Halfway Dead (Halfway Witchy Book 1)

by Terry Maggert

  “How will I carry it?” My voice sounded small in my ears. It seemed like Halfway was behind a muted curtain, and I was standing with Gran in a bubble of silence.

  “Leave that to me. You are to rest today. Eat something, look at your lake, and perhaps even feed the ducks. Rest, child, and meet me at moonrise underneath the spreading limbs of the Mountain Ash growing at the edge of my property.” She softly kissed my cheek, then pulled back to look at me while smiling. I smelled the bright herbs of her kitchen and the powder on her skin. There was a world in that scent, and I wished the wight hadn’t hit me, so that I could truly savor the harbor of her presence.

  “I’ll be there, Gran,” I promised.

  She said nothing, but turned from me with a final squeeze of my shoulder. The noise of town came rushing back like an early tide, and I began to walk with purpose. Breakfast, then time in the sun with the lake sprawling before me, I decided. Everything else would wait, except the moon.

  The moon waits for no one. Neither does a witch seeking justice.

  Chapter Nine: A Ghostly Whisper

  I was as good as my word, and woke to the darkness of my house, well past sunset. Looking at the clock, I saw I’d slept nearly nine hours. The moon would rise soon, so I stepped gingerly to the floor and, for the hundredth time in a day, missed the presence of Gus. He was still at Gran’s after her announcement that no giant, slothful cat would be permitted to interrupt my rest. No matter how useful he might be to me, Gran put Gus second.

  I detest the feel of an empty house. It leaves me unsettled and open to pangs of loneliness. I stood next to my bed and began taking stock of the general condition my body had to report. So far, so good. I was stiff, but only a little, and my nose still pulsed with each heartbeat, so I knew the bruise would still be there, but I felt rested enough to assist Gran with her casting. Assuming she might need my help was quite a leap of faith, if not outright arrogance on my part. I doubted that my magic could augment her particular skill at this spell, and might actually interfere, given that I was to be the bearer of Gran’s creation. I pulled my hair up and away from my face, then slipped on running shoes. I squared my small shoulders, resolute in my need for coffee, and walked to the kitchen with one eye cast to the darkened floor. In less than an hour, there would be a buttery pane of moonlight moving across the wood, but I would be gone. I sighed with resignation, pushed the glowing green eye of my coffee maker, and waited for it to phlug to life, while I stood quietly running cantrips through my mind’s eye. With a cup in hand, I slung my bag over one shoulder and stepped out into the cool night air. The fat, merry moon was rising now, a silver coin of light that beckoned me to walk faster. My feet seemed lighter and, in minutes, I was running, the coffee slung into a shrub as I let the call of magic pull me to the distant shadows of Gran’s expansive yard.

  She was waiting there, tall and lovely in the growing light. I saw her smile as I slowed, letting my heart adjust downward to the silence of the scene. It seemed crude of me to roust the quiet from such a place, so I put hand on hips and took several deep, deliberate breaths, and felt my calm return like the gloom around a tired candle that gutters out, its work done.

  The tree was large but friendly, with a barrel-shaped trunk that flared into wildly divergent branches, all hanging still in the moist air between midnight and dawn. The sky was spangled with stars, but, even as I watched, the faintest among them yielded to the power of moonlight, winking out in bands as the Milky Way became narrower with each passing moment.

  “Any moment now, Carlie. Time for quiet.” Gran had expertly answered any question I may have had about the need for participation. I was to observe and open myself to her magic, and nothing more.

  A silver chain hung from one of her fingers, each link glistening with a liquid brilliance born of moonlight and dew. Gran had been standing there for some time, it seemed. She looked upward, face alight with the ecstasy of witchcraft in its purest form, and began to speak in a voice so soft I could discern nothing, save the glottal chirps of her own unique casting. It was eerie and beautiful, and I was reminded once again that all magic is utterly unique to the user. Gran had been placing her own stamp on our family magic for more than six decades, and it could be heard with each elegant, alien syllable that she cast upward to the distant moon. In her free hand, she held a jagged piece of glass that could only be from one of the antique photographic plates I’d seen at the library. The edges were sharp and irregular, and her fingers wrapped around the shard with such delicacy that it seemed to float in her hand.

