Chapter Six

  When Tad came to, he was lying on his back. There was building pressure behind his eyes, and his head rolled as he lay motionless, the confused nerve endings sending conflicting signals to his brain. For a second, his brain insisted that he was still falling, but then the fingers of his right hand twitched and touched the hard-packed earth beneath him.

  The darkness hung in the humid air like a wool blanket, thick and heavy and soaked with sweat. He did a mental rundown of his body, testing joints and limbs for any trauma from the fall. His shoulder ached with new raw pain, a deep, angry throb that pulsed with every beat of his heart. He groaned, rolling over and pushing himself to his feet. He braced himself with his good hand against the charred remains of the beam at his elbow. The lingering heat seared his tender skin, and he yanked it away with a hiss. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling like a broken phoenix.

  He could do this. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the tang of charred wood. It burned his throat and threatened to choke him. He stood for a moment, blinking and trying not to cough. He swallowed thickly.

  “Simone?” he called, sending her name into the black. Only silence answered. He inched his way forward. “Simone?” he tried again, this time cupping his tender, burned hand around his mouth.

  Somewhere in the distance, the shadows shifted. For half a second, he thought it was the creature returning, but then something in the wide space flickered, and he realized what he was looking at was lighter than the blackness around him. Was it light? He squinted as he worked his way toward the far edge of his horizon, climbing over the debris he couldn’t circumvent. Red hot embers glowed in the darkness, like tiny flickering red stars in a black night sky.

  He rounded what he had taken to be a high pile of charred wood and found himself looking up a staircase.

  Tad’s mind floundered for an instant as he faced the impossibility of the sight in front of him. Filtered light hung in the air above the stairs, and Tad could just make out a whitewashed wall beyond the open door at the top of the stairs. He looked behind him at the ravaged basement, fear and uncertainty trickling down his spine and pooling in his belly.

  Something creaked above him, and he looked up, realizing for the first time that there were floorboards above his head. He opened his mouth to call out, but some instinct made him swallow Simone’s name. He suddenly wished he had his gun. Not the stun gun, but his real gun. Only metal and bullets would calm this fear that was crawling out of his belly.

  He put one foot on the bottom-most step. Despite the rolling nausea that twisted his insides as his brain tried and failed to make sense of this new reality, he didn’t throw up. He moved up one step, wrestling with the fear and nausea by breathing through his mouth. Little by little, he made his way up the stairs. Gradually, the pitch black of the basement fell away, giving way to a strange purple twilight that still managed to hide more than it revealed. With a shaking hand, he reached out and pushed the door all the way open.

  The fear damned near strangled him, but nothing jumped out at him from above, and he worked his way free of the stairwell. He found himself in the middle of a narrow hallway. A large open doorway was on the wall opposite him, just enough to the right that he couldn’t immediately see inside. At either end of the hallway, there were other doors, one large and ornate like an old-fashioned front door, and the other one had a worn, colorless curtain covering a broken window. Raw embers floated in the hot air, their red lights flickering as they drifted down the hallway. The walls were scorched, the floral paper peeling away like strips of blackened flesh and exposing the shattered plaster and wall joists beneath. A wide stairwell ran up the wall to his left, mirroring the basement steps at his back.

  The dark air from the basement drifted up the stairs like the breath of a sleeping lover and tugged at the hairs along his arms, scattering goosebumps across his exposed skin. He shivered and told himself it was because of the dry air, but the lie was like the crush of bitter seeds between his teeth. Above him, something heavy hit the floorboards, and a woman cried out, muffled and distant.

  Simone.

  A wild howl of wind burst open the old front door, revealing a storm of whirling gray outside the confines of the house. Shadows bled at the corners of his vision, crawling along the shaded lines of the ceiling, racing ahead of him toward the open door and the stairs. His heart thudding in his chest, he stepped away from the basement and followed them.

  The fire-ravaged stairs creaked under his weight as he ascended. The shadows melted up the walls and streaked through the spaces between the rails that guarded the landing, a river of darkness that parted around him like he was a boulder in a stream. He followed the flowing tide of shadow down the blackened hallway to a scorched door that hung from only one of its hinges, leaning dangerously forward.

