“What the bloody hell have you two done to my sheep?” barked a tall man with a black beard, his eyes wide under two very thick, very angry-looking eyebrows.
“Hey,” panted Oliver, pulling himself up, “don’t touch her!”
The man pulled his hand away from Matilda and held it up as if in surrender, but he still looked angry. He turned to the sheep as one of the mob shoved its head between a gap in the fence, its tongue lolling out of its mouth and its eyes rolling up as it pawed at the ground, trying to break through the wire.
“I was shouting from back there, but you idiots couldn’t hear because you’ve riled up my sheep.” The man, apparently a farmer, was shouting over the bleats of the sheep. He looked them up and down; they both looked like they’d come last in a mud race. “Which brings me back to my original question: What the bloody hell have you done to my sheep?”
“We were just walking and … we … I literally have no idea what happened,” said Matilda, her body shaking with adrenaline. “They just started chasing us, and they were screaming like…”
“Screaming?” The man looked between Oliver and Matilda. “Have you been doing drugs?”
“What? No, she’s right; that’s what happened,” said Oliver, looking over his shoulder at the sheep. “They tried to attack us.”
The man frowned harder until his eyebrows were pointing downward like an angry arrow. Matilda and Oliver gasped when he suddenly stepped forward, and they both stumbled out of his path as he strode to the fence and leaned over the sheep. He reached into his pocket and threw a handful of pellets over the flock. They quieted down as they turned away in search of whatever he’d thrown them.
“What’s that?”
The man turned and glared at Oliver as he threw another handful. “Alfalfa pellets,” said the man, throwing another handful over the sheep’s heads. “Now get out of here.”
Oliver looked at Matilda and whispered, “What the hell?”
“Let’s just go,” said Matilda.
They turned and started jogging down the path, looking over at the mass of dirty white-and-black fleeces slowly dispersing from where the man stood.
“Did you see Erin by the gate?” said Matilda, still catching her breath.
Oliver stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“That’s who that was?”
Matilda nodded. “I think it’s safe to say she’s got something to do with this.”
She looked farther down the path but couldn’t see Erin. Oliver looked at Matilda, shaking his head as a smile snuck in at the corner of his mouth. He pushed his hair off his glistening forehead and bit his lip.
“What? What could you possibly be smiling about now?” asked Matilda, her hands on her hips.
The smile broke out on Oliver’s face, pushing his eyebrows high on his forehead, and he put his hands together as he bent down a little.
“You owe me.”
“What?”
“Don’t you what me; you owe me,” said Oliver. “I said if we were attacked by a pack of sheep, then you’d owe me big.”
Matilda rolled her eyes, but the switch to Oliver’s banter was comforting and her heart fluttered in equal parts sheep-induced adrenaline and the fact that he was flirting with her.
“It’s a flock of sheep, not a pack.”
“However you want to say it,” said Oliver, slinging his arm over Matilda’s shoulders and, quite possibly, stopping her from floating off. “You owe me.”
They walked down the dirt path, and the thought of what Oliver might want from her almost distracted Matilda’s mind from what had happened and why Erin had been there.
Almost, but not quite.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ten days until Halloween
The Witching Well Festival banners in the cafeteria flapped high above as everyone caught up over lunch. What had happened to Ashley at the party was still the hottest topic of conversation at Gravewick Academy, and that, along with dead animals, had increased the regular festival and Halloween buzz so Matilda’s classmates were rowdier than normal.
She didn’t blame them. A dead body and slaughtered animals were way beyond what anyone should be worrying about right now, and Matilda had sleepwalking into the woods and being chased by a flock of sheep to throw into the mix, too. She frowned as the noise echoed from the high ceiling and looked over Oliver’s shoulder, her eyes flicking from table to table in search of the only person who seemed to be connecting all the events of the last few days.
“Hello? Matilda?” said Oliver, waving his hands in front of her face. “Are you in there?”
“Hmm?” said Matilda, blinking at him.
“You are literally the least subtle person I have ever met,” said Oliver, shaking his head.
Matilda watched Oliver look over his shoulder and then fold his arms.
“Huh?” she said.
“You’ve been sitting there all through lunch saying ‘hmm’ every twenty seconds. I haven’t even been talking for the last five minutes.”
“Sorry. I’m looking for someone.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. You’re looking for Erin. Like I said, subtle.”
Matilda leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table, her tray of food untouched in front of her.
“Don’t you think we need to talk to her?”
Oliver wiped his hands together and leaned forward so they looked like they were playing a game of chess.
“I think we should just keep to ourselves. Have you looked around? Everyone is still talking about us.”
Matilda looked over her shoulder. At first glance, the cafeteria was as it always was, laughter and shoving across tables, frantic homework getting scribbled before the bell rang for the next class, and chatter and heartbreak echoing between the tables and chairs. But when Matilda looked around, there were conversations behind hands and averted eyes as she caught people looking their way.
