Omens Bite, page 13
“Give me five, Miss Goode,” Mr. Cormican said without looking at his watch.
“Crap.” The word hissed between Hunter’s teeth. Mr. Cormican had never asked her to give him five, which was the same as telling her she was going to have detention, and he’d only ever called her by her last name at the beginning of the semester when he’d had a difficult time telling her apart from her sister.
The low ooh of her classmates was quickly drowned out by the sharp chimes that signified the end of the school day and the beginning of freedom.
Instead of cutting through the cluster of desks that filled the center of the classroom and passing by Hunter, Mercy took the long way around. As she and their other classmates filed out of the room, Hunter sagged into her chair and rested the back of her head on the stiff plastic. She wanted to be different, but she didn’t want to be different at the expense of her grades, and she definitely wasn’t interested in spending mind-numbing minutes in after-school detention.
The door closed before Mr. Cormican left his position at the front of the room. He straightened the desks on his way to Hunter’s and slipped into the seat in front of her.
“I’d rather do before-school detention,” Hunter blurted. Every night, when the lights were off and she was left alone with nothing but her thoughts and scratchy sheets to comfort her, she couldn’t keep herself from drifting back to that night at the apple tree—to the smell of burned flesh and the glow of orange flames. The scene of her mother’s sacrifice and death playing over and over and over. Waking up early wouldn’t be a problem.
Mr. Cormican’s smooth forehead creased. “You’re not in trouble, Hunter.” His gray eyes searched the concrete wall behind her and the laminated Playbills and Shakespearean quotes that had strands of hot glue stuck to them like spiderwebs.
“When I was a kid, I had this bunny, Wookie Wabbit. She would hop around the backyard and come when I called her. We would lie on the floor of my bedroom together and listen to CDs and stare at all of the posters I’d sticky-tacked to the wall. She was the small dog of rabbits.” His grin lifted the corners of his eyes and highlighted the thin wrinkles that had begun to crease his clear skin.
“I came home one day and found her in the middle of the street in front of our house. She’d gotten out of the backyard and someone had hit her with their car.” He tugged at the top button of his plaid button-down and stared out the narrow windows at the students milling about in the courtyard.
“No one could console me. I was devastated, but more than that, I was mad.” He set his arm on Hunter’s desk as he turned his attention back to her. “Like, pissed on a whole other level. I ran inside, smashed my stereo, tore all my posters off the walls, and ripped them to shreds. Nineties poster confetti was everywhere. And it felt good to get that rage out and to see how much I could destroy. How much power I had. But that feeling faded and was replaced by more sadness. Not only had I lost my best friend, but I had also ruined the things I cared about.”
Hunter shrugged away the twinge of guilt that sputtered to life in her chest as she twisted her silver crescent ring around her middle finger. “I didn’t know you were going to go all allegory on me, Mr. C. I feel like there’s an inspirational montage waiting for me in the hall.”
He searched her face before tapping his fingers against the desk. “I didn’t think I had it in me, either. Guess it comes with the mortgage and the teaching certificate.” His hand stilled and he pursed his lips, his gray eyes once again inspecting hers. “But Hunter, really, if you need someone to talk to—”
“I know. I know.” Hunter swiped her binder and book from the desk as she stood. “Your door is always open.”
He hiked his shoulders and resumed drumming his fingers on the desk. “I was going to say that I know a good therapist, but sure, my door is always open.”
A smile broke through Hunter’s gloom as she cut through a row of desks and pushed open the door. “Thanks, Mr. Cormican.”
The door closed behind her and Hunter fished her phone from the dress’s droopy side pocket. She had six texts. Three from Jax, two from Kylie, and one from Em. She opened Jax’s first as she walked on autopilot to her locker.
Waiting for you in the plot.
Pking lot. Abbreviation fail.
The last message was a photo of Jax and Kylie with their cheeks puffed and eyes crossed.
