by Kristin Cast
Hunter’s lungs forced her above water. She gasped for air and crawled from the lake, nearly collapsing onto her neatly folded towel and pile of clothes. She didn’t want to look back at the boat, at the boys, and see them pointing and staring, but she had to. The joke wasn’t complete until she did.
Hunter’s eyes burned. She shook away the tears. Crying only made things worse. She plucked her thin rope cord from the pile and squeezed the T-shaped opalescent pendant in her fist as she swept her gaze over the settling waves and back to the boat. The guys were dancing. Another had removed his shirt and was twirling it over his head. They turned up the volume and a fast, staccato beat reached Hunter as the motor roared and they took off.
Hunter’s pent-up breath came out in staggered wheezes, and she dropped to her knees. They hadn’t been laughing. Not at her, at least. The tears came then, and she let them. They splattered against the shore, painting the sand a deeper shade of tan. Maybe this next phase of her life would be different.
She dried her eyes, wrapped her hair in her towel, and tugged her shorts on over her swimsuit bottoms. Her necklace dangled from her fingertips as she threw her T-shirt over her shoulder and headed toward the dock. She was alone again, and it was perfect.
The weathered boards of the dock creaked as she shuffled to the row of three chaise lounge chairs and the faux leather–bound journal she’d abandoned for the blue waters of Goode Lake. Hunter shook out her towel-dried hair and pulled it back into the high ponytail she always wore before tugging on her T-shirt and collapsing into her chair. She opened her journal and fastened her necklace around her neck. She smoothed her fingers over the pendant and stared down at the blank unlined pages, unnervingly white under the bright April sun. She slid her pen from its holder and clicked and unclicked the retractable top. In the three weeks she’d owned the faux leather–bound book, all she’d managed to write was one sentence underneath her name, which she’d erased, written again, erased again and finally written it, HUNTER GOODE, in black marker on the worn page. She hadn’t written her name incorrectly, it just wasn’t … right.
That’s what held Hunter back now, the not rightness of everything she wanted to say. She was supposed to author the next great American novel and, until she’d purchased the journal from the cute paper and craft store on Main Street, she’d thought she’d be at least halfway finished doing exactly that. She had already chosen a title and character names. Weren’t those the most difficult parts?
Hunter rubbed the opalescent jewel hanging from the thin rope cord around her neck. The dip in Goode Lake was supposed to clear her head, but it’d only managed to stir up feelings she so desperately tried to keep tamped down. The deep purplish-pink core of the pendant spun like a top. It always did when she was this perplexed, like her confusion was a blender, her body the power source, and her budding magic a milky purple-pink smoothie.
She pressed the swirling gem against her palm and gazed up at the sky. Puffy white clouds floated above the lake. There were too many for her to see the moon’s ghostly imprint against the pale blue. Without the moon, her moon, daytime often felt like Hunter’s nemesis. She never should have left her tarot cards at home.
Hunter sighed and let her necklace drop against her chest. It stopped churning as soon as it left her fingers. It was weird how it couldn’t sense her magic through a simple layer of cotton. Perhaps there wasn’t enough of it. She smoothed down a few frayed strands of rope. After tonight, she’d be practically overflowing with enough magic no T-shirt would be able to get in its way.
A sharp, chittering meow lifted the hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck. Seconds later, a brown, black, and white Maine coon pounced on the end of Hunter’s chaise. She curled up next to Hunter’s feet and yawned, the points of her sharp teeth glistening in the sunlight as she stretched her large paws and kneaded Hunter’s shin. Xena was always popping up around town to check on Hunter. It was as comforting as it was stalkerish.
“Thanks for getting me back on track, Xena.” Hunter set the point of her pen against the white page. After all these weeks she was finally doing it. She wrote the word title in loopy cursive and dotted the i with a perfectly drawn star.
When Darkness Rises.
She wrote that in block letters and didn’t dot the i with anything. From here on out, it was serious author business only. And now her title was final. She nodded to herself and underlined the three words. Yep, it was set in stone forever.
