Spells Trouble

by Kristin Cast

  “Holy hell!” Jax grabbed Hunter’s shoulders and ducked behind her. “It’s Barbara Ritter!” he said and peered up over her shoulder before hunkering down again.

  “Mrs. Ritter, your neighbor?” Hunter cocked her head at the two women who were too busy looking at plants to notice the spectacle that was currently Jax Ashley. She chewed on the tip of her pinky nail and took in the suburbanites in their nearly matching tennis outfits, one pastel yellow with sensible white tennis shoes, the other a much louder neon yellow with bright, sparkling gold shoes. Barbara was the giant, glittery highlighter, which made sense since, although her oldest child wouldn’t be in high school for at least another five years, she demanded to chaperone all school dances while using a bullhorn to mortify horny teens. Maybe Barbara had given the school’s principal her secret to the perfect ponytail. If Mrs. Ritter gave Hunter the recipe for a long, shiny ponytail that curled at the end like an upside-down question mark, Hunter would let her do pretty much anything.

  “Yes!” Jax hissed like a stuck balloon and crawled between two large pots of flowering shrubs before he disappeared under a table covered in ivy.

  Hunter bent over and parted palm-sized leaves and scarlet blooms that waterfalled like spilled cranberry juice over the lip of the pot to look down at Jax. “Why are you hiding?” She looked back at Mrs. Ritter and her friend who, aside from the neon-ness of one and the spray tanned–ness of them both, were two completely normal women.

  Jax pressed his finger against his lips and frantically waved for her to join him. With a groan, Hunter obliged. Ivy stems brushed against her back and her palms smashed fresh earth as she crawled under the table and squatted next to him. “This is ridiculous,” she whispered and wiped the dirt from her hands. “Why are we hiding?”

  Jax blew out a puff of air, leaned forward and drew the curtain of ivy closed, and settled back against the ground. “I kind of saw her…” He moved his hands in front of him like he was juggling invisible balls. “Chest?” He winced and shook his head. “Her boobs, okay. I saw Mrs. Ritter’s boobs.”

  Hunter clapped her hand over her mouth and nearly toppled onto her butt.

  Again, Jax pressed his finger to his lips. “My dad made me fix that rotted spot in the fence. I had a few boards down and she just, you know…”

  Hunter’s jaw flopped open. “What? Took off her shirt and said, ‘Here Jax, please gaze upon my heaving bosoms’?”

  “No!” Another hiss. “She was tanning, topless, and I saw her and didn’t exactly look away.”

  Hunter dropped her head into her hands. “Jesus, Jax!”

  “I know!” he said as he ran his hands down his cheeks. “I’ve apologized and said I’d mow her yard this summer for free. She declined, so I decided that my best course of action is to avoid her until I move away for college.”

  Hunter shook her head. Her ponytail slipped off her neck and hung limply in front of her shoulder. “That’s in two years.”

  “Exactly why we’re hiding.”

  Barbara Ritter’s sparkly tennis shoes threw white spots across Hunter’s vision as she and her friend approached the table. Jax’s eyes widened and he pressed his finger against his lips so hard that the pink flesh around his nail whitened.

  Plain white Keds stood directly in front of Hunter. A ring of dirt encircled the sole like chocolate meringue. “Oh, Barbara, what about these? The…” There was a short pause and a ruffling of leaves before the woman continued. “Bleeding amaranthus. It says they get pretty big. If you plant them right along your fence line, they should block out your neighbors.”

  Jax’s face lit up like a stoplight.

  Barbara’s sparkles inched closer to the large pots just on the other side of the ivy shield. “But the name, Susan. Bleeding amaranthus. I couldn’t bear to have anything planted on my property with the word bleeding in the name. Not after what I overheard this morning.”

  The Keds spun to face the garish sparkles. “I knew there was something you weren’t telling me. You may have re-upped your Botox, but I can still see it written all over your face. Spill!”

  The gold-sparkled toes wiggled like two puppy butts. “Deputy Carter was pulled up outside of the Coffee Spot this morning. Windows down, practically yelling into his phone about Dominic Parrott.”

