Chapter Eight

  The witch lived in a white two-story house whose front door opened less than six feet from the road. Unlike some of its neighbors, it had no porch; only a drooping concrete block protected it from any water running down the hill.

  Simone cut the engine. “What do you think?” she asked, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.

  Tad squinted up at the house, peering through the windshield. The white siding looked dirty under the shade of the maple trees that lined the street.

  “She’s got an outer ward going,” Henry said.

  “How do you know that from just looking at her house?” Tad asked.

  “Look at the stoop. See those markings on the side?”

  Tad squinted. He could just make out light lines against the concrete. “Yeah.”

  “Those are runes,” Henry said.

  Simone craned her neck, peering down at the house through Henry’s window. “Runes are a sloppy way to close a ward,” she commented as she swung open her door. Tad quietly followed her and Henry down the slope to the waiting house, wondering how the hell he’d managed to live around witchcraft his entire life and not know a thing about it.

  The woman who greeted him at the threshold held a steaming mug of tea cupped between her hands. Her face was smooth, save for a few faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Chestnut hair was pulled back in a loose bun, with strands escaping to frame her youthful features.

  Tad blinked, caught off guard. He’d expected someone closer to Simone or Henry’s age. Instead, she looked closer to his own. The realization unsettled him, making him rethink everything he thought he knew about witches. He glanced at Simone, suddenly curious if there were more witches his age living in the area.

  The woman frowned, her confusion clear as she studied them. “Can I help you?”

  “Simone Calhoun,” Simone said briskly, her tone clipped. “Deborah Smithfield said you could help us.”

  The young woman wore a faded red men’s tee shirt that hung on her petite frame, coming nearly to mid-thigh. To Tad, it looked like she’d just woken up. At the mention of Deborah, the confusion on her face evaporated. “Oh, of course,” she said, stepping back and gesturing them forward. “Come on in.”

  They trooped past her into the house. It was only when they were standing in her small foyer that Tad noticed the dirt on Simone’s face and the strong odor of cigarettes that emanated from Henry. He looked down at himself and cringed. He hadn’t showered in over twenty-four hours, and it showed. Heat crept up his neck.

  “Have a seat,” the woman said, closing the door behind them. She motioned to the couch in the room just beyond. Simone perched on the edge of the cushion, her posture straight and alert, while Henry collapsed into it with a groan of relief.

  Tad stayed where he was, shoving his good hand into his pocket as he cast an awkward glance toward their host.

  She was watching him. “Please,” she said, “sit down.”

  “No,” Tad said quickly, the words tumbling out too fast. “It’s alright. I’ll stand.”

  Her brow lifted slightly. “I insist.”

  “I’m all muddy,” he countered, glancing down at himself. “I’ll just mess up your couch.”

  “I can get you a blanket—”

  “No, really,” he interrupted, raising his good hand. “I’m fine. Promise.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, her face neutral and unreadable. He grew increasingly self-conscious and looked away from her, his eyes skating around the room. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds, throwing strips of light across the floor, and he could see straight back to the kitchen through the wide archway. The smell of mold lingered in the air, sweet like rotting peaches.

  “Okay,” she said at length. She sat down on the coffee table in front of Simone and Henry and set her mug next to her hip. Her oversized shirt hiked up, revealing denim shorts beneath. “So, how can I help?” she asked. “Mrs. Smithfield didn’t say much other than you were trying to raise a coven.”

  “Have you raised one before?” Simone asked.

  The woman nodded. “I grew up in one,” she said.

  Tad caught the flash of curiosity that crossed Simone’s face. “Grew up?” she echoed.

  “My mother and aunts kept one going for almost thirty years,” the woman explained.

  It was only then that Tad realized he didn’t know her name. He glanced at Simone, wondering if she’d mentioned it earlier and he’d missed it. Shifting awkwardly on his feet, he caught the woman raising an eyebrow at him. Asking her name now felt too strange, so he swallowed the thought and looked away, pretending to study the room instead.

  “Wow,” Simone said, her tone dry but not unkind. “That must’ve been—”

  “Stressful?” The young witch laughed, a light, musical sound that seemed out of place given the conversation.

  Simone gave a faint, rueful smile and nodded. “That too.”

  “Where did you grow up?” Henry asked, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity laced with suspicion.

  The witch shrugged, her casualness at odds with the tension in the room. “Chester,” she said simply. When Henry’s blank look lingered, she added, “Just south of Philly.”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What brings you up here?”

  Her expression darkened, a shadow flickering across her face. “Our house was flooded,” she said.

  They all nodded, remembering. Everyone had a story about that year, but something about how she answered pulled at Tad’s insides. He stared at her, trying to figure out what his gut was trying to tell him. She wasn’t lying, but... something was off. Maybe not wrong, but definitely off.

