Spells Trouble

by Kristin Cast

  Hunter opened her mouth to speak, but Xena interrupted. “I want you to be very careful about what you disclose to those boys. Tell them only enough to set the intention to strengthen and heal the trees. They do not need to know the true history of Goodeville. They should not know about the gates.”

  “But, Xena, won’t it be better to clue them in on—”

  “No!” The cat person’s eyes flashed yellow and her hair lifted as she met their gazes—all lightness gone from her expression. “I have been guardian of Goode witches for generations. Modern townspeople will not understand. Sarah Goode fled as a result of ignorance and hysteria once. That tragedy must not be repeated. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Xena,” the girls spoke together.

  Xena sighed and reached out to stroke each of their cheeks. “I am sorry to be so stern with my kittens, but you must heed me on this. The less they know, the better.”

  “We’ll only tell them enough to set their intention,” said Mercy.

  “Don’t worry, Xena. We’ll be careful,” added Hunter.

  “Excellent. Now, I am rather sleepy. I need a bath and my cannabis truffle or three.” Xena stood and shook back her hair. “I shall see you in the morning, my lovely kittens.” She leaned over and licked each of them on their foreheads before padding gracefully up the stairs.

  The girls exchanged a glance. “She’s a lot sometimes,” whispered Mercy.

  “Sometimes?” Hunter quipped with a smile. “I’ll text Jax and let him know we’ll be there after practice.”

  “Okay, I’ll text Kirk, too, in a sec. I just want to be sure I’ve read every part of Sarah’s ritual.” Mercy scanned the rest of the page, making quick notes on her phone of the supplies they’d need: an offering for each and a tool for each of them to use to draw a little of their blood. Mercy chewed her lip. Little tiny ritual knives? Where the bloody hell am I going to get some of them?

  She turned the page to the end of the spell, which was also the end of the grimoire. As she closed it, her fingernail caught on a corner of a blank page glued to the inside rear cover of the book. Mercy picked at the corner, and carefully peeled the copied sheet from the cardstock cover. It was a poem, which wasn’t very shocking. Sarah’s grimoires were littered with poems, though most of them were written in the margins beside spells. Their ancestress had definitely been an aspiring poet. Not a big fan of poetry, Mercy had quickly scanned Sarah’s other poems as she’d concentrated on the witch’s actual spellwork. But something about this particular poem pulled at her attention. It was written in bold cursive that appeared to be in Sarah’s hand, but the letters had been smudged by whatever had stuck the page. Mercy smoothed her fingers over the page and squinted to make out the words.

  There shall come a day

  when they will sicken

  with sulfur and rot

  fierce and deadly

  the Goode witches sworn

  cannot prevent it

  cannot protect them

  and so the gates shall fall open

  until a chosen god is forsaken

  then by parting they are mended

  together again

  Mercy’s breath left her in a gasp as her eyes traced the lines over and over. How long had this poem—this prophecy—been stuck to the back cover of this old copy and ignored? And even before, in the other copies that had been made of the ancient grimoire, had anyone noticed that one of Sarah’s poems was foretelling the destruction of the gates? In the sick pit of her stomach Mercy Anne Goode knew the truth, and it made her want to puke.

  “What is it, Mag?”

  Still staring at the words written by their long-dead ancestress, Mercy said the first thing that came to her mind. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

  Sitting beside her on the couch, Hunter turned to fully face Mercy. “Mad at you? What are you talking about? We can tell each other anything. And if this is about Kirk, I promise not to be mean. I’ll just listen.”

  “It’s not about Kirk.” Mercy cleared her throat. “It’s about the sick trees and the gates. I’ve, um, been thinking really hard about what could have started their sickness—about what’s different today than in the generations before us.”

  Hunter nodded. “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Well, there’s one thing that I keep circling back to. I haven’t said anything because I knew it’d upset you—and I could be wrong. I wanted to be wrong. But what I just found at the end of Sarah’s ritual makes me believe I’ve been on to something.” Mercy chewed the inside of her cheek before blurting, “H, what if all of this is happening because you chose Tyr instead of a goddess?”