  Inside was a different world. The roof had been ripped away from the house, exposing fractured beams and jagged edges of timber. A storm of gray ash swirled where the sky should have been, and it howled with hunger and bit the exposed skin of his face. At the center of the maelstrom, surrounded by a seething mass of shadow, was Simone, holding her gnarled wand root aloft and suffused with a bright green glow that hurt his eyes to look at. The light was coming from the wand, from something small inside it that sat within the tangled roots. As he watched, the source of her light flickered, and she swore. Like a pack of wolves sensing an opportunity, the shadows pushed forward, closing in on her. Simone shook the root, and the light brightened briefly, but it didn’t last. Behind her, a column of shadow began to climb the wall at her back.

  “Watch out!” he cried, pointing to the growing wall of darkness. Her gaze shot up, noticing him for the first time, then she glanced over her shoulder. She whirled, aiming her root’s light at the wall, and spoke a single word. It was made up of a harsh set of syllables that made no sense to his already overtaxed brain. The word slammed into the room like a thunderclap. He could feel it resonate in his bones. The shadows on the wall broke apart, dissipating like scattered ash. She turned back to Tad, opening her mouth to say something, but then her eyes fell to his feet. He followed her gaze to the shadows that were beginning to gather around his boots.

  “Don’t move!” she commanded, digging through her waist bag. She pulled a small rock from its depths, and before he could register what she intended to do, she pulled the glowing green stone from her root and jammed the new one in its place. Orange light, the color of a perfect sunset, flooded the room, and the shadows vanished, dissolving before his eyes. The stone hissed like a hot stone in the rain. She ran toward him and grabbed his hand. Her grip was strong and sure.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Come on,” she said, ignoring his question. “This isn’t going to last long.”

  The howling wind roared angrily at their retreating backs. Simone tugged at him, dragging him toward the stairs. The house groaned, and then there was the sound of cracking wood. Startled, Tad looked at the ceiling as it was ripped away by the raging wind, leaving them exposed to the storm.

  “Jesus,” Simone said, her voice sharp with worry. “It’s tearing the house apart.”

  “Why?” Tad found himself asking. He had so many questions.

  Her jaw tightened, and she tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the door. “Because it already did,” she said grimly. “Come on, we need to keep moving.”

  They raced down the narrow hall as the storm strained against the house, the ceiling cracking above them. Plaster rained down in white clouds, getting into his eyes and making them water. She pulled him down the stairs, leading the way with her glowing root. Its red-gold light spilled down the stairs to the first floor, throwing the living shadows up the walls of the scorched hallway below. They scattered as Tad and Simone rounded the newel post, evaporating under the onslaught of light.

  “Hurry,” Simone gasped, her face streaked with ash.

  Tad and Simone started down the long hallway back to the basement. He stumbled on an uneven floorboard. He didn’t know if it was the way the orange light burned into the back of his eyeballs or the constant stress this place threw at him, but he was drained. Each step was harder than the last. He found himself leaning on Simone for support. If she noticed, she didn’t comment.

  They were close enough that he could feel the waves of heat from the basement when a voice stopped him short.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  She glanced sharply at him. “Hear what?”

  He stilled and strained his ears. Above them, the wind howled, and wood cracked, and he could barely hear the hissing of her sunset stone. Then he heard it again.

  “That,” he said, pulling away from Simone.

  She looked back at him, and the light from her root cast part of her face in shadow.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  He stumbled away from her toward the nearest open doorway.

  “What do you hear?” she asked sharply, trailing after him.

  He peered inside without answering her. It looked the same as the rest of the house. Broken and dirty. Fuck he was tired. He braced himself against the wall. The muscles in his legs felt like jelly.

  “It’s a woman,” he said. “But I can’t tell what she’s saying.”

  Simon pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. She tugged at his arm. “Come on; we have to keep moving.”

  He allowed himself to be pulled forward, and the faint sound of the woman’s voice followed them as they struggled down the hall. Tad felt his body losing some kind of battle with every step he took. His muscles wobbled, and his joints screamed.

  The whisper, because it was suddenly clear to him that the voice wasn’t calling so much as it was whispering, wove through the storm howling above his head, a hissing, sibilant sound. The sound of breaking wood drowned out the words as the wind pulled up parts of the banister at the top of the stairs. Broken wood rained down.

  “Hello?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Can you hear me?”

  “Tad!” Simone pulled his hand away from his mouth. “Not now! We have to go!”

  Kill.

  The single word lashed out at him, and he felt the blood drain from his face. The texture of the air changed. He could detect a whiff of something that reminded him of the last time he’d visited the local slaughterhouse, where the pungent tang of old blood had lingered in the summer air, soured by the smell of guts and piss. He swallowed thickly and let Simone tug him toward the basement door.