The corner of Hunter’s lips slid into a half smile. She clicked on Kylie’s texts. Two more silly photos. Hunter’s spell had definitely worked. If their relationship lasted, she was sure they’d be the couple sending silly holiday photo cards to everyone in their contacts. Finally, she hit the text from Em.
Talked to Mag about a Rite of Release spell for my dad. At the lake tomorrow 1p. Come! Pleaseeeeee
Without a second thought, Hunter replied.
For sure!
It didn’t matter that Mercy would be there. This wasn’t for Mercy. This was for Emily. And healing from her father’s gruesome murder was more important than the Goode sisters’ issues.
Hunter turned down the hall to her locker as three dots pulsed above the keyboard while Emily typed out her reply. She glanced up and jerked to a stop. Kirk-the-quarterback-Whitfield leaned against her locker with his ankles crossed and his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his letterman jacket. The poster boy for preppy douchery.
Hunter let out an exasperated sigh that blew strands of her wavy hair from her face. “I don’t know where Mercy is.”
Kirk shrugged. “I’m not here for her.”
Hunter put her phone back into her pocket and cradled her book and binder against her hip. “Well, what have I done to deserve the pleasure of you blocking me from my locker?”
“I know about the body.” He said the words like he’d asked her for the weather.
Hunter tightened her hold on her books and forced her breaths in and out, steady and sure. What body? she wanted to ask but knew the question would spur more problems than answers. How much had Mercy told him about the Cyclops?
Giggles erupted from the other end of the hall and shoes squeaked against the tile. Hunter didn’t look to see who owned the now hushed voices. She kept her gaze locked with his. A silent battle that she would lose if her attention shifted. She wouldn’t look away, wouldn’t assuage her curiosity and give Kirk the satisfaction of thinking he’d won. Unlike her sister, she wouldn’t give Kirk Whitfield anything.
Kirk’s heavy gaze didn’t falter as he pushed himself away from Hunter’s locker. “I know about the body,” he repeated, louder this time, restarting his performance now that he had a suitable audience.
The incomers’ overlapping whispers fell silent, but their steady footfalls matched the quickened beat of Hunter’s heart. But, from the outside, Hunter remained a fortress, her secrets locked behind her stony features.
Shoes squeaked closer this time and Hunter felt bodies surround her, Kirk’s sycophants come to watch him capture his prey.
Kirk removed his hands from his pockets. “Did Abigail know about you and your sister?” He stepped toward her. “Did she know that you’re both murderers?”
Hunter twisted the ring around her middle finger. She could control her anger. She would control it.
“Is that why you killed her?” He inched closer and the scents of sweat and leather filled Hunter’s nostrils. “I should burn you at the stake … just like you torched your hippie whore of a mother.”
Hunter tightened her hand into a fist and swung. Her fist slammed into his cheek with a low tack. Bolts of pain arced from her closed fingers, through her hand, and up her forearm. Gasps erupted around her as Kirk’s hand flew to his face and blood oozed from the jagged trench torn across his cheek from her ring.
Hunter’s breaths swirled in and out of her like swifts on the rising currents of her rage. She had to get away before she completely lost control. She spun around. Tiffany, Heather, Jarod, and Dillon closed in. They’d soon replace their slack-jawed shock with cold-eyed revenge. Hunter clutched her books to her chest, shouldered her way between Tiffany and Heather, and ran. Tears clung to her eyes. Open classroom doors and milling students were a blur as her legs carried her to the place where she’d hid and cried countless times before.
The old brass hinges creaked as Hunter pushed open the bathroom door. She dropped her books onto the ledge of the expansive mirror opposite the sinks and ran into the open middle stall. Acid washed up her throat as she puked into the toilet. Hunter sank to her knees and gripped the edge of the toilet bowl as she heaved again.
Clean yourself up, Witch.
A gentle spray of salt dusted Hunter’s cheeks as she brushed the back of her trembling hand across her lips.
No mortal should bring you to your knees.
Hunter peered under the stall’s partitions. Sure she was alone, she pushed herself to her feet and cleared her throat. “Where were you?”
As I have said, I am always with you.
