I do really like the idea of making teas as a part of her shop. Would be so cool and a way to stretch my witchy muscles too. Perfect. Mom might not agree, but once I pass my exam and become a full-fledged witch, I can do what I want. An active member of the witch community. I want nothing more.
Myra reaches for a napkin. It slips out of her fingers. We watch as it rises up in the air and darts toward her, cutting her arm deeper than a paper cut should.
More napkins rise up, most pointing at me, and I recall my desperate words, saying for me to be threatened instead. I grab her hand and yank her to the door. “Let’s go get your textbook.”
I don’t give her a chance to answer. We’ve reached the living room now, and a sound builds up. Glancing behind, I see the napkins, now folded like knives, zooming toward us as a wailing reminiscent of Myra’s during her nightmares fills my ears to the point that I just want to stop moving and cower, covering my ears.
Chapter Four
Myra opens the door, and I slam it shut. The napkins hit against it and fall to the ground. I still hear the wailing, but it’s muted now.
“That was so good, wasn’t it?”
Relief pushes away some of my fright. At least her mind is still foggy that not everything is registering yet.
We talk about boys and the prom on the ride back to my place. Once we get back to my room, she halts in the doorway. “The tea. My dreams. Did you see anything?”
I give her what I hope is a coy smile. “I saw nothing. I’m just not a strong enough witch, I guess.”
“You really aren’t a witch?”
She sounds so disappointed. I so wish I can confide in her, but it’s against the witchy code.
Still, that hasn’t prevented a few witches from sharing. Of course, that usually leads to persecution. But even if I can’t tell her, there’s something else I can do.
“Maybe instead of selling teas at your shop, I can read palms.” I wink and hold out my hand.
Myra raises an arched eyebrow. “You. Read palms? Since when?”
“I be a witch of many talents. Are ye gonna let me try or just stare at me like I have two heads?”
She hesitates, tilting her head. “At my house…”
“Or are ye too scared to?” I tease.
Her hand slaps against mine. “I’m not afraid of anything.” But she tilts her head again.
Before she can remember anything, I ramble, “This here be your lifeline. And this says how many kids you’ll have.”
“None, right?” She shudders. “Little balls of snot.”
I’m not really reading her palm. It’s boring and not always accurate. But the art of predication, now that’s fascinating and super accurate, even if the meaning isn’t always clear at first.
“Myra, I need ye to stop talkin’ now, so I can concentrate.”
“Caitlin, you’re scaring me.”
“Jist relax.” I feel myself disengaging from my body, my spirit communing with the earth, the stars, time itself. Flashes come to me, pictures too quick to be seen, and my lips move of their own accord. “Regina Mascorro will kill again, and her daughter will be reunited with her father.”
Myra yanks her hand back. “What the…”
Crude. More experienced witches can keep predications to themselves instead of blurting them out. “Um… I’m sure that was jist—”
“My mom will kill? Again?”
“It was stupid—”
“And the only way for me to be reunited with Dad is to die.” Myra’s eyes grow wide. “Does that mean Mom will kill me?”
“As if. You’re mom’s a businesswoman. She wouldn’t know the first thing about killin’ anyone. It was jist a stupid joke.”
“After everything that happened at the house, you expect me to believe that.” She’s rubbing her now completely healed hand.
“Whit are ye talking’ aboot?” I ask, desperately hoping she’s not remembering.
Five sudden sneezes from me cut her off.
“Something really bad is going on. What was that at the house? Do you think… A ghost? Maybe of the person Mom murdered. Oh, God, what if my mom really did murder someone?”
“Ye be so excitable today.” I pat her shoulder.
“I know. I’ve known. You really are a witch. Don’t try to play this off.”
I can’t confirm her guess, but I refuse to deny it. “I…” Have no words.
Her cell phone rings. “Hello, Mrs. Patterson… No, I didn’t know. That’s wonderful… I didn’t know about that either. I… Yes. I’m so sorry. I’ll be sure to pass that along.” She ends the call.
“Well?” I can’t believe I have to prompt her.
“That was one of Mom’s coworkers. She got the promotion.”
“That’s amazing! See, ye have nothing to be—”
“Thomas Gray, another coworker, died four nights ago. She wanted me to tell Mom his funeral is tomorrow. Caitlin, Mom hasn’t showed up for work today or the day before that.”
I really don’t have any words.
“Caitlin… what if my mom killed him? Mr. Gray was Mom’s biggest competition to get the promotion.”
Chapter Five
Nothing I say can convince her I was playing around, that the eerie happenings at her house were nothing out of the ordinary. And who can blame her? She remembers everything now: her hand burning, my choking, the napkins, the wailing.
“It’s Mr. Gray’s ghost. I’m sure of it.” She’s pacing around my room, making me dizzy as I watch her.
Myra doesn’t even notice when I slip out of the room, and she absentmindedly drinks the tea I prepare for her. Soon, she’s sleeping peacefully again. The drops of unicorn blood should help make sure it’s nightmare free.
When the front door slams shut, I race downstairs. Mom looks just like me with wild red hair and blue-green eyes. She’s a little taller so that she stands thinner than I do.
