B*witch

by Paige McKenzie

  “Soooo… maybe they did an autopsy?” Ridley suggested queasily. “Or maybe she was an organ donor, and they gave her heart to a patient who needed one?”

  Binx held up both hands. “Guys? Guys! What if someone stole it? For her heart-fire?”

  “Um… what’s heart-fire?” Iris asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Ridley glanced at Binx, then turned to Greta and Iris. “You guys might want to sit down for this.”

  After the funeral, everyone gathered at Penelope’s house. The dining room table was covered with an array of fancy party foods. People stood around in small groups, eating and drinking and talking; soft classical music played on an invisible sound system.

  Iris, Greta, Ridley, and Binx skipped the socializing and sequestered themselves immediately in the family room. Iris sank back in the big, comfy sofa (which bore strands of white dog fur) and hugged a pillow to her chest, hard. The room was a sad place because it was full of Penelope. Dozens of framed photos of her covered the walls—from age zero to the present, from braces to retainer to no braces, from first tennis trophy to junior champion.

  Iris was still in a state of shock—not just from the horrific image of Penelope without her heart, which would be burned into her brain forever, but from what Binx and Ridley had told her and Greta at the cemetery. That a witch-hunter—no, not just a witch-hunter, but the most murderous, monstrous witch-hunter in history—may have kept himself alive all this time by killing Callixta Crowe’s descendants and stealing some kind of immortality-potion essence from their hearts.

  Including, it seemed, Penelope’s.

  “I’ve been thinking, too, about that murder board thing that Div saw at the Jessups’ house,” Binx was saying. “She said it was about some witch-hunter, right? Well, what if that witch-hunter was Maximus Hobbes? Maybe they know he’s still alive, too. And by they, I mean the Jessups, the Antima, the New Order group, whatever.”

  Iris sat up, still clutching the pillow; the pressure of it made her brain feel a little less spinny. “So really, this murder board isn’t about hunting down a murderer to throw him in jail or level-jump in Witchworld? But it’s about finding a murderer who’s actually your hero because of your shared hatred of, plus world-domination supervillain plan to kill, witches?”

  “Yeah, basically.” Binx turned to Greta. “Is Div here? I should show her a photo of Hobbes and see if it’s the same guy she saw on the board. Or I could just text it to her and—”

  Greta held up her hand. “No, wait! I’m not sure if she’s here yet or if she’s even coming… but she and Mira might still be with Colter and Hunter, and we don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Are we in calumnia mode?” Ridley asked nervously. “Calumnia again, just in case. Can we get hold of Ms. O’Shea somehow? I really feel like we could use her help. Like, we were in over our heads before, but now, we’re like… drowning. The new sub said she had some family emergency. Maybe she’s with her coven?”

  “Maybe, but she never gave us her contact info. Maybe I can get it from the school district database. They must have addresses and phone numbers and stuff of all the subs, right?” Binx began typing on her phone.

  “There you are, girls!”

  Mrs. Feathers entered the room, a glass of white wine in hand. Binx pocketed her phone. Iris jumped to her feet; had Mrs. Feathers heard them talking? Were they in serious, major trouble? She glanced over her shoulder at Greta, wondering if they should cast a group memory-erase spell or whatever.

  Greta stood up, too, and smoothed her skirt. Her face was pale, but she managed to plaster on a smile. “We weren’t feeling very social. Sorry. Were you looking for us, Mrs. Feathers?”

  “Yes, I was. I know this is such a sad day, so I was trying to find something positive to help us all go forward. I was thinking, wouldn’t it be lovely to commission a bench or a sculpture or a fountain for our school, in Penelope’s memory? I just spoke with Principal Sparkleman, and he said he could ask the PTA to raise money for it. I’ve heard you’re very artistic, Greta, so I thought I could pick your brain.”

  “Sure, yes, of course.”

  “Maybe we could come up with a list of ideas and present them to Mr. Hart and Ms. Guzman in the next week or two? And the PTA, too? Come, I want to show you Penelope’s room. Perhaps it will inspire us. Her mother said it was fine for us to go up. Excuse us, girls.”

