Ridley found a spot near the back, away from the others, and stood there, not knowing quite what to do. She noticed a well-dressed man and woman behind a nearby tree. The woman was crying quietly into a white linen handkerchief. The man had his arms around her and was whispering in her ear. Ridley recognized them from last night, driving away in the silver Volvo. Penelope’s parents. Her heart ached at the sight of them. At Daniel’s funeral, Momma had been inconsolable. Daddy, who was usually so tough and stoic, had broken down halfway through his eulogy speech, and Ridley had been forced to finish it for him.
Penelope’s mother glanced up at Ridley. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief and walked over to her, followed by her husband.
“Thank you so much for coming. I’m Elena Guzman, Penny’s mother. This is my husband, Edwin Hart.”
Mr. Hart shook Ridley’s hand. “Are you one of her friends from school?”
“Yes. I’m Ridley. Ridley Stone. I’m so, so sorry about Penelope. I… she was really nice.”
“If only she’d confided in us, we could have helped her. We could have told her we loved her no matter what,” Ms. Guzman said in a choked-up voice.
“Did you know she was a witch, Ridley? Did any of her friends?” Mr. Hart asked.
Ridley wished she didn’t have to lie to Penelope’s parents. “Well, she was new to our school, and we didn’t know her that well,” she managed.
“We should have spent more time with her; we would have noticed the signs. But we were both so busy,” Ms. Guzman murmured.
Mr. Hart’s eyes—they were the same warm shade of brown as Penelope’s—filled with tears. “She had her YouTube and her tennis and all her other interests, though. She seemed so happy, so excited about her future.”
She was happy, Ridley wanted to say. She was excited about her future. And she didn’t take her own life. Her life was taken from her. “I’m so sorry,” she said instead, meaning it.
Penelope’s parents thanked her again for being there, then moved on to greet other newcomers, including Principal Sparkleman and Mrs. Feathers from school.
Ridley had mixed feelings about Mrs. Feathers. She’d come up to Ridley in the hallway yesterday and said that her “door was always open” if she wanted to talk. She’d seemed nice enough, although Ridley had picked up a strange vibe from her. An intense watchfulness under the kind, helpful social-worker exterior. Was there a chance that she knew about Ridley’s past in Cleveland? That Ridley was trans? She tried to think if she’d been careless at all in altering her school district records, or if she’d missed an e-mail exchange between the school and her parents. She’d have to revisit them as soon as possible, cast more spells if necessary.
Ridley spotted Greta and Iris walking down the path, toward the crowd. She waved to them, and they hurried to her side. She was glad to see her friends; being at Penelope’s funeral was making her feel wobbly inside, and not in a good way.
“Hey.” Greta gave Ridley a long, fierce hug. “This is so sad,” she murmured.
Ridley nodded into Greta’s shoulder. “It’s crazy-sad. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Group hug,” Iris said, wrapping her arms around both of them.
“This group hug’s incomplete, though. Where’s Binx?” Ridley asked.
“She said she had to stop by the public library first,” Greta replied. “She just texted us.”
Ridley pulled her phone out of her pocket to check her messages. “Yeah, here it is. The Sorrow Point Public Library? The place with books? That doesn’t sound like Binx. Does she even know where it is?”
“I know. I asked her to research something related to our…” Greta paused, then added, “Calumnia. Related to our case. I think she might be working on that.”
“Huh.” This was turning out to be a day of surprises—first Momma acting like her old self, and now Binx looking at physical books.
An elderly-looking minister had moved to the head of Penelope’s casket, cradling a black leather-bound Bible in his hands. “I believe we’re about ready to begin. Friends and family of Penelope, please gather around,” he called out.
Just then, four latecomers came rushing down the path. It was Colter and another guy who looked like him; probably his brother. And with them were Div and Mira—no Aysha.
“What are Div and Mira doing with Colter?” Ridley whispered to Greta.
“Calumnia. Div called me like an hour ago and said that she and Mira are doing more undercover work having to do with that family. She said we shouldn’t say hi or talk to them or anything. She said she’d explain later.”
“Is that his brother?” Ridley asked.
“Yep.”
“Why are they even here, if they hate witches so much?” Iris asked.
“Well, Colter was Penelope’s boyfriend. I’m not sure about Hunter… maybe moral support?” Greta guessed.
The three girls joined the back of the crowd as the minister began the service. As he spoke, Ridley closed her eyes and just breathed. Her head swirled with a ton of emotions. Sadness about Penelope. Regret that she hadn’t gotten to know her better. Fear about what she and the other witches didn’t know and what might yet happen.
“We are here today to honor the life of Penelope Rue Hart,” the minister was saying.
Ridley opened her eyes. In the distance, she saw Binx hurrying down the path. Ridley didn’t want to disturb the minister’s speech, so she simply nodded at Binx.
Binx stopped in her tracks and gestured for Ridley to come over. Ridley frowned and pointed to the minister, but Binx shook her head emphatically and continued beckoning.
“Be right back,” Ridley whispered to Greta.