  “Is that why you moved?” Tad asked.

  She swiveled on the coffee table and looked up at him. A car passed on the street outside, and the bright morning sun reflected off of it, sending shards of light into the room. They moved across his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He blinked away the light, and when he could see again, she was on her feet and moving past him.

  “One second,” she called over her shoulder as she moved to the back of the house. “Does anyone want some coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds great,” Simone answered for all three of them.

  When the young witch was out of earshot, Henry massaged his thigh. “What do you think?” he asked Simone, pitching his voice low.

  Simone shrugged, her gaze flicking toward the open doorway. “She seems... fine.”

  “A little young,” Henry said.

  “Maybe,” Simone replied, but there was a tightness in her tone. “We were all that young once. Age doesn’t mean much when it comes to magic.”

  Something was bothering Tad. “How did she grow up in a coven? I thought you said they were hard to keep together.”

  Simone turned to him, her brow furrowed. “They are. Keeping one going for thirty years?” She shook her head. “That takes serious skill. I’d like to meet her mother someday—she must’ve been something else.”

  “Actually, it was my grandmother’s handiwork.”

  Tad turned to find the young woman standing behind him, a wooden chair in her hands. She set it down in front of him. “Here,” she said. “Now you don’t have to worry about the couch.”

  “Thanks,” Tad said, feeling a pang of guilt that she’d gone out of her way. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  She waved him off as she walked back toward the kitchen. “You looked uncomfortable.”

  A moment later, she returned, carrying several mugs. “I already had a pot on,” she said as she placed them on the coffee table. “Anyone need cream or sugar?”

  “Please,” Simone said, her tone deliberate but polite. Tad could tell she was making an effort, though her shoulders were still tense.

  The woman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Her footsteps faded, leaving the room in near silence, the dim light amplifying the awkward stillness. Tad shuffled over to the chair and sank into it, the hard wood pressing uncomfortably against his back. He grabbed a mug off the table, the rich smell of coffee hitting him before he even took a sip. It was warm in his hands, enough to pull a yawn out of him despite himself. How long had it been since he’d slept? He couldn’t even remember.

  As he settled deeper into the chair, its hard frame offering only a semblance of comfort, he nursed his cup, cradling it in both hands for warmth. His eyelids grew heavy, the lack of sleep making his movements languid, his focus slipping.

  His drowsy reverie was interrupted by the swift return of the woman. She set a carton of half-and-half and a bowl of sugar in front of Simone before reclaiming her own mug.

  “So why do you need a coven so urgently?” she asked, settling back onto the corner of the coffee table.

  Simone glanced up from fixing her coffee, then over at Henry, who was already sipping his own drink, a blissful expression on his face. “We’ve got a problem with an open Doorway,” she confessed grimly.

  Simone’s words startled the woman, and she set her mug aside. There was something on her face that Tad couldn’t place. His sleep-deprived mind was moving too slowly. He stifled a yawn as his guts twisted, protesting the injection of caffeine on an empty stomach.

  “Has it been open long?” she asked.

  Simone stirred her coffee. “Since last night at least, but it’s already festering, and there are Tree roots trying to come through, so we need to close it soon.” She grimaced. “I tried, but it’s too big,” she said, sitting back and taking a drink.

  “A Tree?” the witch asked, startled. “Here?”

  Simone’s mouth pinched, and she nodded mutely. The threat of a Tree in Eliasburough seemed to hang in the air.

  A cramp clutched Tad’s midsection, and he tried not to let it show on his face. “Do you think a coven would work?” he asked, shifting in his chair.

  The woman looked speculative. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never tried to close a Door.”

  Simone cursed and sat back against the thick couch cushions. “Well, there goes that idea,” she muttered. She drank a large draught of coffee. Beside her, Henry looked barely awake.

  A cold prickle of sweat washed across the back of Tad’s neck, and a heaviness settled around his midsection. In that instant, Tad knew he was going to be sick. He set his mug down on the table.

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure,” the witch said. She gestured behind her at the stairs that ran up the back wall. Her fingers shook for a second before she curled them into a fist. “Top of the stairs,” she said with a smile.

  He did his best not to run. The wrought iron railing felt cool under his suddenly warm palm, and it was a relief to pass out of sight of the others as he breached the second floor. He let his stoic policeman’s facade fall, and a grimace settled into its place. A cramp twisted his insides, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or if it was going to come out the other end. The landing at the top of the stairs was small, with just enough room for three doors. One of the doors was clearly the bathroom, but the other two were closed to his prying eyes.