  With deliberate, slow motions, she wound the silver chain around the glass, whispering softly. A smile danced on her lips and, for a fugitive moment, I saw Gran as a young woman. The moon’s magic was powerful, lifting years and experience from her skin to leave an illusion of dewy youth.

  In a silent trickle, the moon began to flake into brilliant motes, streaming downward to light upon the glass, now held in Gran’s outstretched palm and elevated upward. The dancing lights seemed joyful to me; as they pinged upon the silvery glass, each miniscule apparition vanished, and, after a long moment of this mending, the fragment began to glow. It stretched like a lazy cat waking from a nap in a sun-warmed windowsill—slowly, without direction, and free of care. Gran seemed to notice none of this as her eyes were glazed with the ecstasy of a spell blooming deep within her spirit; I knew the feeling, and found myself taking short, shallow breaths in order to preserve the silence.

  “Chain of light, in four directions, wound upon themselves,” Gran said, and her smile deepened with the pleasure of a new mother looking at her babe. “It took me decades to understand how to forge a link between the moon and Ever After. So delicate.” Again, that smile as the glass drew together in a perfect circle, a reflection of the moon captured within. It bound to the last links of the chain with a faint pop, releasing the scents of cinnamon and cedar, and the stream of dancing lights slowed, then stopped. Gran eased back from her toes—she’d risen on them like a dancer, and I noticed that she was barefooted. Around her, in a perfect circle, the grass was dry and I sensed warmth, but not damage. She’d protected the earth, even while acting as a bridge between the moon and the glass, and the entire world beneath her feet.

  When her eyes locked on mine, I felt an involuntary shudder at being in such proximity to that kind of power. With a steady hand, she held the newly-minted necklace to me, beckoning that I should try it on.

  “Where is the clasp?” I asked, seeing her smile at my confusion.

  “You need none, Carlie.” Gran laughingly put the necklace around me, and the ends drew together like old friends. I could discern no magic in the attraction, which was yet another indication of just how serious Gran’s witchcraft was.

  Around my neck, the miniature moon glowed with a warm, golden hue, casting a circlet of light on the skin of my neck. There were tears in my eyes as I asked, “How long will it glow?”

  Gran lifted the bauble, smiling again, and this time, there was something more like pride in her eyes. “Until you have stood before the place of chestnuts. Let the spirit of Erasmus be your guide, Carlie.”

  I stood mute, letting the delicacy of the moon wash over my face. I turned toward the deepest woods, and the necklace flared incrementally. Erasmus would show me the way, just as Gran had given me the means. Now, all I needed was the will, and I suspected that with the rising of the sun, I would have that and more. I was granddaughter to the most powerful woman I’d known, and our shared blood would guide my hand and keep me true. I hugged her, letting my head fall naturally into the nook of her shoulder and, as one, we began to walk back to her house.

  I toyed with the necklace, and let my thoughts cast out over the darkened trees that soared away into the night. Soon, Erasmus. I am bringing you peace. To your killer, I will bring justice.

  Chapter Ten: Short Girls Don’t Hike

  “Is this seriously how fast you walk? Are we racing or something?” I half-yelled at Jim. We’d been on
the main trail for less than ten minutes, and I found myself almost running to keep up with him, even though I was the one who knew the way. At a foot taller than me, his legs were that much longer. I was getting mighty tired of taking three steps to his one just to keep abreast so that we could talk.

  He stopped abruptly, and I ran into his back with a slight grunt. After turning to me, he looked down, and I swear he was about to make another short joke until he saw thunderclouds in my expression. I was ill-tempered, short on sleep, and had managed precious little coffee before we began this jaunt into the forest.

