Witch Rising

by Paige McKenzie

  “Because he and I only know each other from online. I never told him where I live,” Binx explained.

  Div took a step forward, keeping a grip on her lipstick-wand. Her paranoia had been spot-on; ShadowKnight was trouble. “Oh. That is interesting. Please continue.”

  ShadowKnight regarded Binx. “It’s not what you think. One of Libertas’s most important tasks is to keep track of anti-witch crimes. After you told me about the murder of your witch friend Penelope, I mentioned it to the group, and a member found Penelope’s obituary online. He noted that Penelope lived in Sorrow Point, Washington, that she went to Sorrow Point High, and that she was buried in the Sorrow Point Cemetery. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to freak you out or make you feel like I was spying on you or whatever.”

  “Oh.” Binx’s face relaxed. “Sorry. I guess I’m kind of on edge. Before I met up with you upstairs, this Antima dude stopped me, and I thought I was toast.”

  “So I take it that you’ve told Div and Iris and your other coven-mates about me? About the group?” ShadowKnight said, frowning.

  “Kind of. I had to. Now it’s my turn to apologize. I know I promised to keep your identity and the group totally confidential.” Binx turned to Iris and waved. “Hi! I didn’t know you were coming to this thing, although I should have figured. Are Greta and Ridley and my replacement here with you?”

  “No. I saw Greta and Torrence this morning, though.” Iris’s cheeks flushed a deep red; Div wondered what that was about. “At the Curious Cat. That’s her dad’s bookstore, but you probably already knew that. Sorry, redundant. I had to drop off a, well, anyhoo, there was a tea situation. We mostly talked about her cats.”

  “You mean cat, singular, right? Gofflesby?” Div said, confused.

  “No, cats, plural, not cat, singular. Five of them, total. Mr. Gofflesby and the scary social worker lady’s four cats. Greta’s taking care of them while we figure out who killed her and why.” Iris clapped a hand to her mouth. “And am I supposed to be saying all this in front of him?” she mumbled, glancing nervously at ShadowKnight.

  “It’s fine, Iris. I already told him about Mrs. Feathers, and he knows about Penelope, obviously,” Binx reassured her.

  “Oh. Whew.”

  Div regarded ShadowKnight, or whatever his real name was. Binx’s friend, if he was that, was tall and slender, with a thin, handsome face. He looked to be about their age, perhaps a couple of years older. Binx wasn’t aware, but Div had spent considerable time trying to find his real name online and via scrying spells, with no success, and also any information regarding Libertas—again, no success. For a brief moment, Div contemplated deploying a mind-reading spell—psychicona or perhaps lectio mentis—to suss him out more thoroughly, now that he was physically present; proximity was always an advantage with this category of magic. Maybe later. Right now, her instincts told her that she needed to proceed with caution. He seemed to be on the up-and-up, but appearances were always deceiving. She didn’t want to take any chances and escalate the situation unnecessarily.

  And then she realized that he was scrutinizing her, too. It was unsettling. Was he trying to use psychicona or lectio mentis on her? In any case, she sensed that he was unusually powerful. He exuded the same intense, dark energy that Div’s mother used to give off, and Daniela was a formidable witch—even more formidable than Div herself.

  Iris was still babbling about Mrs. Feathers and her cats.

  “… and Greta and I were talking about the photo the scary social worker lady had in her office at school… or used to have, I don’t know. I mentioned it to you guys, remember? The photo had her gray kitty in it. I told you then that her name was Prozac, but it came to me just this morning that her name was actually Loviatar. There was another kitty in the photo, too… a kitten… not one of the three little black ones Greta rescued, but a floofy golden-orange one that looked kind of like—”

  “Loviatar?”

  Binx had practically shouted the name. Her expression exuded shock and outrage, and she began backing away from ShadowKnight. “When we were videochatting last month, you had a cat with you—a gray cat—and you said it was your friend’s and that its name was Loviatar.”

  Div felt the blood draining from her face. ShadowKnight had known Mrs. Feathers?

  He also began backing away. His expression had changed, too; he looked afraid.

  “Pokedragon… Binx… I can explain…,” he began.

