Omens Bite, page 3
Was it an omen? Freya, my goddess, am I making a mistake? Missing something?
The soft breeze blew the cloud away and, along with Mercy, the world breathed again. Aloud, she repeated her intention while she approached the cherry tree.
“My intention is simple—with Freya’s help and the power of the ley lines that run deep below me I will heal the cherry tree.”
At the tree she stopped just outside the curtain of branches. It looked deceptively healthy, though even from there she could see that every time the breeze sighed through the boughs leaves rained to the ground. Just like when Hunter and I visited two days ago and the tree was so sick it made me puke. Mercy’s body tensed. She was ready. She could take it.
From somewhere nearby a bird croaked—a sound so weird that it made Mercy pause, shield her eyes with her hand, and stare up at the pristine spring sky.
She sucked in a breath as she identified the pair of dark birds that circled the Japanese tree. “Ravens!” Mercy’s body relaxed as the call of Odin’s favorite birds soothed her. “Talk about an excellent omen! We never see ravens in Illinois!” She bowed her head. “Thank you All-Father.” It was time to stop allowing the past to get in her way. Mercy Anne Goode had a job to do. With the chatter of the magical ravens making beautiful background music, she parted the weeping boughs and stepped within the embrace of the tree.
Her ballet flats squished sickeningly against dead leaves and writhing worms. Mercy swallowed down her revulsion and ignored it. She also ignored the fetid scent that hovered like invisible fog around the trunk of the tree.
She’d cast this spell more times than she could count. It was purposefully simple, direct, and effective.
“Past time to return to my roots,” she spoke to the tree. “Pun intended. So, here we go!”
From the basket she took a checkered tablecloth—one of the many Abigail had folded neatly in their pantry always ready for an impromptu picnic. Mercy spread it on the ground in front of the tree. She placed the basket and her purse on the tablecloth, along with her shoes. Then she carefully took out five short, fat, pillar candles the color of milk, a velvet pouch filled with sea salt, a long box of wooden matches, her bronze mini cauldron that was decorated with painted ivy, a Sharpie, a small cone of juniper incense, a bottle of water that had been charged by the full moon, a stack of bay leaves, and lastly, a thick dried herb stick—it, like all of the herbs and plants Mercy used, had been respectfully harvested from her garden.
The first thing Mercy did was light the herb stick. The earthy tang of sage and rosemary and cedar filled the space around her, so thick and strong that it even blocked the stink that leaked from the tree.
Abigail’s words lifted from her memory with the smoke. When you cleanse with herbs if there is little smoke know that there is little to cleanse, but if the sage billows thick and pungent—that means the need for purifying and healing is great.
As if she headed into battle, Mercy cleansed herself thoroughly, bathing in the thick, cloud-colored smoke. Then she held the smoldering herb stick up with her right hand and used her left hand to waft the smoke to the suffering tree. Slowly, carefully, Mercy walked clockwise, or deosil, around the tree. She forced herself not to shiver and gag as her bare feet squished on worms and dead leaves. Instead Mercy focused completely on the tree. As she cleansed the guardian of the Japanese Underworld Mercy spoke the same words her mother had taught her so long ago that she had no memory of ever not knowing them.
“Sacred sage, strong cedar, fragrant rosemary I beseech thee three by three by magical three,
maiden, mother and wise woman—thy sacred trilogy
protect, purify and strengthen, three by three by magical three.”
When she returned to the blanket and the rest of her spellwork supplies she propped the thick, still-smoking stick up against one of the tree’s exposed roots so that it could continue to fill the area under the canopy with cleansing smoke.
To begin the spell Mercy needed to set a pentagram and cast a circle—two things that she’d done so many times that they were like breathing in and out. She placed the five white pillar candles so that they formed the points on a pentagram, with the cherry tree at its center. The velvet pouch filled with salt and the box of matches were next. Mercy went to the candle she’d placed on the far side of the tree at the top point of the pentagram. She lit a long, wooden match, and touched it to the white candle as she invoked, “Freya, Goddess of Love, Fertility, and Magic, I ask your blessing on my circle and my spellwork.” The flame blazed high and hot as her goddess responded to her invitation.
