Spells Trouble

by Kristin Cast

  The heavy wooden door of Parrott Family Funeral Home creaked open in ominous, horror movie fashion. Hunter slipped inside to the foyer. Wood paneling, forest green walls, and black-and-white photos of woodland scenes greeted her. It smelled like flowers and cedar with a hint of cinnamon. Hunter didn’t know what she’d expected, but she hadn’t prepared herself for normalcy.

  Hunter cleared her throat. “Mr. Parrott?”

  It was silent for a moment before another creaky door opened. “Be right there, girls,” Emily’s dad and Goodeville’s only funeral director called from down the hall.

  Hunter took a deep breath. She felt lighter. Maybe it was the fact that the bright Illinois sun no longer burned her tender eyes. Or maybe it was because she and her sister were taking steps forward. This wouldn’t be the new, happier life Hunter had envisioned, but there was something to be said for putting the past in the past.

  “You ready for this?” Hunter groped the empty air beside her as she searched for Mercy’s hand. She turned. No Mercy, only the ornately carved door and more black-and-white forest photos.

  The old wood floors creaked under Hunter’s feet as she moved toward the door and hefted it open. Mercy was waiting just on the other side. She sniffled and brushed her pink-tipped nose on her sleeve. “I can’t do it.” Her chin quivered and Hunter fought the urge to scoop her sister up into her arms and rush back to the car. They had to do this. Anyone who had ever lost someone they loved had to do this. It was as much a part of life as living.

  Hunter propped the door open with her foot and slid the long sleeve of her shirt down over her bandaged arm. “I’ll do it alone,” she whispered as she reached out and took Mercy’s hand in hers. The weight was back. It hadn’t been the dark colors and warm light of the funeral home or the fact that she was there to move forward, begin her new life. It had been the absence of her sister.

  Hunter swallowed the thought along with the knot forming in the back of her throat. “Really, Mag, you can go home. I’ll have Jax—”

  “Abigail wouldn’t want that.” Mercy dropped Hunter’s hand and slipped past her into the funeral home.

  Hunter sagged against the door as it shut. She wanted to say something that would make everything better, that would fix her sister, but grief wouldn’t exist without love. And Mercy had loved their mother so, so much. Hunter rubbed her finger along the raw flesh that rimmed her thumbnail as she studied Mercy’s slumped shoulders and the way she hugged her arms against her middle as if her insides would spill onto the floor if she didn’t hold them in. Was despair a testament to love? Hunter bit down on her fingernail. It couldn’t be. She loved her mother just as much as her sister. But Hunter had been through more than Mercy. The teasing, the name-calling, the bullying. In eighth grade, Rachel Leech had cut off her ponytail because dykes don’t have long hair. A jagged piece of Hunter’s nail tore free and she clenched it between her teeth. Her life had been a series of devastating events, one stacked on top of the other in a perverted game of Jenga until this—the pièce de résistance. But Hunter wouldn’t let her mother’s death topple her. As Mercy would say, Abigail wouldn’t want that.

  Footsteps creaked down the hallway as Mr. Parrott neared the foyer. “Sorry to keep you two waiting, had an unexpected call that I couldn’t get away from…” He stilled as he caught sight of Mercy. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

  Mercy hiccupped and tightened her grip around her core.

  Mr. Parrott dipped his fingers into his collar and pulled gently. “I’ve known Abigail my whole life. She introduced me to Helene…” He continued to tug at his collar as he spoke. “Abigail actually gave me a special cookie recipe. She said that it would make Helene’s true feelings known. We were married three months later.”

  The floor groaned under Hunter’s weight as she scooted closer to her sister. Did hearing stories like this help? Is that what Mercy needed, to relive all the good times? Or did she need to pack away her anguish and shove it in a forgotten corner of her mind? Either way, Hunter would carry on. She’d watch pieces of herself flake off and float away like she’d been doing her entire life.

  Mr. Parrott rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath. “You’ll have to excuse me, girls. I was shocked to get the news this morning. Haven’t quite processed it yet.”

