Omens Bite, page 10
Mercy took Em’s shoulders in her hands and looked into her friend’s face. “It’s okay. You have other strengths.”
“Like?”
“You’re smart and funny and kind—and you have amazing hair.”
“Hmm. You’re right. I’ll stop murdering plants and leave the green stuff to you.” She gently touched the frond of a hanging fern. “So, what kinda spell are you doing and what do you want me to observe?”
“Oh, it’s simple. Come on over here to the orchids.” Emily followed Mercy down the length of the tidy greenhouse packed with thriving plants to the part of the center table that held rows of orchids. Some of them were blooming, but the majority had long, curving stems that dipped under the weight of as-yet unopened blossoms.
“These are so pretty. I’m almost scared to stand too close to them in case they recognize a plant murderer and shrivel up.”
Mercy laughed. “Don’t worry. They know they’re safe with me here.” She studied the grouping of orchids before picking one that had six tightly closed blossoms resting along a gracefully curving stem. “Em, could you move the rest of the orchids a little way down the table so I have room to draw a salt pentagram around this one?”
“Sure!” Emily carefully pushed the potted plants toward the end of the table so that Mercy was left with an open space between them and a tray of tomato starts that weren’t quite ready to be transplanted to the Goode’s massive garden yet. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” Mercy placed the orchid in the center of the cleared space. “Okay, I’m going to draw my pentagram, light my candle, and then cast the spell. My intention is to coax this orchid’s blossoms into full bloom.”
“What do you want me to do?” Em asked eagerly.
“Well, you can help by setting the intent of the spell.”
“For the orchid to bloom, right?”
“Yep, exactly. And then watch with me. I’m going to channel the energy from the ley lines. If my magic is working right at least one of those blossoms should open,” Mercy explained.
“Can I ask a quick question?” Emily whispered.
“Sure.” Mercy smiled at her bestie before returning her attention to the bag of salt. She reached in and began to sprinkle a white line that was the beginning of a pentagram—the center of which was the potted orchid. “This isn’t a difficult spell for a Green Witch, especially because my intent is always to help things grow. Ask away.” Mercy poured the second line of the pentagram.
“Well, if this is a bloom spell, why don’t you use it all the time? Wouldn’t that, like, speed up stuff like these little green spindly looking things?” Emily pointed at the sprouts to their left.
“Those are tomatoes. And that’s a good question.” She drew the third salt line as she explained. “In theory I could come out here every day and cast a spell to force everything to bloom and grow, but the key word is force. It wouldn’t be natural, and when any witch messes with what is natural too much it’s not a good thing and there will be consequences.” She scattered the white salt crystals to make the fourth line of the pentagram. “Think of it as me changing from a friend who is supportive and a good listener—someone who nurtures others and gives them space to be themselves—to a bossy bully who tries to force her will on everyone.”
“If you did that no one would be your friend,” said Emily.
“Exactly.” Mercy completed the salt pentagram with the fifth line.
“Oh, I get it! That would make you a plant bully.”
Mercy brushed her hands together to wipe off the salt. “Yep, and my plants would stop thriving.”
“So, does that go for all witches, or just Green Witches like you?” Emily asked.
Mercy took the white pillar candle and placed it above the top point of her salt pentagram. “It’s all witches because all of our powers are tied to nature in some way, whether it’s plants and growing things like I do, or cooking like Abigail.”
“Or the sky and the moon and such like Hunter?”
“Yep, cosmic energy is part of the natural world.” She turned to face Emily as she picked up the compost scoop and distributed the rich fertilizer equally over the dirt already in the orchid’s pot. “Would you hand me the jar of moon water?”
Emily passed her friend the water. Mercy unscrewed the lid and poured some of it onto the orchid. Then she put the jar aside and took a long wooden match from the ritual box, but before she struck it she caught Emily’s gaze.
“I’m going to cast the spell now and then light the candle. While I do that imagine with me that the orchid bursts into bloom.”
“Okay. Wait—I want to get it right. What color are its flowers supposed to be?”