“Stupid Instagram,” said Matilda, folding her arms. “There’s no point in trying to change a perception if it’s all hashtag Matilda’s a murderer. The spell was a total waste if everyone’s still talking about us.”
“Maybe I did it wrong?” said Oliver, rubbing the back of his head. “I mean, when is sunset, technically?”
“Hmm?” said Matilda, pushing herself up as her eyes followed Erin walking to the counter.
Oliver looked around.
“No. Matilda, sit down. Just leave her,” he hissed.
Matilda ignored Oliver as he frantically waved her back to their table. Not caring that half the room was probably still watching her and suspecting her of murder, she took a deep breath and walked over to the counter where Erin was choosing her lunch.
“Erin,” she said, the memory of the sheep chasing them surging through her. “Hey! Erin!”
Erin stared through the glass at congealed pasta and rubbery burgers, her eyes widening when Matilda grabbed her arm and spun her around. She looked into Matilda’s face and her expression switched from benign indifference at the lunchtime offerings to poisonous hostility. Matilda had gotten used to Erin watching her from a distance when they stopped being friends, but she’d done it less and less as time went on and their friendship became just another childhood memory. Erin might glance at her in the hallway, but she had never looked at Matilda with such hate before.
“Get away from me,” she snapped, yanking her arm out of Matilda’s grip.
“Not until you tell me why you were following us yesterday.”
“I’ve told you before; I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Why were you there? What did you do to those sheep? Why were you watching us at the party?”
Everyone in the room heard Erin’s palm slap across Matilda’s face before she felt its sting burn her cheek. She gasped, her mouth turned down in shock as she blinked at Erin.
“What the…?” said Matilda, her voice wobbling like her trembling hands. “You slapped me. How could you slap me?”
A pretty girl with a nose ring and long braids rushed toward Erin as Matilda felt Oliver’s hands on her shoulders. He steered her away from Erin and the girl, who was gripping Erin’s wrist and whispering into her ear, past the sniggering and the smartphones and out of the cafeteria with her hand and her shock plain on her face.
They pushed through the doors, and Matilda turned to Oliver.
“That just happened, right?” said Matilda, her wide eyes blinking as she gestured over her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“Do you have eyes? No, I’m not okay! That bitch just slapped me. I got slapped! In my face!”
“I know,” said Oliver, his eyes filled with concern as he shook his head. “What was that about, do you think?”
“I don’t give a shit what it was about. Nobody does that to me.”
Matilda tried to shove past Oliver, shuffling side to side when he jumped backward and got in her path.
“Whoa,” he said, putting his palm on the wall and blocking her. “What are you doing?”
“I need my bag. It’s got my spell book in it.”
“Your spell book? That’s cute, Sabrina.”
Matilda glowered at Oliver but felt her anger getting extinguished by his flirting.
“It’s just where I keep my notes and spells.”
“Is that different from the grimoire?”
Matilda nodded. “The grimoire is passed down through the bloodline, and it’s the source of our power. My book is just what I carry around with me for everyday spells.”
“Should I have a book? Is there an app instead?”
Matilda blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You can’t distract me with this crap, Oliver.”
“I know,” said Oliver, folding his arms. “But, has your desire to go and turn Erin into a frog waned a little?” Matilda rolled her eyes and nodded. “Good, then I’ll leave you to keep cooling off and I will go retrieve your bag, then we’re going to skip and decide what to do about all of this.
Before Matilda could respond, Oliver had turned and disappeared back into the cafeteria. She folded her arms and fell back against the wall, trying to make herself believe that the bubbles in her stomach were from her anger at being slapped and not at the anticipation of skipping school and spending the afternoon with Oliver.
* * *
“What does it look like again?”
Matilda sighed and turned to Oliver, who was peering at a crooked tree branch like he was expecting something to suddenly unfurl from its skeletal limbs. Green ivy covered the trunk he stood at, and Matilda wondered if Ivy herself had been close by during one of her rumored trips out of the well. She pulled her book from her bag and showed him the sketch of a plant. Again.
“This. Solanum dulcamara, also known as bittersweet or woody nightshade. It looks like this, with reddish berries, and you’re not going to find it growing on a silver birch tree.”
“And why are we looking for it again? In the woods. In the cold,” said Oliver, adjusting his scarf and shoving his hands in his pockets as he squinted at the plants and fallen leaves.
“I need Erin to be honest with me,” said Matilda.
“That’s right. That’s what you keep saying.”
Matilda pushed a branch out of her way and crept through the woods. She knew the area like the back of her hand, having spent so much of her childhood in the woods memorizing the names of the flora that grew there and learning to respect the fauna that made their homes there.
Erin’s hand slapping across her face echoed through Matilda’s head. She balled her hands into fists and took down a lungful of air, letting her woods ground her. Oliver had been right to stop her from lashing out. Matilda would have felt some gratification at first, but then the emptiness would have come crawling back after she gathered another name on her face.
Especially Erin’s name.