Greta raised her eyebrows. Ridley mouthed the word Binx, and Greta nodded. Then Ridley slipped away as quietly as possible.
She noticed someone noticing her exit, though. Colter.
A chill ran down her spine. Why was he looking at her? Had he figured out that she, too, was a witch? Had Penelope told him about their Starbucks date (no, not date, just coffee), about how they’d tearfully confessed their witch identities to each other?
No way.
Ridley soon reached Binx’s side.
“Are you okay?” Binx whispered.
“No. What’s up that you couldn’t wait till after the service?”
In response, Binx grabbed Ridley’s arm and pulled her behind a massive stone mausoleum with a bunch of Latin words engraved on it. “Listen up. So I went to the downtown library—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“—because I needed to find this old book about the history of witch-hunters by a dude named Dante Basileri. Did you know that the library has a rare book room? It’s really cool, and they make you wear gloves to handle the books because the pages are crazy-fragile. Anyway, this morning, Greta asked me to do some research on a witch-hunter from the Great Purge times. Maximus Hobbes. I went online, and long story short, the trail eventually led to Basileri’s book.”
“Is Maximus Hobbes the one who hunted down and killed like hundreds of witches? I’ve heard of him.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Nice guy, right? So in his book, Basileri explains his theory about Hobbes. And guess what? His theory is related to C-Squared, too.”
“Go on.”
“Some people believe that she was the greatest, most powerful witch of all time, right? And that her book is the reason why most of us who were born witches even know how to practice the craft? Or even know that we’re witches? Well, according to Basileri, Hobbes believed that C-Squared had special… I don’t know, like special genes or special superpowers or something, and that her heart-fire and the heart-fire of her descendants could extend life. Even make you immortal, I suppose, if you had like a never-ending supply.”
Ridley crossed her arms over her chest. “O-kay. What’s ‘heart-fire’?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out. Maybe it’s a special potion that only C-Squared and her descendants knew how to make,
because of their specialness or whatever? But after I read all this, I thought of something really, really horrifying.”
“More horrifying than all the witch murders Hobbes committed during the Purge?”
“Yes. What if Hobbes is still alive?”
29
HEARTLESS
Certain witches may possess a special quality that makes them more attractive to their Enemies.
(FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”
Iris buttoned up her black cardigan as the elderly minister stood over Penelope’s grave and recited from the Bible. The casket, which had not been lowered into the ground yet, was painted white with a fancy design of birds and butterflies. The tag on Iris’s sweater was bothering her; she reached back and tried to rip it out, but that didn’t work, so she just peeled off the cardigan and bunched it up and held it in her arms. It smelled like mothballs, though, which also bothered her, so she shoved the whole thing into her shoulder bag, next to her wand.
She’d only been to one other funeral in her life—her dad’s, which hadn’t been a funeral so much as a memorial service with his three friends from college playing the guitar as his ashes were scattered into the waters off Montauk, Long Island, near where he’d grown up. She remembered vividly the honeysuckle and salt in the air, the big waves at high tide. She hoped this funeral, Penelope’s funeral, wouldn’t make her cry as much as her dad’s, although it was entirely possible that she’d cry twice as much because there were now two deaths in her life. That was the thing about trauma; it could accumulate like waves and grow bigger, one on top of the other.
She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, hard. Mrs. Feathers’s trick definitely didn’t work for her; tears were already pooling in her eyes. Mrs. Feathers, who was standing just a few feet away, seemed to sense Iris’s agitation and gave her a sympathetic nod.
And in addition to her grief, there was her anxiety, which was escalating by the minute. Even with everything going on around her, she couldn’t stop thinking about her morningmare. And the more she thought about it, the more it felt like a premonition. What if Greta really was in danger? She had received a shadow message, after all. Div had received a shadow message, too, and she was attacked at the Jessups’ party.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff comfort me.”
To avoid having a complete emotional meltdown, Iris had performed a calming spell pre-funeral, with a special tea blend. (As I sip this brew, clear my mind, and help me push through, for inside I can be aligned.) She crossed her fingers and toes now, hoping that the spell would get her through the next couple of hours.
Iris felt eyes on her. She swiveled her head this way and that, then realized that Colter was staring at her from the other side of Penelope’s casket. O-kay. Why? She’d only met him twice—on the first day of school, and in the cafeteria when she was having lunch with the two covens and Penelope. Or was he staring at Greta, who was standing right next to her? Nope, his gaze was definitely fixed on her. Should she play it cool and smile at him in a casual, I-don’t-know-anything-about-your-Antima-shoulder-patch-or-the-murder-board-in-your-family’s-house kind of way? But people didn’t smile at funerals because funerals were sad, so maybe she should just acknowledge him with a slow, melancholy nod?
Wait. But what if he’d figured out that she was a witch? Would he or his 1415, N-O, New Order group come after her? Was it even his group?
Iris began to scratch furiously at her right arm.
“It’s going to be all right.”