Mercy studied the plant for a moment. “This one’s petals are white with just a blush of pink.”
“Got it.” Emily drew a deep breath and nodded. “Ready.”
Mercy turned to face the table that held her salt pentagram with the orchid in its center. She breathed in and out thrice to ground herself and reached down, down, down to the luminous green ley line that ran, riverlike, within the earth beneath her. In her mind’s eye she imagined that she tapped into that glowing stream of power and drew it up and into her body. Mercy felt the ley line’s answer as she flushed with warmth. Channeling that energy, she struck the match to the box and spoke the words of the simple grow spell.
“Freya, my goddess, in your name I do invoke:
As the season wheel turns
As the candlewick burns
Awaken with the light I bring
I ask that you bloom this night as you would for Mother Spring!”
Mercy touched the match flame to the wick of the white candle, and as she did so she envisioned her orchid bursting into full, beautiful bloom. There was an electric crackle and the candle blazed alight. At the same moment power shimmered around Mercy so fiercely that it became visual, like waves of heat lifting from a hot sidewalk newly cooled by summer rain.
The orchid in the middle of the pentagram shivered, as if in a gentle breeze, and then with the sound of a woman’s sigh, all of its tightly closed buds opened into bloom.
“Holy shit!” Emily gasped.
Mercy was staring at the orchid and felt a giant rush of relief as it blossomed. “Whew, it’s not me!”
“Girl, look around. It’s definitely not you!”
Mercy’s gaze swept her greenhouse and her gasp echoed Emily’s. Every flower in the greenhouse had opened and was in brilliant, beautiful full bloom!
“Freya! Ohmygoddess!” Mercy turned in a slow circle as she drank in the fragrance of newly opened geraniums and petunias, jasmine and freesia. She laughed in delight. “Look, Em! Even the little tomatoes are flowering!”
Emily’s eyes were bright with amazement. “Mag, this is incredible.”
Mercy faced her friend and grabbed her hands. “The trees aren’t sick because I’m not a powerful enough Green Witch to keep them well!”
“Seriously. You’re amazingly strong. There’s no way that what’s going on with the trees and the gates is your fault.” Emily paused, and looked down. “Does—does this mean that it’s Hunter’s fault?”
“I don’t know, Em, but I’m going to find out.”
Ten
“Christian funerals are so very dreary,” Xena said, sotto voce, as she tugged at the neck of the amber-colored silk blouse, then almost tripped on the hem of the long black peasant skirt she’d borrowed from Abigail’s closet. She hissed softly at the flats on her feet then made a sad mewing sound. “Shoes are horrible. Are you quite sure I cannot take them off?”
Mercy shifted the orchid she’d brought so it was cradled against her hip like a toddler, took Xena’s arm, and guided her to one of the shadowy alcoves outside the funeral home’s main viewing parlor. She kept her voice low, but spoke firmly. “No, you cannot take off your shoes. You have to act like a person. Remember? We talked about this when you refused to wear a bra.”
Xena looked down at her plentiful breasts, currently covered with a spandex tank top beneath the silk blouse. “It is odd to have bosoms, but odder yet to be expected to bind and torture them.”
Mercy sighed. “That is something you and Abigail would be in agreement about. But you’ve gotta stop fidgeting and picking at your clothes. This is the visitation. The interment service is private, so we’re only here to support Em and show our respect for Mr. Parrott, then we can go home.”
“I shall be naked for the rest of the day.”
Mercy fervently hoped that meant Xena was going to change into her cat form versus walking around the house as a well-endowed, voluptuous naked woman—who liked to sit on the arm of the couch, but decided that was a battle she wasn’t willing to fight just then. “You can be as naked as you want at home. But you can’t keep messing with your clothes and hissing while we’re in here.” Mercy lowered her voice more and delivered the coup de grâce. “People will think you have fleas.”
Xena hissed. “I have never!”