  He closed the door to the bathroom behind him and gratefully sat down on the wide ceramic lip of the tub. The bathroom was tiny, with barely enough room for all the fixtures, and it smelled like fruity bath products. He didn’t care. He let his head sink into his hands as he tried to calm his raging insides. Now that he was sitting, his head was spinning. He eyed the toilet through the window of his fingers. It was a green affair with a fluffy magenta cover. He didn’t want to have to use it. Another cramp gurgled in his belly, and he groaned involuntarily. Sweat prickled his upper lip, and cold gooseflesh ran under his ass. Another wave hit his stomach, and he lurched for the toilet, fumbling with the fuzzy lid. He opened it just as bile burst from his mouth.

  Afterward, he turned on the cold tap and cupped his hands under the column of water. He rinsed his mouth first, then used his cold, wet hands to wipe his face. He looked at his face in the mirror as the water dripped from his chin. He was paler than he should be, and his head was still spinning. He glanced at the toilet. That hadn’t just been about coffee on an empty stomach. That had been something else.

  He rinsed his mouth with the cold water again, relishing the clean coolness of it, before shutting off the tap and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He considered using one of her pink towels to wipe the water from his face, but that seemed to push the unspoken contract between host and guest too far. He opted instead to wipe it the best he could with the shoulder of his tee shirt. He glanced at himself in the mirror again. He looked like shit, but there wasn’t anything more he could do about it.

  Out on the landing, the murmur of voices came back to him. His head spun, and he put out a hand to the wall to steady himself before heading back down. For the life of him, he didn’t know when things changed. He had been tired when he first sat down, but now it felt like his limbs were made of concrete—heavy and useless. His feet clunked heavily on the stairs as he made his way down. He had to grip the thin metal railing tightly to keep from pitching face-first down the stairs.

  Simone was nodding. “I’m sure it’s hard with a Tree nearby, sapping all the magic,” she said, sounding exhausted. Beside her, Henry’s head lolled, his eyes closed.

  “Oh, the Tree was never an issue for me,” the woman said proudly.

  “What?”

  “You just need to make sure you give yourself a steady stream of power.”

  Simone blinked, and Tad could see the confusion in her eyes. It mirrored his own. Then, understanding dawned, followed by horror. “What did you do to us?” she managed. The words came out thickly like her tongue was swelling.

  Instead of answering, the woman stood up and collected Simone’s cup from her nerveless hands. She turned to Tad, ignoring Simone. He took a step forward but nearly stumbled instead. He felt like he was underwater, drunk, or both. He staggered backward and grabbed at the iron railing for support.

  When he looked up, the woman was standing in front of him, assessing him.

  It was the last thing he saw before his vision went dark.

  ---

  Wilhelm heaved himself out of the chair, leaning heavily on his cane. As he moved, her gaze was drawn to his hands. For the first time, she noticed the intricate network of runes that were tattooed across his gnarled knuckles. The passage of time had blurred the once sharp lines of ink, softening the edges. She recognized a few of them: protection. Greer knew this because similar runes were carved into every windowsill in her grandmother’s house. A fat lot of good they’d done a half hour ago.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about the world, girl.” Wilhelm moved to one of the cupboards and reached up to open it. Chris jumped out of his chair.

  “Let me do that,” he said, reaching over his grandfather’s stooped form and pulling down a coffee mug stained with age.

  “I don’t need your help, boy,” Wilhelm groused, then he speared Greer with a look. “Didn’t your grandma teach you anything?”

  Greer’s face burned. She opened her mouth, but Wilhelm was already speaking to Chris. “Why did you bring the little witch here? You know my rules, boy.”

  “I’m not a witch anymore,” Greer cut in. She crossed her arms, looking away.

  Wilhelm paused and peered at her. “Say what now?”

  “Kat cursed her,” Chris said. “Took her magic.”

  Wilhelm shot a look at his grandson. “She’s got a mouth, don’t she? Let the girl answer for herself.”

  Chris colored at the rebuke and Wilhelm settled his steely gaze back on Greer. She swallowed thickly, suddenly nervous. “Grandma cursed me,” she started. Her voice felt small.

  “That what’s on your face?” Wilhelm questioned.

  She nodded, resisting the urge to touch the network of scars on her cheek.

  “When?”

  “Fifteen years ago,” she said.

  “Hmph,” he said, leaning on his cane while his eyes roamed her face. “And you’ve got nothin’ left?”

  She shook her head.

  Wilhelm’s gaze lingered, sharp and assessing. Turning to Chris, he asked, “And you verified this?”

  Chris shrugged, shifting uneasily. “My runes didn’t react to her.”

  Wilhelm grunted, his skepticism clear as he glanced back at Greer.

  Wilhelm’s sharp, assessing gaze bore into Greer, but whatever he was searching for, he didn’t seem to find it. With a grunt, he straightened his back, his cane creaking under the shift in weight.

