Witch Rising

by Paige McKenzie

  “It seems to be all four of them. And they’re not just Antima. They’re the leadership behind the New Order—or, she is, anyway,” Div amended.

  “Colter’s mom,” Mira repeated. She looked shell-shocked.

  Greta had never met Dr. Jessup, who was a pediatrician. It was scary, thinking that a person who’d devoted her life to healing children was a cold-blooded witch hater. Did that mean she’d have no qualms about rounding up and punishing young witches? And what did this mean for the Jessup girls, the twins?

  “There’s something else. The New Order is apparently compiling a database of all known witches,” Div went on.

  Ridley leaned forward. “Wait, what? A database of witches?”

  “I’m afraid so. They’re starting with Sorrow Point and then extending the database to the rest of the state, then the rest of the country. No doubt they’ll use this information to report us all to the police or the federal authorities, or take matters in their own hands and harass us, hurt us. Needless to say, we have to stop this madness.”

  Binx held up her phone, which today had a case with a pink, round, sleepy-looking Pokémon character on it. “Already on it! Once I find this database, which will be soon, I hope, I can use this new hacking spell I’ve been developing.”

  Torrence grinned. “You can cast hacking spells? That’s awesome!”

  “Thanks. You must be my replacement. I’m Binx Kato,” she said, waving.

  “Torrence Innsworth,” he said, waving back.

  “Let’s wrap up the socializing, shall we? There’s more,” Div interjected. “Before the New Order meeting started, I happened to be in the Jessups’ library, and I came across a leather notebook, like a diary or a journal. It was locked, so I used transpicere to try to peek inside, and I saw a list of names. I was only able to make out one of them. Penelope Rue Hart.”

  Ridley clamped a hand over her mouth. Greta sensed fear in her, and also fury.

  “There was some sort of code or part of a word after her name, too. The letters O-N-E-G,” Div added.

  Iris jumped to her feet. “Hello, everyone? Fellow witches? I have an important announcement to make!” she cried out.

  “What is it?” Greta asked her gently. Iris seemed unusually agitated.

  Iris pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Some of you already know this, but I get these visions. Sometimes in my dreams. Sometimes not in my dreams, like when I touch stuff and it can trigger images. I can’t really control when they happen; they sort of come and go, even during super-inconvenient times, like last week in the middle of my algebra quiz when the quadratic formula on my paper turned into an army of pigs, and I had to be excused because of my hyperventilating and other panic attack-y symptoms. Anyhoo…” She stopped and twisted her hands. “You mentioned Penelope just now, Div… and when you said her name, I had this vision. About kitty-cats. And fire. I think it might be connected to this other vision I had when I touched your scarf, Greta.”

  “When you touched my scarf? Which scarf? When?” Greta asked, startled.

  “A few weeks ago, you and I were sitting in the courtyard at lunchtime, remember? And I was eating a banana muffin from my grandma’s café, or was it blueberry? And you were upset because”—Iris cast a quick glance at Binx—“yeah, and I hugged you. Not like a romant… not like a—” She cleared her throat. “It was a friendly comfort hug, and I accidentally made contact with your scarf, and suddenly, this vision came to me. I kind of suppressed it—or is the word repressed? I can never keep them straight. Either way, I hoped the vision wasn’t based on reality, because it was kind of upsetting. Anyhoo, I had that vision again just now, or part of it. Like two seconds ago while you were talking about Penelope, Div, and I wasn’t touching anyone’s scarf.”

  Iris stopped and folded her arms across her chest.

  “So what else was in your vision, or visions, or whatever?” Binx asked her.

  “Well…” Iris was now gazing at Greta with a worried expression. “So there was this gray house, and it was on fire.”

  Gray, not peach like my house. Greta exhaled. “Did you recognize the place?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, it looked familiar, but I don’t know why. There was other stuff in my vision, too. There was this kitty-cat with one eye. And a lady with grayish-blond hair. And…” Iris hesitated. “Mr. Gofflesby. He was in my vision, too.”

  “Gofflesby?” Greta burst out. “What was he doing in your vision? Was he hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’m not totally sure.”