“Well then don’t act like it. And stop hissing! Come on. The sooner we go in—the sooner we can leave.” Mercy had taken a step forward when the door to the Parrott Family Funeral Home opened. A group of teenagers, somberly dressed and unusually quiet, poured inside. They blinked as their eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight of a pretty spring day to the funeral parlor’s sunset interior lighting of mauve and taupe. Mercy stepped back and froze, studying the group from the shadowy alcove. Tiffany Wilson, the captain of the cheerleading squad was there with Heather Johnson—which made Mercy’s stomach roil, because where there were cheerleaders Kirk and the other football douches could usually be found. With them were three underclassmen from the pom squad, and several band kids. Following hesitantly behind were only two kids from the football team, Jarod Frazier and Dillon Sanders. Mercy held her breath as she waited for Kirk and his asshole of a bestie, Derek Burke, to show up, and then breathed a long, relieved breath when the door closed without them appearing. She couldn’t handle dealing with that on top of everything else right now.
“What is it, kitten?” Xena whispered.
“Nothing. It’s okay. Let’s go in and see Emily.” Mercy squared her shoulders and smoothed a hand down her simple floor-length black lace tank dress and the little sage-colored cardigan she wore over it. Then, arm in arm with Xena she headed to the easel that held a poster-sized portrait of Mr. Parrott and the open double doors to the viewing parlor beyond. She felt the stares of her classmates on her ramrod straight back and was glad she clutched the orchid and Xena so that she couldn’t pick at her lip.
Mr. Parrott’s visitation was in the biggest, most ornate of the viewing rooms. Just inside the doors to their left was a long table that held stately silver urns with placards of gold that labeled them filled with coffee, tea, and water—beside which were row after row of fine porcelain cups and saucers, as well as plastic cups and plates. Claw-footed crystal pastry trays elegantly held an impressive assortment of petit fours. The linen napkins beside the fine flatware were embroidered with elaborate cursive Ps.
Mercy’s gaze swept from the table to the gold-upholstered chairs that rested in neat rows. A few people were seated, but most were clustered in little groups around the perimeter of the room. They sipped from the delicate teacups and murmured like wind soughing through fall leaves. At the far end of the room was a raised dais filled with huge bouquets of flowers and enormous wreaths. In the center of the mass of flowers was a tall, marble pillar that held a silver urn, beside which were several more easels. Each held a different picture of Emily’s dad, and standing to the right of the display at the bottom of the dais were Mrs. Parrott, Emily’s grandparents, and Mercy’s best friend with her hands fisted at her side. In one of those fists was a tissue and every few breaths Em mechanically wiped at the tears that leaked silently down her cheeks.
“Oh, poor little kitten,” Xena said softly. “Let us go to her.”
It was hard for Mercy to speak, so she nodded and was suddenly glad Xena was there, warm and alive and loving. Their linked arms propelled Mercy forward, though her feet felt as heavy as her soul.
As soon as Emily saw them she touched her mom’s arm, whispered something to her, and then stepped around the visitation line and met Mercy and Xena at the edge of the room.
Xena unwound her arm from Mercy’s and pulled Emily into a mom hug. “Little kitten, my kitten, I am so, so sorry.”
“Th-thank you, Xena.” Emily sniffled and buried her head in the cat person’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. I took my allergy pill this morning just so that I could hug you.”
“Oh, sweet kitten! I love you and I shall always be here for you.” Xena released her and stepped aside so Mercy could take her place.
“Mag! Y-you brought one of your m-magic orchids.” Emily’s voice shook with emotion.
Mercy blinked quickly as she tried not to burst into snotty sobs. “This morning I asked Freya to bless your dad’s spirit journey”—she kept her voice low—“and when I did the blooms on this orchid changed from purple to pure white. So I had to bring it to you.”
Emily engulfed Mercy in a hug. “White—the mourning color for Goode witches. It’s perfect. Please thank Freya for her kindness.”
“Freya hears you, Em. I promise she does.”
The best friends clung to one another and as they did Mercy reached down, down, down through the plush carpet and the rooms below them to the earth on which they rested. She found the thrumming ley line of power and gently, carefully, pulled it up, up, up through her body so that it could wash into Emily.