  Now that it had found him, the whisper followed them insistently.

  Kill him, it demanded.

  Fear speared through Tad, making his balls tighten in response. The wind screamed, and the back door was suddenly torn off its hinges, pulled away by the unearthly tornado. Outside, there was only swirling gray, impossible to see through. Simone pulled him forward, her nails biting into his skin.

  “The house isn’t going to hold,” she said, pitching her voice to be heard over the wind. “We have to get out of here before it collapses!”

  He scrambled onwards with Simone leading the way; all the while, the voice chanted at his back, hate bleeding into every syllable.

  Kill him!

  Ahead of them, he could see the door to the basement was closed, and panic threaded through Tad. Simone grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He shouldered her out of the way and tried it himself, but the handle stuck fast. He abandoned the doorknob and dug his fingers into the crack between the door and the jamb, pulling with everything he had in him, his shoulder screaming with pain. Simone grabbed the handle and grunted with effort. Together, they pulled as the voice screamed at his back, raking hot lines of hostility down his spine.

  Without warning, a cold hand clamped onto his shoulder and spun him around. A woman made of gray smoke and burning hate stood before him, faceless and bleak. She opened her mouth, revealing a cavernous maw filled with red-hot embers.

  Kill him! The specter shrieked, gripping him hard enough to make his bones creak.

  Terror shot through him, and he pushed the creature away, his hand burning from the contact. Smaller, weaker hands gripped him from behind, and Tad stumbled, falling backward into the enveloping night of the basement. As the darkness closed around him, he heard the shadow rage from the top of the stairs as the Dane house was eaten away by the raging storm.

  Kill him!

  ---

  Disappointment flickered across Chris’s face, but he masked it quickly, stretching his arms overhead and rolling his shoulders back. “If you told me yesterday I’d been sleeping over at the Dane’s house, I would’ve called you a liar,” he said as he stood to his feet, grabbing his hat from the floor.

  She forced a laugh and tried to follow his lead, but the whiskey had gone to her legs, and her knees wobbled dangerously. Before she could reach for the shelves to steady herself, his hands snapped out, his warm hands gripping her hips. That heat below her belt leapt at his touch, burning hotly.

  “Easy,” he said softly, his voice dipping into a soothing croon.

  She flushed and stared at the front of his tee shirt, avoiding his eyes. “We’re going to regret this tomorrow,” she mumbled. She wasn’t sure if she was talking about the whiskey or something else.

  He let out an awkward laugh and quickly dropped his hands, taking a step back. “Excuse me,” he said, his tone light but tight. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  She nodded, watching him disappear into the hallway, leaving her standing like an idiot in the pantry. She swallowed thickly and picked up the mostly empty bottle, hating herself. She recapped the bottle and shoved it onto the nearest shelf, her fingers trembling.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  How could she let things get so messy? Her stomach churned, shame clawing at her chest. She replayed the moment in her mind, cringing at how easily she’d almost let things get out of control. Those feelings had no place here. Now, all she’d done was make everything awkward.

  Retreating to the kitchen, Greer retrieved her forgotten mug of now lukewarm tea. Setting it in the sink, she turned on the tap, letting cold water run into her cupped palms. She splashed it over her face, the chill biting at her flushed cheeks.

  Face dripping, she glanced up at the window above the sink. The glass reflected the dim kitchen light, her own tired face staring back at her. Beyond the reflection, the night pressed close, thick and impenetrable.

  Something flickered at the edge of her vision—movement behind her. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she whirled around, water dripping from her hands.

  Nothing.

  She rubbed her eyes, cursing herself. Reaching for the towel beside the sink, she wiped her damp face, forcing her breathing to slow as the stillness of the house settled around her again.

  She stared at the towel in her hands, her fingers gripping the fabric tightly. The house was driving her crazy. Every shadow felt like it was alive, every creak in the old floorboards set her nerves on edge. It wasn’t just the house—it was the memories, pressing down on her like a weight, tugging at the corners of her mind she didn’t want to revisit.

  And then there was the fear—sharp and constant. The worry that she’d look up and see Kat’s shadow again, her grandmother’s ghost lurking in the corners of her vision. Or worse, that she’d lose herself entirely, the house tugging her back into that other place, leaving Chris to watch her disappear before his eyes.