  “We understand how you feel, Mr. Parrott.” Hunter had meant for her words to sound comforting, uniting even. Instead they fell out of her mouth bland and dry and flat.

  He moved aside and motioned for the twins to step down into the sitting room. “Dominic. You both know you can call me Dominic.”

  Hunter did know she could call him by his first name. He’d been saying the same thing since they’d entered high school. She’d always seen it as a prize they’d been given for going through puberty. But Hunter didn’t believe in being given prizes. She believed in earning respect.

  Mercy let out a strained sigh and descended the stairs. Hunter followed her sister as she dragged her feet across the maroon-and-gold Turkish rug until she reached the edge of the closest settee and plopped down. The sunset yellow glow from the overhead chandelier sparkled off the round glass coffee table that separated the girls from the funeral director.

  “What happens next?” The dry leaves stuffed in Hunter’s pocket crunched as she sat down next to Mercy. “We’ve never had to do anything like this before.”

  Mr. Parrott straightened a stack of brochures before he removed the top folder from a pile of folders neatly arranged in the center of the coffee table. “I need both of you to sign a few documents that will allow me to proceed with funeral preparations. Then, we’ll need to go by the sheriff’s department to identify and claim your mother.”

  Mercy’s sob was cut short as she clapped her hands over her mouth.

  “But I have a good relationship with Sheriff Dearborn.” Mr. Parrott removed a few papers from the folder and slid them across the table. “With your signatures and Goodeville being the tight-knit community that it is, I’m sure I’ll be able to claim Abigail on my own and make sure everything is taken care of before I head out of town. Then, when I return, we can proceed with the funeral.”

  Hunter nodded and flattened her palm against Mercy’s back. With each inhale, her sister trembled like the wind-battered surface of Sugar Creek.

  “If you’ll both sign and date the bottom of each of these pages, we can move on to the death certificate and necessary burial permit.” He plucked a pen from the table and offered it to Hunter. “Mercy.” The creases of his forehead deepened as he went on, all the while speaking to the wrong twin. “Take your time. We’re in no rush.”

  Hunter snatched the pen from the funeral director’s outstretched hand. “I’m Hunter, not Mercy.” Without reading the pages, she pressed the tip of the pen against the first paper and drew the loops and swishes of her practiced signature so hard the letters imprinted across the other four sheets.

  “Apologies, Hunter.” Mr. Parrott cleared his throat and rubbed his palms against his thighs. “You girls wouldn’t happen to have your mother’s birth certificate or know if she created a will, would you?”

  Mercy scooted to the edge of the settee and snatched the pen off of the table. “We want Abigail buried at home. Does it say that somewhere in these?” She picked up the pages and shook them. “I won’t sign anything if we can’t have our mother buried at our home.” Mercy’s wide-eyed, panicked gaze swung to Hunter. “I won’t sign these, H. I won’t!” She threw the papers down and they drifted to the floor.

  Hunter gripped her sister’s knee. Mercy was sinking, pulled under by the anvil of grief she’d pressed into her heart.

  Mr. Parrott swept up the papers and returned them to the table with an undisturbed grace that spoke to his years of handling the bereaved. “I will list the burial location when I file the permit. If there’s an issue, the city will get back to me quickly.”

  “There won’t be an issue.” Tears splatted against Mercy’s shirt, darkeni
ng the heather gray fabric. “Our family members have been buried at our home for hundreds of years.”

  The funeral director clasped his hands and nodded. “They have been, and Abigail will be, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Hunter picked the pen up off the floor and handed it to Mercy. She met her twin’s eyes and telegraphed the look to her—sending her strength and understanding through their unbreakable bond. “Here, Mag. Let’s sign these and go home.”

  Mercy nodded, a short, jerky movement, and wiped her face on her sleeve before taking the pen and signing each of the papers. When she was finished, Hunter wrapped her arm around her sister and helped her to her feet. Hunter needed to do something for Mercy. But the one person she would have gone to for advice was now waiting at the sheriff’s office to be claimed.