  Hunter’s breath caught in her throat.

  Susan sighed and her Keds relaxed and parted slightly. “I’ve always felt so sorry for Dominic.” Another sigh. “That depressing job and practically raising his daughter alone while his wife is off on all of those business trips doing God knows what. Although I did see him at the IGA just a few days ago. He’s leaving soon for some funeral services convention.” She paused. “I suspect that’s code for getting the H-E double hockey sticks away from my terrible wife.” Susan sucked in a breath and her heels lifted and settled back against the gravel. “Maybe I should bring him a plate of my hot sticky buns.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited.” Barbara’s right foot angled outward as she settled into her story. “You know I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Or, in this case, the family of the dead, but—”

  Susan took a step back. “Dominic Parrott is dead?”

  Jax squeezed Hunter’s arm. She wanted to cover her ears with both hands and dig into the ground like a mole, but it wouldn’t have helped. Death had stitched itself to Hunter’s back and rode her like wings.

  “Hush now, Susan.” Barbara slid closer to her friend. “It’s not common knowledge, just a fact I overheard the deputy discussing. Along with another…”

  The dramatic pause made Hunter’s stomach lurch.

  The sparkle-encrusted shoes wriggled as Barbara continued, “Dominic Parrott was murdered in his own car. Right outside the sheriff’s department. If you’re not safe there, I just don’t know where you can be.”

  Susan sucked in another breath and the toes of her shoes pressed together. “It’s like in one of those CSI shows.”

  The golden sparkles halted their dance and resumed their stroll along the gravel path. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I try to stay away from graphic television dramas…” Barbara’s voice faded and her shoes blurred into two bright blotches as she and Susan turned and made their way back to the main building.

  Hunter pressed her hands into the ground. But the killings were about her, about Mercy, about the gates, weren’t they? She lifted her hands and stared down at the starlike imprints in the dirt. The sheriff’s department was nowhere near any of the trees. What did that mean? What did any of it mean? She crawled out from under the table and stood. She needed answers.

  Eighteen

  Hunter’s journal lay open in her lap and she clicked and unclicked her pen as she and Jax neared her driveway. She scrawled a note next to the name of the insecticide they had picked up from World of Blooms and let out a defeated sigh. This was her writing journal no more. It was now destined to be filled with to-do lists and random similes and metaphors she thought of throughout the day. At least, random similes and metaphors used to pop into her head throughout the day. But that was back when she was going to be a famous author and pen the thrilling and romantic novel, When Darkness Rises. Now, she was trying to stop murders, heal sick gates, survive without her mother, and keep her only remaining human family member from falling apart.

  Jax slowed to a stop in the driveway and Hunter closed her journal and dropped her head back against the headrest. On the porch, Kirk closed the front door to her house and paused at the top of the steps to stretch.

  Jax bumped Hunter’s elbow with the side of his sweating Big Gulp cup. “Slushies fix everything.” His crooked teeth poked out from between blue-stained lips.

  She looked away and chewed the end of the straw. “Can we just sit for a minute? See if I can get a sugar rush before I have to entertain Kirk.” Hunter pushed the switch and the window slid down a few inches before she rolled it back up. “Maybe he’s leaving,” she grumbled as she rolled the window down an inch and then up again.
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  Jax wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and shrugged at the blue smudge it left behind. “You do what you want.” He unbuckled his seat belt. “I’ve got to pee before I head to practice.” He left the car running as he got out and headed toward Hunter’s front porch.

  She cracked her window again as Jax intercepted Kirk on the front steps.

  “Yo, Jaxie!” Kirk held up his hand for a high five. Their hands met with a loud slap that seemed to further invigorate the quarterback. “Today is going so good!”

  Jax brushed his hair back and cocked his head. Hunter craned her neck, but still couldn’t hear Jax’s reply.

  “Lookin’ light and feelin’ right, my man. Finally got some of Mercy’s goodies, if you know what I mean.” With a laugh, Kirk stuck out his tongue and held up his hand for another celebratory high five.