She loosened the lip of the pouch, turned to her right, and strode to the second point of the pentagram. As she walked Mercy poured a thin line of salt on the ground. She paused before the second candle and lit it, calling, “Air, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” She moved clockwise to the third candle while she poured salt with every step. “Fire, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” As Mercy moved to the fourth white pillar she released more salt and paused only long enough to touch the match to the wick and invite, “Water, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” At the fifth candle Mercy called, “Earth, I welcome you to my spellwork circle.” She lit the final candle before completing the salt circle by returning to the top of the pentagram, then spoke solemnly. “And now my circle is complete—cleansed by sage, cedar, and rosemary and protected by salt.”
Staying within the salt circle, Mercy turned to go back to her blanket and the rest of the supplies waiting there. The ribbon of white that bound the pentagram together glowed softly. Every few seconds there was a muted hiss and she realized that the worms and dead leaves beneath the sacred granules writhed and shriveled.
Good! That’s a good sign!
Her bold steps flattened more of the disgusting, writhing worms as she returned to the blanket and sat, crossed-legged, facing the tree. Mercy placed the mini cauldron in front of her. With a grace that spoke of experience, she took the slim stack of bay leaves she’d harvested from their garden the year before and carefully dried on her shelf of the pantry. Mercy drew in and out three deep breaths and then spoke the words to the ancient Green Witch spell with confidence.
“Powers of earth and wind, sun and rain
by the strength of flower and leaf, stone and tree
with my spirit and heart, I ask your aid again, again, again.
Through bay’s protection and fidelity
Hear my plea to heal this tree, heal this tree, heal this tree!”
Completely immersed in the familiar spell, Mercy took the Sharpie and wrote CLEANSE in bold, capital letters on the first leaf. Mercy lit the match and held it to the bay leaf. It sizzled and popped as it caught fire and when she dropped it into her cauldron a delicate line of green smoke with a slight floral scent lifted lazily.
Mercy wrote a different word on each leaf—HEAL, PROTECT, STRENGTHEN, PROSPER—until all five smoldered in the little cauldron. Around her the fragrant smoke curled and danced as somewhere close the ravens continued to call, as if in encouragement. Mercy felt the power of the unfurling spell. It brushed against her bare arms and lifted the soft hairs on the back of her neck as she reveled in the connection to the earth that had helped her choose the path of a Green Witch.
Mercy upturned the salt pouch. She took the pinch that was left between her fingers and sprinkled it into the cauldron over the burning bay leaves.
“By earth I strengthen you.”
She lit one last match.
“By fire I purify you.”
Mercy touched the match to the cone of juniper incense.
“By air I protect you.”
She opened the bottle that held the moon-blessed water, poured a little into her palm, and with her other hand dipped her fingers into the small puddle and then flicked it into the cauldron.
“By water I cleanse you.”
Waves of smoke billowed from the cauldron and Mercy held it carefully as she stood. But instead of being hot the cauldron felt like ice cupped in her hands. She lifted it above her head and spoke to the tree in a voice magnified by the elements that filled her pentagram.
“I ask Freya’s blessing from me to thee.”
Power like static electricity sizzled from her bare feet up through her body to pour from her hands. The cauldron went from ice to radiate warmth—a warmth that should, with her final words, spread with the smoke and incense into the boughs of the tree to bless, heal, and protect.
“So I have spoken; so mote it be!”
Mercy readied herself for the familiar feeling of release that came with being a conduit for earth energy, but instead of the sizzle of loosed power lifting up into the tree, electric heat sparked from her cauldron through her palms. The bay smoke sputtered and died. The magic that had brushed against her skin faded. Around Mercy the curtain of long, slender boughs swayed and the cloud of smoke leaked away.
Mercy blinked back tears of frustration. What had happened? Everything had been perfect!
