by Kristin Cast
The young Egyptian sighed and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “No, it does not.”
“You called us demons and monsters,” said Mercy. “Why did you assume we were enemies?”
The warrior shrugged his broad shoulders as their view of him continued to shift and pixilate. “The only beings who wish to escape from Osiris’s realm are evil, those who are being punished for the wrongs they committed on earth. I assumed it was the same in your world.”
“This isn’t our Underworld. This is just the regular mortal realm,” explained Mercy. “There are lots of different kinds of people here. Most of them aren’t monsters at all.”
“But you have more Gatekeepers like yourselves who protect your world, do you not?”
Hunter picked at her thumb. “Um. No. We’re pretty much it.”
His smooth brow wrinkled in confusion. “Did you not say you are guardians of five gates?”
“Yeah,” said Mercy. “There’re all here—in our town.”
“But your mother goddess, the mighty, magnificent Abigail—she must aid you in your guardianship.”
Mercy shifted from foot to foot. “She did. She died. Not long ago.”
“The other gates—do they also lead to Underworlds like Osiris’s realm, or do they open to mortal realms as does this one to yours?” He fired the question at them, his powerful voice in direct contrast to his wavering image.
“No,” Hunter answered. “They also lead to Underworld realms like yours.”
His eyes widened and he shook his head quickly, causing the barrier in front of him to shiver, like a stone dropped into a glowing pool of water. “No, that is not good.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Mercy fisted her hands to stop them from shaking.
“It will be the same in the other Underworld realms as it is in mine. If the gates sicken there will be creatures—vile, evil things—that wish to escape their punishment. If they enter your world they will devastate your realm and spread death and chaos with them.”
“Ohmygod.” Hunter turned to Mercy. “The Fenrir! I looked it up after it killed Mom. He tried to devour the sun and swallowed Odin. One of Odin’s sons killed him, sending him to the Norse Underworld for punishment.”
Mercy’s lips felt numb. “He was trying to escape. That’s why he killed Abigail.”
“Gatekeepers! Did he take on her form?”
“No, our mother killed him, and with her death she sealed the gate again. What do you mean, take on her form?” asked Mercy.
“That is the only way a creature can have a physical presence in the mortal realm after crossing through the barrier that divides worlds.” He gestured at the bizarre veil that glowed and swirled in front of him. “We must possess the body of a being of that realm,” said Khenti.
“Bloody hell! You mean wear them like a skin suit?”
He nodded. “Yes, exactly. The mortal’s skin becomes a living disguise, even though the body will eventually deteriorate and they will have to choose another. That is why I remain close to our gate. Creatures must kill immediately upon entry to the other realm or they cannot remain.”
Mercy grabbed Hunter’s hand. “What if we cast a spell to block off the other trees and somehow keep everyone away until we figure this out?”
Hunter turned to Khenti. “Would that work? Would that give us some time?”
“Only if you can keep all living beings from the gates.”
“You mean the creatures can take over a body that’s not human?” Mercy’s stomach felt sick. Again.
Khenti crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “As you saw when first we met, many of us who exist in other realms are not fully human. It would not be difficult for an escapee to kill and then wear the body of a bird or mouse—snake or dog—or perhaps even an insect.”
“Oh, shit. That’s so, so bad,” said Hunter.
Mercy thought she might puke. “Mr. Thompson—he was killed near the Greek tree.”
“But Mr. Parrott wasn’t,” said Hunter. Mercy thought she looked super pale.
“He wouldn’t have to be—not if whatever came out of that tree took someone else’s body and is a murderer walking around in a good guy skin suit.” Mercy met the Egyptian warrior’s flickering gaze. “We think something from the Greek Underworld is loose in our town, killing our people. Can you help us?”
His shoulders slumped and he shook his head slowly. “I cannot, though I wish I could. Were I to cross the barrier between our worlds I would have to take on the form of someone in your realm. I, too, would have to kill to remain.”