Em gasped and held tighter to Mercy. “That’s so warm! Oh, Mag, thank you. I’ve been so, so cold all morning.” When Emily finally stepped out of Mercy’s embrace her cheeks had regained some of their color and the circles that bruised her eyes had faded. She linked hands with Mercy and Xena. “Come on, you can say hi to Mom and my grandparents and put the orchid by Dad’s urn. It’ll be beautiful there.”
They bypassed the growing visitation line, which earned them narrow-eyed looks from some of the adults, but Em’s grandparents hugged them and thanked them for coming, and her mom smiled tearfully as she said how beautiful and thoughtful the orchid was. While Xena spoke somberly with Mrs. Parrott, Emily led Mercy up the stairs of the dais to the marble pillar that held the remains of her dad.
“Put the orchid here, right next to the urn.” Emily touched the silver container gently, reverently. “It’s hard to believe everything that Dad was is in there…” Her voice broke on the last word and Mercy quickly placed the orchid beside the urn and then put her arm around her friend.
“That’s just what remains of his body. Everything your dad was isn’t in there. It’s here.” Mercy pressed her fingers over Emily’s heart. “And here.” She lifted her hand and gently touched Em’s forehead. “He’s not really gone as long as he’s remembered. I’ll always remember him with you.”
Emily’s face crumbled. “And I’ll always remember Abigail with you. W-would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“C-could we do a witchy ritual for Dad? Not like Abigail’s funeral, but just something to—to—” A sob broke her words as she stared out at nothing and tears washed her umber cheeks.
“Of course, Em!” Mercy squeezed her shoulder. “You, Xena, and I can perform a beautiful Rite of Release. I’ll check my grimoire and get the perfect—”
“Hunter,” Emily interrupted.
“Um, I can ask her next time I see her, but please don’t be upset if Hunter doesn’t show. You know she’s not acting like herself.”
“No, I’ll ask her. But what I meant is Hunter’s here.” Emily gestured surreptitiously toward the entrance of the viewing room.
Mercy followed Em’s gaze to see Hunter with Jax beside her. They were by the refreshments table and Jax was pouring water into a plastic cup. She’d barely processed the fact that her twin had entered the room when Emily’s mom joined them on the dais.
“Emily, honey, I hate to interrupt.” Mrs. Parrott gave Mercy a watery attempt at a smile. “But your third cousins from Michigan are here. I know you don’t remember them. I barely do, but we must be polite, especially as they’ve come all this way. Mercy, do you mind if…” She glanced over her shoulder at a group of strangers who were talking animatedly with Em’s grandparents.
“Oh, of course.” Mercy gave Emily another hasty hug. “Go do what you need to do.”
“I’ll text you later so we can plan that thing we were talking about,” said Emily.
Mercy nodded and Emily followed her mom back to the visitation line as Xena joined her on the dais.
“Your orchid looks lovely there.” Xena batted at one of the fleshy petals.
Mercy grabbed her hand and murmured, “Hunter is here.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the refreshments table, where Hunter was choosing a petit four. Jax stood beside her, clearly uncomfortable in a dark suit that had to have belonged to his dad.
Xena squeezed her hand. “We must speak with her.”
“Okay, but remember where we are. There’s not much we can say here.”
“I understand. Come. I shall let you do the talking so I do not rouse the villagers.”
Mercy almost told the cat person not to be ridiculous—that it was the twenty-first not the seventeenth century—but then the horrible insults Kirk had hurled at her when they’d broken up replayed in her mind, along with how everyone had been staring and whispering the past few days, and she pressed her lips together and nodded. Together they walked down the dais steps and headed to the back of the room. Mercy’s skin prickled and her eyes swept the room to rest on Jarod and Dillon, who were clustered in a small group with Heather and Tiffany at the perimeter of the room. They were openly staring from Mercy to Hunter. There was something about the boys’ narrowed gazes that put Mercy’s intuition on high alert.
“Something feels wrong,” she whispered to Xena.