  He stood just a few feet from Iris. Before Div could stop her, Iris jumped forward and touched ShadowKnight’s arm…

  … and jumped away just as quickly.

  “Guys! He’s… I mean, I don’t know how… but he’s two people. He’s ShadowKnight and he’s Maximus Hobbes!”

  “You’re Hobbes?” Binx burst out.

  Div’s eyes widened. Oh god, we walked into a trap.

  She pointed her lipstick-wand at ShadowKnight, Hobbes, whoever he was. But she was momentarily distracted by something in the doorway. A small, shiny object in the cutaway window. Was that a cell phone? Or just the light playing tricks on her eyes?

  Also, Binx had beaten her to the punch. She had retrieved her gaming console–wand and was waving it in ShadowKnight/Hobbes’s direction. Apparently she, like Div, had ignored the no-magic-items-in-public rule for the day.

  “You are so dead,” Binx hissed at him.

  “You don’t understand; I’m on your side!” ShadowKnight/Hobbes insisted. “Callixta Crowe sent me here to try to save you all!”

  “Nice try, jerk. Focus Energy! Frozen!” Binx chanted.

  With Binx’s spells—Div didn’t recognize them—ShadowKnight/Hobbes cried out, and his body jerked unnaturally. A silvery-white film of ice spread swiftly across his skin. Seconds later, he toppled to the ground, unconscious.

  Binx turned to Div, breathing heavily. “Do you want to finish him off, or shall I?”

  16

  TOIL AND TROUBLE

  The revelation of a true name can yield tremendous power.

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

  Greta tried to get up from her living room couch, but the three black kittens wouldn’t let her.

  “You guys are very silly,” she said, laughing as they somersaulted and tumbled over her lap. “Hey, that tickles!”

  Torrence smiled at her. He was sitting on the rug with a deck of tarot cards and drinking a cup of herbal tea. This time, it was Greta’s special blend, made of dried rose petals, blackberries, ginger root, star anise, and cinnamon. Each ingredient had multiple magical properties, but she’d selected them for specific effects—the rose petals for good luck, the blackberries for healing, the ginger root for prosperity, and the combination of star anise and cinnamon for enhancing dreams and divination. She’d sweetened the tea with a little sorghum syrup rather than honey, since honey wasn’t vegan.

  After Iris’s departure from the bookstore, Greta had been eager to come home to check on her cats, and Torrence had offered to accompany her. She was glad he was there; she didn’t want to be alone right now. Or rather, she didn’t want to be without Torrence right now. He made her feel safe… and something else, too. Warm. Nervous. Excited. Had she developed a crush on him? The evolution from platonic to not platonic had happened seemingly overnight and caught her unawares.

  It had been a long time since she’d liked anyone that way. Freshman year, she’d dated here and there—Malik Nasser from her English class and Eliza Weissmueller from choir—but neither had become her boyfriend or girlfriend. Actually, she’d never really had a boyfriend or girlfriend, and getting “married” to Taylor Chao in kindergarten didn’t count.

  And, speaking of her short, short list of romantic experiences… there was Div. Back in junior high school, they’d formed a coven with just the two of them, making elaborate potions out of the herbs in Greta’s garden, creating a private language of spells and incantations that were a combination of English; Latin phrases they found online; Romanian, which was Di
v’s family’s native language; French because they were studying that at school; and threads of random poetry. Also ideas from different mythologies. Callixta’s magic manual hadn’t appeared in the world yet, but they’d managed nevertheless, fueled by the energy of their own growing powers and their delight in having found each other in what seemed to be a witchless world.

  But then their paths had diverged. Div had become interested in using her abilities for dark purposes, like communicating with the dead and manipulation of others… also revenge, like the Furies from Greek mythology. Greta had preferred—and continued to prefer—using her skills for healing and nurturing, love and light, which was Callixta’s way.

