“It’s Yew Hollow’s central point,” I explained. The sky was clear, and the stars were bright. I reached up, tracing imaginary outlines of the constellations with the tip of my finger. “The town was built around it.”
“I know that already,” Dominic said, taking my raised hand in his and playing with my fingers. “I want to know what the tree means to you. Something tells me that you have a special relationship with it.”
“In a way, I suppose,” I admitted, wondering exactly how much Dominic had heard about the tree in reference to me. “It’s a long story. Would you like the Reader’s Digest version?”
“Sure.”
I sighed, wondering how to best phrase my most recent interaction with the tree. “Last October, one of the townspeople tried to steal my family’s power. The only reason I was able to stop him was because the yew tree supported me. Ever since then, I’ve been a little hesitant to go near it.”
“Why?”
“Because it used me as a vessel,” I said. “I had no control over it. Do you know how terrifying that is?”
“But you saved your family, right?”
“The tree did.”
“Yes, but it dubbed you worthy enough to use the power inside it,” said Dominic matter-of-factly.
I sat up, turning toward him. “You know, mortals are usually more uncomfortable with this toic of conversation.”
He sat up too, propping himself up on the palms of his hands. “I find it interesting. When I first got this assignment, I thought it was a joke, but working with you has gotten the best of me. I’m invested now.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Dominic rested a hand on the yew tree. “Glad to be here.”
When I turned to look at him, he was much closer than I expected. I could see flecks of gold within his blue eyes. He leaned in, kissing me lightly, but I pulled away.
“I barely know you,” I said, my cheeks burning. “Besides, it’s a bad idea. We’re partners.”
He rested his forehead against mine, sighing. “I know, but I like you. I knew it as soon as you shoved my feet off your desk.”
I laughed softly, and he took the opportunity to kiss me again. He wrapped an arm around my waist, dipping me toward the ground. My back grazed against the trunk of the yew tree and, all of a sudden, my vision blacked out.
Dominic had disappeared. In fact, everything had disappeared. The food and wine was gone, as was the picnic blanket. I stood at the base of the yew tree, completely nonplussed. The town was quiet. Even the stars had faded.
Then Ronan Riley appeared, his ghostly pallor glimmering in the dark. He strolled across the town square, his shoulders squared off at a determined angle. As he passed right by me, oblivious to my presence, I realized what was happening. The tree was showing me a vision of what had happened here, of what was still happening.
Ronan pressed a palm against the trunk of the yew tree. At first, nothing seemed to change. Then Ronan’s figure, transparent at first, solidified. He plucked a leaf from one of the yew tree’s low-hanging branches, crushing it in his meaty fist, and let out a satisfied laugh.
The vision vanished as quickly as it had come. I was suddenly back with Dominic, who worriedly shook my shoulders.
“Morgan? Morgan, are you okay?”
I brushed him off, ignoring the look of hurt on his face. There were more important things to address.
“What happened?” I asked him. “Just now. What happened to me?”
“You passed out,” said Dominic, the corners of his lips turned down in a worried expression. “It was only a moment or two, but maybe we should get you checked out—”
“I’m fine,” I interrupted him, standing up and brushing off my hands.
He stood too, knocking over a glass in the process. Wine spilled across the remains of our meal, staining the blanket. “Morgan, what just happened?”
“It’s the tree,” I said. I ran my hand over the spot that Ronan had pressed his hand to, wondering how it was even possible. “The tree is helping Ronan.”
6
In Which My Judgement of Character Is Questioned
In the morning, I met Dominic at Yew Hollow’s local library. I had been too distracted by the tree’s vision to continue our date the night before. Like a gentleman, Dominic had walked me home without argument. Thankfully, he was just as invested in our newly discovered information as I was. We’d discussed the possibilities all the way back to the barn, but I simply had no idea as to why the yew tree would lend power to a ghost. The library had stacks and stacks of old books and newspapers pertaining to the town’s history, including its origin story, so I figured it was the best place to start our research project.
“Do you spend a lot of time here?” Dominic asked as I headed straight toward the back corner of the library, where I knew the majority of texts about Yew Hollow were stored.
“Not much,” I said, peering at the spines of the books on the shelves. “I had a similar need for information last fall, so I’m particularly familiar with this section of the library.”
Dominic pulled a large, dusty book entitled The Role of Death in Eternal Life from one of the shelves and flipped through the first few pages.
“This is the strangest town I’ve ever been to,” he murmured.
“You haven’t seen the half of it.”
We settled in, each of us with a stack of books that might give us any sort of hint into the yew tree’s history. It seemed that Yew Hollow always had something to hide. Every time I thought I knew everything about my hometown, some strange event came along to completely derail it. I absentmindedly paged through a history of Yew Hollow, barely comprehending the words. My mind wandered off, and I wondered if things were ever simple in this town.
“Morgan.”
“Hm?”
“Have you ever seen this before?”
Dominic leaned across the aisle to hand me a leather-bound journal. The covering was worn smooth, and the pages had yellowed. I opened it to discover a name and a date scrawled in calligraphy on the first page: Mary Summers, 1695.
“Where did you find this?” I demanded.