  Hunter’s expressive turquoise eyes narrowed and her hand automatically lifted to clutch her talisman. “If Tyr was the problem Mom would’ve known—would’ve stopped me from choosing him.”

  “I keep telling myself that, but what if Abigail didn’t know? What if no Goode witch could’ve known because it’s never happened before?”

  “No.” Hunter spoke firmly. “That’s not it.”

  “H, just read this. I just found it on a page that was stuck to the back of the copy of Sarah’s grimoire—for who knows how long. It’s a poem, but it reads like more. Like it could be a warning, or even a prophecy—one that’s coming true right now. And it’s pretty clear that a god, not a goddess, is the problem.” Mercy lifted the copy of the ancient grimoire and held it up so Hunter could see it, but her sister stood as she pushed the book away, refusing to even look at it.

  “I’m not reading the old crap you found to justify whatever you’ve made up. Tyr’s my god. We’re close, unlike you and Freya.”

  Mercy jerked back as if Hunter had slapped her.

  “Don’t pretend to be shocked. It’s obvious. You don’t even wear Freya’s talisman.”

  “That’s not fair! I love Freya. It’s different for a Green Witch. I don’t need a talisman to be close to my goddess. Freya is in every tree, every flower and bush—in the earth herself. Freya is all around me.” Mercy shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d say something so awful to me.”

  “It feels shitty to have your sister question your choice of gods, doesn’t it?”

  Mercy stared into Hunter’s eyes and within their blue-green depths she saw an unexpected anger—so fierce that it was like gazing into a tsunami.

  Mercy felt her own anger stir. “Yeah, it feels shitty. But the difference is I didn’t say it to hurt you.”

  “No, of course you didn’t mean to hurt me. You said it without thinking about me at all—as usual, it’s all about Mag.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about me and you’re wrong about the poem.” Mercy held up the open book again. “Just read it and then tell me that something written back in 1693 isn’t saying that choosing a god started all of this. And it also says that you’re going to have to—”

  “No!” Hunter slapped the book out of Mercy’s hands. “Stop talking. I am more than done listening. Tomorrow we’ll get Jax and Kirk, complete the ritual, and fix the gates. And then I never want to hear you say one more word to me about Tyr.” Hunter stalked up the stairs.

  “Fine!” Mercy called after her. “But when it doesn’t work—again—it’s going to be your fault!”

  Hunter said nothing.

  Mercy picked up the copy of the grimoire from where Hunter had knocked it out of her hands and onto the floor. She smoothed the page and read it again.

  and so the gates shall fall open

  until a chosen god is forsaken

  What else could it mean? Mercy gnawed at her lip. She stared at the page, wondering what the bloody hell she should do.

  And then she knew. Mercy quickly stacked all the grimoires together, even the piles that had been on the kitchen table. She carried them into the library that long ago had been built as a formal dining room, but for generations had held books and comfortable, overstuffed reading chairs instead of fine china and a gleaming wood table. She didn’t bother putting them away, b
ut piled them on a coffee table.

  Then she returned to the kitchen. First, she grabbed her laptop and quickly copied the ancient ritual—translating the more difficult thee’s and thou’s and the other language that was confusingly archaic. She figured they’d all be on their cells together—on speaker—and one of them, probably me ’cause I’m good at this stuff, would lead everyone through the ritual, but with novices participating they’d need extra guidelines, especially if something happened. When she was done, Mercy printed out five copies of the ritual, as well as one of the poem or prophecy or whatever it was. She stacked the ritual instructions beside the copy of the old grimoire, folded the Xeroxed page that held the poem, and put it in her bottomless purse.

  “And now one more thing that will take care of the Hunter problem,” she muttered.

  On the table, exactly at the spot Xena liked to perch in the morning—or whenever was morning in cat time—Mercy opened Sarah’s spell book to the newly unstuck page that held the prophecy and then placed a wine goblet, the kind the cat person liked to fill with cream, on top of it.

