Spells Trouble, Kristin Cast [books to read in a lifetime .TXT] 📗

“I keep telling myself that, but what if Abigail didn’t know? What if no Goode witch could’ve known because it’s never happened before?”

“No.” Hunter spoke firmly. “That’s not it.”

“H, just read this. I just found it on a page that was stuck to the back of the copy of Sarah’s grimoire—for who knows how long. It’s a poem, but it reads like more. Like it could be a warning, or even a prophecy—one that’s coming true right now. And it’s pretty clear that a god, not a goddess, is the problem.” Mercy lifted the copy of the ancient grimoire and held it up so Hunter could see it, but her sister stood as she pushed the book away, refusing to even look at it.

“I’m not reading the old crap you found to justify whatever you’ve made up. Tyr’s my god. We’re close, unlike you and Freya.”

Mercy jerked back as if Hunter had slapped her.

“Don’t pretend to be shocked. It’s obvious. You don’t even wear Freya’s talisman.”

“That’s not fair! I love Freya. It’s different for a Green Witch. I don’t need a talisman to be close to my goddess. Freya is in every tree, every flower and bush—in the earth herself. Freya is all around me.” Mercy shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d say something so awful to me.”

“It feels shitty to have your sister question your choice of gods, doesn’t it?”

Mercy stared into Hunter’s eyes and within their blue-green depths she saw an unexpected anger—so fierce that it was like gazing into a tsunami.

Mercy felt her own anger stir. “Yeah, it feels shitty. But the difference is I didn’t say it to hurt you.”

“No, of course you didn’t mean to hurt me. You said it without thinking about me at all—as usual, it’s all about Mag.”

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong about me and you’re wrong about the poem.” Mercy held up the open book again. “Just read it and then tell me that something written back in 1693 isn’t saying that choosing a god started all of this. And it also says that you’re going to have to—”

“No!” Hunter slapped the book out of Mercy’s hands. “Stop talking. I am more than done listening. Tomorrow we’ll get Jax and Kirk, complete the ritual, and fix the gates. And then I never want to hear you say one more word to me about Tyr.” Hunter stalked up the stairs.

“Fine!” Mercy called after her. “But when it doesn’t work—again—it’s going to be your fault!”

Hunter said nothing.

Mercy picked up the copy of the grimoire from where Hunter had knocked it out of her hands and onto the floor. She smoothed the page and read it again.

and so the gates shall fall open

until a chosen god is forsaken

What else could it mean? Mercy gnawed at her lip. She stared at the page, wondering what the bloody hell she should do.

And then she knew. Mercy quickly stacked all the grimoires together, even the piles that had been on the kitchen table. She carried them into the library that long ago had been built as a formal dining room, but for generations had held books and comfortable, overstuffed reading chairs instead of fine china and a gleaming wood table. She didn’t bother putting them away, but piled them on a coffee table.

Then she returned to the kitchen. First, she grabbed her laptop and quickly copied the ancient ritual—translating the more difficult thee’s and thou’s and the other language that was confusingly archaic. She figured they’d all be on their cells together—on speaker—and one of them, probably me ’cause I’m good at this stuff, would lead everyone through the ritual, but with novices participating they’d need extra guidelines, especially if something happened. When she was done, Mercy printed out five copies of the ritual, as well as one of the poem or prophecy or whatever it was. She stacked the ritual instructions beside the copy of the old grimoire, folded the Xeroxed page that held the poem, and put it in her bottomless purse.

“And now one more thing that will take care of the Hunter problem,” she muttered.

On the table, exactly at the spot Xena liked to perch in the morning—or whenever was morning in cat time—Mercy opened Sarah’s spell book to the newly unstuck page that held the prophecy and then placed a wine goblet, the kind the cat person liked to fill with cream, on top of it.

She wouldn’t have to say anything. Xena would get the message, and if she was mistaken—if she’d misunderstood the poem—if it wasn’t actually a prophecy—nothing would come of it. But if she was right …

Mercy’s feet felt weirdly heavy as she trudged up the stairs while she texted Kirk.

How bout I meet u at school tmrw after practice?

He responded right away.

k! see u then sexy!!!

Mercy texted back, Kay! But in her mind she knew it wasn’t going to be okay. Not until they faced the truth about what was making the trees sick, whether her sister wanted to or not.

Twenty-five

The Goodeville High parking lot was full even though school had been out for a couple hours. The town never missed the Mustangs’ practice. Well, they never missed a football practice or a football game as long as the Mustangs were winning and, with Kirk Whitfield as quarterback, the Mustangs always won.

Hunter hunched, her shoulders lifted to her ears, as she hid behind Mercy while they walked through the spectators slowly spilling from the bleachers now that practice was near its end. Mercy waved and bounced through the crowd, the perfect example of an up-and-coming Goodeville homecoming queen—tenacious, girlfriend of a football star, and filled with enough school spirit to kill a horse. Hunter fanned the end of her ponytail and dusted it against her lips as she dodged hey’s and sorry to hear’s. She couldn’t talk to people here. She couldn’t talk to people anywhere. This town thought they knew all about her because they knew her sister and her mother. These townspeople would run screaming if they