  Being in this house with him for so long felt like a ticking clock, the two of them wound too tightly together in a space that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for disaster.

  She tossed the towel onto the counter and ran her fingers through her damp hair, trying to shake the thought loose.

  The sound of the bathroom door clicking open made her glance up. By the time he came out, his face damp, she was ready for him—composed and waiting by the stairs.

  “I thought we’d set you up in the bedroom upstairs,” she said.

  He frowned, his expression tightening. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

  “No,” she interrupted, shaking her head, already anticipating his objection. “Not Kat’s room. My old room.”

  His shoulders eased, and he let out a short breath. “That’s a relief. But still, I don’t want to take a bed away from you. I’ll take the couch.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow, “because I’ve got dibs on the couch.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “No way. What kind of person would I be if I made you sleep on the couch? You take the bed.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her tone brooking no debate. When he looked at her with a confused expression, she sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Look, I won’t sleep in there—I can’t.” Not after everything that had happened to her in that house. Sleeping in her old bedroom was almost as bad as spending the night in the attic. “One of us might as well get a good night’s sleep.”

  Her gaze locked on his, daring him to argue, but he didn’t. The silence stretched before he finally spoke.

  “Then I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said firmly. “Don’t make me sleep up there all by myself. It’d be too weird.”

  She stared at him, the corner of her mouth twitching at his stubbornness. “Okay, fine,” she said, turning toward the stairs. “Let’s find you something to sleep on.”

  They spent the next forty minutes opening cupboards, closets, and chests, looking for pillows and blankets thick enough to soften the hard bite of the floor, before they finally gave up and wrangled the mattress from the bed in Greer and Maggie’s old room down the stairs. Greer let Chris do most of the hard work on the stairs. By then, the pleasant drunkenness had evaporated, and she needed to crash badly. Once it was on the floor, they dropped the pillows on the floor next to their makeshift nest and collapsed onto the bare mattress.

  “Jesus,” she muttered, throwing one arm over her eyes. “That was a shitty day.”

  He was lying next to her, his shoulder inches from her own, but he made no move to close the distance or put more space between them. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  “Tell me about it,” he said, pulling off his hat. He sat up, grabbed one of the nearby pillows, and stuffed it under his head. The room was spinning, and she let herself sink into the softness of the mattress, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. It smelled like her childhood—like wood polish and rosemary. She toed off her sneakers and dropped her arm, folding it over her stomach. She glanced at Chris out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were closed, and he had his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

  “I’m sorry you have to crash here,” she found herself saying.

  He opened his eyes and glanced at her. “Don’t be,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” His eyes traveled over her face, and he looked like he wanted to say something else, but then his eyes shifted, and he stared at the ceiling. “I’m worried about Wilhelm and the others.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” she said, parroting their earlier conversation. “The rain will keep them inside.”

  He glanced at her again. “I hope so.”

  “We should bring everyone here in the morning.”

  He considered that. “Wilhelm will say no, and I doubt the Clarke’s will come either. But we might be able to convince Henry.” He yawned. “I’ll walk over at first light and round everyone up, and then we can talk about hunting that thing down.”

  She bit her lip. “How do you hunt something like that?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “Got a better plan?”

  She didn’t. She looked over at him and saw his eyes were already closed. She wanted to ask if he regretted helping her—if, when the sun rose and they had to face whatever was waiting for them outside, he’d wish he hadn’t. But the thought caught in her throat, too heavy, too dangerous to voice.

  Instead, she closed her eyes and turned on her side, letting her head sink into the mattress. Cold, she inched closer, pressing her side against his until their warmth mingled. Memories of the way his hands felt washed over her, but she pushed them away. It was better this way, she told herself. She couldn’t get involved with a witch hunter. That would be stupid.

  Greer.

  A woman’s voice whispered in her ear, far away. Greer opened her eyes. The house around her was dark. She turned immediately to the still form of Chris, but the steady rise and fall of his chest told her he was asleep.

  Greer, the voice called again, sounding farther away.

  She sat up, searching the darkness for the voice, but the still house held no secrets. In the dark, it looked more decrepit than it had hours earlier, but everything was as it should be. Nothing was out of place. Carefully, she rose to her feet, the coldness of the floor seeping through her socks. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle.

  Greer.