  With visible effort, he calmed himself. “Sorry, Carlie. I let my adrenaline get the best of me. I’ll slow down. And no, I’m not trying to ruin your day.” He looked around at the general majesty of nature, smiling. “It really is beautiful here.” That was dangerously close to an apology, so I straightened myself with great dignity and took a place next to him. The trail was well-worn and nearly ten-feet wide. It would continue on thusly for another three miles before things got wild, so to speak. I was following the cues from my necklace, but I had a general idea of how far into the park we would walk before branching off into more unknown territory. If anything, I expected that we might actually camp somewhere relatively close to town; we were gaining altitude faster than distance.

  “The park only gets more primal from here,” I said, and meant it. We’d already seen a deer that regarded us with large, soft eyes before flashing away into the greenery. We had heard, but only glimpsed, what sounded like a runaway tractor, but turned out to be a rotund porcupine trundling along, engrossed in its own concerns. Birds called all around us, and the hum of insects was a constant companion as we bent left, then right, in an ever-ascending series of elbows. Each turn brought us inexorably toward the pass between our first two legitimate mountains, a notch in the greenery some two-thousand feet up, and three miles distant.

  “Thirsty?” I asked.

  Despite being in excellent condition, Dietrich was sweating, and he gratefully accepted the chance to drink. He wore sensible clothes of light duck cotton, a tan hat that covered neck and brow, and boots that were new but appropriate. His pack was an aluminum frame military grade, and a large knife hung at his belt. The bulge of a pistol was visible in his shirt, and I studiously avoided taking notice. Better to let him have is secrets; I had my own, and that was fine with me.

  “Thanks.” He drank while looking around, his brown eyes narrowed at the scenery. “What’s the general frequency of moose?”

  “Well, they’re big, and there aren’t millions of them running around. They sort of do their own thing.” I looked around, hoping that one of the giants would amble out for a friendly hello. “There might be . . . several hundred. Moose, I mean.”

  Dietrich grinned. “I know they’re big, and now I know they’re uncommon. I find that to my liking.”

  “I understand. And you’re right, they’re huge, but we ought to be a little more concerned about bears. Oh, and coyotes,” I added, cheerfully.

  “You’re rather glib regarding denizens of the woods,” Dietrich said. His tone was respectful, but I sensed he was probing to see if I was being unnecessarily casual.

  “Animals are naturally occurring features. I don’t fear that which is natural. It’s the unnatural things that keep me awake at night.” I put my canteen away and pointed up trail. “Shall we?”

  “Indeed. And I promise to keep my pace more reasonable.” He smirked as I punched his arm. I don’t like short jokes, even when they’re veiled with a patina of manners.

  We walked in silence for some time, letting the forest enclose us with a hypnotic, welcoming feel. At a natural break in the tree cover, we turned in unison to look back over the ascent.

  “That’s my town,” I said, with more than a little pride. Halfway was fully visible from our vantage point, and bustling with a rush of tourists who moved about in their eternal quest for fun. Sunlight winked off the line of cars that edged north, but the southbound lane was already shadowed by the bulk of the mountains. I could imagine the first cool air drifting downward toward town, a kindly reminder that the night would be brisk and starry.

  Dietrich nodded appreciatively, his curious eyes taking it all in. “I can see why you’re happy to stay. The winters might be a tad enthusiastic for my tastes, but as far as summer goes, this is paradise.” He pointed to the lake where small sailboats were cutting crosswind, their colorful hulls rolled upward in protest of the stiff breeze.

  “I don’t want to say you get used to it.” I shouldered my pack, groaning lightly as it settled against my back. I held my walking stick outward, indicating that we should sally forth. I was determined to make it well over the mountain before sundown.

  Dietrich looked confused. “Well, what would you say about winter, then?” He shrugged his own gear on, a half-grin playing at his lips. He had the expression of someone looking forward to a pithy local saying, or something folksy; I gave him neither.

  “You never get used to frostbite, Jim. If you’re smart, you learn to stay indoors and drink tea.” I stepped up the trail, smiling. “At least all of the smart people do.”