  She wouldn’t have to say anything. Xena would get the message, and if she was mistaken—if she’d misunderstood the poem—if it wasn’t actually a prophecy—nothing would come of it. But if she was right …

  Mercy’s feet felt weirdly heavy as she trudged up the stairs while she texted Kirk.

  How bout I meet u at school tmrw after practice?

  He responded right away.

  k! see u then sexy!!!

  Mercy texted back, Kay! But in her mind she knew it wasn’t going to be okay. Not until they faced the truth about what was making the trees sick, whether her sister wanted to or not.

  Twenty-five

  The Goodeville High parking lot was full even though school had been out for a couple hours. The town never missed the Mustangs’ practice. Well, they never missed a football practice or a football game as long as the Mustangs were winning and, with Kirk Whitfield as quarterback, the Mustangs always won.

  Hunter hunched, her shoulders lifted to her ears, as she hid behind Mercy while they walked through the spectators slowly spilling from the bleachers now that practice was near its end. Mercy waved and bounced through the crowd, the perfect example of an up-and-coming Goodeville homecoming queen—tenacious, girlfriend of a football star, and filled with enough school spirit to kill a horse. Hunter fanned the end of her ponytail and dusted it against her lips as she dodged hey’s and sorry to hear’s. She couldn’t talk to people here. She couldn’t talk to people anywhere. This town thought they knew all about her because they knew her sister and her mother. These townspeople would run screaming if they learned what she’d done at the murder scene only hours before.

  The memory sent pinpricks of energy across Hunter’s palms. She dropped her ponytail and clenched her fists by her sides. She knew blood magic was important. She’d felt it during Mercy’s grief spell and again near the old olive tree and the imprint of Earl Thompson’s body. Sarah Goode’s grimoire had been exactly what she’d needed to feel at ease with her new predilection. Blood magic had been used before, so it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Hunter used it again.

  Mercy grabbed Hunter’s clenched fist and dragged her toward the emptying bleachers, pulling Hunter and her thoughts from the want that radiated through her fingertips to her fluttering heart.

  “Are you excited?” Mercy nearly squealed. “I mean, I know this spell and everything is really serious, but I can’t help but be a smidge excited. I’ve always wanted to be able to share my spellwork with friends.”

  They stopped near the metal stands. Hunter rubbed her palms together. She didn’t mind keeping her spellwork to herself. However, she did mind that she’d have to share more of their family secret with Kirkles.

  A loud “Mustangs!” roared from the football field followed by whoops and cheers from the crowd. Hunter blew out a puff of air. Even though she’d dodged Mercy’s question and had no interest in including Kirk in their upcoming spell, she knew her sister had been correct. No matter how much Hunter disliked Kirk, he was the only other person they trusted enough to ask to participate. Hunter scrunched her nose. Trusted was such a strong word.

  Hunter shook away the shell she’d gotten so adept at hiding in whenever she was forced to be around a crowd, and searched the throng of people for her own Hail Mary pass. She shielded her eyes against the starbursts of sunlight shooting off the players’ scuffed red helmets as, one by one, the varsity players removed them and shuffled off the field. “Jax!” She lifted onto her tiptoes and waved.

  “I don’t see Kirk.” Mercy chewed her bottom lip and searched the crowd of stinky white practice jerseys for her beloved.

  Jax returned Hunter’s wave and flashed her a cute, crooked-toothed grin before he slapped his teammate on his bulky shoulder pads and jogged over, his helmet in his hand.

  “H! You came to a practice!” Jax’s brows lifted and he enveloped her in a sweaty hug, his helmet bumping against her back with each gentle squeeze. “Hell must’ve finally frozen over.”

  “Where’s Kirk?” Mercy asked before Hunter had even taken a breath to speak.

  Jax scratched the back of his neck and swallowed. “He’s, uh…” His gaze flicked across Mercy and settled on the dusty, worn gravel between his cleats. “Talking to Coach, I think.”

  Mercy’s cheeks plumped with a smile. “I see him,” she said and practically skipped over to meet the sweaty quarterback.

  Hunter crossed her arms over her chest and squinted up at her best friend. “Did you pull another Mrs. Ritter and see my sister’s boobs, too?”