  The voice was coming from outside. She could hear it now, scratching at the back of the house like an insistent dog. She walked mindlessly to the pantry and threw open the back door. It had stopped raining at some point, and now the wet smell of earth filled her nose. The sun was rising over the trees in the back, a golden glow that made the trunks of the tall pines dark by comparison. The rest of the sky was purple and black, lit only by the glittering light of distant, cold stars.

  I’m waiting for you, child.

  She was suddenly overcome with impatience. She wanted to see the sun and feel its warm light wash over her. She padded down the steps to the back lawn, the wetness from the rain soaking into her socks, drenching them through. In front of her, the tall grass of the fallow field danced in the crisp pre-dawn breeze. Something moved, hidden from her view by the grass. She stepped forward-

  “Greer!”

  She blinked, coming back to herself. She was outside, her feet soaking wet and freezing.

  “There you are!” Chris cried, and then he was by her side, looking stricken. His head was hatless, and his burnished hair was tousled by sleep. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where did you go?”

  She shivered and looked around. It was barely dawn. There was no glow from the sun behind the trees because that was impossible. The back of the house faced west, not east. She looked back at Chris.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling lost and confused. Inside, her stomach rolled sickly, and for a moment, she felt like she was going to throw up. “I was dreaming.”

  Had she been dreaming? It felt so real. Glancing down at her hands, she noticed her nails turning a frosty shade of purple from the chill. Looking down also told her she’d almost crossed the line of white stones in the yard.

  Greer, Kat’s voice whispered through the rippling grass.

  Her head snapped up, her mind instantly clearing as a stark bolt of fear rippled down her spine. She stumbled backward toward the house and bumped into Chris.

  He steadied her and peered into her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She could only shake her head as panic and fear tangled inside her. It was impossible. How could she hear her grandmother’s voice here? She tried to yank herself free from his grip to escape back inside the house.

  “Greer!” he cried, staring at her face, his own painted in shades of worry. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you hear her?” she asked, not caring that he would think she was insane.

  To his credit, he didn’t miss a beat. “Who?”

  “My grandma.”

  “But she’s dead.”

  “No shit!” she shrieked, her voice rising. “Do you think I’d be freaking out if she was still alive?”

  He put both his warm hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s gonna be okay,” he said. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

  “How?” she blurted. First, dropping out of reality, and now this? Was she going crazy?

  “We’re going to see Wilhelm.”

  All of her panic and fear condensed and dropped into her stomach like a rock. She stared at him. Then she shook her head. “No.”

  “I know,” he said. “But he knows about this shit. He can help us.”

  She wanted to argue that there was no us, but she couldn’t seem to make her mouth move properly. Instead, she shook her head and burrowed her hands into his shirt, still warm from sleep.

  “He’s going to kill me,” she said. Chris’s grandfather would have no qualms about killing her. He might actually enjoy it.

  But Chris was shaking his head, his mouth set into a grim line. “Not if I can help it.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dragged her closer. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest through his shirt. She let herself sag against him, wishing it could be that easy.

  ---

  Exhausted, Tad collapsed beside Henry under the branches of the dying tree. The rough bark scraped his back through the thin fabric of his tee shirt, and the sun blazed high overhead, unhindered by the bare branches of the tree. Simone tossed a bottle of water at him. He was so tired that he let it hit him in the middle of the chest. She watched him with unreadable eyes as he unscrewed the cap.

  “What the hell do you think you were doing?” she demanded after a long moment.

  Beside him, Henry cackled mirthlessly. “God, you’re so fucking predictable.”

  She turned her ire on him. “Shut your mouth, Henry. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

  Tad took a deep pull from the bottle. The water felt good against the scratched interior of his throat. Simone kicked the toe of his boot.

  “I was trying to save your life,” he said, feeling irritable. He took another swig.

  She crouched in front of him, her dark eyes tracking over his features. “How did you break my compulsion?”

  He frowned at her. “Your what? The thing where you made my butt stick to your ugly couch?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that,” she said. “How did you break it?”

  He shrugged and took another drink from his bottle. Fuck, the water tasted good. “I dunno,” he said. “It just happened.”

  She sighed and ran a hand through her curls. “You can’t run half-cocked into this,” she said. “You’re going to get yourself killed. You don’t know what’s out there.”

  He propped up one knee, letting his forearm dangle from its knobby perch. He felt the same way he’d felt back at the academy after a long day of exercises: boneless and brain sore. “I was trying to help.”

  “I had it under control.”