As Mercy retraced her steps and blew out and retrieved each candle she saw that the salt had disappeared, leaving only the dark outline of a circle made of dead worms and scalded leaves.
That’s good, right? Mercy couldn’t speak the words aloud. She’d done versions of the spell over and over, blessing and healing sick plants or cleansing negative energy or welcoming seedlings to their spring garden. She’d never felt the power this spell had invoked—and no salt circle she’d cast had ever turned black. But she’d also never had the spell seem to sputter out as this one had at the very end. It made zero sense.
Mercy wiped her feet off and then slid on her shoes and shook out the blanket, repacking it last into her basket. Then she drew a deep breath and went to the tree. She rubbed her hands together and steeled herself. If I puke—I puke. I can handle it. She pressed her palms against the rough bark.
“I hope that helped. I hope you’re okay,” Mercy murmured.
In response she felt the warmth of the tree and her gentle inhale and exhale. She didn’t exactly feel sick. Mercy didn’t think she felt anything.
She patted the tree’s skin. “Well, that’s an improvement. I’ll be back to check on you. Blessed be.” Mercy turned to pick up her basket and hefted her boho bag over her shoulder—and the earth below her seemed to pitch and roll, like she was trying to balance on the deck of a boat during a storm. Her vision blurred and pain spiked through her temples as she tried not to hyperventilate. Mercy staggered and automatically reached out—her hand searching for her twin, her strength, her sister who would never, ever leave her.
But Hunter wasn’t there. She didn’t grip her sister’s hand and borrow her strength. Hunter had left her. Mercy swallowed a sob and lurched away from the tree to walk unsteadily through the veil of boughs. She kept her gaze on the silver car. Just a few feet more—then I can sit down and rest. I just need to ground myself, that’s all. This is okay. I am okay.
Inside the Camry, Mercy tossed her purse and the spellwork basket onto the passenger’s seat and then she sat heavily, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel. There was a strange, almost listening silence that surrounded Mercy. No more ravens called. There was no birdsong at all. Mercy steadied her breath, repeating to herself, this is okay … I am okay.
Mercy kept repeating those words to herself as she slowly drove home. She didn’t park in the garage, but stopped beside the porch, barely able to drag herself from the car.
Xena was alone on the porch swing. Mercy didn’t have to ask if Hunter had come home. She knew she hadn’t. Mercy could feel it.
Xena stood as soon as Mercy was out of the car.
“Oh, kitten! You look wretched!” The cat person hurried down the porch steps to put her arm around Mercy and guide her up the sidewalk.
“I—I need to ground myself. I feel wrong. Empty. Dizzy.”
“Did it work, kitten? Is the tree better?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure what just—”
Xena halted and tugged at Mercy’s arm to pull her off the sidewalk.
“Oh, dear! I didn’t see that before. Careful, kitten. Don’t step on it.”
“Xena, what the—?” Mercy blinked in confusion, but followed Xena’s gaze down—and dread washed through her body.
On the sidewalk was a dead bird. Its head was twisted and its wings were tucked against its body so that it looked like one half of a heart. The wind ruffled its night-colored breast feathers.
“Oh no, no, no. That is a raven. A dead raven on our doorstep.” She met Mercy’s gaze. “Kitten, this is very, very bad.”
“I know. There were two of them watching me at the Japanese tree. I thought they were a good omen sent by Odin. I was wrong.” The words were almost too heavy for Mercy to speak. “Xena, my spell did not work.”
Then she leaned on the cat person and let Xena guide her around the poor, dead creature and into their silent house.
Three
Hunter had spent the past two nights sleeping somewhere other than her bed. The first she’d spent outside, on the muddy grass next to her mother’s freshly dug grave. The second, she’d passed out on the couch next to Jax’s mother sometime between after-dinner tea and the second recorded episode of Chicago Fire. Now, her bed was no longer the antique wood frame and fluffy duvet with the sparkly pink and purple Orion nebula spilled against the black background like unicorn blood. Now her bed waited behind the black front door that got too hot in the summer. Now her bed would be buried under the stiff white sheets and scratchy camel-colored blankets Jana Ashley had left out on the coffee table.
