by Kristin Cast
Hunter nodded and wiped at her face as he joined Emily who was walking slowly, dejectedly, down the sidewalk to where they’d parked their cars.
“Are you sure you want me to leave?” Kirk asked, pulling her close to him again.
“Yes,” said Xena.
Mercy nodded against his chest. “I’ll text you later.”
He kissed her softly before turning to Hunter. “Anything you need—either of you. Just tell me. Promise?”
Hunter nodded. “Thanks, Kirk. We appreciate it.”
Kirk went out the door, but paused and turned back, opening his mouth to say something. Xena slickly stepped in front of Mercy, lifted one arched eyebrow, and hissed.
Kirk took a few steps back. “Oh, um, shit! Sorry.”
“As you should be, boy. It is only polite that when one is asked to depart—one goes.” Xena closed the door firmly. “Now.” She turned to the girls, smoothing her hair with the back of her hand. “Which tree will you visit first?” But before they could respond a moth fluttered from the door, up the stairs, and past Xena who, with catlike reflexes stalked after it.
Mercy met Hunter’s gaze. “It’s weird.”
For a moment it looked like Hunter might almost smile. “Sadly, I think Aunt Xena is one of the least weird things we’re going to have to deal with.”
Mercy felt her shoulders slump. “So, the trees?”
Hunter nodded. “The trees. Didn’t the sheriff say he found old man Thompson’s body not too far from the olive tree?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Then we might as well start there,” said Hunter firmly.
Mercy concentrated, trying to sift her thoughts through the fog of grief that blanketed her mind. “You—you don’t think Mr. Thompson’s death had anything to do with the tree, do you?”
“Mag, I don’t know. That’s part of what we have to figure out.” She moved closer to her sister and forced Mercy to meet her gaze. “I need you to try to pull yourself together. If the gates are messed up we have got to figure out how to fix them—and I can’t do that by myself.”
Mercy struggled to make her mind work. “Okay. I’ll help. Promise.”
“So, you agree that we should check out the Greek tree first?”
Mercy fought against gravity to lift one shoulder. “Sure. Whatever you and Xena think is best. I’ll wait down here while you get dressed.” Her legs gave out and she sat on the couch, staring at the cold fireplace.
Hunter put her hand on her twin’s shoulder. “I’ll be down in a sec and I’ll bring you a change of clothes, too.”
Words stopped coming again, so Mercy nodded wearily as she picked listlessly at the embroidery that decorated her grass-stained, torn dress and continued to stare at the ashes of what used to be a warm, brightly burning hearth fire.
Nine
“I think I better drive,” said Hunter as she studied her sister.
Mercy shrugged. “Okay with me.”
“Girls, remember, what you do today is gather information. Study the trees. Bring back details about everything—how they look, smell, and feel—sense the space around them. Reach out with your minds and your hearts, as well as your senses. We need details so that we can accurately consult the grimoires for what must be done next.” Xena had changed into a pair of their mom’s jeans and her sweatshirt that said KALE in bold letters across the breast. The cat person had hastily grabbed the clothes from Abigail’s room while Hunter and Mercy dressed. They still smelled vaguely of cinnamon and spice. Mercy had to force herself not to hug Xena and breathe in deeply. “Do you understand?”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got it. Right, Mag?”
Mercy was staring at the fireplace wishing she’d had the energy to build a fire. Maybe it would chase away the cold that had settled deep in her soul.
“Mercy, did you hear me?”
She blinked and looked up at her sister and Xena. “Sorry. What?”
“I was telling Xena we understand what we have to do at the trees.”
“Yeah that. We’ll check them out.”
“Good,” Xena said, though she sent Mercy a dubious, slit-eyed look. “Be careful. Do not let people see you. Neither of you have car papers yet.”
“You mean a license,” said Hunter.
“Yes. As I said, car papers. Girls, be wise. And safe. And do not be gone long. Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?”
“No, stay here,” said Hunter. “People are going to start bringing by food. They should see you so they know we’re not alone. An adult will keep them from being too nosy.”