  Greta spun around, grabbed her backpack, and reached into the front pocket for her phone. She believed Iris was truly psychic, which meant that this particular vision might be significant, be real. If so, Gofflesby could be missing or in danger… again.

  Heart racing, Greta typed a message to her mother.

  Can you check on Gofflesby? Is he there? Is he okay?

  She hit send, and a moment later, Ysabel wrote back:

  He’s right here on the kitchen counter trying to steal my crackers and almond butter. Why?

  Greta exhaled with relief. Then she remembered Iris’s detail about the one-eyed cat.

  Can you check his eyes? Are they okay?

  Her mother replied:

  His eyes are fine. Why do you ask? Is everything all right?

  Oh, thank Goddess.

  Yes. Thank you, Mama, I’ll see you at dinner.

  “He’s fine,” Greta announced to the group as she put her phone away.

  “Yay, Mr. Gofflesby!” Iris cheered.

  “Could I make a suggestion?” Torrence spoke up. “Greta, do you have that scarf with you, by any chance?”

  “I do.” Greta dug through her backpack and pulled out a velvety red wrap.

  “Could I see it?”

  “Sure.” Greta handed it to Torrence. She wondered what he had in mind.

  He held the scarf for a moment, then set it on the floor in the middle of the circle. “Do you guys know agnitionis?”

  “Agni-what? How do you spell that?” Binx began scrolling through the grimoire on her phone.

  “A-G-N-I-T-I-O-N-I-S. It’s an advanced scrying spell. I have my own version of it, which involves using three pieces of azurite.”

  Azurite was one of Greta’s favorite gemstones; she was aware of its power to seek the truth. “That sounds really cool. Except… we don’t have any azurite with us. Div and I made a rule for our covens, that we can’t carry magical items around in public.”

  “Makes sense. Wait a sec.”

  Torrence reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three coins. He curled his fist around them and closed his eyes. “Morpho,” he whispered.

  He opened his eyes and uncurled his fingers. The three coins had been replaced by three small, deep blue pieces of azurite.

  “Nice,” Aysha complimented him.

  “Yeah. Morpho solves the whole no-carrying-magical-items-around problem. Like, why didn’t we think of that?” Mira said.

  Even Div looked impressed. “Hmm, not bad. Okay, Torrence… so let’s see you do agnitionis on Greta’s scarf.”

  “Not me. Us,” Torrence replied. He arranged the three azurite pieces on top of the scarf in a triangular pattern. “You all know that group spells are way more powerful than when it’s just one witch doing the casting, right? We should group-agnitionis Greta’s scarf and see what we can learn.”

  The other witches nodded in agreement. Everyone scooted in closer to form a smaller, more intimate circle.

  “Join hands,” Torrence instructed.

  Greta held Iris’s hand on her left and Torrence’s on the right. Iris’s hand was small, cool, and slightly sweaty; Torrence’s was big, warm, and dry. Greta was picking up powerful emotions from both witches. But they were too ephemeral, too complex for her to decipher, and besides, she needed to concentrate fully on the task at hand. Magic was all about intention, and if the mind wandered, the spell could be compromised.

  “Agnitionis,�
� Torrence said, once again closing his eyes.

  “Agnitionis,” the other witches repeated after him.

  The effect was almost immediate. Greta felt zaps of electricity course through her body, radiating from Iris’s hand and from Torrence’s hand, too. Images flooded her brain, blurry at first and then quickly sharpening into focus.

  She, Greta, was in someone’s living room. Dozens of candles flickered and glowed in silver candlesticks.

  She was sitting in a red chair. Her wrists and ankles hurt… why?

  Wait. She seemed to be tied to the chair with rope.

  A woman hovered over her. Middle-aged, with grayish-blond hair… oh, right, she was the social worker from the high school. Mrs. Feathers.

  Mrs. Feathers touched a cup of tea to Greta’s lips. Greta took a small sip. The tea had a green, bitter taste, with a hint of sweetness.

  Also poison.

  “NO!” Greta shouted, spitting out the tea.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Greta.”

