by Kristin Cast
Mercy’s throat closed and she put her half-empty mug down on the grimoire-laden coffee table. “I don’t think killing anyone will be easy—not even someone possessed by an eyeball-eating monster.”
“Kitten, as the guardian of the Egyptian gate told you, the human is already dead. What you will be killing is a reanimated body a Cyclops is using as a disguise. You must get over this foolish human squeamishness if you are to have a chance at vanquishing it.”
“I agree with you, Xena,” said Hunter. “But you have to understand that Mercy and I will see a human—and maybe even a friend or at least an acquaintance—when we track him down.”
“Him?” Mercy asked.
Hunter nodded. “You were too freaked to notice, but those were really big boot prints—like someone who worked outside a lot would wear. It’s probably a large man.”
“Great…” Mercy muttered.
“It is great, kittens! You already know three things about the Cyclops’s skin suit.” She lifted her long, slender fingers that were tipped by sharp, perfectly kept nails, and ticked off, “First, the person will be a star—symbolically not literally. Second, the person is a male. And third, he probably works, or spends a lot of time, out of doors.”
“That is a lot more than we knew this morning.” Hunter spoke firmly, confidently.
Mercy nodded and tried to sound more positive. “Yeah, that’s true. I’ll quit being such a downer about it. It’s just really intimidating to think about needing to kill a person and a monster. Together.”
Xena shook a finger in front of Mercy’s face. “No, no, no. You probably will not kill them together. Well, unless you push them through the Greek gate and seal it behind them. Then the body will crumble and continue to decompose, and the Cyclops will be banished back to Tartarus.”
Hunter blew out a long, sighing breath. “So, that’s the best way to get rid of it?”
“Indeed,” said Xena. She paused and lapped delicately at the cocoa before continuing, “Otherwise you take the risk of the Cyclops killing someone else and hiding inside his or her body.”
“But before we even think about how we’re gonna do all of that, don’t we need to strengthen the gates?” said Mercy. “I mean, it’s already super awful. The Fenrir caused Mom’s death. Then the Cyclops has caused the deaths of at least three people—including whomever he’s hiding inside. Think of how bad it would be if even just one more monster broke through another gate.”
“It would be terrible,” said Hunter.
“And very inconvenient.” Xena dabbed her mouth with the back of her hand and then licked the drops of liquid chocolate from her skin. “As Goode witches you can open the gates anytime you wish by simply commanding them, so being rid of the Cyclops—once you figure out who he is and somehow get him to the Greek tree—should not be difficult. But it will be extremely difficult if you have to battle several murderous monsters at the same time.”
“So, do either of you have a clue how to fix the trees? What Hunter and I did today obviously didn’t work—or at least it’s not working fast enough.”
Hunter frowned into her hot chocolate. “The directions on the insecticide said it could take a week to ten days for the worms to die.”
Xena leaned across Mercy and stroked Hunter’s arm gently before she said, “Oh, kitten, I believe if the mundane part of your spell was going to work the magical part would have been effective today, if even just a little.”
“Khenti said he noticed no difference on his side of the gate.” Mercy picked at her lip. “And, truthfully, I didn’t notice anything being any better on our side, either.”
Hunter shook her head. “No, neither did I.”
Mercy squared her shoulders and looked from Xena to her sister. “Do either of you have any idea at all about why the trees got sick to begin with?”
Hunter shrugged. “I’m as clueless as you are about that.”
Mercy chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting the thought that had been swirling around and around in her mind. It could be because you chose a god and brought a guy to a girl party!
“Forgive me, kittens. I am only a familiar and not the witch our Abigail was. I wish I knew what was sickening the trees, but I do not.”
“It’s so frustrating that none of us knows what’s wrong with them,” said Hunter.
“Well, what that means is that you need to look deeper and create a stronger spell to heal them,” said Xena.
“That sounds logical and even like it should be easy, but Mercy’s been going through those old grimoires like she’s cramming for finals and what we did today was all she came up—”
“Wait! I have an idea.” Mercy leaned forward, digging through the piles of grimoires. “Xena, did you pull the copies of Sarah’s grimoire?”