“You are correct, of course. I will reassure the townsfolk. I shall also bring out the grimoires and have them ready for when you return. Now, do you have any questions?” Xena licked her finger and then smoothed back a section of Hunter’s hair that had escaped from her ponytail.
“Eww, Xena. Stop. No, we’ve got it. Really. Right, Mercy?”
Mercy managed to nod. Even though she felt almost too heavy to move she followed Hunter to the garage and climbed into the passenger side of her mom’s silver Camry. The key fob was in the cup holder where Abigail always left it, and for a moment the twins just sat. Hunter’s hands rested on the steering wheel—Mercy’s were lifeless in her lap.
Hunter leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. “It smells like Mom.” Her voice was strangled.
“Everything does.” Mercy wiped a hand across her face, which felt numb again. Actually her life felt numb, wrong—so drastically altered that it was unrecognizable. She tilted her head and looked at her sister. “H, I don’t think I can do this.”
Hunter lifted her head and wiped almost violently at her damp cheeks. Then she took her sister’s hand and squeezed it—hard. “I know, but you have to—we have to.”
“Do we?”
“Of course we do. We have to make sure the trees are okay and the gates are closed. It’s what Mom wanted. It’s what she’d want if she were still here. That’s important, Mag. More important than how sad we are.”
“Okay. I know you’re right. Sorry. I’ll try harder to get it together.” Hunter squeezed her hand again before she let it loose. It flopped down on the console that separated the front bucket seats before Mercy put it lifelessly back in her lap. She blinked fast. First, to try to keep more tears from spilling out and, second, because if she closed her eyes for even a moment more she might never open them. The truth was all Mercy wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep and sleep and sleep—and hope when she woke, if she woke, everything that had happened since the creature had broken through the Norse gate would be a nightmare from which she’d finally awakened.
Hunter backed the car out of the garage, but instead of turning left to take Main Street through the heart of Goodeville, she turned right, heading for the one-lane country roads that snaked around the fields that surrounded the town—roads the twins knew as well as they knew their own names.
They drove in silence. Mercy stared out the open window. It was one of those spring days in Illinois where the sun seemed to highlight every tree’s bright emerald leaves like they were dressed in jewels. Everything looked normal, just as it had yesterday before her life had stopped, but today everything felt wrong. The trees that used to call to her were mute. She couldn’t even hear them breathe, something she’d been able to sense since she was in kindergarten. As Hunter followed the curvy blacktop from town and snaked through the verdant fields that made up the country surrounding Goodeville, Mercy realized she also couldn’t hear the whispers the corn made as the breeze rustled through it, or the chattering of the soy plants, their pods heavy with growing beans. She heard nothing. She felt nothing—nothing at all except exhaustion and grief—not even when her sister slowed as they neared the section of brilliant green fields that framed the mighty olive tree. So, Mercy stared and let her mind be completely empty like her heart and the unimaginable future.
“Oh, crap. Is that a cop car?”
Mercy
forced her gaze to focus. “It looks like the sheriff’s car and a cop car. And I think I see yellow caution tape, too.”
“Roll your window up! I can’t turn around. It’d be too obvious. If someone recognizes Mom’s car, let’s hope they think Xena’s driving.”
Mercy kept her face pointed forward as they drove past, but glanced to the side. “Yeah, there’s that yellow crime scene tape and I think I saw the outline of a body.”
Hunter shivered. “No way we can check out the tree with the sheriff here. We’ll have to come back.” At the next stop sign Hunter turned to her sister. “I can cut across town super fast and swing by the Hindu tree. It’s on the way home. Want to go there?”
Mercy lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, okay.”
Hunter sighed, but didn’t comment. Instead she took a right, crossed Main Street, and wove through a quiet neighborhood and past the high school as they silently made their way to the tree that guarded the gate to the Hindu Underworld.