  Jax stiffened. “What? No!”

  “Then what’s with the weirdness? I can practically feel it pouring off you.”

  He picked at a clump of dirt stuck to the back of his helmet. “You’re not going to like it.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t like a lot of things.”

  Jax took a breath, held it for a moment, and let the words rush out with his exhale. “Yeah, but this is about your sister.”

  Hunter’s stomach squeezed and her fingertips went cold. Someone was talking about Mercy? Hunter’s attention snapped to her sister, to the people who waved and smiled at her as they passed. This didn’t make sense. Everyone loved Mercy. Hunter’s throat tightened. And worse, they were saying something so bad that Jax, the guy who used to pull spaghetti noodles through his nostrils like slimy dental floss, was uncomfortable?

  Mercy caught Hunter’s gaze, waved, and bounded back over with Kirk on her heels.

  “Tell me later,” Hunter said before pinning a casual smile to her lips.

  Mercy wriggled into the space next to Hunter as she positioned Kirk across from her and next to Jax. “We have something mega important to ask you two!” Mercy punctuated the statement with a short series of claps. “It’s serious.” She dropped her hands to her sides. The words seemed to be more a reminder to herself than an explanation. “But I’m pretty sure you’re both going to say yes.”

  “Babe, you don’t even have to ask. The answer is yes. I’d do anything for you.” With his sweat-soaked hair, pinched brow, the occasional attaboy Whitfield that came from the passersby coupled with the way he tilted his chin slightly to the side as if to say, yeah, I’m hot, but I’m also approachable, Kirk attaboy Whitfield looked like every hunky teen heartthrob in every sappy teen romance movie Hunter had ever seen. She could fault producers for being so heteronormative, but she couldn’t fault them for the jock stereotype.

  Mercy shuffled forward, lifted onto her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. Hunter’s lips forgot their fake smile and tugged down with a frown. She couldn’t imagine liking anyone enough to kiss them through all of that sweat.

  Jax set his helmet on the gravel and took Hunter’s hand in his. “And, babe, I’d do anything for you. No asking. No questions. Not one. Ever.” He sealed the breathy vow with a smattering of noisy kisses against the back of Hunter’s hand.

  Kirk bristled. “
Piss off!” He wrapped his arm around Mercy’s shoulders and squeezed her against his side. “You know how much I care about my little witch.”

  Jax rolled his eyes and steadied himself. “Sure you do,” he grumbled.

  Hunter would have to find out more about that, too.

  Mercy hopped away from Kirk and back to her spot next to Hunter. “Actually, speaking of witches, there’s this spell—”

  “I knew it!” Jax snapped his fingers and shoved Kirk’s shoulder. “I frickin’ knew you two were going to ask us to do another spell. What is it this time? Something for Em? Oh! What about a way to ace finals? Can you do that?”

  Kirk adjusted his pads and jutted his broad chin in Jax’s direction. “Calm down, butterfingers.”

  Jax threw his hands into the air. “Dude, I dropped one ball.”

  “But it could have been the ball, Ashley.”

  “Guys!” Hunter clapped. “We’re trying to ask you to participate in a spell to keep the town safe.”

  Jax’s forehead wrinkled. “But our town is super safe,” he said. “Most of the time, my dad doesn’t even lock the front door.” He gripped his collar with both hands and rested his forearms against his chest. “Is that because of you? Have the Goodes been, like, spell-casting vigilantes?”

  Mercy dug the toe of her sneaker into the gravel. “Not exactly.”

  “I was gonna say, if you are, you’ve been doing a terrible job. Emily’s dad was just murdered and so was that old guy…” Kirk’s temples pulsed as he searched for the completion of his thought. “Oh, you know.” He jabbed Jax with his elbow. “That old guy who wouldn’t ever let us use his truck in the Rooster Days Parade even though it’s one hundred percent Mustang red.”

  “Mr. Thompson?” Mercy supplied.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Sweat leapt from Kirk’s scalp as he brushed his hand through his hair. “Wonder if we can use his truck now?”