  Mrs. Feathers poured more tea down Greta’s throat. Greta tried to resist, and to keep spitting out the tea, but it was too hard. She could feel the poison seeping through her system. She could feel her brain shutting down.

  As Greta’s mind slowly, slowly faded to black, Mrs. Feathers told her a story. About a man named Maximus Hobbes, who was both a witch and a witch-hunter, from the nineteenth century. How he was still among them, magically staying alive on the heart-fire of the scions of Callixta Crowe. How Penelope had been a scion, which was why she’d had to die and sacrifice her heart-fire. And how Greta was a scion, which was why she had to die and sacrifice her heart-fire, too…

  A cat—a gray cat?—rubbed up against her ankles. Another cat appeared… was that Gofflesby? He was quietly circling the room, batting at the candles with his paws and knocking them down.

  Flames licked at the curtains and spread quickly. Soon the entire room was ablaze.

  Now people were attempting to rescue Greta. Iris, Ridley, Binx, Mira, Aysha, and Div.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Feathers raised her arms in the air and said something.

  What was that word?

  Oh, yes. It was praetereo.

  Forget. She had erased all their memories. Wiped their memory banks clean of that horrible event—and what else?

  “Greta! Greta, are you there? Are you okay?”

  Greta’s eyelids fluttered open. Torrence was sitting in front of her, his face lined with concern.

  “I-I’m okay. Did you guys… did you see…?” Greta managed.

  “Yes! The school social worker and the fire and your familiar,” Div said, rising to her feet. “She killed Penelope, and she was about to kill you, too. We need to find her immediately, before she hurts anyone else.”

  The eight witches stood in front of Mrs. Feathers’s gray house at 158 Spring Street, debating what to do. The curtains were closed, and no sounds came from inside. A brown sedan was parked at the curb; it was half-covered with dead leaves, and one of its tires was flat.

  Greta took a few deep, slow breaths and touched the place on her throat where her raw amethyst pendant usually hung. Her comfort stone, which was hidden away in her dresser at home. Now that she was here, she was remembering more and more about that awful day. The confusion. The terror. Saying goodbye to her family, her friends, her familiar. Mrs. Feathers, the bland, kind social worker from school, revealing herself to be a witch and a murderer.

  It made no sense. Mrs. Feathers’s house looked completely intact. No traces of fire damage. Had that fire been an illusion? The fire and what else?

  Torrence put his hand on her arm. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “Not really,” Greta admitted. “I’m glad we’re getting to the bottom of things, though.”

  “We all saw what you went through here. Are you sure you don’t want the rest of us to just handle it?”

  “I’ll be okay. But thanks.”

  Binx was tapping furiously on her phone. “I’m trying to trace the license plate number to see if that’s her car”—she nodded at the brown sedan—“but… blurg, the DMV site is offline, and I can’t access anything. I’ll keep trying, though.”

  “I think we should just ring the doorbell, and if she answers be like, ‘Hey, remember us, lady?’ and zap her with a group obstupefacio,” Mira suggested. Obstupefacio was a petrifying spell.

  “I say we should use an opening spell, like obex, to sneak in,” Aysha said.

  “Both of those could be dangerous. I’ve never met her, but she seems like she’s a pretty powerful witch,” Torrence pointed out.

  Iris raised her hand. “Hello, people? Everyone? I’m trying to make another vision happen right now… you know, to figure out if she’s in there cooking up more dastardly evil to spring on us. Except, the only vision that I’m getting is an image of cat food, which makes no sense… unless I forgot to feed Oliver P. and Maxina this morning? No, I definitely fed them.”

  Then Greta thought of something. “We could use videre to peek inside first?”

  “Wait, I might be able to do that without using videre, like I did with that mansion yesterday.” Ridley stepped up to one of the curtained windows and squinted. “Nope, I’m not getting anything. Sorry.”

  “What mansion?” Mira asked her.

  “The mansion in the Kai forest. I—”

  “The Kai forest where you and I were yesterday?” Aysha cut in, looking confused.

  “Guys?” Div jiggled the doorknob. “It’s unlocked. Pleukiokus omnis,” she added quietly—a group protection spell. She pushed at the door lightly.

