood collecting beneath her.
It was the memory of what came before that really haunted her. Of following Gran and Cora around the side of the house. Of the anger she’d felt overhearing them. The betrayal.
Funny that Cora had insisted they leave after everything was over. That she was going to drag Meiner away from this place.
And now here she was to stay. There was a bitter kind of irony in it.
Meiner stood on the porch just beyond the sliding glass door in the kitchen, watching the sun sink down behind the apple orchard, the trees throwing up tall, scraggly silhouettes against the orange light. The summer heat had faded over the last few days, and her breath wreathed her head in a silvery crown of fog.
She stood still, shivering, hands in her pockets, and she tried not to think. Not to remember.
Because of course, Meiner was not the one her grandmother had betrayed.
Neither she nor Cora could have known what that spell did. Maybe if they’d bothered to look it up. If they’d known where to look. Maybe if they’d mentioned any part of it to the other coven, to one of the Callighans, this could have been prevented.
Cora would still be alive.
Cora, who’d been just as much of a fool as Meiner had been, fooled by the old woman even as she’d thought they were fooling Meiner.
It had occurred to Meiner many times over in the following weeks that for all her years of living with the old woman, she’d never really known her. She couldn’t even think about the fact that, like Dayna, her grandmother’s blood had been used in the hexagram, couldn’t bear to dwell on what that might mean.
Meiner had refused to go back to the house in Limerick, but she’d hired workers to pack up her grandmother’s things and ship them to Carman. She’d uncovered a great deal of damning evidence. Pages and pages of notes in tiny, cramped handwriting, all detailing bargains with spirits, especially the bargains Carman had struck with mortals.
The notes went back years, right up until her grandmother had begun to show the first signs of losing herself. She had tracked the brothers’ whereabouts. Searching for Carman in order to make a deal. So it seemed her gran’s run-in with Dubh on the Isle of Man had not been a coincidence. It was hard to tell from just the writings, but Meiner thought Grandma King had probably been following him. Maybe he’d caught her in the act and attacked. Or maybe he’d just seen her as a potential victim, when she was, in fact, the hunter.
From the notes, a disturbing story had emerged. As far as Meiner could piece together, the spirit trap Grandma King had tattooed on her arm was meant to draw a piece of Carman in, and the spell she’d taught Cora to seal the rest of her back in before the goddess could take full possession of Cora. A bargain would be struck with Carman, as far as Meiner could tell. The old woman had intended to help raise Carman if she’d promised to restore her to her full power.
So…that’s what she’d betrayed everyone for. To get her mind back.
Harriet King had not been able to handle fading away a bit at a time, and so she had been prepared to throw everything else away to get it back.
Of course, things hadn’t gone that way. Gran hadn’t been there when Cora did the spell, and so she had simply sealed the goddess away for good.
Cora, the accidental hero at the end of all this. The thought was unsettling.
If Cora hadn’t done what she had, Carman would have risen. If that had happened, Meiner would certainly not be here, standing in the center of the porch watching a trio of ravens peck bread crumbs from the rail.
She watched as Dayna placed another chunk of bread crust on the rail. It was hard to take her eyes off her. Off the outline of her shoulders, the tops flushed slightly from the sun, the stray freckles that dotted the expanse of tanned skin above her tank top—she was just starting to wear tank tops now that the wound beneath her shoulder was healing.
On the railing beside Dayna’s left elbow sat the book—she rarely went anywhere without it these days, and Meiner often caught her staring at it, expression faintly puzzled—and on the rail beside it sat a small white pill container and a mug of tea, which was sending a steady ribbon of steam twisting up into the cool morning air.
It was easier to forget her scabbed-over knuckles when she looked at Dayna, to forget the way the blood had looked speckled across her skin. The way she’d lost herself to the red-tinged rage of her temper. It was still there beneath the surface, dormant for now. Soothed by the illusion of peace.
The rage was like her magic, never far out of reach. When she thought about it, the back of her neck prickled. The anger had been so much stronger than it ever had been. It had felt…different. Alive. Impossible to control.
Not that she’d even tried.
She didn’t want to think about it, so she watched Dayna instead, and she tried to forget.
“If you keep on with the bread crusts, they’re going to get fat,” Meiner said.
Dayna pulled back, and the ravens stared at her. The one in the center, and the biggest of the three, ruffled its feathers indignantly, as if it heard and disapproved. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that was the case.
All three birds watched them intently, heads swiveling this way and that, sharp beaks moving back and forth. Three sets of beady black eyes tracked Dayna’s movement as she stepped back from the railing, and then Meiner’s as she came to stand beside her.
Dayna grinned up at her, leaning sideways to bump her shoulder. “I thought you didn’t like birds.”
Meiner stared, first at her, then at the ravens. The ravens stared back. “These ones are all right.”
The middle bird cocked its head, made a conversational chock-chock, and then took off in a flurry of black feathers, nearly knocking its brethren off the sill. After a moment the other two followed suit, and Meiner and Dayna stood watching them, a silent, temporary good-bye. They watched until the birds were tiny, distant M-shapes in the sky, until they were specks. Until they’d vanished into nothing.
And then Meiner looked down, pleasantly startled as Dayna hooked an arm around hers.
Before allowing herself to be dragged back into the candlelit warmth of the kitchen, into the gentle chaos of Yemi’s pie baking and Reagan’s indie rock music and the scent of peppermint tea, she took one last look over her shoulder. The sky was serenely blue. Cloudless, filled with the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Summer was fading, and the horizon was empty of ravens, but something told her they’d be back.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
DUBH
They waited until the graveyard was empty, until the last of the mourners had filed out in a somber, black-clothed line, until the sun had sunk below rows of gray tombstones. The three brothers were slow to approach the gravesite, both because they were wary, and because their bodies had been damaged nearly beyond repair.