“We need to get to the Greek tree—and I mean really go to it this time.” Hunter spoke quickly, breathlessly. “We have to figure out if something came through that gate.”
“And if so, what,” added Mercy. “And then we need to find out whose skin suit it’s hiding in.”
“Go! I give you my oath to stand guard at Osiris’s gate. Nothing shall enter your world through here.” Even through the shimmering divide his strength and commitment heartened Mercy.
“Thank you,” Hunter said.
“I wish I could aid you more.”
“Actually, you’ve helped us a lot,” said Mercy.
Khenti smiled at her. He’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen in my whole life. The thought came to Mercy unbidden and she instantly pushed it aside as she felt her cheeks blaze with heat. What in the bloody hell is wrong with me? Get it together, Mag! This isn’t a time-travel rom-com!
“That pleases me greatly.” Khenti lifted his hand, passing it before his face again, which instantly shifted back to a ferocious dragon. He lifted his spear and shield. “I shall remain by the gate. Call if you have need of me again, Witches.”
The air in front of him rippled, like heat rising from a boiling pot, and Khenti Amenti, Son of Upuant, Guardian of Osiris’s Realm, disappeared along with the bubble that had contained him.
“That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Hunter.
“I wish Abigail could’ve been here. She would’ve loved every second of it,” Mercy said. “Well, except the whole creatures escaping and spreading death and destruction and chaos part.”
Hunter was already picking up the basket. “Do we leave or take the stang?”
“Leave it. It might still work, right? And let’s add our mistletoe crowns to the other one.” Mercy went to the stang and draped her circle of mistletoe over it. “How long did they say it would take for the insecticide to kill the worms?”
“A week to ten days,” said Hunter, mirroring her sister’s actions.
“We might get lucky. Even though Khenti didn’t see a change yet, it could still happen.” Mercy said the words, but they sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Hunter nodded grimly. “Yeah, I hope so. But right now we need to get to the Greek tree.”
As they hurried back to the car Mercy kept hearing the Egyptian warrior’s words playing around and around in her memory. The mortal’s skin becomes a living disguise … The mortal’s skin becomes a living disguise … The mortal’s skin becomes a living disguise …
Twenty-one
Petrichor, the earthy scent released when rain nourishes dry land, floated on the back of the cool breeze as Hunter parked the car on the gravel road near the olive tree. Hunter didn’t follow Mercy as her sister charged from their mother’s car into the tall grass, headed straight for the old tree. There was something in the breeze. Something more than the sweet smell. It was prickly and magical and it pulled her and her tarot in a different direction. Hunter kicked loose gravel as she walked along the side of the road, following her witchy senses.
Halfway to the tree, Mercy stopped. “H, where are you going?” she shouted, her hands in the air.
Hunter wanted to reply but thought better of it. The explanation would bring more questions than answers.
Hunter paused at the edge of the road near tire tracks from the sheriff’s department vehicles that had been on the scene. Her breath
caught as she raised her hand and pointed. “Over here,” she called out to her sister and waded into the grass. The tall blades swayed around Hunter’s thighs and beads of water fell on her boots as the field shook free of the magical rainstorm.
Her mouth went dry and her fingers trembled as she walked through the tall, lush grasses that arched and bowed with the wind. Ahead, the grasses were crushed, flattened down long enough and by something heavy enough that the rich crimson imprint had remained even after its absence.
A wooden stake had been left behind, nestled in the ground, a scrap of yellow-and-black crime scene tape still stuck to it. When Hunter and Mercy had driven by two nights ago, the tape had been stretched around Earl Thompson’s shiny red truck and extended out toward this spot. Had it not been so morbid, the whole thing would’ve made Hunter laugh. Silly non-magic folk trying to solve a problem that seemed more and more likely to be caused by an issue they couldn’t understand much less know how to fix. But that’s why Hunter and Mercy had come here: to find out if the failing gate had let something loose.