  Greta joined Mrs. Feathers, and they disappeared into the hallway. Binx turned to Iris and Ridley. “Calumnia. Did she say… Ms. Guzman? Who’s that?”

  “She’s Penelope’s mom. Didn’t you meet her?” Ridley asked.

  “Not really. I thought her name was Mrs. or Ms. Hart.”

  “Nope, it’s Guzman. Why?”

  Frowning, Binx pulled out her phone and scrolled through it quickly. “Patricia Meeks… Dominick Trovato… Eleanor Guzman,” she read out loud.

  “Who are those people? Wait, is Eleanor Guzman Penelope’s mom?” Iris asked.

  “I thought she told me her name was Elena, though,” Ridley said, confused.

  “Eleanor Guzman is…” Binx hesitated. “So, I found her name through this app.… She’s part of this, um, project I’m doing. About witches. It’s kind of a secret, and… blurg, I really can’t talk about it.” She threw up her hands.

  “You’re keeping a secret from us?” Ridley demanded. “What is it? Spill!”

  “I can’t. I promised. Maybe soon, though. I’ll ask, okay?”

  “Ask who? Are you saying this Eleanor Guzman is a witch? And that she might be Penelope’s relative?”

  “Look, I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to find Ms. O’Shea.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine!”

  As the two girls typed furiously on their phones, Iris’s brain began to spin again. She leaned forward and put her head in her hands and squeezed as hard as she could. Sometimes the pressure helped, but at the moment, it made her brain feel even spinnier.

  Iris wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but at some point, the family room door opened and closed. She glanced up. A poodle with curly white hair lumbered in, its big brown eyes dull with grief.

  Penelope’s dog. The one in the window.

  “Socrates!” Ridley set down her phone and knee-walked across the rug, holding out her hand. “Hey, guy. Remember me? You poor thing, you must miss her so much.”

  Socrates sniffed at her hand and whimpered. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing his head. Binx joined them, patting Socrates on the side. Iris slipped off the couch and reached out to pet him, too.

  The second Iris’s hand made contact with his soft, curly fur, her brain seemed to explode. A flurry of strange images ripped through her neurons. She was having a waking nightmare.

  A small gray house. A big oak tree. A crow perched on a stone birdbath.

  Inside, a prisoner tied up in a red chair.

  A teacup full of blood. No, tea. No, poison.

  The prisoner was Penelope.

  No, it was Greta.

  Iris leaped to her feet and began scratching her arms, so hard that she drew blood. “Guys? Okay, I just had one of my crazy visions, and… where’s Greta? I need to talk to Greta, like, now!”

  “She went up to Penelope’s room with Mrs. Feathers,” Ridley replied.

  “I think she might be in trouble. Or she’s going to be in trouble. I think she might be a prisoner in a little gray house with a birdbath and an oak tree in the front yard—”

  “Are you joking? Is this a joke?” Binx cut in.

  “Whatever. Let’s just go find Greta, okay?” Ridley said, looking worried.

  The three girls left the family room and headed down the hall, Socrates trailing after them. They went up a set of stairs and found Penelope’s room on the second floor, way in the back. Iris recognized the flower-print curtains from yesterday’s Nancy Drew stakeout mission. The room was large and light-filled, with lemon-yellow walls and a big desk covered with computers, video
cameras, and makeup samples.

  “Greta?” Iris called out.

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Feathers? Greta?” Binx said loudly.

  More silence.

  Ridley’s phone was pressed against her ear. “I’m calling Greta now, but she’s not picking up.”

  “I just texted her, too. No answer.” Binx’s hand shook as she scrolled through her phone. “Guys? This may seem random, but… do you know if Greta is related to a Patricia Meeks, Dominick Trovato, Norman Smythe, or Adelita Suarez?”

  “Her great-grandma’s name was Adelita.” Iris spoke up. “I saw her picture at their house. She was pretty, like Greta. I don’t know about the Suarez part.”

  “If her last name is Suarez, well… I think this might mean that Greta and Penelope are both descended from C-Squared. Callixta Crowe.”

  “Um… what? How do you know this?’ Ridley asked skeptically.