“It certainly feels oppressive.” Xena plucked briefly at her skirt before sighing and clutching her hands together.
“Like?”
“You’re smart and funny and kind—and you have amazing hair.”
“Hmm. You’re right. I’ll stop murdering plants and leave the green stuff to you.” She gently touched the frond of a hanging fern. “So, what kinda spell are you doing and what do you want me to observe?”
“Oh, it’s simple. Come on over here to the orchids.” Emily followed Mercy down the length of the tidy greenhouse packed with thriving plants to the part of the center table that held rows of orchids. Some of them were blooming, but the majority had long, curving stems that dipped under the weight of as-yet unopened blossoms.
“These are so pretty. I’m almost scared to stand too close to them in case they recognize a plant murderer and shrivel up.”
Mercy laughed. “Don’t worry. They know they’re safe with me here.” She studied the grouping of orchids before picking one that had six tightly closed blossoms resting along a gracefully curving stem. “Em, could you move the rest of the orchids a little way down the table so I have room to draw a salt pentagram around this one?”
“Sure!” Emily carefully pushed the potted plants toward the end of the table so that Mercy was left with an open space between them and a tray of tomato starts that weren’t quite ready to be transplanted to the Goode’s massive garden yet. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” Mercy placed the orchid in the center of the cleared space. “Okay, I’m going to draw my pentagram, light my candle, and then cast the spell. My intention is to coax this orchid’s blossoms into full bloom.”
“What do you want me to do?” Em asked eagerly.
“Well, you can help by setting the intent of the spell.”
“For the orchid to bloom, right?”
“Yep, exactly. And then watch with me. I’m going to channel the energy from the ley lines. If my magic is working right at least one of those blossoms should open,” Mercy explained.
“Can I ask a quick question?” Emily whispered.
“Sure.” Mercy smiled at her bestie before returning her attention to the bag of salt. She reached in and began to sprinkle a white line that was the beginning of a pentagram—the center of which was the potted orchid. “This isn’t a difficult spell for a Green Witch, especially because my intent is always to help things grow. Ask away.” Mercy poured the second line of the pentagram.
“Well, if this is a bloom spell, why don’t you use it all the time? Wouldn’t that, like, speed up stuff like these little green spindly looking things?” Emily pointed at the sprouts to their left.
“Those are tomatoes. And that’s a good question.” She drew the third salt line as she explained. “In theory I could come out here every day and cast a spell to force everything to bloom and grow, but the key word is force. It wouldn’t be natural, and when any witch messes with what is natural too much it’s not a good thing and there will be consequences.” She scattered the white salt crystals to make the fourth line of the pentagram. “Think of it as me changing from a friend who is supportive and a good listener—someone who nurtures others and gives them space to be themselves—to a bossy bully who tries to force her will on everyone.”
“If you did that no one would be your friend,” said Emily.
“Exactly.” Mercy completed the salt pentagram with the fifth line.
“Oh, I get it! That would make you a plant bully.”
Mercy brushed her hands together to wipe off the salt. “Yep, and my plants would stop thriving.”
“So, does that go for all witches, or just Green Witches like you?” Emily asked.
Mercy took the white pillar candle and placed it above the top point of her salt pentagram. “It’s all witches because all of our powers are tied to nature in some way, whether it’s plants and growing things like I do, or cooking like Abigail.”
“Or the sky and the moon and such like Hunter?”
“Yep, cosmic energy is part of the natural world.” She turned to face Emily as she picked up the compost scoop and distributed the rich fertilizer equally over the dirt already in the orchid’s pot. “Would you hand me the jar of moon water?”
Emily passed her friend the water. Mercy unscrewed the lid and poured some of it onto the orchid. Then she put the jar aside and took a long wooden match from the ritual box, but before she struck it she caught Emily’s gaze.
“I’m going to cast the spell now and then light the candle. While I do that imagine with me that the orchid bursts into bloom.”
“Okay. Wait—I want to get it right. What color are its flowers supposed to be?”
Mercy studied the plant for a moment. “This one’s petals are white with just a blush of pink.”