  “Well,” he muttered, breaking the heavy silence. “I hope you’ve got a good reason for bringing her here, boy.”

  Chris, still uneasy from the rebuke, exchanged a glance with Greer before replying.

  “You mean other than running for our lives?” He let out a sharp breath, gesturing toward the open door. “I don’t know, Opa. We’re running out of options.” He gestured toward the open door, his voice lowering. “With Kat dead, you’re the only one around here who might have an inkling about how we can break free.”

  “Oh, she ain’t dead,” the old man remarked, the hint of a smirk playing on his weathered lips. “Not all the way.”

  Greer froze, her heart clenching in her chest. “What do you mean?” she asked, the words spilling out before she could stop herself.

  “I hear her,” he declared, his gnarled finger tapping his temple. “Up here, at night when everything’s quiet. Whisperin’ her poison.” He grabbed the mug Chris had retrieved for him and turned toward the coffee pot.

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  Greer’s breath hitched. She stared at him, feeling the world narrow around her. “You can hear her too?

  Wilhelm stopped pouring, the steaming coffee sloshing precariously close to the rim. He turned back to her, his pale eyes sharp as glass. Slowly, he set the mug down on the counter. “Well now,” he muttered, moving toward her, his steps deliberate. “Ain’t that interesting.”

  The sour tang of stale beer and sweat reached her as he loomed closer. She lifted her chin, refusing to flinch under his scrutiny. He studied her face with the intensity of someone searching for cracks in a fa?ade. “Didn’t you just say you don’t have magic?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm, the edge of accusation cutting through. “And now you’re tellin’ me you hear her same as I do?”

  “I—” Greer faltered, her throat tightening. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “It means you lied,” Wilhelm snapped, his tone as sharp as the cane he leaned on. His words seemed to echo in the small kitchen, bouncing off the walls and driving straight into her chest. “Magic or no magic, girl, you’re tied to this, same as the rest of us. And that makes you dangerous.”

  Greer’s pulse thundered in her ears. She tried to summon a retort, an explanation, but Wilhelm was already turning away, his dismissal as sharp as the accusation.

  “Get her out of here,” he barked to Chris, his voice laced with authority that brooked no argument. “Before it’s too late.”

  “No!” Greer’s voice rose in defiance as she reached out, her hand closing around his wrist. “You can’t just—”

  Her words were cut short as a sharp, searing jolt surged through her, snapping her hand back as if it had been burned. The shock reverberated through her body, leaving her gasping. A high-pitched whine filled her ears, drowning out everything for the space of a heartbeat.

  Wilhelm’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He recoiled violently, stumbling back against the counter. His weathered face twisted in a mask of shock and dread, and his chest heaved as if the very air had turned to poison. “What are you?” he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper, barely audible over his ragged breaths.

  “Opa!” Chris was at his side in an instant, one arm steadying the old man as Wilhelm shoved him away with surprising strength.

  “No,” Wilhelm stuttered, shaking his head as if to deny the truth staring him in the face. His eyes locked onto Greer, wild and unblinking. The tremor in his hands worsened as he raised one, pointing a trembling finger at her like she was a specter come to life. “She’s… she’s—”

  “His pills!” Chris’ urgent cry jerked Greer out of her stupor.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her ears. Her eyes frantically scanned the mess strewn around the room. “Where?” she asked, her voice strained with anxiety.

  “The living room!” Chris bellowed, his chin jerking towards a dimly lit hallway as his hands worked to steady his ailing grandfather.

  Greer darted down the narrow passage, her heart thudding against her ribs like a panicked bird trapped in a cage. She stole a glance back at Chris, who was struggling to maneuver his grandfather into a chair, his sharp face creased with worry.

  The hallway was short, and it brought her to a cluttered dining room; the table drowned under a sea of trinkets, faded family photos, and towers of untouched china. Behind her, she could hear the low murmur of Chris’s reassurances clashing with Wilhelm’s rising growl, his trembling words sharpening into a fierce, guttural determination. One phrase cut through the chaos behind her, sharp and clear.

  “Not again—”

  She paused beside the dining room table. Two doorways loomed large in front of her. One led to a steep stairwell that twisted out of sight, presumably leading to the second floor, while the other opened into a dim room dominated by a shabby couch and towering bookcases, their shelves sagging under the weight of countless books.

  Bingo. She surged into the room, her eyes scanning the dimly lit space for the telltale glint of the orange pill bottle.

  “Get off me!”

  “Opa, no!”

  Chris’s shout was followed by the sharp crash of breaking dishes. Greer spun around, her heart leaping into her throat, the buzzing in her ears rising to a deafening hum.

  A gruff roar echoed through the house. “I won’t have it in my house!”