“Wedged behind the books on that bottom shelf,” he said, pointing to the rack directly across from him.
Carefully, I thumbed through the first few pages of the journal.
“It’s her diary,” I said, in awe of the discovery. Pages upon pages of cursive, all from the hand of Mary Summers.
“Who was she?” Dominic asked, resting his chin on my shoulder to get a better look at the journal.
“One of the original witches of Yew Hollow,” I said. “We settled here in 1693. Don’t you know the story?”
“Vaguely,” he admitted with an apologetic smile. “I can’t say I spend a whole lot of time reading up on the history of Yew Hollow. Although, now that I think about it, I probably should. Are you related to her?”
“Yes. We’re descendants of the original Summers coven.”
“Wow,” said Dominic, looking impressed. “Does she mention the yew tree?”
“Give me a minute.”
Respectfully, he withdrew, immersing himself in another book. I slowly leafed through Mary Summers’s diary, still in disbelief over the fact that Dominic had managed to find it. I didn’t know that there were any personal accounts of Yew Hollow’s origin story—my mother surely would’ve been aware of them—but here was a firsthand narrative of my familial history, buried behind a plethora of useless information.
My heart stopped when I flipped to a new page and found a hand-drawn picture of the yew tree, distinguishable by the large gnarled knot on the yew’s trunk, which Mary Summers had captured perfectly in her artwork. That, however, wasn’t the most interesting part of the drawing. Around the tree, Mary Summers had stenciled in five miniature portraits, one of herself and four others. Ann Summers, Elizabeth Summers, Bridget Summers, and Dorothy Summers.
I grazed a fingertip across the faces of the portraits. Mary had captured them w
ell. Our family’s genetics were unmistakable. I saw the shape of my nose in Bridget and the crooked set of my mouth in Dorothy. Malia and Laurel both bore a remarkable resemblance to Elizabeth, and even the inquisitive angle of Ann’s eyes reminded me of Karma. It was almost as if the current Summers coven was a reincarnation of the original one.
The page opposite the drawing was filled top to bottom with cramped, messy cursive. As I began to decipher it, reading through the passage with increasing urgency, my hands began to shake. It turned out that Mary Summers’s diary was the only resource I’d ever needed.
Dominic eyed my trembling hands. “What’s the matter?”
I found it difficult to wrench my gaze away from the information in front of me, so it was with the strange pull of a plug from a drain that I refocused my attention on Dominic.
“They buried themselves,” I said, indicating the passage. “The original witches of Yew Hollow buried themselves beneath the yew tree to strengthen its ability to protect the town.”
“Is that what it says?”
I passed him the journal, pointing to the relevant scribbles. “Right there. They combined their powers to create the ultimate defense mechanism for the town.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with the situation now?” Dominic asked, his brow furrowed as he inspected the miniature portraits of my long-dead ancestors. “I mean, if they meant to reinforce the tree’s protective powers, why would the tree allow Ronan to wreak havoc in Yew Hollow?”
I considered that for a moment. Dominic had a point. It didn’t make any sense that the yew tree would help Ronan try to kill Teagan. Objects of nature didn’t often support violence, and the tree itself had only ever been used as a means for protection. Besides, the tree hadn’t channeled any power at all until I’d reconnected with it last October. I snapped my fingers in realization.
“That’s it,” I said, startling Dominic out of his reverie. “Last year, when I channeled that ward to save the town? The only reason I could do that was because the tree helped me. It wasn’t my power. It was the original Summers coven’s. The tree had been dormant for years. I must’ve woken it up somehow.”
Dominic looked skeptical. “That still doesn’t explain why it’s been lending power to Ronan if your family’s original goal was to protect Yew Hollow.”
“If there’s one thing I know about witchcraft, it’s that it’s completely unpredictable,” I said. I took the journal back from Dominic, reading through the passage again in case there was some other detail I had missed. “It’s nature, you know? Uncontrollable. Ronan figured out a way to channel the original coven’s power through the tree to give him physical abilities.”
“What if someone else is helping Ronan?” Dominic asked worriedly. “It seems unlikely that Ronan would’ve figured out how to do it on his own, you know? It’s not like he had any kind of power. You said only women are able to inherit witchcraft, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“You have to consider the possibility of it, Morgan,” he interrupted, giving me a stern stare. “If Ronan somehow has access to magic, then he’s probably getting help from someone alive.”
“Dominic, I didn’t even know about this,” I protested, holding the diary up at eye level. “I’ve never seen this journal in my entire life. My mother probably didn’t even know it existed, and the coven isn’t in the habit of helping ghosts kill their wives. I’m the only one in the coven able to see Ronan anyway.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All right. I’m just making sure.”
I stood up, brushing dust from the front of my jeans. I tucked the journal beneath my arm and said, “I need to go. My mother should know about this. Teagan, too.”
“Should I come with you?” he asked, peering up at me from his seat on the floor.
“No, this is a matter for the coven to discuss,” I said. I swept my free hand through his hair, surprised with how comfortable I’d become with him in such a short amount of time. “I’ll call you later. We need to figure out a way to stop Ronan from drawing any more power from the tree.”