“Got it.” Emily drew a deep breath and nodded. “Ready.”
Mercy turned to face the table that held her salt pentagram with the orchid in its center. She breathed in and out thrice to ground herself and reached down, down, down to the luminous green ley line that ran, riverlike, within the earth beneath her. In her mind’s eye she imagined that she tapped into that glowing stream of power and drew it up and into her body. Mercy felt the ley line’s answer as she flushed with warmth. Channeling that energy, she struck the match to the box and spoke the words of the simple grow spell.
“Freya, my goddess, in your name I do invoke:
As the season wheel turns
As the candlewick burns
Awaken with the light I bring
I ask that you bloom this night as you would for Mother Spring!”
Mercy touched the match flame to the wick of the white candle, and as she did so she envisioned her orchid bursting into full, beautiful bloom. There was an electric crackle and the candle blazed alight. At the same moment power shimmered around Mercy so fiercely that it became visual, like waves of heat lifting from a hot sidewalk newly cooled by summer rain.
The orchid in the middle of the pentagram shivered, as if in a gentle breeze, and then with the sound of a woman’s sigh, all of its tightly closed buds opened into bloom.
“Holy shit!” Emily gasped.
Mercy was staring at the orchid and felt a giant rush of relief as it blossomed. “Whew, it’s not me!”
“Girl, look around. It’s definitely not you!”
Mercy’s gaze swept her greenhouse and her gasp echoed Emily’s. Every flower in the greenhouse had opened and was in brilliant, beautiful full bloom!
“Freya! Ohmygoddess!” Mercy turned in a slow circle as she drank in the fragrance of newly opened geraniums and petunias, jasmine and freesia. She laughed in delight. “Look, Em! Even the little tomatoes are flowering!”
Emily’s eyes were bright with amazement. “Mag, this is incredible.”
Mercy faced her friend and grabbed her hands. “The trees aren’t sick because I’m not a powerful enough Green Witch to keep them well!”
“Seriously. You’re amazingly strong. There’s no way that what’s going on with the trees and the gates is your fault.” Emily paused, and looked down. “Does—does this mean that it’s Hunter’s fault?”
“I don’t know, Em, but I’m going to find out.”
Ten
“Christian funerals are so very dreary,” Xena said, sotto voce, as she tugged at the neck of the amber-colored silk blouse, then almost tripped on the hem of the long black peasant skirt she’d borrowed from Abigail’s closet. She hissed softly at the flats on her feet then made a sad mewing sound. “Shoes are horrible. Are you quite sure I cannot take them off?”
Mercy shifted the orchid she’d brought so it was cradled against her hip like a toddler, took Xena’s arm, and guided her to one of the shadowy alcoves outside the funeral home’s main viewing parlor. She kept her voice low, but spoke firmly. “No, you cannot take off your shoes. You have to act like a person. Remember? We talked about this when you refused to wear a bra.”
Xena looked down at her plentiful breasts, currently covered with a spandex tank top beneath the silk blouse. “It is odd to have bosoms, but odder yet to be expected to bind and torture them.”
Mercy sighed. “That is something you and Abigail would be in agreement about. But you’ve gotta stop fidgeting and picking at your clothes. This is the visitation. The interment service is private, so we’re only here to support Em and show our respect for Mr. Parrott, then we can go home.”
“I shall be naked for the rest of the day.”
Mercy fervently hoped that meant Xena was going to change into her cat form versus walking around the house as a well-endowed, voluptuous naked woman—who liked to sit on the arm of the couch, but decided that was a battle she wasn’t willing to fight just then. “You can be as naked as you want at home. But you can’t keep messing with your clothes and hissing while we’re in here.” Mercy lowered her voice more and delivered the coup de grâce. “People will think you have fleas.”
Xena hissed. “I have never!”