Greta was whispering in her ear. Her warm hand slipped into Iris’s hand and squeezed. Iris squeezed back. At Greta’s touch, she could feel the itching subside, the high pitch of unease relax a little.
“It’s going to be all right,” Greta repeated. “I promise.”
Iris nodded, and her glasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up again. When this was all over—when they’d solved the mystery of Penelope’s death and put the Antima out of commission and eliminated whatever other dangers might lurk over their coven and Div’s coven—Iris couldn’t wait to really immerse herself and learn more about the craft from Greta and the others. Iris pictured their coven meetings, joining together in their warm candlelit circle and pulling the universe’s energy into their hands and hearts so they could make magic together.
Their coven. So she’d definitely decided to join Greta’s coven. Huh. Go, me, making big life decisions and stuff!
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” the elderly minister finished. “Family and friends, please say your farewells to our dear Penelope before she is laid to her final rest.”
People began lining up at the foot of the casket. Iris joined the line right behind Greta. Binx and Ridley were in the distance, still huddled behind a big stone… what was it called? A crypt? A tomb? A mausoleum? She wondered what in the hex they were talking about so intently that they would have missed most of the funeral.
Greta reached the front of the line. She picked up a long-stemmed pink rose from a white basket and laid it on top of the casket. She steepled her hands under her chin, in prayer.
“Penelope. May your soul fly to the stars and moons and become one with the universe,” she whispered, so softly that only Iris could hear. “May the Goddess watch over you always. May you be joined eternally in heart and spirit with all of your sisters, past, present, and future. Love and light.”
Iris was next. Suddenly nervous—more nervous than before—she began scratching at her arm again. Stop it, she told herself. Just do what Greta did.
She reached into the white basket and hastily extracted one of the pink roses. But a thorn caught the skin on her thumb and drew blood. Stifling a yelp, she shoved her thumb into her mouth.
“Pen-ner-o-blah,” she began, then pulled her thumb out of her mouth when she realized that she was mumbling incoherently. “Penelope. I didn’t know you very well. I wish I had. I hope you’re happy in heaven. Please say hi to my dad for me. And my grandpa Louis, too. When you meet them, they’ll probably be arguing about politics. Or watching NASCAR… Is there ESPN up there? There probably is. Anyhoo, please give them lots of hugs for me. I’m sending you hugs, too. Love and light.”
Iris lifted the rose to her face to kiss it—she wasn’t sure why, but it seemed like a nice gesture—before setting it down on the casket along with the other roses. Its fragrance was sweet—too sweet, like those bubblegum-flavored cupcakes that had made her throw up at Ephrem’s birthday party last year. Her brain zapped and spun. Nausea rippled and ripped through her insides.
Gasping, she dropped the rose onto the casket. Blood from her thumb dripped onto the white wood; alarmed, she reached down to rub it off with the heel of her palm.
As her hand touched the casket, her brain seemed to short-circuit entirely.
The terrible image hit her like a wave.
She could see Penelope—right here, right now. Lying inside the forever darkness of her casket, alone. Her eyes closed as though in sleep, her flesh cold and hard. Wearing a pale pink dress with gold buttons, her hands folded over her chest…
… over her heart. Which wasn’t there.
Her heart wasn’t there.
Iris cried out and stumbled backward. Arms caught her. Greta’s.
“Iris, what is it?”
Iris could envision the inside of Penelope’s chest cavity… the bones, the dammed-up veins, the atrophied muscles. And, in the cavity that should be housing her heart, a void. Emptiness.
People were buzzing and whispering. Iris blinked and gazed around wildly. Everyone was staring at her—the mi
nister, Penelope’s parents, their friends and relatives, people from school, Div, Mira, Colter…
… and Hunter, who was moving swiftly in Iris’s direction.
“Does your friend need medical help? I’m trained as an EMT,” Hunter called out to Greta.
Greta stepped between Hunter and Iris. “Thanks, but—”
“I’m fine!” Iris cut in. “Sorry, everybody! I’m just”—she raised her voice—“I’m just having an anxiety attack! I just need some space and fresh air and…”
She took Greta’s hand and pulled her away from the crowd.
“Iris? What’s wrong?”
Iris led Greta all the way to the tomb, mausoleum, whatever, where Binx and Ridley were still huddling.
“Whoa, girl. You look like you just saw a ghost,” Binx said to Iris.
“I… I did.” Iris sank down on the cool, mossy ground and leaned against the old stone wall. But more visions flashed through her brain—bones, many bones, under the ground beneath her—so she jumped to her feet and scrambled away from the wall. What the hex was happening to her?
“Guys. Penelope… I saw her and… she’s missing… she’s missing her heart.”
Binx’s jaw dropped. “She’s… what?”
“I don’t understand. How could you have seen that?” Ridley demanded.
Greta touched her arm. “Was it another one of your visions?” she asked gently.
“Yup, uh-huh.” Iris grasped her smiley-face moonstone necklace, to calm herself, but she was beyond calming (the tea-spell had stopped working, obviously). “I saw all her organs inside her body, except for her heart.”
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