Hunter balled the lengths of the plaid nightshirt Mrs. Ashley had lent her and guided the back door to Jax’s house shut and leaned against it until the latch clicked. She’d never had to sneak out of Jax’s house before. Technically, she didn’t have to sneak out of it now, but she didn’t want to catch his mom first thing in the morning. Sitting through one round of questions from Mrs. Ashley who only had Hunter’s best interests at heart was enough. She didn’t have the space in her brain or heart to deal with a substitute mom. Hunter could figure out her own life, and it started with unpacking.
Jax’s dad had converted their detached garage into the perfect apartment. It was supposed to provide the Ashleys with extra income they could put aside for Jax’s college fund, but Jana had shut that down three days after their first tenant moved in. Jax’s mom was under the impression that the strict curfew she imposed upon her son should be shared by the forty-year-old, free-spirited Chicagoan who had signed the lease. Hunter and Jax had shared a sweating glass of sun tea on the back porch while the man, with his long beard and longer braid, ripped up the contract and threw it at Jana Ashley’s feet. Neither Jax nor Hunter had laughed. They hadn’t wanted to draw his mom’s attention. If she wasn’t praising a person in Jesus’s name, she was cursing them in Satan’s.
The outside of the garage apartment was identical to the main house from its bright white siding, black trim, and casement windows down to the crucifix door knocker. Hunter ran her fingers over the heavy bronze cross. In first grade, she and Jax had tied his Ben Grimm action figure to the main house’s knocker along with a piece of construction paper that said ouch in overly practiced elementary school lettering. Jax’s mom hadn’t thought it was funny. Instead, she’d punished the duo with the first and longest bible study Hunter had ever been a part of. Actually, it was still the only bible study Hunter had ever been a part of.
Hunter twisted the knob and the door opened with a soft whoosh. Not a loud creak of old hinges or rough smack of too many layers of sticky paint. It was the soft exhale of starting over, beginning again, shiny and new. Hunter wheeled her heavy duffle into the tiny living room, tossed her bedsheets onto the floor, and collapsed against the couch.
For as much as the two houses looked the same from the outside, the inside of the garage apartment was nothing like the floral-patterned, crucifix-laden innards of the main house. No, this space was filled with the denim blue and move-in-ready beige of the clearance section of Champaign Urbana’s TJ Maxx. Not thrilling, but it was Hunter’s, a place to start over and be herself for the first time. Away from her sister, she finally had the chance to be recognized as an individual instead of Mercy’s other half.
Hunter slid her flip-flops off and wiggled her toes against the stiff fibers of the unblemished rug. Her pale skin nearly blended in with the cream-colored carpet, her chipped red toenail polish standing out like torn flower petals.
Hunter unzipped her suitcase. A mound of socks and underwear exploded out of the opening and slid down the duffle like soap bubbles. She pushed them into a pile and dumped a handful of leggings and jeans on top when a silver glimmer caught her eye. She pressed her fingers to her lips as she picked up the piece of jewelry and inspected it. The ring’s band had turned from crisp silver to dull gray from all the times she’d mindlessly twisted it around her finger, but the small crescent moon that decorated the top was as shiny as the day her mother had given it to her. She slid it onto her middle finger and ran her hand over the metal points of the crescent. It was a sign from her mom that she was doing the right thing, on the right path. It had to be.
The morning sun shone in through the blinds and painted the cover of Moira Goode’s grimoire in orange tiger stripes. She tugged the heavy book free from hoodie sleeves and boot laces. Its leather binding flaked with each movement. Hunter brushed away the pieces and ignored the simile they brought to mind. If this last week had taught her anything (well, beside the fact that she shouldn’t trust her sister), it was that she needed to spend less time thinking and more time doing. It was time for Hunter to take charge and change things for the better.