  Greta heard the frantic meowing coming from inside.

  Without thinking, she scooted past Div and rushed inside. Four cats ran up to her—three black kittens and a gray cat with—was she missing an eye? Yes, she was missing an eye. The cats stood up on their hind legs and batted their paws against Greta’s legs. She felt the distress and hunger emanating from them.

  Greta knelt down on the floor and petted them. “You haven’t eaten in days, have you? Poor babies,” she cooed.

  The other witches had come inside and formed a tight semicircle behind Greta. Iris nodded at the gray cat. “I saw a picture of that cute little kitty in Mrs. Feathers’s office. At school. I think her name is… I think it’s Prozac?”

  Mira screamed.

  Div grabbed her arm. “What is it, Mira?”

  “G-guys?” Mira pointed to the kitchen, which was just beyond the living room. “Is that… I mean, it looks like…”

  Everyone turned in that direction.

  Through the doorway, they could see a body lying on the floor. They all rushed to the kitchen.

  It was Mrs. Feathers. Dead.

  PART 2

  FIFTY SHADES OF DEATH

  What is death, anyway? Is it the end? Or the start of a different beginning? Or to paraphrase from my favorite movie: Am I asking the wrong questions?

  (FROM THE GRIMOIRE OF RIDLEY M. STONE)

  11

  TAKE TWO

  Relying on others can be occasionally useful. Or deadly.

  (FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)

  Ridley sat on the patio of the downtown Starbucks, warming her hands over her pumpkin spice latte as she waited for Binx. The morning air was brisk, and her fingertips were tender from her extra-long violin practice sessions the past couple of days. She’d run through “Liebesfreud” and also the first movement of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto multiple times. She loved the Tchaikovsky, even though it was technically too hard for her; in fact, her teacher, Mr. Jong, had suggested she wait a couple of years before tackling it. But it was so lovely and bright and hopeful, and trying to master its high-energy double-stops and triplets filled up the sad, empty places in her mind.

  The last time Ridley had seen Penelope alive was at this very spot. One cool September afternoon, the day after they’d first met, Penelope had invited Ridley for coffee. Pumpkin spice lattes, her
favorite. She’d brought her familiar with her—a white standard poodle with big, doleful brown eyes named Socrates—and the two girls had talked, at first about light topics like the fall season and upcoming holidays and tennis, then about deeper, more personal things. Ridley had surprised herself by telling Penelope about Daniel’s death, which she’d never shared with anyone, not even Binx, because the subject was just too raw and difficult. They’d confessed their witch identities to each other.

  They were supposed to have lunch the next day, at school, but Penelope never showed.

  That night, Ridley, Greta, Iris, and Binx had found her body at the construction site.

  Ridley’s hands shook, and she nearly knocked down her cup. She put them in her lap and drummed out a rhythm, the first line of the Tchaikovsky. Better. She’d read somewhere that he’d composed the concerto during a rare time of happiness in his life, and that he’d wanted to dedicate it to his violinist, a man with whom he’d likely had a romantic relationship. Being secretly gay in nineteenth-century Russia—what had that been like for him? How had he managed to create such beautiful music despite his oppression and hardship? Or did those things inspire him to create the beautiful music?

  Ridley took a sip of her latte. The taste of it flooded her with sense-memories of that day—the end-of-summer chill in the air, Penelope’s rose perfume, Socrates’s soft fur as he leaned against the girls’ legs under the table.

  Poor Socrates. He must miss her so much.

  And now Mrs. Feathers was dead, too, and the trail of secrets surrounding Penelope’s death had ended with her. After finding Mrs. Feathers’s body, the girls and Torrence quickly placed an anonymous 911 call. Still, justice, closure, and healing seemed more elusive than ever.

  They did have some answers, though. According to Greta’s agnitionis-recovered memories, Mrs. Feathers had killed Penelope for her heart-fire—none of the girls knew what that consisted of, exactly… blood?… tissue?… magical energy?—in order to keep the long-ago witch and witch-hunter Maximus Hobbes alive.