  “I’ve been… I just do. Please, you have to trust me. I don’t have time to explain,” Binx insisted.

  She continued scrolling through her phone, her fingers flying. Her tense expression grew more frantic by the second.

  “What’s happening? What are you doing?” Ridley asked.

  “A geolocating spell. Iris is right. We need to find that gray house with the birdbath and the oak tree, like, immediately. I think Greta might… she might be in terrible danger. Or maybe we’re too late, and—”

  “She might be dead,” Iris finished in a choked voice.

  30

  TEA FOR TWO

  They began as witch-hunters, then they discovered that they were themselves witches.

  And oh, how irresistible is Power!

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

  Greta was having a dream. Finally. Perhaps the marigolds under her pillow or the wild asparagus root or the peppermint had worked, after all; or perhaps the Goddess had intervened.

  Greta hadn’t told Iris—she hadn’t really even admitted it to herself—but she envied Iris’s prophetic abilities. Sure, Iris’s dreams and visions could be terribly dark, like the one she’d had about… what was that again? Greta lying in a queen’s arms, dead? But messages from the magical realm, like poetry and art, often held layers and layers of meaning. And Greta’s poetic, artistic temperament was well-suited for receiving and deciphering these layers. And also sitting still with upsetting images, unafraid, letting love and light sift through and illuminate them.

  Perhaps it was all part of the Goddess’s plan, though… the years of dreamlessness followed by this new power. Greta would use it well. This was a beginning.

  The dream, her very first dream, was about springtime.

  She was in her garden, Bloomsbury, planting new seedlings that she’d cultivated inside the house over the winter. She’d made little labels to go with them, too, recycling dozens of Teo’s Popsicle sticks; she’d written the English names on one side and the Latin names on the other, in elegant cursive. Yarrow; Achillea millefolium. Dill; Anethum graveolens. Cilantro; Coriandrum sativum. Eyebright; Euphrasia officinalis. Balm of Gilead; Populus balsamifera.

  “Hi there!”

  A woman entered the garden through an ornate black iron gate. She looked familiar. Was it the social worker from school?

  “Mrs. Feathers?”

  “Yes. How are you, Greta? Are you enjoying the day?”

  Greta stood up and brushed her hands against her long wool skirt. She knotted her velvet scarf around her neck. “Yes, thank you! Are you here to see Penelope?”

  “Is she here?”

  Greta glanced around. “I thought she was, but I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “No worries. I’m sure she’ll be joining us soon. Or perhaps we’ll be joining her.”

  “At her birthday party?”

  “Yes, at her birthday party. It should be quite magical!”

  Greta’s gaze dropped to the ground. The seedlings were already starting to grow. She could see them shooting up, millimeter by millimeter. How miraculous! Bloomsbury must be enchanted, after all. A few feet away, a family of robins splashed around in the stone birdbath. No, not robins. Crows?

  And then the dream shifted… and suddenly Greta and Mrs. Feathers were inside a room, sitting on either side of a low, old-fashioned-looking table. Dozens of candles cast a warm, glowing light. The room had high, molded tin ceilings, a velvet couch, and a stained-glass window. Also a red chair with a doll on it.

  Strange… the doll was bound to the chair with thick ropes. Was that part of the birthday festivities?

  On the table was a silver tray with a full tea service. The teapot and cups and saucers were bone-white with an unusual flower design.

  “Welcome to my home, Greta,” said Mrs. Feathers.

  “Thank you. Are those lilies?” Greta asked, pointing to the design on the tea set.

  “No, they’re angel’s trumpets. Do you know them?”

  “Brugmansia. Family name Solanaceae. Order Polemoniales.”

  “Yes! What a clever girl you are! No wonder you’re such a talented witch.”

  Greta frowned. Mrs. Feathers wasn’t supposed to know that she practiced the craft. “What do you mean? I’m not a—”

  “And these are white baneberry,” Mrs. Feathers cut in, pointing to a different flower on the tea set. “Also known as doll’s eye.”

  “Actaea pachypoda.”

  “Exactly. A-plus. Now, shall I be Mother?”

  Greta knew that expression from old English novels, from a time when mothers were expected to pour the tea for everyone.