“You mean the original Sarah Goode?” Xena asked, perking up, too.
“Yeah, that’s exactly who I mean.”
“Actually, I did.” Xena pointed one long-tipped finger at a book that rested behind the others. It looked more like a fat folder than the other leather-bound journals. “It’s good to see that my feline intuition has not left me—even while I’m in human form. It told me you might need copies of the most ancient grimoires.”
Mercy grabbed the folder and sat back against the couch’s cushions. She opened it carefully out of habit, even though the pages within were Xeroxed copies of the fragile originals, which remained in a temperature-controlled lockbox in a Chicago bank. Generations ago the Goode witches began copying the oldest grimoires so that the knowledge of their ancestresses would never be lost, and then sealed away the originals.
“I like to think about the fact that someday Goode witches, our great-great-granddaughters, will copy my grimoires,” said Mercy as she searched for the right entry. “It makes me feel like I’m gonna live forever.”
Hunter snorted softly. “It makes me stress about my handwriting.”
Mercy looked up and grinned at her sister. “Well, that, too.” She turned a few more pages and then pumped her fist in victory. “Yes! Here it is.”
Hunter leaned closer, reading along with her. “Hey, that’s the original spell that Sarah used to close the gates in the spring of 1693.”
“Yep. Xena made me think of it when she said that we needed to look deeper and come up with a stronger spell. What could be stronger and deeper magic than the first spell?”
Hunter sat straight up. “Mag, you could be onto something!”
“Right?!” Mercy’s finger traced the words as she read Sarah’s loopy cursive writing. She glanced up at Xena. “Did you know Sarah had help with the first spell?”
“No. I am old, but not that old. I don’t believe I have ever read the original spell. Like you kittens, I learned the history by listening to the Goode witches retelling it.”
“Sheesh, Xena, exactly how old are you?” Mercy asked.
“One never asks a lady her age.” Xena sniffed haughtily and then continued, “I assumed the original spell was almost exactly like the one the Goode witches perform during every Feast Day Ritual.” She peered down at the copy of the ancient grimoire. “How interesting! Sarah had four people who aided her.”
“Seriously?” Hunter scooted nearer to Mercy so she could follow along.
“Yeah, look at this,” said Mercy. “Sarah was at the Norse gate, just like we were. She positioned two medicine women from the Illinois tribe at the Greek and Hindu gates, and—” Mercy paused and squinted as she struggled to make out the smudged scrawl. “I think that says Gertrude Smythe, pioneer woman and Goodeville resident, at the Japanese gate and Oceanus Martin, Pioneer Woman and Goodeville resident, at the Egyptian gate. Using smoke to signal the others, Sarah led them to begin the spell, which was almost identical to the one Abigail led us through except—” She paused and felt a jolt of surprise.
“They sealed the spell and the gates with their blood!” Hunter finished for her.
“And we need to repeat this spell as close to the
original as possible.” Mercy chewed her lip. “But there are no members of the Illinois tribes left here anymore. There aren’t even any reservation lands in Illinois.”
“Such a tragedy—such a horror what happened to the indigenous peoples,” said Xena softly, sadly.
“We should add something during the ritual in remembrance of the Illinois tribe,” said Hunter.
“That’s a really good idea,” Mercy agreed.
“Hey!” Hunter’s face lit with a smile. “We do have someone very close to us who has ties to the settlers of Goodeville!”
“Ohmygoddess! Jax!” Mercy and Hunter high-fived.
“Jax would be an excellent addition, but I am in agreement with both of you that it would be wise and respectful to say a prayer for the wise women and make an offering to them during the spellwork,” said Xena as she finished her chocolate, placed it on the table, and settled back to groom herself.
“We’ll do that for sure, Xena,” said Hunter as Mercy nodded.
“Okay, so, we have Jax who is a descendant of Goodeville’s founding ancestors—and we can represent Sarah—all three of us. You”—Mercy jerked her chin at Hunter—“Xena, and me. But we still need one more person.”
“That person should live within the Goodeville city limits,” said Xena as she paused in her grooming. “She or he will also represent the pioneers who came here with Sarah.”