The black smoke had dropped them five miles across the field, away from the witches, but it had literally dropped them, and from a fair height.
One of Dubh’s lungs had collapsed. He’d been strangely used to the slow inflation and deflation, and now there was only stillnes
s in the left side of his chest. He trudged forward, glancing over at his brothers. Calma was limping, dragging one foot behind him, his face fixed in a scowl. His back was still broken in several places, but that morning Olc and Dubh had wrestled him flat on the bed and straightened him out as much as they could, and now he wore a back brace to keep his spine in place. He wasn’t happy about it. Olc was in the best shape, though one of his arms hung limp by his side. He’d told Dubh he’d felt it snap when he hit the ground.
They would need new bodies soon.
Finally, after their slow, shambling approach, they gathered to stare down at her grave. It was a temporary marker, somber gray, with the barest of inscriptions carved into the surface.
Cora Whelan
Daughter and Friend
Sad, to have one’s life reduced to two lines scraped into the surface of this bare rock. Dubh glanced down at the duffel bag at his feet. Slowly he unzipped the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out his cigarettes, tapping the end of one on the crescent moon on the top of the silver case, before flipping his lighter open. His brothers watched silently as he played the flame over the paper. He waited for the tip to flare orange before taking a deep drag, filling his remaining lung. He tipped his head back to blow smoke up into the sky, and then stooped down to unzip the duffel, throwing a shovel to Olc, who caught it with his good hand, and to Calma, who began digging almost immediately, stomping on the edge of the shovel to break the earth.
Dubh stood back and watched, smoke leaking from his nostrils.
Neither of his brothers said anything as they dug, both of them sullen and silent. When the black smoke had wreathed him she had spoken to him, and only him.
It took a half hour to reach the lid of the coffin, and Calma and Olc dug around the edges, widening the hole enough for Dubh to drop down into it. He was reaching the end of another cigarette, and he took one last drag at the filter and then dropped it into the dirt, grinding the sparks out under his boot.
“Lift it.”
The lid scraped noisily as Calma and Olc leaned into the grave to pull it back, both brothers grunting and red-faced. Gradually, inch by inch, the corpse of the blond witch was revealed.
Cora’s hair was spread artfully across the pillow. Her hands were folded neatly at her breast. She wore a light blue summer dress, and her face was made up to look as lifelike as possible.
Even with all of this, she did not look peacefully asleep, as corpses were meant to. Her brown eyes were wide open, as if she’d been staring at the roof of her coffin.
Dubh stared down at her. He had not been sure until now. He’d seen the black smoke wreathe her, and he’d guessed. Now he was certain.
Still, he waited.
Behind him, his brothers shifted, but neither of them spoke.
The witch’s eyes fluttered shut, and then open again. She blinked slowly, several times.
Her mouth twitched, jaw flexing, as if she were figuring out the movement. At last her gaze slid to Dubh’s face, and her red lips curved into a smile.
“Finally.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to say a huge thank-you to everyone who made this book happen. For starters, to the people who beta-read, Fallon, PJ Sheridan, Meghan, Emma, and Kellie, thank you for reading this book when it was in its earliest, most awkward stages and helping me make it less terrible.
And to Rebecca Sky and Jordan Stratford, who both read and said lovely, blurby things and encouraged me during the torment that is the submissions process.
To the wattpad4, thank you for letting me shout at you girls when I’m stressed, and send you random, weird questions at odd hours of the day, and for the constant support and all you do to lift me up as a writer and a person; you girls mean so much to me and I love you all.
To the Word Nerds, Sunday has become my favorite day of the week because of you guys. Thank you for alternately listening to me rant, and celebrating with me, and sometimes both. Also, for the many long chats brainstorming and bouncing ideas off one another (a special thank-you to Megan and Emma, who allowed me to frantically google-chat you at one point when I was stuck on something). Love you, Nerds.
To my family. It’s weird to thank my mom, because this book will horrify her, but thank you anyway. For homeschooling me and letting me read all day.
And to my sister, who may read this? Maybe not. Either way, I’m dragging you to Ireland with me.
And most of all, to Karen, Rick, and Shaun. This book would, without question, not exist without them. Thank you for the massive amount of support you’ve always shown me—it means the world.
To Silvia Molteni, who is the true meaning of “rock-star agent,” and who believed in this project even in its earliest stages. Thank you for working so hard to take it to that next level and make it a better book.
And to Hannah Allaman, who was just as excited about Dayna and Meiner’s story as I was from the very first day. Thank you for believing in me and my witches and for flailing with me over all the things. You made this process so much fun, and the book so much better.
To the entire team at Freeform, you’re all fantastic, and I’m so proud to be able to say I’ve worked with you.
And a huge thank-you to the British Columbia Arts Council, for giving a new author the support they desperately needed in order to tackle a big project like this head-on.
And lastly, to the witches. Tiffany, Kayla, Rebecca…
This entire book is dedicated to you. I mean, honestly, what else do you want from me?
E. LATIMER lives on Vancouver Island with her husband, one small, destructive child, and a cat named Muse. Her first novel, The Strange and Deadly Portraits of Bryony Gray, was published by Tundra Books. She can usually be found camped out in a coffee shop or the local library. When she’s not writing, talking about writing, or daydreaming about writing, she makes vlogs with the Word Nerds, drinks too much tea, and reads excessively.
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