  “Yes. Sure. What you said before, though. I… I’m not a witch.”

  “Of course you are. And as it turns out, you’re also a scion of Callixta Crowe. So is Penelope. Was.”

  “Callixta?” Greta was so confused. She remembered that name from somewhere. And wasn’t scion the same thing as descendant? “Penelope and I are related?”

  “Yes, through Callixta’s lineage. That’s why we had to harvest her heart-fire, and that’s why we must harvest yours.”

  Heart-fire?

  Suddenly, Greta saw that the doll was no longer tied up in the red chair. She was. The doll was lying on the floor, bleeding. A one-eyed gray cat was licking her wounds. Crying out, Greta strained against the ropes, but they were unyielding.

  “You see, Maximus needs the heart-fire of Callixta’s scions in order to stay alive,” Mrs. Feathers continued.

  “I don’t understand. Who is Maximus? Are… Are you guys Antima?”

  Mrs. Feathers laughed. “Antima? No, no, no. We made you and Div and your other witches think that the Antima were after you.”

  “But Ms. O’Shea said—”

  “Ms. O’Shea isn’t relevant. And she won’t be returning to Sorrow Point.”

  “W-what?”

  A slow drumbeat of panic was building inside Greta. She glanced around wildly—what if this wasn’t a dream? She had to get the hex out of here. This woman seemed off, dangerous.

  Her eyes fell on the one-eyed cat. Its whiskers were covered with the doll’s blood.

  But it wasn’t the one-eyed cat anymore. This cat had two eyes, the color of emeralds. And long golden fur.

  Gofflesby.

  “Gofflesby! What are you doing here?” Greta cried out. She turned to Mrs. Feathers. “Did you hurt him?”

  Mrs. Feathers lifted the lid off the flowery teapot. Steam rose in the air, and she smiled, satisfied. “I would never hurt him. He is one of my familiars.”

  “What? No! He’s my familiar. And… wait, you’re a witch?”

  “I sent him out in the world to help us find Callixta’s scions and to confirm their identities. He found you. There are other animals like him out there, my other pets, doing our good work.”

  “Gofflesby is my familiar! He would never help someone like you!”

  “He gave us the final proof that you are a scion. Your birthmark. Here, above your heart.” Mrs. Feathers touched her own sternu
m. “All of Callixta’s scions possess this.”

  Greta looked down. She’d always had the heart-shaped birthmark above her breastbone. It was tiny and light brown and barely noticeable.

  “This is a dream,” she whispered to herself. “This is just a dream. I need to wake up.”

  “It’s not a dream, my dear.”

  Mrs. Feathers tipped the pot over the cup, releasing a thin ribbon of steaming tea. She added a generous dollop of honey and stirred. The silver spoon made a soothing tinkling noise against the porcelain.

  The tinkling noise stopped, and she lifted the cup and touched it to Greta’s lips.

  Greta froze.

  Angel’s trumpet.

  White baneberry.

  They were highly toxic plants.

  “No!” Greta cried out, wrenching away.

  Mrs. Feathers sighed. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Greta. And I must insist you cooperate. There is a specific procedure with the harvesting, and we must follow the steps precisely.”

  Greta screamed and struggled, twisting her body this way and that. The knots were like cement.

  Don’t panic. Stay calm. Greta couldn’t touch her raw amethyst pendant, but she could imagine it there, connect to its power.

  Goddess, please help me.

  Solvo. The untying spell. Yes! She shuttered her eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath, and began to channel her spiritual energy. “Solvo,” she whispered.

  “Solvo won’t work here, my dear. There’s no use fighting it.”

  “You’re a witch. How can you hurt other witches?”

  “We’re not hurting you, not really. We’re allowing you to serve a higher purpose, which is to keep him alive. Maximus Hobbes, the greatest witch and witch-hunter in history. Now, drink up.”

  A witch and witch-hunter? How was that possible?

  Mrs. Feathers lifted the teacup to Greta’s lips again. The tea trickled into her mouth. It had a warm, green, slightly bittersweet taste that was masked only slightly by the lavender honey.

  “Good girl.”