  Suddenly Wilhelm was in the halfway, hobbling down the narrow passage like an avenging spirit, his face contorted with a mix of fear and rage. Greer froze under his stare, her breath quickening. Chris ran after him, trying to hold the old man back.

  “Stop!” Chris shouted, racing after him, his arms outstretched to hold the old man back. “Opa, stop!”

  Wilhelm wrenched himself free, staggering forward a step. “You brought that into my house?” he thundered, jabbing one gnarled, trembling finger toward the hallway where Greer stood frozen. “Do you even know what she is?”

  “I brought her here because I thought we’d be safe,” Chris snapped, his voice rising in desperation. “I’m not going to let you do this!”

  Wilhelm stopped in his tracks, his face twisting with disbelief and scorn. “Safe?” he spat. “You’re a fool, boy. Can’t you see what she’s done to you? She’s bewitched you!”

  Greer backed away from the men, slowly, her hand gripping the wall for support. Her head was spinning and the argument was only making it worse.

  “You let a dark witch into our house-”

  The bottom fell out of Greer’s world.

  The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, all she could do was stand there. That’s what her grandmother had called her all those years ago—right before she’d ripped Greer’s world out from under her feet. The terror of her seven-year-old self came back in full force. The high tone was back in her ears, sharp and unrelenting, drowning out everything but the words.

  Did you honestly think I would just let you live, little dark witch of mine?

  Chris’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “She hasn’t done anything!” he shot back. “Greer isn’t Kat—she’s not like that!”

  Wilhelm let out a harsh, bitter laugh, the sound rattling in his chest like dry leaves. “Not like that? Have you forgotten what that bitch did to your grandmother? Have you forgotten the screams?” His voice cracked, and he jabbed a trembling finger at Chris. “You think you’re immune? You think you’re smarter than me? You’re just like your father—always thinking with your heart, never your damn head!”

  Chris flinched, but his resolve didn’t waver. “This isn’t about Grandma, and it isn’t about you. I’m not going to let you punish Greer for something she hasn’t done.”

  Greer was shaking.

  “I’m not—” she started, but the ringing in her ears drowned out everything. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling hot tears run down her cheeks. The ringing grew louder. She fisted her hands in her hair.

  You’re an abomination and should never have been born.

  Wilhelm’s face darkened, his hand trembling as he gripped the leather-wrapped cane for support. “You’re blind. You brought that… thing into our home, and now it’s only a matter of time before she destroys everything.”

  “Don’t call me that!” she screamed, clutching her head, her voice raw. She stabbed one finger in the direction of the Dane farm. “She—” Greer’s voice cracked, but she pressed on, trembling. “She took it all!”

  Wilhelm turned toward her and seeing her in the doorway, the blood drained from his face. “Jesus,” he swore, digging inside the worn fabric of his undershirt with one shaking hand. He pulled out a tarnished amulet that hung from an old-fashioned chain, dark with age. He yanked it hard enough to break the fragile clasp and held it toward Greer, his hand shaking with the effort.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “I’m gonna save you.”

  The buzzing in her ears shattered into a thousand tiny voices. They screamed inside her head like a swarm of angry bees as she stumbled away from the old man. There was a sudden wetness in her nose, and when she wiped at it, she was met with bright red blood. “What are you doing to me?” she cried, pressing her hands against her ears, desperate to drown out the voices.

  The voices in the room seemed to coalesce into one tiny whispering entity, an eerie breathless voice only she could hear. Wilhelm began to speak in a language she didn’t understand, and the amulet started to hum, its vibration radiating outward. She could feel its subtle rhythm deep in her bones, an uncomfortable echo that throbbed like an ache in her teeth. The tiny voice whispered urgently in her ears, but its words were lost.

  Chris’s reaction was immediate. “Opa!” he bellowed, lurching forward with an outstretched hand. “No!”

  At first, she didn’t understand why Chris was so upset; then, the pressure hit her. Like a boa constrictor, it wrapped around her neck and chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs. Her hands flew to her neck in a panic, scrabbling at her throat, but there was nothing she could grab to ease the tightness around her windpipe. She gasped for air, her vision blurring as the pressure intensified. Panic set in, and she tried to scream. But only a wheeze escaped her lips. Stumbling backward, her back connected with the wall with a dull thud as her legs threatened to buckle under her.

  The voice shouted at her with its tiny, tiny voice. Witch, it seemed to say.

  Greer tried to cry out as the pain intensified, but her pain was silent now. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt like she was being ripped apart from the inside out, and her mind screamed in agony.

  Chris leapt forward, trying to grab the amulet from his grandfather’s hand, but the old man swung it out of reach. His eyes were fixed on Greer, his eyes alight with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

  “Stop it!” Chris called desperation in his voice.