“Well then don’t act like it. And stop hissing! Come on. The sooner we go in—the sooner we can leave.” Mercy had taken a step forward when the door to the Parrott Family Funeral Home opened. A group of teenagers, somberly dressed and unusually quiet, poured inside. They blinked as their eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight of a pretty spring day to the funeral parlor’s sunset interior lighting of mauve and taupe. Mercy stepped back and froze, studying the group from the shadowy alcove. Tiffany Wilson, the captain of the cheerleading squad was there with Heather Johnson—which made Mercy’s stomach roil, because where there were cheerleaders Kirk and the other football douches could usually be found. With them were three underclassmen from the pom squad, and several band kids. Following hesitantly behind were only two kids from the football team, Jarod Frazier and Dillon Sanders. Mercy held her breath as she waited for Kirk and his asshole of a bestie, Derek Burke, to show up, and then breathed a long, relieved breath when the door closed without them appearing. She couldn’t handle dealing with that on top of everything else right now.
“What is it, kitten?” Xena whispered.
“Nothing. It’s okay. Let’s go in and see Emily.” Mercy squared her shoulders and smoothed a hand down her simple floor-length black lace tank dress and the little sage-colored cardigan she wore over it. Then, arm in arm with Xena she headed to the easel that held a poster-sized portrait of Mr. Parrott and the open double doors to the viewing parlor beyond. She felt the stares of her classmates on her ramrod straight back and was glad she clutched the orchid and Xena so that she couldn’t pick at her lip.
Mr. Parrott’s visitation was in the biggest, most ornate of the viewing rooms. Just inside the doors to their left was a long table that held stately silver urns with placards of gold that labeled them filled with coffee, tea, and water—beside which were row after row of fine porcelain cups and saucers, as well as plastic cups and plates. Claw-footed crystal pastry trays elegantly held an impressive assortment of petit fours. The linen napkins beside the fine flatware were embroidered with elaborate cursive Ps.
Mercy’s gaze swept from the table to the gold-upholstered chairs that rested in neat rows. A few people were seated, but most were clustered in little groups around the perimeter of the room. They sipped from the delicate teacups and murmured like wind soughing through fall leaves. At the far end of the room was a raised dais filled with huge bouquets of flowers and enormous wreaths. In the center of the mass of flowers was a tall, marble pillar that held a silver urn, beside which were several more easels. Each held a different picture of Emily’s dad, and standing to the right of the display at the bottom of the dais were Mrs. Parrott, Emily’s grandparents, and Mercy’s best friend with her hands fisted at her side. In one of those fists was a tissue and every few breaths Em mechanically wiped at the tears that leaked silently down her cheeks.
“Oh, poor little kitten,” Xena said softly. “Let us go to her.”
It was hard for Mercy to speak, so she nodded and was suddenly glad Xena was there, warm and alive and loving. Their linked arms propelled Mercy forward, though her feet felt as heavy as her soul.
As soon as Emily saw them she touched her mom’s arm, whispered something to her, and then stepped around the visitation line and met Mercy and Xena at the edge of the room.
Xena unwound her arm from Mercy’s and pulled Emily into a mom hug. “Little kitten, my kitten, I am so, so sorry.”
“Th-thank you, Xena.” Emily sniffled and buried her head in the cat person’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. I took my allergy pill this morning just so that I could hug you.”
“Oh, sweet kitten! I love you and I shall always be here for you.” Xena released her and stepped aside so Mercy could take her place.
“Mag! Y-you brought one of your m-magic orchids.” Emily’s voice shook with emotion.
Mercy blinked quickly as she tried not to burst into snotty sobs. “This morning I asked Freya to bless your dad’s spirit journey”—she kept her voice low—“and when I did the blooms on this orchid changed from purple to pure white. So I had to bring it to you.”
Emily engulfed Mercy in a hug. “White—the mourning color for Goode witches. It’s perfect. Please thank Freya for her kindness.”
“Freya hears you, Em. I promise she does.”
The best friends clung to one another and as they did Mercy reached down, down, down through the plush carpet and the rooms below them to the earth on which they rested. She found the thrumming ley line of power and gently, carefully, pulled it up, up, up through her body so that it could wash into Emily.