“I’m gonna pull into the easement so the car can’t be seen from the road,” Hunter said as she braked and turned off the road and onto a grassy area that was flanked by a wall of willows on one side and a bean field on the other. Mercy jumped and rubbed a hand over her face as she realized she’d almost fallen asleep. Hunter put the car in park and touched her sister’s arm. “Hey, are you okay?”
It was difficult to summon enough energy to turn her head to look at her twin, but slowly Mercy did. “No,” she made herself speak. “I am not okay.”
“I know, Mag. Me, either. But let’s get this done—for Mom. Maybe we won’t find anything wrong at all. Maybe it was just the Norse tree that was messed up, and Mom fixed it, so we won’t have to do anything until Solstice. But I can’t do this alone. I need you.”
Mercy forced herself to sit up straighter. She nodded. “I’m with you, H. Like always. We can do this.” The words sounded right, but felt wrong—like everything else.
“Let’s take the deer path. The one that winds away from the road and runs along the creek. I can’t deal with talking to anyone right now and there’s no way we can be seen from the road if we go that way.” Hunter pointed to a slim ribbon of a path that led from the cleared easement area through a wall of gently swaying weeping willows.
Their joined hands anchored each other as the twins followed the path that would lead to the point of the pentagram where generations ago Sarah Goode had conjured a banyan tree to guard the gate to the Underworld of the ancient Hindus.
Sugar Creek was only a few yards to their right. The scent and sound of it drifted through the tendrils of the willows. Usually Mercy would have inhaled the rich smell of the crystal water passing over rocks and soaked in the music it made as it cascaded toward Goode Lake, but that day she walked in a bubble of grief that was so thick it didn’t allow the world to touch her. She would’ve stopped and slumped to the ground, unmovable, had her sister’s hand not propelled her forward, so when Hunter abruptly halted, Mercy stumbled and did almost fall.
“There it is. I’ve always thought it’s the coolest looking of all of them.” Hunter jerked her chin at the enormous tree that filled the area between the tall bank of the creek and the bean field that stretched up a gradual incline to meet the blacktop road. “It looks fine from here, don’t you think?”
Mercy wanted to say that she was having a problem thinking about anything except their mom, but Hunter was counting on her—and she tried to never let Hunter down. She cleared her throat and swallowed the dryness in her mouth. “It seems normal.”
“Right? Maybe everything will be okay. Let’s get closer.”
Hunter dropped her hand and Mercy followed directly behind her as she left the little path. No one was in sight. Mercy thought even the birdsong was subdued. They approached the enormous tree that was so out of place in the American Midwest, and could never have existed—let alone thrived—without the magic of generations of Goode witches. The trunk of the tree was really strange looking. From a distance it appeared to be one big, thick base, but closer it became clear that it was actually a whole bunch of smaller trunks butted right up against each other, like the banyan was trying to be its own forest. Vines dripped from the mushroom-shaped green canopy. Even through her grief Mercy acknowledged that her sister was right. The tree was uniquely awesome. As they entered the area under the canopy the calf-high grass became sparse and short, which was good because the banyan’s roots had broken through the fertile earth and they had to pick their way over them carefully. Mercy stopped and stared up. The banyan’s leaves were small for such a huge tree, and shaped like little grass-green hearts.
Her sister’s voice, hushed like she was afraid of disturbing the tree, pulled at her attention. “Do you feel anything? Anything weird?”
“Not yet.” Mercy stopped staring up and walked closer to the trunk. Hunter sat cross-legged facing the banyan—situated between thick fingers of roots. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky as her lips moved as if in a whispering prayer.
Mercy walked slowly around the tree. She turned so that her back rested against the gnarled bark and faced the distant creek. She tried to concentrate—to open herself so she could glean information from her usually astute senses. But the fog of grief refused to thin enough to let anything through. She shook her head.
“I don’t know, H. I can’t seem to—” Mercy paused and sneezed. She rubbed her nose and sneezed again.
“Shh!” Hunter said. “I’m trying to pick up on any bad energy.”
