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

“Yes!” Three voices echoed back to her, like ghosts lifting from a grave.

No! No negative imagery! Mercy pushed the thought from her mind and continued.

“Your offerings are ready?”

“Yes!” they replied.

“Okay,” Mercy said. “Get your matches out and give me a second. Let me find Hunter.”

Mercy faced her tree and centered herself, breathing deeply once, twice, thrice, and then sent her sixth sense—that magical spark that flowed rich and thick through every sister of Salem, each daughter who carried Sarah Goode’s legacy—down, down, down to find the vein of power that hummed beneath her bare feet and formed the potent pentagram that surrounded Goodeville. As she tapped into the thrumming ley lines she thought of Hunter—of everything she loved about her sister. Her generosity and kindness—her strength and wit—and above all the thing that was always there, no matter what else was happening in their world, the connection that bound them irrevocably together. The bond that had begun at their conception, forged by blood and sealed by nine months of a shared womb.

Mercy gasped as she connected with her sister. Against her closed lids Hunter swirled as a glowing sapphire orb with silver glitter as if a piece of the cosmos had come to earth, and glistened like a spot on the map of her soul.

“She’s there! She’s at the olive tree!” Mercy’s eyes opened and she crouched before the white pillar candle. As she picked up the match she turned to the glowing face of her phone. “Okay, light your matches while I open the ritual.” Mercy struck the match and lit her candle. “And so we begin. We are vessels, cleansed and protected, ready to be conduits for energy. Remember, we do not keep that energy. We only guide it. Visualize the gate before you, deep within the trunk of this ancient tree who has stood guardian for hundreds of years.”

She paused to be sure the others were with her, and as she did she thought of Hunter, sending her sister an image of a brightly burning flame. Please see me, too, Hunter! Please understand! Light your candle! The sapphire orb in her internal map sparked suddenly brighter. Is that it? Did you light your candle?

Mercy’s intuition demanded she continue and set the spell. All she could do was move forward and believe Hunter came with them.

“Now, place your offering near your tree. Let your intuition guide you as to where, and as you place it tell your tree that this offering is in honor of the gate it guards and the ancient world beyond. Jax, release your dove feather and thank the peoples who came before us—whose land we now call our own.”

Mercy lifted the jar of apple butter. She kissed it, and then reached up and, on her tiptoes, placed it in a niche where two low-hanging limbs joined. “Thank you, mighty apple tree. I make this offering in honor of the Underworld you guard and the Norse land from which you come.”

“Holy crap!” Jax’s awed voice sparked through the phone. “The feather! It just lifted way, way up with the wind and then disappeared—only there isn’t any wind!”

Mercy smiled. “Good. That’s really good, Jax.” She didn’t wait for a sign from Hunter. She knew her sister’s offering would be different—dangerous. The offerings at the other trees set the stage for Hunter’s, heightening her power—and Mercy fervently hoped it would be enough. She drew another deep breath and continued.

“Okay, here we go. Face your trees. Ready?”

“Ready!” they chorused.

“Imagine that beneath your feet is a thick stream of power,” Mercy said. “Something that runs deep and fast within the earth. Xena, what color is yours?”

Xena responded immediately. “It is the yellow of cat eyes. Rich with power.”

“Jax, what color is yours?”

Jax’s voice was filled with excitement. “Mine is red! Mercy! My eyes are closed, but I see it! I really see it!”

“Emily, what color is yours?”

Emily gasped and shouted, “It’s pink! Just like springtime cherry blossoms! Oh, Mag, it’s beautiful!”

Mercy smiled. “And mine is green, like new apples.” She waited for a moment, hoping Hunter could see her sapphire blue ley line—but she had to keep going. “Think about your ley line while you take out your athames.” Mercy heard the rustling as her three coven members did as she told them. “Prick your palms, just below your thumb.”

Mercy didn’t hesitate. She pulled the athame from the pocket of her embroidered jeans and pressed the razor-sharp blade against her flesh. It hurt less than she thought it would—mostly it just stung—and then she squeezed the meaty part of her palm until her blood welled in fat drops. “Now, pull your ley line up through your body and push it from the center of your forehead, like a blazing star, to shine against the gate hidden within your tree.” Mercy concentrated, pulling her stream of emerald power up, up, up through her body. It wasn’t quite as sluggish as it had been that terrible night when Abigail had died, but it didn’t fill her body with the glowing energy that always blazed from their mom during Ritual.

Mercy fisted her hands and concentrated harder. It felt like running a marathon. Sweat beaded on her face as she forced the slim stream of power up and out her third eye so that it washed the hidden gate within the tree with a pale light the color of unripe apples.

She stared at the gate, expecting it to be powerful and whole, just as it was every time their mother had shown them this ritual. It was there. It was standing. But instead of a bright, glowing gate, it had turned black, like charcoal. Mercy swallowed bile. “Are any of your gates open?”

“Yes! Mine is! It’s kinda hard to see ’cause there isn’t a lot of light, but it’s pink, like the ley line. It looks terrible—all crumbly—and it smells bad!” Emily panted, like she’d just climbed a wall of stairs.

“Mine looks weird! Like it’s made of