The tarot deck sizzled in her pocket as Hunter stood at the edge of the flattened red-stained grass. Earl Thompson had drawn his last breath here, had his last thought … What had it been? All Hunter could think about was this uneven outline his body had left. But that wasn’t what he’d thought about, what kind of temporary destruction he’d leave behind. Maybe he’d thought about fear or fury or fate.
What had Hunter’s mother thought when she’d lit herself on fire and left her daughters to face the world alone?
Mercy approached, her signature lilac scent catching Hunter’s attention. “Don’t we need to be closer to the gate?” Mercy pointed over her shoulder at the olive tree, its gnarled limbs reaching toward the last traces of clouds.
Hunter pressed the toe of her boot into the marred grass. “We have to do it here.” Deep burgundy stained the earth like spilled wine. It was blood. Human blood. Earl Thompson’s blood. Being here, this close to the scene of a crime, should make her feel different. Should make her feel something. The only things she felt were the power of the moon, the strength of Tyr, and the tarot cards burning a hole in her pocket. But those weren’t emotions.
Hunter crouched down and held her hand over the bloodstain. Her palm prickled with energy. There was power in blood. That was obvious. Countries rose and fell by it. The empowered blood of kings and queens chose the heirs to the throne. But more important, more powerful, was the blood of their people. Shed enough of it and any tide would turn.
Their mother had never mentioned this power or the deliciously sweet way its energy lapped against each of Hunter’s nerves with the steady seduction of waves on a beach. Hunter could be comfortable here, adding blood magic to her box of tools. After all, humans were made of stardust, so what was blood if not a liquid form of the cosmos?
Hunter slid her fingers along her smooth pendant and took her tarot deck out of the pocket of her oversized cardigan. The cards weren’t actually hot, but their energy felt fiery, felt ready. She pulled them from their velvet pouch the same deep blue as the sky abandoned by the sun. She shielded her eyes and looked up at the azure blanket above. The moon had settled against the sun-bleached heavens like a water stain. Mother Moon was always watching, the caretaker as the sun slipped from existence each night.
Hunter ran her hand over the silver back of her deck. She felt Mercy behind her, stuffed full of questions and opinions. But this was Hunter’s time to shine, and her Green Witch sister was so far out of her element that she’d sink without the safety raft of Hunter’s spellwork.
“This is gross, H. Can’t you work your magic anywhere else?” Mercy tented her arms and settled her hands on her hips. “Preferably at the tree since it’s the actual root of the problem.” Her smooth brow furrowed. “Pun not intended.”
“This is a stronger site.” How could Mercy not feel the energy rising from the stained earth? Hunter gripped her opal pendant. Maybe the earth hadn’t called her to this spot. Maybe this was the guidance of her god. “Tyr led me here,” she said and let the pendant fall back into place.
Mercy bit her lip. “Well…” There was that guilty look again. It wrinkled her round nose and pinched the corners of her eyes.
“You have to trust me, Mag.”
“I do!” The words rushed out too quickly.
Hunter bit the inside of her cheek and turned back to the matter at hand. She’d figure out what was going on with Mercy later. Right now, magic called to her and she wouldn’t keep it waiting. She situated her knees against the edge of the ring of blood and set the deck in the middle of the crushed and stained grass. Hunter didn’t follow any specific tarot spreads, and neither did her cards. She did what felt right, what the deck asked her.
Reveal yourself, reveal yourself, reveal yourself. The intention chanted between her ears as she cut the deck with her right hand, rolled her amulet between the fingers of her left, and stacked the halves back together on the grass. A new set of cards was on top. The right set of cards.
Hunter released a measured exhale. One breath per action, one breath per question. It’s what felt right, what the cards demanded. She turned over the first card and set it face-up next to the deck. She couldn’t release the rest of her breath. The deck still called to her. She turned over another card and placed it face-up on the bloodstained grass. Her palm still itched, the tarot calling out for another turn, and Hunter flipped a third card. The feeling ceased and Hunter let loose the breath stored in her chest. The face of each card was milky white, held in blank suspense as they awaited further instruction. The cards would get their questions. And soon.