She takes one glance at my face and closes her eyes. “Out with it.”
“Mom, I need your help.” I wring my hand, unable to bear looking at her.
We sit on the leather couch, and I tell her everything, not even omitting spilling the bat wings on the counter.
“Those were your exact words?” she says.
It’s scary how closed up her face is. Normally I can read her every emotion, which isn’t always a good thing when Dad’s around.
“Yes. That was my prophecy.”
Mom stands. “I want the two of you to stay here.”
“But we have—”
“No school tomorrow. I’m serious.” She runs to the front door. Mom is so not a runner.
“Where are you goin’?” My voice doesn’t shake, but my insides are quaking. I know ghosts are bound to stay near where they were murdered, but maybe I misread things. After all, I’m not even a real witch yet. “I… My prediction. I was wrong. Please tell me I was wrong.”
Suddenly, I’m across the room, tugging on her arm like I did when I was four and afraid of the dark, not wanting her to leave my room for the night.
Mom rubs my cheek. “You tell me. Were you wrong?”
I think a moment then shake my head. In my heart, I know my prophecy is accurate. “Does this mean… What about Myra?”
“We’ll worry about that later. First, we have to gather.”
“We? Gather? You mean the coven?”
Mom nods, kisses my forehead, and leaves.
I stand in the open doorway, but she’s already disappeared.
The coven. This is bad. That it’s serious enough to call in the coven means Myra’s mom really did murder someone and would do it again. Murders leave ghosts, and ghosts can spell bad news for witches.
I shut and lock the front door. By now, Dad probably has joined Mom, off to find the head witch. It’s so selfish of me to want them both here, but I do.
After ensuring the back door is locked, and the windows too, I check in on Myra. She stirs slightly and opens her eyes. “I had a dream.”
<
br /> I sit on the edge of my bed as she sits up. “The same as the other times?”
“No. About my dad.” Her face scrunches up. Oh, please don’t let her cry. Then I’ll cry, and it’ll just be a big, wet mess.
“So, a good dream?” I hope.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Kinda.”
“Please. Be more vague.”
“Caitlin?”
“Yeah?”
“I have to talk to my mom.”
I jump to my feet, my mom’s emphatic instructions repeating in my mind. “Are ye sure that’s a good idea?”
“I have to know.”
There’s no fogginess or veil over her eyes. She knows what she’s saying, what she means to do.
And I don’t blame her one bit.
Chapter Six
I stand and pace around my room, following the path she’d walked earlier. “I don’t think we should go back to your house. Try callin’ her. See if she’ll come here.”
Myra’s already dialing. “It’s ring—Hi, Mom.”
The relief in Myra’s voice makes me want to smile, but I can’t. Would it have been better if her mom hadn’t answered?
“Come over to Caitlin’s? We’re working on a project about my family tree, and I’ve hit into a snag… Oh great. See you soon.” She tosses her phone on the bed and blows out a breath that has her bangs fluttering.
“‘Hit a snag’?”
“It’s an expression Mom uses a lot.” She picks at her nails. “She’ll lie, won’t she?”
“How are we goin’ to go about this? Ye can’t exactly jist ask her right away if she’s killed anyone.”
We talk about a hundred different ways to “beat around the bush” as Myra terms it, but nothing feels right. As if anything could under the circumstances.
“It’ll be fine.” I squeeze her shoulder.
“Yeah.” Myra’s got that looking off into the distance thing going on again.
Pounding at the front door makes me jump. “Ready?” I ask.
“Not at all.”
In unison, we take our time reaching the front door. As soon as I open it, Miss Mascorro rushes in past me and envelopes Myra into a hug.
“I’m so happy to see you.”
Myra wiggles free. “Where have you been?” She crosses her arms.
Uh oh. Interrogation route. Not the one I would’ve chosen, but since her mom is the one being grilled, it’s best I let Myra handle the tongs.
“I just assumed you were going to work early and sleeping already when I came home after activities,” she continues. “But then Mrs. Patterson called, so I know you haven’t been into the office.”
“I left a note for you. I’m sure I did.” Miss Mascorro sits on the couch and pats beside her for Myra to sit. She doesn’t. Her mom sighs. “I had to get away for a little while.”
“You didn’t even tell me you got the promotion.”
Miss Mascorro glances at me then Myra. “I thought you said something about a school project?”
“Not for school. And it’s about whether or not… You said you had to get away. Why?”
Her mom’s smile seems forced. “You know how sometimes you need a mental health day from school sometimes? Well, you never outgrow the need for them.”
“You’ve never taken one before.”
It’s awkward for me to still be standing by the door, so I close it and sit on the love seat that’s against the wall closest to the couch. Now only Myra’s standing. It makes me nervous, and from the way her mom is rubbing her thumb over her nails, I’m not the only one on edge.
“Something came up.” Miss Mascorro stood. “What’s with all of the questions? What project is this?”
“Miss Mascorro…” I glance at Myra, who nods. “Would ye like some tea?”