Hunter’s wobbly legs carried her to the row of sinks opposite the door and the large mirror certain girls would flock to to check their contour and reapply their gloss after lunch.
“But you usually say something.” Hunter averted her gaze from her reflection in the small mirror over the sink and depressed the faucet knob. “This time, you were silent. You just—” Hunter’s words caught in her throat as she stared down at the blood smeared across her knuckles. Her ring glinted scarlet in the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights as she lifted her hand to inspect the crescent. A torn chunk of skin hung from the pointed tip of the sickle-shaped moon.
I’ve offered my assistance before, and you have never taken it. I know when I’m not wanted.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Hunter’s chest tightened as she stared in the mirror at Kirk’s reflection. He’d lost his jacket and his smooth forehead glistened with sweat. The gash across his cheek wept a stream of blood that dotted his white T-shirt and the toes of his clean white trainers brilliant red. This was the second time she’d ruined his shoes, and the second time she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends. From the way his jaw tightened and his clenched fists trembled at his sides, Hunter knew he’d come to deliver her punishment.
“You little bitch!” he cawed, spittle flying from his lips. “Look at my face!” He pointed to the split skin and trails of blood. “Look at what you’ve done.”
As she turned to face him, Hunter swept her hair from her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest. “You called my dead mother a whore, and me a murderer.”
He stalked closer. His shadow overlapped hers and the air between them heated with his anger.
Hunter tilted her chin to look up at him. “Sure you should get so close? I thought I was a danger.”
Kirk’s throat tightened with a thick swallow. “I’m sure I should stop you before you get your hands”—he peeled his lips from his teeth and bared his perfect ivories as he glowered down at her—“or spells on someone else.”
The corners of his lips twitched with a grin as he lunged forward. His fingers pressed against her arms while he shoved her backward. Hunter’s head smacked the mirror. Her vision danced and the back of her head ached as shards of glass rained onto her shoulders and cool porcelain dug into her back.
“I’ll make sure people know what you are.” His grip on her biceps tightened, and his fingers dug into her skin like she was a ripe peach. “You and your slut of a sister will be chased out of this town.” He growled hot against her cheek.
Hunter tried to pull away from the shattered mirror and the boy who’d once been welcome in her home, but Kirk had pinned her arms and legs. He was too strong to escape.
Her swirling vision stilled, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted to the opposite wall. Amphitrite was right. She looked weak, powerless. But that was far from the truth.
“Let go,” Hunter hissed through clenched teeth, anger rising.
“Have you learned not to cross me?” The bitter scent of his hate hung in the air like smoke.
Rage prickled beneath Hunter’s bruised skin. “Let me go.” She spit each word against his ear.
He squeezed her tighter. “Have you learned your lesson?”
He expected her to be scared. More than that, Kirk wanted her fear. To feel it flutter against his skin like butterfly wings. No doubt he’d savor it. Wrap his hands around her terror and pull it from the inside out until it consumed her. But Kirk underestimated the powers of a woman. He underestimated the powers of a witch.
Amphitrite, I’m ready when you are. Hunter called on her goddess with a simple thought.
Oh, Witch, I thought you’d never ask.
Heat coursed through Hunter’s limbs as the steady crash of waves roared against her ears. Glass slipped down the back of her shirt as she relaxed into the rage and the power mounting within her like a storm. Blue mist coated Hunter’s skin. It hissed and popped against her bloody knuckles and erased all trace of scarlet from her flesh.
I accept your offering, young witch.
The back of Hunter’s throat tickled. She opened her mouth and Amphitrite’s screech of laughter rang from between Hunter’s lips in bursts of cerulean fireworks.
Kirk’s hands snapped to his sides and he stumbled backward, the reflection of the otherworldly sparks exploding in his wide-eyed gaze.