  When Div had made Greta participate in a necromancy ritual to bring a dead gerbil back to life, only to feed the newly reborn creature to her boa constrictor familiar immediately after, Greta had quit their coven and their friendship without a second thought. And likewise, Greta’s romantic feelings for Div had died in that instant, when she’d been forced to watch Prada devour the poor, innocent creature. By then, Greta had been crushing on Div for ages. They’d even kissed once, while watching a movie together right here in this very living room. On the very spot where Greta now sat. She still remembered cuddling under the afghan, the taste of Div’s strawberry lip gloss on her own lips, the breathless excitement and thrill and wonder of it all.

  But no more. Those feelings were gone—well, 99 percent gone, anyway—as was any semblance of collegiality between them. Div was her rival, and she absolutely couldn’t be trusted. Greta could barely stand having their two covens working together, even for crucially important reasons like solving Penelope’s murder and protecting themselves against the Antima… and now, also, solving Mrs. Feathers’s death and protecting themselves against the mysterious Maximus Hobbes.

  Hobbes. Greta shivered at the thought of him. Was he still alive? Was he still after her and other Callixta descendants in order to harvest their heart-fire?

  Greta reached into the pocket of her skirt and extracted the protective talisman Iris had made for her. What a sweet gesture. As with Torrence, she was glad for Iris’s presence in their coven. A month ago, the coven had been just herself, Binx, and Ridley. Now Binx was gone, having defected to the other side, but Iris and Torrence had filled the void. It was a powerful group. They would do a lot of good in the world… assuming they survived Maximus Hobbes, the Antima, and the rest of it.

  Torrence was petting one of the kittens. “So what are you going to name the little furballs?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’ve been doing some scrying spells to figure out what their real names are, but I haven’t had any luck.” Greta turned to the one-eyed gray cat, who was asleep in front of the fireplace. “Iris said her name is Loviatar. I’m not sure if I should honor that or if I should rename her.”

  At the sound of her name, Loviatar stirred in her sleep.

  “Hmm, that’s a tough one. Maybe you could make up a new nickname?” Torrence suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s see. You could do Lovebug, Atar, or Atari.”

  “Isn’t Atari a kind of computer?”

  “Sort of? It’s a company that makes video games and stuff.”

  “Oh!”

  Greta picked up one of the kittens and kissed her on the nose; she wriggled happily and began purring like a motor. The three kittens, all girls, all black, had a few distinguishing features. One had a white blaze on her chest and also extra toes; another had white paws as though they’d been dipped in white paint; and the third had heterochromia, which meant two different colored eyes—in her case, one light blue and one sea green.

  Loviatar had kept her distance from Greta since coming to live in this house. She ate, drank water, and used the litter box, but that was it. She ignored the kittens unless they jumped on top of her, whereupon she’d bat them away gently with her paws.

  The gray cat’s demeanor around Gofflesby was interesting, though, and vice versa. Sometimes, they sat in meatloaf positions just a few feet apart, facing each other, and seemed to conduct a silent conversation with their eyes and their whisker twitches. Gofflesby didn’t act in a territorial or defensive way. Loviatar likewise displayed no aggression. They had a quiet, mysterious connection that Greta couldn’t quite decipher.

  Because of what Mrs. Feathers said. Because Gofflesby used to live with her… used to be her familiar.

  No. Gofflesby was her familiar. They were bonded… had been ever since she’d found him in her garden, Bloomsbury, nibbling on the silver vine and valerian. She’d prayed he was a stray so she could keep him, and she’d done her due diligence, posting flyers in the neighborhood and checking at the SPCA daily to see if his owner was looking for him. After two weeks, when no one had claimed him, she’d bought him a cozy little cat bed as a present and christened it with catmint. She’d also made him a celebratory collar out of marigolds and Johnny-jump-ups; he’d tolerated it for about twenty minutes, then wriggled out of it, torn up the blossoms, and eaten half of them.

  Greta knew his soul. Or maybe not? Had she been deluded by her love for him? Worse, had Mrs. Feathers been telling the truth about how he’d come to Bloomsbury? Had she sent him to Greta to spy on her and confirm that she was, indeed, a descendant of Callixta? Tears filled Greta’s eyes as she regarded Gofflesby, Loviatar, and the kittens. Were they all spies? Were they still tied to Mrs. Feathers somehow, even in her death? If so, were they a danger to Greta? Should she give them up for adoption, even Gofflesby?