“Em is perfect. She loved being part of the grief spell and her dad’s family has run the funeral home downtown for more than a hundred years. Her grandparents and great-grandma just moved from here to that retirement place in Florida last year.” Mercy sighed deeply. “But I don’t know if she’s up to it.”
“If she is not, you cannot wait until her time of grief is over,” said Xena. “The gates must be sealed immediately.”
“You’re right. I’ll call her and see how she’s doing.”
“Has she talked to you at all today?” asked Hunter.
Mercy shrugged. “Sorta. I’ve been texting her. A lot. She said nothing feels right and her mom is totally not okay. Other than that she’s only sent crying emoji faces.”
“Do not expect her to be able to help you,” said Xena.
Mercy got up and headed for her purse. She fished around inside for her phone. “Well, if she can’t it’ll have to be Kirk.”
“Oh, hell no!” said Hunter.
Xena growled softly.
Mercy frowned and looked up from her phone. “Hey, he helped with the grief spell.”
“He was freaked out by the grief spell and almost screwed it all up,” said Hunter.
“Well, of course he was. Like Em said, he was totally inexperienced about witchy things. I talked to him and explained spellwork. He’s better now. And if we have to use him I’ll take full responsibility for prepping him.”
Hunter rolled her eyes and Xena growled again.
Mercy put a hand on her hip. “Do either of you have a better idea?” When neither said anything Mercy continued, “Then it’s settled. Emily is our first choice, but if she can’t do it we’ll use Kirk.”
* * *
“Grandma and Grandpa are like zombies.” Emily’s voice sounded so, so far away as she spoke softly into the phone. “Well, scratch that. Grandpa is like a zombie—if a zombie did nothing but drink whisky and watch ESPN. Grandma is a cooking zombie. She walked in—hugged me—starting crying—ignored Mom—and went straight to the kitchen. She’s been there ever since. Literally the only time she leaves is to refresh Grandpa’s glass, visit the ‘powder room’ as she calls it, and get a new box of Kleenex. She hasn’t stopped crying.”
“Em, I’m so sorry. Is your mom any better?” Mercy balanced the phone on her shoulder while she rinsed the pot she’d used to make the cocoa.
“Absolutely not. Meemaw and Peepaw can’t make it to the funeral, even though it won’t be for four more days. They’re on a Greek island cruise and said something about not being able to get a flight out from any of their ports of call. Mom thinks that’s bullshit, and I have to agree. But, Mag, the truth is they never liked Dad, and they hate his parents. Plus, you know my parents’ marriage hasn’t exactly been good—not that that matters to Mom right now. She’s, like, totally broken, Mag. She keeps talking about everything she should’ve and shouldn’t have said to Dad. And then she cries so hard I swear I think she’s going to puke. It’s awful.” Emily paused to sob softly and then blew her nose. “Sorry.”
“Hey, take your time. I’m totally here for you.”
“Thanks.” Emily sighed deeply. “So, Mom only left her bed when Grandma got here, and when Grandma ignored her and started cooking Mom retreated back to her bedroom and the bottle of pills the doc gave her.”
“Can I please come get you? Even for just an hour or so? I made hot chocolate. I could add some witchy herbs to it to help you relax.” Mercy put the pot in the dishwasher and cringed as it clanked noisily against a plate—though Em didn’t seem to notice.
“Relax?” Emily’s laughter was filled with sarcasm. “I can’t relax. I’m the only one holding it together. I had to answer, like, a zillion funeral questions today—including stuff about Dad’s casket. Jesus.”
“Bloody hell, Em, can’t the adults do that? You have a house full of them.”
“Oh hell no. My house is filled with old people who are barely functioning. I swear if I wasn’t here Dad would be on a slab in the morgue for fucking ever.” She sobbed brokenly into the phone. “Wilson keeps asking me what Dad would want.”
“Wilson? Isn’t he just a first-year apprentice?” Mercy was sure she remembered that he was fresh out of college. Em liked to say he still looked like a very gawky, zitty teenager. “How’s it okay that he’s running the funeral home?”