  Jax crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What?” Kirk rocked back on his heels and flicked his chin in the air. “You jealous? You’d be swimming in it, too, if you didn’t spend all your time with Hunter. You do know she’s never going to switch teams, right? All she is is a cockblock. Girls don’t want to see you hanging with other girls. Makes them jealous and the last thing you want is some crazy jealous chick.”

  Jax ran his fingers along his temple. “Do you hear yourself when you talk?”

  “I hear it. But I don’t think you recognize that I’m spittin’ gold.” Kirk draped his arm around Jax and led him down the stairs. “Let me bum a ride to practice. I’ll probably play like garbage. My energy is shot.” Kirk unhooked himself from Jax as they neared the car. “Hey, you got a protein shake?”

  The plastic Big Gulp dented under Hunter’s grip as she rolled the passenger window all the way down.

  “Jesus, H!” Kirk clutched his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and offered a boyish half smile. “Been there long?”

  “Long enough to know you’re famished.” She held the blue slushie out the window. “Here.” It lapped against the sides of the cup as she shook it. “Have some of this.” A grin stretched her lips as he walked closer, his nervousness melting back into arrogance. He underestimated the twins. He underestimated Hunter.

  “Thanks. If you knew what I’d just—” he began as Jax came around the front of the car.

  Blue liquid splattered against Kirk’s pristine white shoes.

  “What the hell, Hunter? My trainers!” Kirk lifted one foot and then the other until the large clumps of slush had splatted onto the ground.

  Hunter slid out of the car and stared down at Kirk’s trainers. “Oops.” She hiked her shoulders and tipped her smile into a frown. “Slipped. My bad.” She dropped the cup in the driveway next to Kirk’s blue-stained shoes, waved to Jax, and skipped up the stairs.

  Hunter would not feel bad about what she’d done to Kirk. He’d deserved it, hadn’t he? She chewed the inside of her cheek and sagged against the heavy front door. She didn’t have excess power to blame this time. That had all been her. And, if she was being honest, she’d wanted to do worse. Hunter squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t feel guilty. She wouldn’t. Kirk embodied everything wrong with guys. Of course Mercy didn’t see Kirk for what he was, having never had to deal with a bully herself. Yes, he’d totally deserved what Hunter had just done after saying all those things about her and boasting about “Mercy’s goodies.”

  Mercy.

  Hunter’s eyelids flew open and she rushed through the living room and into the kitchen. Mercy sat at the breakfast nook on the cushy bench she and their mother had reupholstered in a swirling sixties-style lime green patterned velvet. Stacks of grimoires littered the table, pink sticky notes sprouting from the pages like petals.

  Hunter set the bottle of insecticide on the counter and leaned against the kitchen island, feigning nonchalance, although she couldn’t keep from picking at the jagged points of her nails. “You okay?” The casualness she’d stapled to her tone came out brassy and flat. Hunter clenched her teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was push her sister back over the edge and watch her fall into another vast, unending ocean of grief. She wasn’t sure if she could do the spell again. She wasn’t sure if she should.

  Mercy cupped her steaming coffee mug with both hands and lifted it to her lips. “Yep. I’m good.” Her gaze never quite settled on Hunter as Mercy took a sip and set her mug back down on the table.

  Hunter’s stomach hardened. “Are you sure? You seem—”

  “Excited?” Mercy stared right at her this time, her moss-colored eyes challenging and forceful.

  Guilty. Hunter’s swallow was thick, a stone sliding through her chest and thudding into the hollow of her stomach.

  “Hey, come here.” Mercy patted the empty space at the head of the table and took another drink.

  Hunter’s footsteps were silent. She wouldn’t ask for the truth and her sister wouldn’t offer. Mercy had won, and they both knew it.

  “I’ve figured out the spell we need to fix the trees.” Mercy plucked a weathered grimoire from one of the stacks, shoved another pile to the side, and placed the manual of magic between them on the table. “The whole drought and flood cherry tree business gave me an idea.” She drummed her fingers against the cracked cover and continued, “We need to mix together two health-boosting spells and add a little of our own magic for protection.”