She tapped the end of the pen against her round chin and leaned forward and combed her fingers through the cat’s soft fur. “And then there are my main characters, Maisie and Mitchell, who will overcome all odds and fall deeply and madly in love with each other…” Hunter stared out past the end of the dock at the rippling blue surface of Goode Lake as she continued to scratch Xena. “Maybe they’re causing my writer’s block…” she mused. “Maisie and Mitchell…”
Hunter’s fingers tingled as her thoughts shifted. Maisie and Mitchell weren’t really the problem. Tonight was the problem. Tonight topped her list of things not to think about. It had for the past three weeks. The dedication ceremony and the gate … It was all so much. Her life was about to change, in an amazing and magical way, but still. Change was big. Change was difficult. And Hunter wasn’t sure if she was ready.
Xena chattered her displeasure as Hunter’s fingers stilled on the cat’s back.
Hunter shook her head, clearing away the doubt to focus on the task at hand. “What if I change Maisie and Mitchell to Maisie and Madison?” Hunter wrote the names below the title and underlined each twice before turning her attention back to the disgruntled cat. “After all, don’t they say to write what you know?”
The dock groaned and Xena’s ears pinned flat against her head as the slap, slap of flip-flops drew near. Emily Parrott waved as the breeze caught the flowing skirt of her sunflower yellow dress and tangled around her legs. “Damn nature!” she hissed, and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head before gathering the silky lengths. “You Goodes and your always wanting to be outside weirdness.” She paused and adjusted the shoulder strap of her oversized neon pink bag before continuing. “There are perfectly good venues in town where you could’ve thrown the best birthday bash. Venues that have a/c and free Wi-Fi that would make your ridiculous midnight curfew more bearable.” She wrinkled her nose and cocked her pointed chin. “More bearable for me, at least.”
Hunter closed her journal and fastened it shut with the buckle she’d found in her mother’s basket of Kitchen Witch Accoutrements. “It’ll still be the best, Em. Even without air-conditioning and Wi-Fi and with us leaving at midnight.” Hunter’s throat tightened and she scrubbed her fingers along the thick trunk of her pendant.
Before Hunter could wrangle the giant Maine coon, Xena jumped off the lounger and stalked toward Emily.
The contents of Emily’s bag clanked as she thrust it in the cat’s direction. “If you don’t move out of my way, I’m going to skin you and make you into a scarf.”
The tabby arched her back and hissed. Her puffy black-and-brown-striped tail twitched in the air like a fly-fishing line.
Hunter tossed her journal and pen onto her empty seat as she stood and scooped up the mound of irritated fluffiness. “It’s okay, Xena,” she murmured, and rubbed the tufts of fur sprouting from the ends of the cat’s pointed ears. “It’s just mean ol’ Emily Parrott. And she would never make you into a scarf.”
Emily sneezed into her balled-up dress and rubbed her watering eyes. “I would, cat. Just try me.” Another sneeze. “She knows I’m allergic and is trying to kill me.” She wiped her nose on her dress and frowned. “See?” She held out the fabric as evidence. “That cat is making me leak!”
Xena melted against Hunter’s fingertips as she scratched under the cat’s chin. The Maine coon had been slinking around Goodeville, monitoring the town of five thousand Illinoisans, since before Hunter was born. Xena had even been there on the very day Hunter arrived in the world—quiet and d
oe-eyed (so her mother said), fifteen years, three hundred and sixty-four days and nineteen and a half hours ago. But who was counting?
The Maine coon’s long body vibrated with a round of purrs while Hunter stroked her long back. “You should go, Xena.” Hunter kissed the top of the cat’s brown-and-white head. “Thanks for checking in.”
Xena nuzzled Hunter’s chin a final time and leapt from her arms. She landed at Emily’s flip-flop clad feet, glared up at the tall, lanky brunette, and hissed before padding away toward the end of the dock.
“Begone, cat!” Emily shouted as Xena jumped onto land and twined herself through the wildflowers rimming the shoreline. “That cat is practically a dog, following you and your sister around all the time.”