Dominic captured my hand in his and squeezed it. “I’m starting to think that I’m not as qualified as you to work on this case.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Don’t worry. You’ll catch on.”
Back at the main house, I caught up with my mother. Cassandra, as the head of the coven, needed to know that our family’s power was being used for something other than its intended purpose. We sat down in the dining room together to discuss the possibilities of controlling the situation. My mother had steeped an enormous cup of steaming tea for me. It was a worrying shade of bright orange, and as I stirred a spoonful of honey into its depths, I wondered what spices or herbs my mother had used to concoct it.
“Well, we’ve always known that the original coven was a little overdramatic to say the least,” my mother commented as I filled her in on the information I had gathered at the library. She perused the pages of Mary Summers’s diary. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. They sacrificed witch hunters annually. It was only a matter of time before they turned to martyrdom.”
“Now the question is how to stop Ronan from using their power through the yew tree,” I said, blowing cool air across the surface of my tea. It smelled suspiciously like cayenne pepper, and I couldn’t seem to build up the courage to take a sip.
“Spells like that are usually done in tandem,” said Cassandra, swirling around the contents of her own mug. “If the original coven created a ritual to bind themselves to the tree, then it would take a similar number of witches to reverse the ritual.”
“Perfect,” I said. “You round up Malia, Karma, and Laurel. We can meet up later to establish a plan. Any ideas as to how we deal with this?”
She closed the journal, patting its cover. “Leave this with me. I’ll read through it. Maybe Mary Summers had more than one secret up her sleeve.”
I nodded, braved a sip of tea, and immediately regretted my decision. It was spicy enough to clear my sinuses. I pushed the mug away from me and asked, “Where’s Gwenlyn?”
“Taking your assignment a little too seriously,” said Cassandra, raising an eyebrow at me. “She’s been practically stalking Teagan to make sure Ronan doesn’t go near her. I don’t even think she came home last night.”
I laughed, glad to hear that Gwenlyn was channeling her extra energy into a constructive outlet. It was helpful to have another medium around, even if Gwenlyn was only sixteen. At least I didn’t have to stand guard for Teagan around the clock. In additional good news, Gwenlyn hadn’t reported any sightings of Ronan.
“Good for Gwenlyn,” I said. “I’m on my way to Teagan next. She should know what’s going on.”
“Tell Gwen to come home and eat at some point,” my mother said. “She’s just like you. Gets herself all worked up and forgets to take care of herself.”
I waved this observation away, abandoning the fiery tea to push my chair away from the table and stand up. “I take care of myself just fine.”
“Morgan?”
I paused, halfway to the door. “Yeah?”
“The yew tree already trusts you,” my mother said. She took one last swig from her own mug then reached across the table to claim my tea for herself. “If we’re going to do this, you need to accept the fact that the tree will most likely choose you again as its vessel.”
“I don’t know if I’m okay with that.”
Cassandra fixed me with a knowing smile.
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll try to be okay with it.”
“That’s my girl.”
On my way to see Teagan, I found Gwenlyn in the courtyard of the inn with her jeans rolled up past her ankles so that she could swirl her bare feet in the koi pond. The late-afternoon sun shone down on the back of her neck and shoulders, casting a pinkish hue across her skin. Storm clouds gathered in the distance, threatening to burst over Yew Hollow.
“You put any sunscreen on, kid?�
� I asked, tapping her on one reddish shoulder.
She glanced up at me. “I forgot. What are you doing here? Did something happen?”
“We found out that the yew tree is feeding Ronan strength,” I said. “It’s nothing for you to be worried about at the moment. How’s the guard watch going?”
“Fine. Teagan’s in her room.”
“No signs of Ronan, right?” I asked, just to be sure.
“Nope.”
“Mom says you haven’t eaten.”
One of the koi fish inspected Gwenlyn’s toes. She splashed it away, saying, “Teagan took me to lunch.”
“Well, it’s almost dinnertime,” I said, squinting across the courtyard in the direction of Teagan’s room. “Why don’t you head home? I’ve got Teagan covered.”
“You sure? I can stay.”
“Take a break, kid.”
With that, she extracted her feet from the pond, shaking the excess water off. Slipping back into her pair of worn-out sneakers, she stood up. “Can I ask you a question? It might be kind of personal.”
“Sure, but I reserve the right not to answer.”
“How’d you get those scars on your back?”
My whole body stiffened. Gwenlyn was talking about the gruesome angel wings that had been carved into my skin during the events of last fall. I wasn’t sure how she’d noticed them. Usually, I made sure to wear clothing that kept them covered. They weren’t exactly my pride and joy, and so far, I hadn’t found any kind of spell that would help to diminish their appearance.
“Why?” I asked warily.
She shrugged, avoiding eye contact with me, as though she knew that the question she had asked was a hard one to answer. “Just wondering. I have some too.”
Gwenlyn held out her arms to me. Tentatively, I leaned forward to examine them, feeling my heart sink at the sight of the series of jagged scars that ran from her wrists to her elbows. Without thinking, I reached out and pulled Gwenlyn into a tight hug. For a moment, she remained stiff and unresponsive. Then, as I rested my chin on top of her head, she relaxed.
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