  “And what do the stupid people do?” he asked.

  “That’s easy. They die.”

  Alarm spread on his face. “Seriously?

  “No, I’m kidding. They move to Florida, complain, and drive slowly with their turn signals permanently on.” And with that, we began to ascend once more as the necklace pulsed lightly, telling us that we were going toward the unknown, one rise at a time.

  Chapter Eleven: Ghost Stories

  We made camp at a place that was both beautiful and logical. Just over the mountain, the trail veered wildly to follow a narrow stone face that was far more challenging than our original ascent. As the sun began to fade in earnest, I felt the nudge of my necklace urging us to turn sharply toward the steep declination, which was thickly forested and free of any real trail. I held up a hand to stop Dietrich, who froze instantly, every muscle in body posed as a question asking if there was danger.

  “Listen. Water.” After waving him forward and watching him relax, I noted that, for a tall guy, he could get incredibly small when he decided to be stealthy.

  I could hear the creek before I saw it, then the silver ribbon of water spangled through the trees as we turned and half slid down a loose bank to the running water. I nearly went boots first as gravel gave way, stopping only on a half-rotted log that was covered in a profusion of turkey tail fungi radiating out in rusty browns and reds. The humble mushrooms were going about their work with typical industry, breaking down an errant log and incidentally providing me with the perfect place to squat and dip my canteen in the water. Before me, the waterway was more than a creek, but less than a river. I searched my mind and realized I didn’t recall the stream from any map.

  “I don’t know the name, but this creek is probably crawling with trout,” I told Jim, who was watching the closest pool with moderate distrust.

  “I’d rather it was filled with coffee,” Jim grumped. So, he was human.

  We filled our canteens and rinsed hands and faces in the bracing chill of the creek, gasping at the shock of its bitterness. Even in summer, the lingering hint of January held true in the shallow water. I felt revived, pink-faced, and stifled a laugh after the renewal of cleanliness from our impromptu bath.

  We followed a game trail through the underbrush to a tabletop of stone that peeked grimly from the lush growth; it was large enough for a campsite, and had a wet weather spring dribbling down the mossy rock face. With the last light of day in full retreat, we built a small fire and got down to the business of eating.

  Jim spoke around a mouthful of noodles. “Do we need to set a watch?” He eyed the darkened forest with suspicion. We’d already heard several noises that were too loud for a chipmunk, but unknown to him. To me, they sounded like ordinary animals, not magical. I found comfort in their presence; it meant the forest was conducting business as usual
, despite our presence.

  “No. I’ll set a wardstone. Anything larger than a mouse will wake us both, but only if it intends us harm.” I busied myself with a small, unremarkable stone that fit neatly atop my walking stick, pushing the butt end into the ground with a satisfied grunt.

  “I keep forgetting that you’re a witch,” Dietrich said, letting the last word roll off his tongue with an unfamiliarity I knew too well. The magical world was, until recently for Jim,hidden. Dietrich was now aware of something beyond his own understanding of life, and he was doing his best to absorb these findings. All things considered, I thought he was handling things remarkably well, especially since I’d unloaded a spell into his body at point-blank range. Sometimes seeing—or in his case, feeling—really is believing.

  He cleared his throat to speak, but I held up a hand. “You can’t learn it,” I said.

  “Learn what?” he asked, features carefully blank.

  “Magic. You were going to ask me if magic could be taught, and then, after a few minutes, you’d cajole me into learning some small spell; a trick, you might call it. In your mind, you would be finding the angles of how to best use magic for your career, then one day, you might have a problem outside of work, and magic would seem to be the perfect answer. Before you knew it, all of your problems turn into nails, and witchcraft becomes a hammer. Am I right, or were you going to chat about how delicious our freeze-dried noodles are when reconstituted with mossy spring water?”

  He was quiet for a long time, just looking up at the spangle of stars overhead. When he looked at me, his eyes were dark and flat. “I take it this isn’t the first time someone has learned about your skill.”