It’s not because I’m going to put anything in it. While it is possible to use herbs to force someone to tell the truth, we don’t have the ingredients, and it can be deadly. Since death got us into this mess, we certainly don’t need more of it.
So I duck into the kitchen more or less to give them a few minutes to themselves, but I can still hear everything they’re saying.
“I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about the promotion. We could have celebrated! I’ll have to make you a cake. And frosting. Do you want buttercream? What flavor?”
Changing tactics. Might be smart.
“Whatever you want, dear.”
Miss Mascorro sounds so worn.
“Mrs. Patterson mentioned something else. Mom…” There’s rustling. Maybe Myra finally sat down. “Mr. Gray’s funeral is tomorrow.”
I waltz out of the kitchen in time to see Miss Mascorro jerk to her feet awkwardly, as if her body was snapping into place. “Tom Gray?”
“When was the last time ye saw him?” I ask as I force the cup of tea into her hands.
“I… I’m not sure.”
Myra’s frowns alerts me to her plan, but I have no time to stop her as she blurts, “You killed him four nights ago, didn’t you? To eliminate the competition and get the promotion!”
Chapter Seven
The cup falls out of Miss Mascorro’s hand. I mange to dive and catch it, but tea splatters onto the carpet. Great.
But I’m not really focused on the tea. Her face is paler than a ghost, if ghosts were visible. Sweat collects on her forehead.
“Y-you think I…” She looks at Myra then me then back to her daughter again. “I’m not a murderer.”
Her voice is shaking too much to be convincing.
Oh God. I was right. My predication… We’re here, in my living room, with a murderer!
If I’m not the one she kills next, Mom’ll finish the job. I’m so dead either way.
I inch around the coffee table to Myra’s side. I only know a few defensive chants. Offensive ones aren’t taught until the year before testing.
“Did you see him the night he died?” I asks, keeping my voice as unaccusing as possible.
She nods. “I invited him over for dinner. I made him a meal. We talked, had some wine. We knew that in the morning, one of us would be promoting. It was sort of a congratulatory thing.”
“And whit happened?” I rush to ask before Myra can say anything. She’s gripping my arm so tightly I know she wants to pounce on her mom, but when I glance over, I see fright in her eyes, as well as some hope for an explanation where her mom isn’t a killer.
“We ate a lovely meal together. He left. Myra came home. I went to bed. I went to work in the morning. Tom never showed. I got the promotion. Really, girls, I’ve had a long day and—”
“A long day after a mental health day? Or should I say days?” Myra crosses her arms, her eyes wet. “Mom, why do I feel like you’re hiding something from me?”
Her mom approaches and kisses her forehead. “There’s nothing to hide. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I think I need a moment.” She brushes her hand beneath her eye. “My own daughter thinks I would… that I’m capable of…” Coughing and not quite hiding a sob, she hurries to the door and leaves.
Myra whirls on me. “Do you believe her?”
“I donncha know.”
“There wasn’t anything in that tea?”
“No. I’m na—”
“A witch. Whatev. Don’t need you lying to me too.” She stomps up the stairs.
The last thing I need is for her to be on my back.
I chase after her. “Myra, listen to me. There were two parts to the prophecy.”
“Is that what it was?” Her face is twisted with fright. “Cait, I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.” She sits on my bed and brings her legs up, wrapping an arm around them. Normally I wouldn’t want her shoes touching my bedspread, but today is anything but normal.
“I donncha know whit to think anymore either.” I give her a hug. It’s not much, but it’s all I can offer her right now.
A three-sneeze attack hits me. Myra pulls away and just looks at me. She knows it too. S
omething else just happened. Something worse than before.
Chapter Eight
“Do you think that has something to do with my mom?” Myra asks.
She’s so believing of everything. Accepts it all. Then again, she’s been a believer for a while now, so it shouldn’t be too surprising.
“I donncha know. It might.” I bite my lower lip. “Where do ye think she might have gone?”
“Maybe back to wherever she’s been the past few days. Or maybe back home.”
To the ghost.
“I gotta go.” I race to the front door and open it.
Myra touches my shoulder. In my rush, I hadn’t realized she followed me down the stairs. “I’m coming too.”
There’s no time to argue. We buckle up—Mom doesn’t need her car when she’s in full witchy mode—and I floor it. Speed limit? Not for me. Not today.
My heart is beating so fast. What if Myra’s mom has killed again? What if that isn’t the end of it? What if she hasn’t killed yet, and her next victim is one of us?
“Stay here.” I slam the car to a halt and park it. Out the car and to the front door. It’s locked, but a quick kick—much faster than any chant and besides I’m too nervous and frightened, verging on petrified, to remember the correct one—and it swings open.
I don’t bother to walk in farther. There’s no need.
Myra’s mom has killed again.
She committed suicide.
Chapter Nine
“Mom!” Myra shrieks, wedging past me to the figure hanging from the chandelier.
“Myra, wait!” Her mom’s body is swaying slightly, and I don’t think the chandelier can support her weight for much longer.
But Myra doesn’t listen. She grabs onto her mom’s torso, sobbing. “Can’t… you… do something?” she asks between hiccups and sobs.
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