  He wanted to glare at her but didn’t have the energy for it. Instead, he scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “The rope was torn; what did you want me to do?”

  For a moment, she looked just like his mom—angry as hell, but with that particular set to her mouth that meant she knew she’d screwed up too. “It wasn’t torn,” she said at last. “I cut it.”

  “What? Why?”

  She turned and looked back at the pit. The morning sunlight caught the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, illuminating the ridges in her timeworn skin. When she looked back at him, she looked older than she was. “Because I found the stairs and knew there wasn’t enough slack to go all the way up. I tied it around the railing so I could find my way back out again.”

  “Well, clearly, that didn’t work,” Henry cut in. “That thing snapped like you tried to reel in a ten-foot shark.”

  She looked chagrined. “I was worried something like that would happen. I heard a noise that might’ve been a Hunter and booked it out of there.”

  “Who— what was that thing?” Tad asked, thinking back to the screaming voice. In the past twelve hours, he’d seen enough scary shit to fill his nightmares for the rest of his life, but he still had to know.

  Simone didn’t pretend not to understand. “That was the curse,” she said simply.

  His eyebrows rose. “That’s what you saw that night?”

  She shook her head, frustration flashing across her face. “No. That was a personification of it,” she said. “I tried to cast a spell to show me the caster of the curse, but it must’ve misfired.” She let out a sharp breath, her voice tight. “I thought if I figured out that piece of the puzzle, I’d be able to track down who is feeding the Tree.”

  Tad stiffened slightly, glancing toward Henry. “Feeding the Tree?” he repeated carefully.

  Simone turned to him, frowning. “Yeah. Those roots you saw? They’re part of a Tree.”

  He hesitated, stealing a glance at Henry. “Henry told me about the Trees,” he admitted slowly.

  Simone froze, her expression shifting from confusion to anger as her gaze snapped to Henry. “You what?”

  Henry, still leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow. “I told him the truth,” he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “You had no right,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “I told him about the Trees,” Henry said coolly, brushing her off. “It’s not like I handed him the keys to the Under.”

  Simone glared at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “The last thing we need is more people getting involved in this,” she bit out.

  “I’m already involved,” Tad cut in, his voice louder than he intended. He glanced between the two of them, his stomach twisting. “What does the Tree have to do with the curse?”

  Simone’s jaw tightened as she turned back to him. “The Tree is tied to the curse—it’s like its heart. Someone is feeding it magic to keep the curse alive.”

  Henry scoffed from his spot by the wall. “You make it sound so ominous. The Tree’s growth is a good thing. Do you know how rare it is for a Tree to take root here?”

  Simone whirled on him. “It’s feeding off the curse! You think that’s something to celebrate?”

  Tad cut through their argument. “What happens if it doesn’t get magic?”

  “It dies,” Simone said bluntly, her gaze still burning into Henry. “And so does the curse.”

  Henry folded his arms, unimpressed. “And a lot of magic would go with it. Think about that, Simone.”

  Tad’s mind churned with questions, but one memory surged to the surface: the voice he’d heard in the pit, screaming words he couldn’t understand. “Why was it saying that?” he asked, his voice sharp.

  “Saying what?” Simone turned to him, her frustration momentarily replaced by confusion.

  “All that stuff about killing him—” he stopped talking when he realized she didn’t understand what he was talking about. “You didn’t hear it?”

  “I heard it screaming,” she said slowly, watching him with guarded eyes. “But I didn’t hear anything about killing.” She was looking at him differently like she was examining his insides. “What did it say, exactly?”

  He shrugged. “It only said kill him. Over and over again.”

  She sat back on her heels and flicked a glance at Henry, but his face was impassive. “There was only one man there that night, but why would Robert be the intended target of the curse? He wasn’t a threat to anyone. He wasn’t even a witch.” She exhaled noisily and stood up. “Jesus, none of this makes any sense. I need to make some calls,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Maybe Jeff and Charlene.”

  “If you’re gonna close it, you need more than that,” Henry said, pushing himself up, his face pained. “A true circle is thirteen.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Tad interjected, but neither of them paid him any mind.

  Henry watched Simone for a moment. “The real question is, can you raise one? Last time didn’t go so well.” She glared at him before turning away and bringing the phone up to her ear.

  “Raise one what?” Tad asked their backs.

  Henry turned back to him. “A coven,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She needs to raise a coven to close that thing.”