Now, with some distance from the slap, Matilda was determined to find out what Erin was up to.
She scanned the camouflage until the fire-colored berries caught her attention, like tiny little bull’s-eyes among the scrambling green vines. She pushed through the weeds, not caring that the dampness of the undergrowth soaked her jeans up to her knees.
“Found some,” she called over her shoulder, hearing Oliver’s footsteps trail after her, tiny clouds of his breath puffing by her ear when he stopped behind her.
“That’s it?” he asked, and Matilda nodded, slipping her backpack from her shoulder and pulling out a latex glove. “Looks tasty.”
Oliver reached out to the berries that dangled down in little bunches and huffed when Matilda smacked his hand and glared at him.
“No. Looks poisonous. Very poisonous.”
“Oh.” Oliver swallowed, then widened his eyes. “I don’t think poisoning Erin is the answer, Matilda. She’s not going to be very honest if she’s dead.”
“We’re not poisoning her,” said Matilda, putting the glove on then pulling a small glass jar from her bag. “She’s hardly going to ingest any of it.”
She plucked three of the deadly berries from the bunch and dropped them into the jar.
“Now what?” he asked.
Matilda held up the jar and swirled it around, making the berries inside chase each other around and around. She smiled at Oliver, relishing sharing the preparation of a spell in someone else’s company for a change.
“Now, Mr. Private School Witch, let’s see what you can do.”
* * *
Twilight had come, but under the shadows of the trees the time could pass for midnight. The crows called out, protesting that they weren’t ready for rest, wanting to see what the witch and her companion were cooking up in the sooty cauldron on the glowing pile of twigs and dry, curled leaves.
Matilda picked up a handful of dirt and held it above the cauldron, rubbing it between her hands before it fell into the purple liquid. She glanced at Oliver, shadows dancing over his face but not hiding his features enough that Matilda couldn’t see the excitement in his eyes.
“Why the mud?”
“To honor the earth. It’s where all the elements of the spell began.”
“Oh.”
Matilda’s lips twitched as Oliver nodded.
“What do you think goes in next?”
An owl hooted and Oliver looked up, then back at Matilda, his face in a grimace.
“Not the owl?” He jerked his head around as a chorus of frogs started ribbiting. He swallowed. “Or the frogs?”
“We never use the energy of a living creature,” said Matilda, dusting the last of the dirt off her hands.
“Energy?”
“Life force. Spirit. Whatever you want to call it.” Matilda looked up, her cheeks warming in the glow of the fire bubbling under her cauldron. “Blood.”
“Really?”
Matilda cocked her head and frowned at Oliver.
“You seem surprised?”
“I guess I am,” he said. Matilda raised her eyebrows, and he went on. “I’ve read loads about how animal blood in witchcraft is…”
Oliver swallowed, his eyes searching the darkness for the right word.
“Powerful?” Matilda offered. “It’s true. Blood, the force of a living thing, would make any spell more powerful, but we don’t do that.”
“We?” Oliver swallowed. “So, some people do?”
Matilda nodded. “People who haven’t been taught about the origins of our magic, the importance of respecting what we share this earth with.”
Oliver smiled. “People like me, you mean.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Matilda. “From what I’ve heard, though, witches who do go down that route tend to be self-taught.”
“You mean amateurs,” said Oliver, raising his eyebrows playfully.
Matilda smiled back at him. “Howeve
r you want to put it. But normally, because they’re not rooted naturally in the magic, they don’t have the discipline or experience to handle that sort of power.” She picked up the jar of bittersweet berries. “So, no to the owl, no to the frog. Next we add this.”
“But you’ve seriously never used, like, eye of newt, toe of frog?” said Oliver, watching Matilda pour the berries into the liquid.
“I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head. She thought of the thin line she danced on but never crossed. The spell she used on Ashley was probably the closest she’d ever gotten to that kind of magic, but she knew in her heart that she hadn’t ended the bee’s life. “I’ve ingested living things before but, and I know it’s gross, they always come back up. If I find a feather on the ground or a snake skin, I’d use them because they’re gifts from the living. My mom is always going on about balance and she’s right about that at least; magic is like fire, pretty on a birthday cake but deadly if you set fire to something you shouldn’t. I don’t tip the scales with what I do; I might cause someone pain, but I feel that pain physically on my face.”
“So, if Erin really killed all those animals, or even Ashley as well…,” wondered Oliver.
“Death in magic is a dark path, one you can easily get lost on. If Erin used all the death from those animals in a spell…” Matilda widened her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t imagine the kind of power or control she would have felt. That would be some high-level shit. Where do you go after that?”
“On to human life.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Matilda crossed her legs and pulled her ponytail out, shaking her hair over her shoulders.
“What if it’s not her, though?”
Doubt blew a gentle breath on Matilda’s ear and she suppressed a shudder as two other faces swirled into her thoughts: her mother’s and her own.
Mark of the Wicked Page 10