Salt stung the tip of Hunter’s tongue as she licked her lips. “Unfortunately, Kirk, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson.” Her hair floated off her shoulders in an invisible current as she held up her right hand and spread her blue-coated fingers wide. Kirk shuffled backward as she bent her index finger. A wet crack echoed off the walls. Kirk let out a pained shout and clutched his hand against his chest. Hunter bent her thumb next. Another crack, another scream, and his thumb hung limp. One by one, she brought each of her fingers to her palm. One by one, Kirk’s digits snapped. His anguished shrieks popped against her skin like dry rubber bands. As she lowered her pinky, Kirk crumpled to the floor.
Still aglow with Amphitrite’s power and the surge of energy that came from finally striking backing instead of cowering, Hunter lifted the hem of her dress and stepped over him. “Looks like your football career is over.” She licked the final bits of salt from her lips as the otherworldly blue drained from her skin. “Such a shame.”
The bathroom door’s worn hinges creaked once again.
Take his blood and end them! All of them! Amphitrite’s roar sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Hunter’s body. More blood, Witch!
It was Kirk’s group, his minions—they’d come to finish what he had tried to start. This time, Hunter would do what she should have done at Dominic Parrott’s funeral. Her fingers twitched with the promise of more power as she reached down to press her palm against Kirk’s blood-crusted cheek. She’d burn his sycophants to the ground. All she needed was more blood.
The refreshing sweetness of grapefruit splashed against Hunter’s senses.
“Oh god! What happened?”
Hunter snatched her hand back to her side and whirled to face Kylie. Her golden-strawberry hair fell in tangled waves around her shoulders and glowed so brightly in the harsh light that, for a moment, Hunter thought she was another goddess come to life.
The crash of ocean waves ceased, and the salt turned to vinegar on Hunter’s tongue.
Kylie rushed forward, pulled Hunter to her feet, and enveloped her in soft citrus. She didn’t hear the hinges creak as Kylie pushed open the door, but the rush of air brought goose bumps to her arms.
Hunter peeked over Kylie’s shoulder as she squeezed Hunter against her side and ushered her down the hall toward the exit. Kirk was in the doorway hunched over his mangled hand.
“I’ll burn you for this, Witch!” His shriek was a fourth person in the corridor. It tore down the hall and crashed against lockers with the force of a summer cyclone.
Kylie picked up the pace and nearly shoved Hunter out of the double doors and into the sun-soaked parking lot.
Kirk’s promise burrowed into Hunter’s back and wriggled, sticky and sharp, into her lungs.
What had she done?
Hunter gulped down one breath after the other, but it wasn’t enough. Black speckled her vision and her feet slid across the pavement like melting butter as emotion overwhelmed her. Jax was there. His clean peppermint scent and strong arms replaced Kylie’s, and Hunter’s feet no longer touched the ground.
The fires of anger and revenge, stoked by Amphitrite’s otherworldly magic, no longer raged within her chest. Hunter was drained, emptied. Except for the guilt that wrapped its cold hands around her throat and made it a struggle to breathe.
As Jax laid her in the back of Kylie’s convertible, Hunter saw black birds circling overhead. Great, all I need is another murder of crows.
Fourteen
Mercy closed her locker, hefted her backpack with a sigh, and headed out the side door of the school that led to the student parking lot. She kept her gaze forward and walked quickly, like she didn’t notice the side-eye looks classmates were throwing at her or the whispers. She had on her favorite pair of jeans—the ones it had taken her months to freehand embroider with flowers down the sides and around the hem. She’d paired the jeans with a simple turquoise-green crop top that matched the color of her eyes and the ivy that wound around the flowers. The outfit usually made it impossible for her to feel down.
It hadn’t worked. Not even looking super cute could brighten her day.
A group of cheerleaders heading from the girls’ locker room to the football field cut through the parking lot not far from where Mercy waited for Emily to meet her. Their animated chatter stopped the moment Mercy came into view. Not one of them looked directly at her, but their voices dropped so that all Mercy could hear was witch.
Mercy straightened her spine and focused her gaze on the group. She didn’t say anything. All she did was stare at them as she thought how ridiculous it was that just last week these same girls had pretended to be her friends—until she and Kirk broke up.