  But Wilhelm ignored him, continuing to chant in his strange language. Greer felt like she was drowning in a sea of pain, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t move. She was completely at the mercy of the old man and his stolen magic. The room was spinning, and she fell to her knees.

  Witch! The tiny voice cried. Its voice seemed to come in and out like a flicker in the radio waves.

  “Opa!” Chris shouted, struggling with his grandfather.

  “Stay out of this!” Wilhelm shouted at Chris as he stepped closer to Greer, the amulet’s chain swinging in the air. With narrowed eyes clouded by pain, Greer watched the amulet spin and twirl erratically before her, reflecting golden light in every direction.

  “You say she’s not a dark witch, but look at her!” Wilhelm cried, pointing to Greer. “Caught like a bug in a spider’s web! That’s the power of the Witches’ Net!”

  Take me, witch, the amulet said, clear as day in her mind, and she realized the tiny voice had been coming from it. I will show you what you are, the voice rasped, seductive and ancient. Her hand twitched.

  Chris lunged at Wilhelm, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around. Wilhelm’s silver hair was disheveled, and his blue eyes were wide with surprise. He tried to squirm away, but Chris held firm, gritting his teeth as he growled, “Opa—”

  Greer let go of her throat and let her body fall forward. As she pitched toward the floor, her arm shot out, her fingers curling around the tarnished brass chain, yanking it free from Wilhelm’s grasp.

  The moment her skin met the metal, a surge of something roared through her like a bolt of lightning, sharp and hot. She cried out as the amulet burned against her palm, the heat searing into her skin like she was gripping a live ember. But it wasn’t just pain—it was awakening. Something buried deep within her, something raw and ancient, began to claw its way to the surface. As it did, the voices in her head silenced abruptly, their incessant buzzing replaced by an almost deafening clarity.

  Shocked, Wilhelm swung his gaze away from his grandson and back to her. “What the—”

  She forced herself to stand and the pressure around her chest evaporated, leaving her gasping for air, but the relief was short-lived. The heat from the amulet surged upward, coursing through her veins like molten fire, and suddenly, she felt bigger than herself- more than what she was before. The world seemed brighter, sharper, every edge too vivid, every shadow too deep.

  “I’m not a witch,” she managed through burning lips. The heat, like liquid fire, ran through her body, burning a smoldering trail through bone and tissue. Her whole body ached, and she struggled to get a grip on herself. For a sickening moment, she felt like if she let go, she’d explode like a supernova.

  A tremor rumbled through the house like a warning. Timber groaned around them, and pictures rattled on the walls. A large picture of Chris as a teenager swayed particularly dangerously.

  “The hell you aren’t,” Wilhelm bit out.

  “I am not a witch!” she shrieked. The dimly lit room seemed to dance as the floorboards rumbled beneath them. The framed school picture of Chris fell from its nail on the wall with a crash. The amulet was like a lump of coal searing her palm, and she tightened her grip, welcoming the hot pain.

  Wilhelm stumbled backward in alarm, his back hitting the wall. “Get… get away from me,” he stuttered, eyes wide with terror.

  In her hand, the amulet hummed a low, deep thrum, vibrating in sync with the rhythm of her pounding heart. The antique metal grew hotter against her palm, and she crushed it tighter, squeezing it hard enough to draw blood.

  Under the terrible heat and pressure, the amulet popped in her hand—a sudden ceasing to exist. Startled, she looked down to see it crumbling like burnt paper. She gasped and dropped its remains, taking an involuntary step back as it burst into ash and floated to the floor. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees, and the two motionless men watched her intently, their eyes wide.

  Her heart raced as a wave of fear washed over her. She had done something terrible, but she was completely unsure how it happened. Taking an uneasy step back, she searched desperately for answers, struggling to wrap her mind around what had just occurred. She looked at her shaking hands, the memory of the amulet’s heat still tingling on her skin. “What… am I?”

  The shocked stillness in the room was almost tangible. Wilhelm’s eyes seemed to be searching desperately as if he were looking for something that would free him from this frozen moment. With a sudden movement, he shrugged off Chris’s hands and leapt for the dining table. He began to shove trinkets, old books, and other knick-knacks aside until his fingers finally grasped the cold metal handle of a small revolver.

  With a trembling hand, the old man raised the gun, pointing it at Greer. The sound of the hammer cocking echoed like a thunderclap in the small room and Greer froze, her heart slamming against her ribs as Chris lunged toward his grandfather with a frantic shout.

  “Opa! No!” With one long arm, Chris shoved Greer backward, forcing her into the hallway, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Out of the way, boy!”

  Greer felt the tiny hairs on her arms and legs stand up like wire bristles, the sensation of a million static shocks coursing through her body. She stumbled blindly through the narrow hallway, scrabbling past fallen picture frames and shattered glass on her way to the kitchen. She grasped desperately for the door handle, shaking with fear as she heard the argument behind her intensifying. With a harsh screech, she finally pulled open the screen door and threw herself out onto the porch just as a gunshot pierced the air.