Em gasped and held tighter to Mercy. “That’s so warm! Oh, Mag, thank you. I’ve been so, so cold all morning.” When Emily finally stepped out of Mercy’s embrace her cheeks had regained some of their color and the circles that bruised her eyes had faded. She linked hands with Mercy and Xena. “Come on, you can say hi to Mom and my grandparents and put the orchid by Dad’s urn. It’ll be beautiful there.”
They bypassed the growing visitation line, which earned them narrow-eyed looks from some of the adults, but Em’s grandparents hugged them and thanked them for coming, and her mom smiled tearfully as she said how beautiful and thoughtful the orchid was. While Xena spoke somberly with Mrs. Parrott, Emily led Mercy up the stairs of the dais to the marble pillar that held the remains of her dad.
“Put the orchid here, right next to the urn.” Emily touched the silver container gently, reverently. “It’s hard to believe everything that Dad was is in there…” Her voice broke on the last word and Mercy quickly placed the orchid beside the urn and then put her arm around her friend.
“That’s just what remains of his body. Everything your dad was isn’t in there. It’s here.” Mercy pressed her fingers over Emily’s heart. “And here.” She lifted her hand and gently touched Em’s forehead. “He’s not really gone as long as he’s remembered. I’ll always remember him with you.”
Emily’s face crumbled. “And I’ll always remember Abigail with you. W-would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“C-could we do a witchy ritual for Dad? Not like Abigail’s funeral, but just something to—to—” A sob broke her words as she stared out at nothing and tears washed her umber cheeks.
“Of course, Em!” Mercy squeezed her shoulder. “You, Xena, and I can perform a beautiful Rite of Release. I’ll check my grimoire and get the perfect—”
“Hunter,” Emily interrupted.
“Um, I can ask her next time I see her, but please don’t be upset if Hunter doesn’t show. You know she’s not acting like herself.”
“No, I’ll ask her. But what I meant is Hunter’s here.” Emily gestured surreptitiously toward the entrance of the viewing room.
Mercy followed Em’s gaze to see Hunter with Jax beside her. They were by the refreshments table and Jax was pouring water into a plastic cup. She’d barely processed the fact that her twin had entered the room when Emily’s mom joined them on the dais.
“Emily, honey, I hate to interrupt.” Mrs. Parrott gave Mercy a watery attempt at a smile. “But your third cousins from Michigan are here. I know you don’t remember them. I barely do, but we must be polite, especially as they’ve come all this way. Mercy, do you mind if…” She glanced over her shoulder at a group of strangers who were talking animatedly with Em’s grandparents.
“Oh, of course.” Mercy gave Emily another hasty hug. “Go do what you need to do.”
“I’ll text you later so we can plan that thing we were talking about,” said Emily.
Mercy nodded and Emily followed her mom back to the visitation line as Xena joined her on the dais.
“Your orchid looks lovely there.” Xena batted at one of the fleshy petals.
Mercy grabbed her hand and murmured, “Hunter is here.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the refreshments table, where Hunter was choosing a petit four. Jax stood beside her, clearly uncomfortable in a dark suit that had to have belonged to his dad.
Xena squeezed her hand. “We must speak with her.”
“Okay, but remember where we are. There’s not much we can say here.”
“I understand. Come. I shall let you do the talking so I do not rouse the villagers.”
Mercy almost told the cat person not to be ridiculous—that it was the twenty-first not the seventeenth century—but then the horrible insults Kirk had hurled at her when they’d broken up replayed in her mind, along with how everyone had been staring and whispering the past few days, and she pressed her lips together and nodded. Together they walked down the dais steps and headed to the back of the room. Mercy’s skin prickled and her eyes swept the room to rest on Jarod and Dillon, who were clustered in a small group with Heather and Tiffany at the perimeter of the room. They were openly staring from Mercy to Hunter. There was something about the boys’ narrowed gazes that put Mercy’s intuition on high alert.
“Something feels wrong,” she whispered to Xena.
“It certainly feels oppressive.” Xena plucked briefly at her skirt before sighing and clutching her hands together.