Hunter gathered her journal and pen before plopping back down into the chaise. “She really wouldn’t like that you said that.”
“She’s a cat. Unless your mom has some kind of cat-talking spell, Xena has no idea what I’m saying.” Emily dropped her bag and it landed on the dock with a clatter. “Not that I’d be surprised if your mom did have a cat-talking spell. I mean, that cat has been alive for a million years…”
Hunter picked at her fingernail. There were some things even Emily shouldn’t know.
“Oh my god, your mom has a cat-talking spell!” Emily kicked off her flips and pushed them under the empty chaise next to Hunter. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me! Spill!”
The blaring speakers of a nearing ski boat saved Hunter from having to tell a lie Emily would have seen through before it left Hunter’s lips.
Emily’s back stiffened and she craned her long neck to get a better view at the boat’s passengers. “Well, well, well, would you look at that.”
Hunter tucked her chin into her shirt and followed Emily’s gaze. The black-and-red boat was back. The five guys stood in the center, bobbing in time to the pulsing music. One of the shirtless members crouched down. Silver cans glinted in the sunlight as he tossed one to each of his friends.
Emily rose to her tiptoes and slid the thin straps of her dress down her russet brown shoulders. When she turned on the charm, appeal poured from Emily like a tapped tree poured sap.
Hunter chewed the tip of her fingernail and watched as, one at a time, each guy stopped bouncing and turned like a mob of meerkats to face the dock. The lump returned to the back of her throat and she sank farther down into her seat.
Emily continued her show, adjusting her strapless bikini top before smoothing the dress down her narrow hips and letting it pool around her feet. Not once did she look at the boat or the guys or even Hunter. She was alone. An island enjoying its own beauty. She didn’t bother picking up her discarded dress. Instead, she stepped out of it and settled into the lounger. “I just love a good view, don’t you?” She slid her sunglasses down to the rounded tip of her nose and stared out at the boat.
Hunter smoothed her fingers over her pendant. “I’m Hunter, not Mercy.” She said the words without thinking. It was a line she’d spoken more than any other. It was a line that usually ended a conversation.
With a sigh, Emily eyed Hunter. “Well, yeah.” Emily’s golden eyes swept over Hunter’s damp ponytail, closed journal, plain white tee, and plain jean shorts. “You two may be identical to most, but I’ve known you since second grade. Plus, there’s no way Mercy would be caught dead without some sort of…” Emily waved her hand in front of Hunter, her gesture taking in every bit of the twin. “Bedazzlement. Your sister also wouldn’t arrive half an hour before her party even started.” She twirled a long curl around her finger. “I mean, Mercy practically is the party, so I guess it won’t officially start until she gets here anyway.”
Hunter tugged her shirt from her chin and clutched her journal against her chest. It pressed against the pendant of Tyr hidden under her shirt as she resumed chewing her nail and stared past the boat at the sunlight glinting off the lake’s gently pulsing waves. “Why are you here so early, Em?”
Emily hefted her bag onto her lap and pulled out a stack of red cups. “My mom just flew back from her trip to DC and my dad doesn’t leave for some gross embalming conference in LA for a couple days.” She plucked a cup off for herself and offered the stack to Hunter. “So, both of my parents are home. Occupying the same space at the same time. And we all know how well they do that.”
Hunter stared at the stop sign–red plastic cups and swallowed. She didn’t want one. She also didn’t want to be rude. “I’m sorry, Em,” she said and took a cup.
“Don’t be. They did it to themselves.” Emily shook her head and set the tower of cups on the deck before reaching back into her bag. She wiggled her shoulders as she pulled out a glass bottle and unscrewed the cap. “Let’s toast to divorce.”
Hunter grimaced. “Is that vodka?”
Emily’s brow furrowed. “I brought mixers, too. I’m not a savage.” The clear liquid whooshed as Emily poured some into Hunter’s cup and even more into her own. “I have OJ, tonic, cranberry, something called lemonberry spritz that I took from my mom’s minifridge…” She shrugged. “Pick your poison, Miss Goode.”
Hunter’s stomach twisted. “I’m fine. I’ll just hold on to this until you need another drink.”