“Sorry, but this smell is getting to me.” Then her mind caught up with her words and she craned her neck around to meet her sister’s gaze. “It stinks!”
Hunter frowned. “Stinks?”
Mercy nodded vigorously. “Get closer.”
Quickly, her sister stood and moved to within touching distance of the tree. She breathed deeply before screwing up her face and backing off several feet. “Eesh! That reeks!”
“Sulphur,” Mercy said. “It smells like rotten eggs.”
Hunter’s face paled. “That can’t be good,” she whispered.
Bile burned Mercy’s throat as her stomach revolted. “I don’t remember any of the trees smelling bad. Ever. Do you?”
“No. Never. Well, except for last night.” Hunter circled the tree with Mercy as they studied the intricate trunk.
A shiver fingered down Mercy’s spine as she remembered. “Fenrir—it reeked.”
Hunter nodded. “Like this, only worse.” She continued to study the tree. “But it looks okay.”
“Yeah, nothing looks wrong, but that smell is definitely coming from the tree.”
“Mag, I know it’s really hard for you right now, but you’re the Green Witch. You usually just know things about plants. Can’t you see if the tree will tell you anything?”
The terrible lethargy that clouded Mercy’s mind also numbed her senses, but she nodded and, ignoring the rotten egg smell, faced the tree. She leaned forward and braced her hands on the rough bark. Mercy closed her eyes and pressed her palms firmly against the banyan, attempting to feel its energy—something that was usually as easy for her as drawing breath.
Today she felt nothing. She sighed and wanted to drop to her butt and sob. Everything was wrong. Their mom was dead! In a burst of anger she pushed against the tree, like she could shove it—and her grief—away, and a section of the bark gave way, like a scab tearing loose, to expose a nest of worms beneath that were boring into the skin of the tree.
Sick filled Mercy’s mouth and she gagged.
“What is it?” Hunter rushed to her.
Mercy wiped her hands over and over against her jeans and pointed at the writhing parasites.
“Oh, Tyr! What are they?”
“I don’t know, but they were at the apple tree, too.”
“Wait, you saw them in the bark last night?” Hunter asked as she stared up at the branches of the deceptively healthy-looking banyan.
“No. I stepped on a green apple and it
broke open. It was infested with those things. Hunter, Mom said it was okay—acted like it was nothing—but I saw her face go pale.” She whispered the next sentence. “Like it scared her.”
“We have to tell Xena about this, and we have to see if the other three trees are sick, too.”
“Hang on.” Mercy’s hand trembled as she reached up and grabbed a low-hanging branch. She used her weight, dangling from it so that it shook up and down. Heart-shaped leaves rained around her. They were shriveled and dead.
Hunter crouched and gathered some of the leaves. “This just keeps getting worse.” She shoved a handful of leaves into her pocket. “Let’s get out of here. We need to go to the other trees.”
With leaden feet Mercy retraced their path to the car. She couldn’t shake the feeling that worms were crawling over her skin, but she was too exhausted to say anything or do much more than occasionally brush a hand down her arms.
Hunter put the car in reverse. “Should we go to the Egyptian or Japanese gate next?”
Mercy was saved from having to care enough to respond when her phone chimed with a text message. She read the message and felt another wave of sick grief wash through her. “It’s Em. She says her dad’s ready to see us.”
Hunter blew out a long, sad breath. She put the car back into park and picked at her thumbnail. “You think we have time to check out just one of the other trees?”
Mercy met her sister’s gaze. “I think we need to take care of Mom first.”
Hunter nodded, wiped her bloody thumbnail on her jeans, backed onto the gravel road, and headed toward downtown Goodeville.
Mercy let grief overwhelm her as she closed her eyes and rested her head against the cool window—and tried not to think about what was going to happen next.
Ten
Hunter had never been in a funeral home before. She’d never had any reason to. When her grandmother had passed, the service had been held at their house. Hunter and Mercy were barely out of diapers. Her great-grandmother had died before she and her sister had been born. It seemed all Goode women were destined to an early end.