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

of her shirt. “Mercy nearly choked on a tortilla chip once. Now she’ll only eat Lay’s.” She handed him the sunglasses. Her breath caught in her throat.

His left eye was completely clouded over. A fresh page in a new notebook.

“Your eye…”

He snatched the glasses from her hand and thrust them back onto his face. “Allergies is all,” he said with a sniffle.

Hunter’s fingertips itched. She slid her hand into the pocket of her slouchy knit cardigan and pressed her hand against her tarot deck. Power sizzled through her palm.

A star around his eye …

Sunlight glinted off the points of Sheriff Dearborn’s star-shaped badge.

 … and on his chest.

Hunter’s throat tightened. She clutched her amulet and fed off the strength from the symbol of her god. Her insides warmed. But not with the hungry fire of rage or the slow burn of anger. Her fingertips found the smooth moonstone pressed into her symbol of Tyr. Her god was with her now, drawing down the magic of the moon and whispering affirmations to the powerful gift entangled in the blood of the Goode women.

Sheriff Dearborn slipped his fingers under his sunglasses and rubbed his clouded eye. “Give the other one of you my regards, Bright Eyes,” he said and rushed off in the direction of the parking lot.

Hunter’s hands shook as she pulled out her phone and dialed her sister’s number.

Bright Eyes?

Hunter pushed away the question when Mercy answered on the second ring. “Meet me at the car, Mag. I found him,” Hunter blurted before her sister had a chance to speak. “I found Polyphemus.”

Mercy sucked in a breath. “Are you safe? Who is it?”

A cold pang of guilt flashed through Hunter’s chest as she ran to meet Mercy. Mag did care about her. Hunter needed to stop being such a bad sister, such a bad friend. Her ponytail brushed her shoulder blades as she shook her head and with it, shook away the conscience threatening to derail her focus.

Hunter hid her mouth behind her hand as she wove through hot dog–eating townspeople milling about the parking lot. “It’s the sheriff! And now that we know, we can put a stop to all of this and send him back where he belongs.”

Power flared within her veins and the scabs crusted against Hunter’s palm ached. She didn’t know how this would end, but she knew it would be bloody.

Twenty-eight

“And Jax is meeting us at poor Emily kitten’s house?” Xena’s question broke the silent ride across town.

“Yeah, Xena.” Hunter glanced in the rearview mirror at the cat person, who kept looking nervously out the windows. “He took a shower while we were getting the ritual stuff together. He’s bringing his offering, a dove feather from his father’s collection.”

“That will make an appropriate gift in honor of the indigenous women.” Xena shifted and tugged at the neck of the oversized blue peasant blouse she’d borrowed from their mom’s closet before she smoothed, then pulled at, and smoothed again the long, silver broom skirt that had been one of Abigail’s favorites.

From the passenger seat Mercy turned to look at her. “Are you okay back there?”

“No. I very much am not. I despise these horrible, soulless things.” Her long fingers fluttered at the interior of the car. “And though my Abigail was a lovely woman I do not understand how she, or any of you, ever wear clothing.” Xena plucked at the sleeve of her blouse.

“Xena, you’re not even wearing anything under that,” Mercy said. “Bras and panties are way more uncomfortable than real clothes.”

Xena shuddered. “I do not know how you bear it. It’s already quite awful.” Then she leaned forward and peered from twin to twin. “But what is even more awful is whatever is going on between the two of you.”

Mercy blew out a long, frustrated breath. “There’s nothing going on other than Kirk is an even bigger douchebag than you two thought. We broke up. In front of the entire sodding school. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hunter’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Her lips pressed into a tight line and she said nothing.

“Fine, kittens. Don’t talk about it. But you two need to focus. Tonight is too important for you to bring anger and resentment into the ritual.”

Mercy bowed her head. She knew Xena was right. She needed to get her shit together so that if or when the ritual failed there would be no doubt about why. So there, in the car with her sister’s silent presence beside her, Mercy closed her eyes and concentrated on her shattered heart. On one raw, bleeding piece of it she envisioned carving the name ABIGAIL into her frayed flesh. On another wounded spot she carved HUNTER. And on the last, the newest, the most jagged piece of her somehow still beating heart she carved KIRK. Then she imagined taking a roll of gauze, like the sterile one in Abigail’s emergency kit that rested in a bottom shelf of the pantry, and she wrapped it around and around the lacerations until the names could no longer be seen—until all that was left was a heart-shaped organ completely cocooned, which somehow still pulsed with stubborn life.

She turned her face to her half-open window and inhaled deeply the scents of the evening—of trees and grasses, crops and spring flowers. As she drank in the soothing earth, Mercy channeled its magic within and held it tightly to her damaged heart. The ache inside her subsided and in its place there was a nothingness that was almost equally as frightening, but a lot easier to think through.

She opened her eyes as Hunter pulled up in front of Emily’s meticulously landscaped corner lot. People always oohed and aahed about the huge, brick edifice, but Mercy had never liked it. She knew the coldness of the outside and the façade of perfection were all too perfectly mimicked inside.

“There’s Jax.” Hunter waved and Jax got quickly out of his car and jogged across the street to them.

He put one hand