“Oh, he’s not really. Mr. Burton, from Sunset Funeral Home in Champaign, is really in charge, but Wilson keeps calling me and asking me details about Dad’s service. How do I know what my father, who was murdered when he was thirty-nine years old, wanted when he died? It’s not like he chatted with his sixteen-year-old daughter about his fucking funeral arrangements!”
Mercy wiped her hand on a dish towel and felt sad and sick and angry all at the same time for her friend. “Em, just tell Wilson to figure it out by himself!”
“I c-can’t.” Emily sniffled. “Someone has to at least try to do what Dad would want, and I seem to be the only somebody who cares.” She started sobbing again.
“Oh, Em. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I wish I could do something—anything.”
“You can.” Emily blew her nose. “Keep texting me. Even if I don’t answer. Just being here for me is everything.”
Mercy heard a woman’s voice calling Emily’s name.
“I gotta go. Grandma wants me to taste something. Again. It’s disgusting, Mag. Everything she cooks has way too much salt in it—like it was made with tears.”
Mercy didn’t know what else to say except, “I love you, Emily Parrott.”
“You, too, Mag.” And the cell went dead.
Mercy walked around the corner from the kitchen. Hunter and Xena raised mirrored brows at her.
“No way she can do it.” Mercy sat between them as she let out a long, disgusted exhalation. “I knew Em’s mom was a flake. Not just because she’s from that super rich family from New York and she always seemed to be looking down her nose at the rest of us, but because she was never here. I liked her dad a lot better. I mean, he forgot things—like school stuff.”
“And her birthday,” Hunter added.
Xena hissed sharply and said, “There is never any excuse for forgetting a kitten’s date of birth.”
“Yeah, all of that, but he was a nice man. And he told Em he was proud of her—a lot. But her mom’s family isn’t even coming back for the funeral—wankers.”
“That’s awful,” said Hunter.
“Her dad’s parents are here now, but they won’t speak to her mom and they’re so wrapped up in their own grief that they’re not helpin
g Em at all. You guys, she’s having to make all the decisions for her dad’s funeral.”
“Oh! Poor kitten! Will she not escape to us?”
Mercy shook her head. “No. She feels like she’s the only adult in the house.” Mercy met her sister’s turquoise gaze. “H, it’s going to have to be Kirk.”
Xena growled.
“Bloody hell, Xena, stop!” Mercy told the cat person, who cringed back like she was afraid Mercy would swat at her. Mercy rubbed a hand across her face. “I’m sorry, Xena. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” Then she turned to her sister. “Seriously, H, if you can think of anyone else who already knows we’re witches—and I mean real witches—and who we can trust, I’ll totally go with you to talk to her, or him. Do you?”
“I’ve already thought about it. I considered Heather.”
“Heather? As in the president of the drama club?”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah. Remember a few Samhains ago she came by and asked Mom for some Wiccan tips because she wanted to write a modern version of Macbeth and make the witches draw down the moon?”
“I remember,” Mercy said. “I also remember she kept talking over Abigail the whole time she was explaining the points of a pentagram to her. Heather is one of the most arrogant people I know.”
“Actually that would be Kirk,” muttered Xena between licks of the last of the cocoa in her empty mug.
Mercy ignored her.
“Heather’s arrogance is why I thought she might work. I figured she’d love ‘playing witch,’” Hunter air-quoted. “But her family’s farm is ten miles outside Goodeville city limits, and I think we really do need people to stand in for the original settlers. So it has to be someone who lives within the limits of the town.”
“That’s Kirk.”
Her sister picked at her nonexistent thumbnail. “Okay, but you’re going to have to have a serious talk with him before the spell.”
“I will. And he’ll be cool with it. Promise.” Mercy was glad her voice sounded so sure, because her intuition wasn’t nearly as convinced. She shook off the feeling—really, we don’t have a choice. “How about you and I tell Jax and Kirk we’ll meet them after football practice tomorrow? We can explain what we need the two of them to do—together. You know Kirk hates to look like any kind of a sissy in front of another guy. It should at least make him receptive enough to listen to what we have to say.”