  “Chris!” She screamed his name, the syllables tearing her abused throat as she lunged back toward the kitchen, her heart pounding. He exploded through the door a second later, his wide eyes full of terror.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  Greer didn’t need any more urging. She didn’t look back as she sprinted down the rickety old porch steps and onto the grass, her feet pounding against the ground as she took off across the yard. Her lungs burned with the effort, but she kept running, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The sound of Chris’s footsteps echoed behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. His eyes were wild with fear and anger. He caught up to her in a few strides and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her along faster.

  “Keep moving,” he urged, his voice laced with fear.

  A loud bang behind them made them both jump, and Greer nearly lost her footing.

  “Hurry!” Chris gasped. They ran through the woods, dodging trees and tripping over roots. Greer nodded mutely, her legs burning with effort.

  They hurdled through the thick forest, their breath coming in ragged gasps as they pushed themselves to keep going. Eventually, Chris slowed. He was panting, his chest heaving as he grabbed her arm, slowing her pace. “Stop,” he wheezed, his voice hoarse. “He can’t-” he stopped and shook his head, gulping the air. “Not through the forest. Not with his knee,”

  He pulled her close, and she felt her body tense in response, the memories of Wilhelm still fresh in her mind. But Chris’s touch was gentle. “I’m sorry,” he said thickly, burying his face in her hair. “I never thought he’d do something like that.”

  She could feel his heart racing against hers, but she was too scared to move away. Slowly, as the seconds ticked by without Wilhelm showing up to fill her full of bullet holes, she began to release the breath trapped in her lungs and let herself sink into his embrace. Tears stung her eyes as she breathed in the warm scent of his skin, but, despite the comfort his body offered, the fear still clung to her like ice. Something inside her had changed forever. The tears in her eyes overflowed as she fisted her hands in his shirt. She sobbed against his neck as all the terror bled out of her. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her, and together, they clung to each other in the middle of the forest, grieving for the innocence they’d both lost at the hands of his grandfather.

  After a long moment, when her tears had reduced to hiccups, he sighed. “What was that?” he asked against her hair, his breath warm.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, the words feeling like a confession, raw and heavy. Admitting it aloud felt like admitting failure, like acknowledging she was something broken and unfixable. His arms tightened protectively around her, grounding her in the warmth of his presence. She sniffed and pulled back just enough to swipe at the lingering wetness of her cheeks, but Chris was faster.

  His calloused thumbs brushed away the tears as he cupped her face, tilting her gaze up to meet his own. She stared at his freckled, sunburnt face, searching for answers in the earnestness of his eyes. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as though he was afraid she might shatter under his hands.

  Above, a crow mocked them from the treetops.

  “I’m fine,” she mumbled, pulling back a fraction, but Chris’s hands didn’t let go. His steady grip only firmed as he studied her face and she clenched her fists against her sides, the trembling in her fingers betraying her resolve. She couldn’t fall apart now—not again. She had to stand on her own. Had to prove to herself that she could.

  But the weight of the last hour— the terror that still gnawed at her edges— pressed down on her like a stormcloud. She wasn’t fine. And the fight to keep pretending she was began to unravel with every breath.

  Her instinct was to push him away. She’d spent her whole life learning not to trust, not to lean on anyone. Her chest tightened, the protest forming on her lips. But something in his expression—steady, open, aching with his own fear and confusion—stopped her. He wasn’t offering pity or trying to fix her. He was just… there.

  The dam inside her cracked and her knees buckled under the weight of it all, and she was sagging against him, burying her face in his chest. His long arms folded around her without hesitation, wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth and strength. For a moment, she let herself give in, let herself believe it was okay to lean on someone else. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

  She didn’t notice the tingling in her hands until it was too late.

  Didn’t notice the line of numbness until it was well past her elbows, climbing its way into her chest.

  She staggered back and his hands shot up, catching her trembling ones. Confusion knitted his brow as he stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

  She gasped, shoving hard against his chest, but her hands felt cold and foreign, no longer her own. “Let go,” she choked out, panic bleeding into her voice.

  The creeping numbness surged, racing up her arms and pooling at the base of her throat. It crawled up the back of her skull, a cold, relentless wave that made her skin crawl. She sobbed, trying to wrench her hands out of his grip, but he held tight, his confusion deepening into alarm.

  “Greer, what’s happening?” he demanded, his voice sharper now, panic creeping in at the edges.

  She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t-,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “I don’t—”

  But it was too late.

  It had been too late the moment she let him in.

  She cried out wordlessly as reality slipped away, taking both of them with it.