  Eleven

  The entire drive back toward their house from the Parrott Family Funeral Home, Hunter thought about how she could help Mercy and what her mother would have said. Every thought that occurred to her eventually led nowhere. She was alone and in the dark like she’d always been. By now, the stillness was a comfort, something to hold on to when the world turned inside out and true darkness fell. And it didn’t get darker than the death of Abigail Goode.

  Mercy said nothing, did nothing as Hunter flipped on the turn signal and headed down Sycamore Street to take the long way home. A part of Hunter dreaded going back to their house, the hollow skeleton that had once been the most comforting place on earth. Her mother had been the marrow, the lifeblood, the heart. But what did that make her? What did that make Mercy? Were the sisters walking shadows that took up space without giving anything back in return? Hunter rubbed her tight, dry lips together. Her mother hadn’t felt that way about her daughters. And neither should Hunter. Perhaps the Goode sisters each held a piece of marrow and blood and heart. And if Hunter could bring their home back to life, she could definitely figure out a way to revive her sister.

  With a sigh, Mercy blew Hunter’s thoughts right out the window. She strained against her seat belt, turned to face Hunter, and folded her legs up under her before stilling again and resuming her listless stare out the window as Hunter guided the car through the quaint neighborhood that framed Main Street. Each house was a cupcake, fatter than they were tall and each decorated in a different shade of pastel. If Hunter had more experience driving, she could get them home blindfolded and without GPS.

  Mercy let out another sigh and rested the back of her head on the passenger window. “How are you so okay with everything? I feel like I’m dying.”

  The trench in Hunter’s stomach deepened. It wasn’t an accusation, but it stung nonetheless. “I’m not okay with everything.” Hunter kept her eyes fixed on the road like it was the only thing preventing the car from careening into one of the cupcake houses.

  “You don’t seem upset.”

  This time Hunter did look at her sister. She opened her mouth to speak but wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to slam on the brakes and throw open the door and rush out into the middle of the street and curse the sky, the earth, the gods, whichever was responsible for taking her mother. But that would do her no good. And that would leave Mercy alone in her own darkness, her new darkness, and she wasn’t sure if Mercy could find her way out. Hunter closed her mouth and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

  “It’s just…” Mercy sagged deeper into the seat. “Business as usual for Hunter Goode.”

  Hunter bit the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t her fault she was better at dealing with problems than Mercy, or that Mercy had the luxury of only having to face one devastating thing. It didn’t matter how many times Mercy had been there to comfort Hunter while she cried about her latest bullying tragedy, or how many times Mercy brewed Hunter a pot of healing tea and talked about problems as simple things, shimmering bubbles of pain that would eventually pop and leave no trace. Mercy had never fully understood Hunter’s pain because she’d had so little of her own.

  But maybe now she would.

  Hunter stopped at a stop sign as Mercy popped open the glovebox and removed the pack of travel tissues their mother kept next to the car’s manual and a satchel stuffed full of dried sage. Mercy pulled out a tissue and dabbed the rounded tip of her pink nose. “I wish I was more like you.”

  Lint clung to the beams of light shining in through the windows. A chuckle hardened in the back of Hunter’s throat. She’d been wishing the exact same thing about herself for the past sixteen years. But that wish had been a compliment to Mercy and, somehow, this didn’t feel the same.

  Mercy balled up the tissue and dropped her hands into her lap. “It’s a charm or a tincture or something, isn’t it? Something that just took away all of your feelings.”

  Hunter’s knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “It’s nothing magical, Mag,” she said, pressing a bit too firmly on the gas. The car lurched forward before she let off and resumed her twenty mile per hour cruise through the innards of Goode-ville. “You know that’s not—” She pressed the brakes. The car jerked to a stop in front of a pale pink house guarded by plastic flamingos. “Oh my god.” Hunter’s fingertips flew to her pendant.

  Mercy frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “Ess, H. Oh my goddess.”

  Ignoring her sister, Hunter pulled her phone out of her pocket. She could help Mercy, but to do so, she’d need their friends.