  She shook her head back and forth, back and forth. Gofflesby was her cat, her familiar… and for now, Loviatar and the kittens were her charges, her responsibility. She would find a magical way to discern if Mrs. Feathers still had influence over them from the otherworld, and use spells and potions to separate her from them if necessary.

  “The Furies,” she said out loud.

  “What?” Torrence looked up from his tarot card spread. Greta saw that the card in the center was called the Lovers, which made her blush.

  “Greta?” he prompted her.

  “What? Oh, yes. The Furies. Do you know them?”

  “Yes. Aren’t they evil?”

  “It depends on the interpretation. They were dark forces, for sure. They were vengeance spirits. At one time, they were believed to be ghosts of humans who’d been murdered.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Torrence said, making a face.

  “There were three of them. Allecto, which means ‘anger’; Megaera, which means ‘jealousy’; and Tisiphone, which means ‘avenger.’ Together, they were the Erinyes, aka the Furies… except some people were too scared to call them that, so they gave them nice names, positive names, to make them seem less terrible.”

  “Clever.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll do that with these little Furies.” Greta scooped up the three kittens in her arms. “Alex instead of Alecto”—she kissed the one with the white blaze—“Meg instead of Megaera”—she kissed the one with the white paws—“and Tessie instead of Tisiphone”—she kissed the one with the two different-colored eyes. “And I shall call Loviatar Lovebug, like you suggested. There, done!”

  Torrence grinned. “You’re brilliant!”

  Greta blushed again. “Why, thank you.”

  Her phone trilled with a text. Perhaps it was Iris, reporting in about her witch video game event in Seattle.

  But it wasn’t Iris… it was Mira. Mira? Why would she be contacting Greta?

  Oh, Goddess… what if something happened to Div?

  Greta quickly opened the text. Mira had written:

  Is it okay for me to call you?

  Greta typed:

  Yes of course.

  The phone rang a second later. Greta hit talk.

  “Hi, is Div okay?” she asked, jumping to her feet and scattering kittens everywhere. Torrence stood up, too, his brow furrowed in concern.

  “Div? She’s at WitchWorldCon with Binx. This is something else,” Mira replied in a high, nervo
us voice. “I can’t talk very long. Aysha and I are at my dad’s campaign headquarters. Div wanted us to spend some time here quote-unquote ‘volunteering’ so we could suss out any Antima activity. We’re outside on a break.”

  “Are you and Aysha okay?”

  “Yes? No? I don’t know… not really. This isn’t exactly a happy place for us. And I’m beyond furious at my dad for… but that’s not the reason I’m calling. So Aysha found a piece of paper in the printer tray. It looks like someone was trying to print it, but then the printer jammed up. A lot of the words are too smeary and faint to read, but some of them are legible.”

  “And?”

  “We think it’s a list of names and addresses.”

  “Like a list of volunteers or donors or whatever?”

  “No. Like…” Mira hesitated. “Greta, your name was on it. Your address, too. Aysha and I think it’s that list Div heard those New Order people talking about… you know, the database of suspected witches in Sorrow Point.”

  “What?”

  “Greta, what’s wrong?” Torrence whispered. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “You should… you should do whatever you need to stay safe. Like, hide your, um, items…” Mira was saying.

  Greta’s heart was hammering frantically in her chest. She pictured her room—had she put away the potion bottles she’d been filling with her latest brews? Was her grimoire in its usual spot? What about her scrying bowl and her herbs? Was her wand, Flora, still magically disguised as an antique fountain pen?

  “I’d better go. Let me know if you find out anything else. Thank you for the heads-up, and please stay safe… both of you,” she told Mira.

  “We will. You too.”

  Greta hung up and tried to calm herself. Her thoughts were racing and pinging and crashing into one another. Would the police come to question her? Arrest her, even? Or had the list not made its way past the printing queue of the “Neal Jahani for Mayor” campaign headquarters? Also, what was the list even doing there? Was Mira’s dad in that deep with the Antima, with the New Order? If so, what did that mean for Mira, not to mention the rest of them?