“Unclench, H. You know, live a little.” Emily took out a plastic bottle of orange juice and poured far less juice into her cup than she had vodka before doing the same to Hunter’s. “As someone who’s been sixteen for, like, six months now, I’m going to give you some advice.” She took a drink, grimaced, and took another. “Guys, girls, whoever, want to be with a girl who’s free and relaxed, not rigid and uptight. Look at Mercy. She got Kirk because she’s wild and breezy and weird, but in the best sort of way, like a kite, or a unicorn.” She took another drink, motioned for Hunter to do the same, and settled against the chaise. “Whether or not any of us really dig Kirk doesn’t change the fact that all that stuff is what people want.”
Hunter ran the edge of her ragged nail against her shorts. “People want a unicorn kite?”
“Exactly.” Emily grimaced and downed the rest of her drink before she reached out and tapped Hunter’s. The orange-tinged contents sloshed over the side of the cup and onto Hunter’s fingers. “I’ll also add some cran. It’ll make it a smidge less brutal,” Emily said, too busy rummaging through her bag for the mixer to notice the mess.
Hunter dried her hand on the bottom of her shirt. Just because it was simple white cotton and not covered in splashes of color or fringe or sparkles didn’t mean she was devoid of personality. It meant she was different from her sister. And she liked being different than Mercy. It meant she could be there for her impulsive, trouble-making sister. If they were both irresponsible and spontaneous, the entire town would end up in flames. She was Mercy’s counterbalance, and Mercy hers. They were perfect together, perfect for each other. Jax understood that about the twins. Sometimes it felt like he was the only one of their friends who did.
Emily poured a splash of scarlet juice into Hunter’s cup and stared at her expectantly. Hunter brought the cup to her lips and closed her eyes. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and brunch. She tilted the cup back and swallowed. The liquid burned her throat and slid, fiery and hot into her stomach. Her eyelids flew open and she thrust the cup at Emily. “It’s—terrible,” she said between coughs.
“Well, yeah.” Emily shrugged, took a sip, and refocused on the boat full of boys. She whooped as another peeled off his shirt and shook out his dark hair. “Don’t you just love watching animals in the wild?” she asked, leaning into Hunter.
He performed an exaggerated bow before walking to the edge of the boat and jumping into the water.
“They’re not there for you to ogle, Em. They’re people.” Hunter brought her nail to her lips and grimaced. Her fingers smelled like alcohol.
Emily blinked at Hunter from above the rim of her cup as if waiting for the punch line.
Hunter sighed. “They’re people out here enjoying the lake just like we’re o
ut here enjoying the lake.”
Emily pooched out her glossed lips and adjusted her long legs until she was stretched across the chaise like a cat. “And I expect to be ogled.” She pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and readjusted her pout until it was duck lip perfection.
Hunter’s chest warmed in the comforting way it did when her sister was near. Like she’d just taken the first drink of hot chocolate on a snowy winter day. It was one of the best feelings in the world.
“Mercy’s here,” Hunter said as she clipped her pen to the cover of her journal. Another writing day gone with nothing to show. At least tonight, if she could muster the courage to get through the midnight ceremony, would more than make up for it.
Emily lifted her cup to the sky and tipped her chin toward the sun. “Let’s get this party started!”
Two
“Let’s get this par-tay started!” Mercy danced her way down the dock to where her bestie and her sister were stretched out in the chaise lounges. She raised her hands over her head and rolled her hips back and forth in a classic belly-dancing move that had the fringe belt she’d made and slung low on her hips rippling like water over the boyfriend jeans she’s spent months freehand embroidering vines and flowers all over. Her shirt was a retro halter top—the same pink as the fringe around her waist, and her long, dark hair was thick and loose around her shoulders—her fav way to wear it. The big, worn leather boho purse she always carried was over her shoulder and her hip bumped it like a tambourine. Mercy felt as good as she looked, and she knew how good she looked because Kirk Whitfield—and most of the football team that’d followed them to the dock—couldn’t keep their eyes off her.