Another inhale and exhale to place the remaining cards on top of the velvet satchel Hunter had left on the ground outside the circle of blood.
Mercy squatted down next to Hunter. “There’s nothing there,” she whispered as if the cards would be offended by her comment.
Hunter’s cheeks lifted with a grin. Knowing her tarot cards, they just might.
“They’re waiting for questions.” Hunter rubbed her palms together and exhaled as she held her hands over the three blank cards. This moment she took to double-check the readiness of her magic usually felt like warming her hands over a fire, comforting and soothing. But this time was different. This time was more—a fierce, blazing excitement that sent waves of need rippling from her fingertips to her toes and back again.
“We want to know if anything came through.” Mercy continued to whisper. “That’s what you’re going to ask, right? Will all three cards tell you or—”
“Mag!” Hunter curled her hands into fists and rubbed them against her thighs. “I know what I’m doing. Let me do it in my own time.”
Mercy chewed her bottom lip and nodded. “I’m just excited.”
Hunter understood. Excitement dripped from her pores like sweat. She passed the back of her hand along her forehead. She needed to finish this spell and close the channels of power that lit her from the inside out.
Inhale. She pressed the fingertips of her right hand against the first card. Exhale. “Did a creature, a demi-god, come through this gate?”
A sound like splintering wood and the card’s white face dissolved into the ghostly image of a creature hunched over, blurry fists pressed against the ground like a gorilla. Around it, each half of the split olive tree.
Mercy’s brows lifted. “I’m taking that as a yes.”
Inhale. Hunter moved to the next card. Exhale. “This thing that came through, did it hurt anyone?”
Hunter already knew the answer. Whatever it was had killed Earl Thompson. Tyr wouldn’t have led her to his blood if it hadn’t.
Smoke rose from the ground beneath the cards, beneath the blood, beneath the flattened grasses. The earth sizzled and the crushed grass turned black and formed a perfect imprint of where the life had gone out of old Earl Thompson.
Mercy shrieked and hurled herself backward. She landed in the tall grass with a muffled thud. She
held out a trembling hand and pointed at the space where she’d squatted only moments before, her jaw bobbing open and closed—the words just out of reach.
A fresh wave of smoke snaked under Hunter’s nose as she followed her sister’s outstretched hand. Hunter blinked once, twice, three times, her brain unwilling to process the image it received. A set of shoe prints were burned into the ground next to Hunter—next to the seared memory of Mr. Thompson’s corpse.
Panic tightened Hunter’s chest and she coughed into the magical smoke that dissipated with each gust of spring air. “Mag—” Hunter stared at the cards. The second face had changed. The image of a gnarled branch bisected the card. Above the limb, a skull nested under the smooth arch of a sickle. Below it, a puddle of skin, its face and arms slack and empty like it’d been stripped from its frame and dropped amidst the grass.
The mortal’s skin becomes a living disguise.
“It wasn’t just Mr. Thompson. Someone else was here.” Hunter motioned to the footprints scorched into the earth. “Someone else was taken.”
Ecru grass dusted Mercy’s cheeks as she crawled around to Hunter’s other side where the grass was unmarred by the tarot and whatever creature had slipped through the crumbling gate. “Will your cards tell you what did this?”
That’s what the last card was for. It had to be. It would tell them exactly who to look for and then they could begin to put this whole mess behind them.
Inhale. Hunter’s fingers found the third card. Exhale. “The creature, who is it?”
Mercy gripped Hunter’s arm as the sisters waited for the truth.
A gurgling sound like a growl through wet paint while images slowly flicked along the card’s surface as if it were scrolling through a digital contacts list: a woman with snakes piled atop her head like hair; a three-headed beast; a female rising from ocean waves, her hands cupped around her mouth; and a drooling beast with a single bulging eye and sparse hairs that stuck up from its lumpy head like question marks. The final image froze upon the face of the card.
“Oh, Freya!” Mercy pulled Hunter against her. “His eyes are gone. That’s what Em said about her dad.”