  ---

  Bad trips weren’t exactly something Tad was used to. He’d always been the straight guy, the one who held your keys when you’d had too much to drink. So waking up on the floor wasn’t something he had much experience with.

  His heart pounded in his skull, and his back ached like a bitch.

  He forced himself to open his eyes.

  A dark ceiling floated over his head, strung with dusty cobwebs. Three large shadows perched on the ceiling, lumps of darkness that screwed with his depth perception. The floor beneath him was hard and cold against his back, and the smell of rot was as thick as fog, clouding his nose with its sickly sweetness. For a moment, that was all he knew. But then, memory flooded into the void.

  The witch.

  The bathroom.

  The coffee.

  Fuck.

  The fucking coffee had been laced. Anger raced through him. He should’ve figured that out sooner. He should’ve asked himself why she hadn’t been drinking the coffee. Maybe if he’d tried to be a better cop instead of trying to be a witch, he wouldn’t be lying on the floor. With some effort, he turned his head and saw an unconscious Simone lying beside him. There was a shape beyond her bulk that suggested Henry lay to her left.

  Somewhere, a woman was humming a song. Slow and melodic, a ballad that danced around the dust and the cobwebs. Footsteps passed behind his head, and he quickly shut his eyes, faking the same deep sleep that affected Simone. The steps were quick and light. There was a smush of air followed by a soft thwap as she walked that spoke of bare feet and flip-flops.

  He struggled to connect coherent thoughts. He felt like he was high, which he supposed he was. Laying there with his eyes closed wasn’t helping matters. His head swirled and threatened to sink back into oblivion. After a moment of floating inside his own head, the steps passed again, only this time they walked around him instead of just passing by his head. He heard them ascend up stairs that groaned with each step. A door closed above him.

  Silence fell.

  He opened his eyes again as soon as he was sure she was gone. The dark ceiling above him resolved into rafters, and he realized he was in a basement. The shadows were large cloth bags hanging from the joists like bats, swaying with gentle movement. His ankles were tied together with a rough rope, the end of which rose into the air. He squinted, trying to see past the dizzying sensation in his head. The rope was strung through a circle of some kind, attached to one of the beams overhead.

  Suddenly, the bags and the smell of rot made a lot more sense.

  He mustered the strength to turn his head toward Simone and hiss her name in the quiet, conscious of the other witch on the floor above them.

  Simone didn’t respond and hope deflated inside him. He struggled to sit, using his leaden hands to prop his torso up and panting with the effort. His hands were cold, and his legs might as well have been made of cement. His shoulder burned like a mother. The witch had taken his sling off and he vaguely wondered what kind of lasting damage he was doing to his shoulder with all the strain he’d been putting on it.

  Above him, the floorboards creaked as the woman crossed the floor, and he froze. After a moment, it was clear she wasn’t coming back down, and he forced himself to calm down.

  “Think, Shannon,” he whispered to himself. He ran his hand over his face as he considered his options. He looked over at Simone and Henry again, then around the room. The room, basement, he corrected himself, was only lit by a handful of narrow windows set high into the walls, likely at ground level outside. The watery light that made its way into the gloom was weak and did little to illuminate the corners of the room. But it was enough light to see that the three of them were laid out, side by side, inside a chalked circle. The circle was drawn so tightly that his feet almost touched the white lines. There were strange markings inside and outside the circle.

  What had Henry called them?

  Runes?

  He twisted to look behind himself. Behind their heads was a second, smaller circle. Inside that circle was a large silver bowl. Another of the ominous sacks hung above the bowl, darkness staining the bottom. There were more markings (Runes, he reminded himself) around the base of the bowl and just outside the smaller circle.

  On the other side of the basement, beyond the edges of a circle, was a simple workbench, the kind his grandfather had in his basement when Tad was a kid. But instead of tools, there were jars filled with things he couldn’t see.

  He manhandled his own numb legs and untied the bulky rough rope, then pulled himself closer to Simone and Henry by sheer upper body strength alone. Reaching out, he grabbed Simone with one hand while balancing his weight on the other. The sprained shoulder burned like fire, but he grit his teeth and shook her, saying her name urgently.

  She groaned, and her eyelids flickered, but otherwise, nothing changed. She remained inert, breathing deeply. A quick glance at Henry showed he was in the same catatonic state.

  Okay, he could do this. They were probably unconscious because of the poison. Or at least, he was assuming it was poison in the coffee. It could be drugs, he supposed, but that didn’t change anything. He wasn’t exactly in a position to pump their stomachs.

  He stared at the chalk lines on the floor. Simone had made a circle around the pit, and she had been pretty damn clear about not messing it up.

  What would happen if he rubbed them away?

  Behind him, the stairs creaked, startling him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” a voice asked.