  Twelve

  Hunter tiptoed across the kitchen and peered out into the living room. Mercy remained on the couch. The same place she’d been since they’d gotten home. The grief-stricken twin picked at the gold fringe that rimmed one of the many decorative pillows that propped her up and kept her from lying with her face smashed against the sofa cushions.

  Good. Hunter nodded to herself and hurried back to the sink. Well, it wasn’t necessarily good that Mercy was back to being nearly catatonic. But it was good that her witchy twin senses weren’t tingling. Hunter preferred to spring her plan on her sister intervention style.

  Hunter gathered five moonstones from the kitchen’s east-facing window and exchanged them for her pocketful of crunchy, shriveled leaves. They would deal with the trees as soon as she fixed her sister.

  She patted her pocket and absentmindedly glossed her fingertips over her T-shaped pendant as she set her intention on her way to the pantry.

  Heal Mercy. Heal Mercy. Heal—

  Hunter’s hand stilled on the pantry’s doorknob. Her mother’s basket of Kitchen Witchery was just behind the door. Her hand fell to her side. She should return the stones to the windowsill, slink upstairs, and pour her feelings onto the pages of her book, When Darkness Rises. It might turn a little Poe-esque, but at least the manuscript would distract her from the memories of her mother.

  She clutched her pendant: her constant reminder of her god. It warmed her palm and she let out a slow breath. She had to do this. To honor herself, to honor her sister, and, most of all, to honor her mother.

  Hunter restarted her mantra and opened the pantry. She squeezed her opal and stared at the wicker basket of Kitchen Witch accoutrements sitting on the bottom shelf. One day, she would celebrate that basket and all of the funny-smelling herbs and pages of handwritten recipes it contained. A grin tugged her cheeks as she refocused and took the rusted metal step stool out of its place behind the door. Her stomach fluttered with each creak and groan of the mini-ladder as she unfolded it and climbed the three steps to reach the top shelf. This was Hunter’s shelf, where she kept all of her supplies. Her favorite cauldron, her astrology charts, and most importantly, her moon water. When she and Mercy turned twelve, their mother had led them, hand in hand, into the kitchen. The trio had stood before the open pantry as their mother explained to them the importance of keeping a fully stocked and impeccably organized inventory of tools for whichever type of magic the girls chose to adopt.

  Hunter inhaled. Her mother’s cinnamon and spice scents hung in the air like dust, nearly bringing the memory to life.

>   “A witch is only as effective as she is organized. Think of what would happen if you were casting and meant to grab rosemary but instead grabbed poppy because your supplies were scattered hither and yon.” Abigail’s shiver tickled Hunter’s hand as she mirrored her mother’s pinched brow and shook her head.

  Hunter still wasn’t quite sure where hither and yon were, but, from that moment, she’d lived her life according to her mother’s advice.

  Hunter’s heartbeat quickened as she pulled her large copper cauldron off the shelf and ran her fingers along her jars of moon water. She’d felt this way since that very first time, four years ago, when magic brought her to the pantry. Then, she had been excited, had wanted to jump up and down and squeal with glee that her mother thought she was old enough, responsible enough, to have her own shelf and spellwork tools, but Mercy had seized the brief moment Hunter took to savor the gift. Her sister had screamed and cried and run in circles and sucked up all of the exhilaration until the space around them seemed to crack and pop like the last bits of milkshake being slurped through a straw. Now, Hunter would give anything to have that Mercy back.

  Heal Mercy. Heal Mercy. Heal Mercy.

  Energy pricked Hunter’s fingertips, sending a jolt down her arm that morphed the gentle butterflies flitting in her stomach into a swirling cyclone of swifts. She turned the large Mason jar and read what she’d written on her custom crescent-shaped label: APACHE TEARS. She picked up the jar and studied the stone resting in the bottom. The night Hunter had filled the glass with water and set it in the grass under the light of the full moon, the single speck of white in the center of the obsidian stone had flamed to life so bright that she’d had to shield her eyes. The power of the moon had released into the water the ancient healing properties of the Apache Tears stone. It was just the thing she’d need to heal her sister.