  Hunter’s face heated as she eyed the spray bottle. Mercy had done real research, magical research. All Hunter had done was google kill tree worms. She hid her hands under the table and resumed picking at her nails. But it could be as simple as applying the unpronounceable insecticide to the trees. Things didn’t always have to be super complicated, and just because they were witches didn’t mean they had to use magic to solve their problems. Magic couldn’t fix everything. Abigail Goode was still gone.

  Mercy opened the book to one of the marked pages and ran her fingers over the old, loopy cursive. “It says here that Janet Goode cut a stang and used it to channel healing energy into the trees when they were damaged by drought.”

  “Stang?” Hunter leaned forward and studied the illustration their ancestor had drawn at the bottom of the page. The ink had smeared, but Hunter could still make out the long, thin branch forked at the end like a snake’s tongue. The note scrawled next to the knotted branch read, Most powerful when cut and carved from a living being. Remember to thank the tree, for we do not understand their sacrifice and we cannot feel their pain.

  “Janet was a Green Witch, too.” Mercy said it as if she and their great-great-grandmother had just exchanged texts and were now best friends and new members of an elite social club.

  Hunter had yet to read the grimoire of a cosmic witch or one who had chosen a god instead of a goddess. She smoothed her pendant between her fingers and continued to study the drawing. This wasn’t the first thing that made her different, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. She slipped her hand back under the table and pulled on a hangnail. She winced when she tore into fresh skin.

  Mercy filled the space with the sweet scent of lilacs as she brushed her hair over her shoulders and glanced back down at the illustration. “I thought I’d use the oak that shades our cemetery.”

  Hunter balled her hands to hide her raw nailbeds and set her fists on the table. “If age plays into it, then that should make the stang even more powerful.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Mercy pulled another sticky note–filled grimoire from a different pile and set it open on top of her bff Janet’s. “And this is the spell Gertrude Goode did after the entire state flooded in the 1800s.”

  Hunter read the passage and nodded. “It’s really just a blessing ritual. Like what Mom does—” She squeezed her fists, rejoicing in the flash of pain that shot out from her scabbed palm. “Did every spring for the garden.”

  “It feels like a good omen, you know? Like it’s what she would want us to do.” A smile plumped Mercy’s cheeks and her eyelids hung heavy. She was gone fo
r a moment, lost in the silent breath of a memory. “So, yeah.” Mercy licked her lips and flashed that childlike smile at her sister before refocusing on the book. “Then I’ll add my Awake and Alive Oil and you can add your charged moonstones, and we’ll douse the trees with it.”

  Hunter’s attention was pulled back to the white-and-green bottle waiting on the counter. “How do you feel about really mixing science and magic?” Her chair groaned as she got up and hurried to the counter. “We’re twenty-first-century witches, let’s make twenty-first-century magic.” She set the bottle in the only space between Mercy and the grimoires. “I know insecticide is, well, killing, and our magic is, you know, not, but—”

  “H! You’re totally right. We’re modern witches and can use modern science to help us.” Then she paused, chewing her bottom lip. “But which tree do we go to first?”

  Hunter’s fingers tingled as she and Mercy watched the pantry door creak open. It was their mom! It had to be. She was there, showing them the way. Hunter sprinted to the pantry, pulled out her rusted stepladder, and climbed to the top. Her palms heated as she gathered her tarot deck and jumped from the step stool. She untied the velvet azure satchel she kept her most prized witchy possession in and nearly bumped into Mercy on the way to the kitchen island.

  “It was Abigail, wasn’t it?” Mercy asked as she bounced in place next to Hunter. “I knew she would never leave us.”

  Hunter spread her deck out on the counter. The pearlescent silver backs of the cards showed the current waxing gibbous phase of the moon and would change each day, becoming most powerful and accurate on the day of the full moon. “We love you, Mom.” Hunter breathed and flipped over the first card.

  Nineteen

  Hunter studied the card she’d turned over. “Huh, that’s interesting. Not where I would guess we’d start, but the cards don’t lie.” On it was an illustration of a wide river, muddy with rich, brown silt framed by lush green banks. The vibrant colors stood out next to the moonshine silver of the backs of the rest of the deck like a Waterhouse painting hanging in the middle of a Jackson Pollock exhibit.