“A Cyclops?” Xena’s heart-shaped face screwed up in a grimace of disgust. She shook herself as if she could rid her body of the memory of the name. “That is why the eyes of the victims were missing. Polyphemus is compelled to gather them.” The cat person had been sitting on the arm of the couch, but she slid off it to curl up on the cushions as she wrapped a chenille throw around herself like she suddenly felt a chill. “It’s really rather horrible.”
“Wait, compelled? Why?” Hunter asked as she sat beside Xena, redoing her ponytail.
“And who’s Polyphemus?” Mercy said as she rejoined her family in the living room. She carried a tray that held three mugs of steaming hot chocolate and her cell phone. Em hadn’t called or responded to the last four texts she’d sent, but Mercy wanted to be sure her phone stayed close to her for when her best friend was finally able to reach out.
“Polyphemus is a Cyclops,” Xena answered matter-of-factly and then said no more while she batted at the fringed edge of the throw.
“Xena, we need more information than that,” said Hunter.
The cat person looked up at the twins and sighed. “I forget how inadequate the modern public education system has become. The Cyclopes were a race of barbaric giants who terrorized ancient Greece. Polyphemus was the most human of them. I do not recall exactly how his heart was broken, but it had something to do with a nymph.” Xena smoothed back her hair. “Such flighty little things. Anyway, his heart was broken and I believe he did something stupid—he was, after all, a male.”
The girls nodded in mutual female understanding.
Xena finished, “And he was cursed to seek that which he was lacking until he found that which could not be discovered—meaning the second eye he was born without.” She shrugged. “Or something like that. But you need not pity him. Even though he was the most human of the Cyclopes he was still a hideous, barbaric beast, and I do believe Polyphemus eats the eyeballs after he, well, harvests them.”
“Huh. That’s interesting,” said Hunter.
“Interesting? It’s disgusting and creepy, but less creepy than what happened out there by that tree today. Xena, you should’ve been there.” Mercy offered the mugs of steaming cocoa to Hunter and Xena, who took them gratefully. “It made my skin crawl when the cards revealed the footprints of the killer.” She shivered. “They appeared exactly where I was standing!”
“Thank you, kitten.” Xena blew quickly across the steaming top of the cocoa. “Being able to eat, or drink, chocolate is one of my favorite things about being a person,” she said.
In spite of the seriousness of everything they’d discovered that evening, Mercy couldn’t help asking, “What else do you like about being a person?”
The tip of Xena’s pink tongue touched the creamy cocoa. She frowned at it and blew a few breaths across it again before answering. “Well, I like my hair. It is spectacular, though that is no surprise. I have always had a lush, magnificent coat. I also do enjoy a little cannabis, especially at bedtime.”
“Isn’t your bedtime anytime you want to nap?” Hunter asked as she peeked up at Xena over the top of her mug of liquid chocolate and coconut cream.
“Well, yes, of course, kitten. I also am surprised by how very much I like to take a lovely bath. It almost makes up for how very much I dislike clothes. They are so restrictive, so binding, so not like fur. Well, except for my Abigail’s bathrobe.” Xena lifted her arm and sniffed at the fluffy, well-worn robe. “It makes me feel as if my dear girl is hugging me.”
“That’s really nice, Xena.” Mercy curled her feet up under her and made herself comfortable in the space between her sister and Xena before she carefully blew on her own steaming chocolate.
The three of them sipped their drinks silently for a few minutes, each lost in her own thoughts, until Hunter spoke up.
“So, how do we kill the Cyclops?”
Xena tossed back her magnificent hair and said, “Killing the body it is inhabiting will be easy.”
Mercy’s throat closed and she put her half-empty mug down on the grimoire-laden coffee table. “I don’t think killing anyone will be easy—not even someone possessed by an eyeball-eating monster.”
“Kitten, as the guardian of the Egyptian gate told you, the human is already dead. What you will be killing is a reanimated body a Cyclops is using as a disguise. You must get over this foolish human squeamishness if you are to have a chance at vanquishing it.”
“I agree with you, Xena,” said Hunter. “But you have to understand that Mercy and I will see a human—and maybe even a friend or at least an acquaintance—when we track him down.”
“Him?” Mercy asked.
Hunter nodded. “You were too freaked to notice, but those were really big boot prints—like someone who worked outside a lot would wear. It’s probably a large man.”
“Great…” Mercy muttered.
“It is great, kittens! You already know three things about the Cyclops’s skin suit.” She lifted her long, slender fingers that were tipped by sharp, perfectly kept nails, and ticked off, “First, the person will be a star—symbolically not literally. Second, the person is a male. And third, he probably works, or spends a lot of time, out of doors.”
“That is a lot more than we knew this morning.” Hunter spoke firmly, confidently.
Mercy nodded and tried to sound more positive. “Yeah, that’s true. I’ll quit being such a downer about it. It’s just really intimidating to think about needing to kill a person and a monster. Together.”
Xena shook a finger in front of Mercy’s face. “No, no, no. You probably will not kill them together. Well, unless you push them through the Greek gate and seal it behind them. Then the body will crumble and continue to decompose, and the Cyclops will be banished back to Tartarus.”
Hunter blew out a long, sighing breath. “So, that’s the best way to get rid of it?”
“Indeed,” said Xena. She paused and lapped delicately at the cocoa before continuing, “Otherwise you take the risk of the Cyclops killing someone else and hiding inside his or her body.”
“But before we even think about how we’re gonna do all of that, don’t we need to strengthen the gates?” said Mercy. “I mean, it’s already super awful. The Fenrir caused Mom’s death. Then the Cyclops has caused the deaths of at least three people—including whomever he’s hiding inside. Think of how bad it would be if even just one more monster broke through another gate.”
“It would be terrible,” said Hunter.
“And very inconvenient.” Xena dabbed her mouth with the back of her hand and then licked the drops of liquid chocolate from her skin. “As Goode witches you can open the gates anytime you wish by simply commanding them, so being rid of the Cyclops—once you figure out who he is and somehow get him to the Greek tree—should not be difficult. But it will be extremely difficult if you have to battle several murderous monsters at the same time.”
“So, do either of you have a clue how to fix the trees? What Hunter and I did today obviously didn’t work—or at least it’s not working fast enough.”
Hunter frowned into her hot chocolate. “The directions on the insecticide said it could take a week to ten days for the worms to die.”
Xena leaned across Mercy and stroked Hunter’s arm gently before she said, “Oh, kitten, I believe if the mundane part of your spell was going to work the magical part would have been effective today, if even just a little.”
“Khenti said he noticed no difference on his side of the gate.” Mercy picked at her lip. “And, truthfully, I didn’t notice anything being any better on our side, either.”
Hunter shook her head. “No, neither did I.”
Mercy squared her shoulders and looked from Xena to her sister. “Do either of you have any idea at all about why the trees got sick to begin with?”
Hunter shrugged. “I’m as clueless as you are about that.”
Mercy chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting the thought that had been swirling around and around in her mind. It could be because you chose a god and brought a guy to a girl party!
“Forgive me, kittens. I am only a familiar and not the witch our Abigail was. I wish I knew what was sickening the trees, but I do not.”
“It’s so frustrating that none of us knows what’s wrong with them,” said Hunter.
“Well, what that means is that you need to look deeper and create a stronger spell to heal them,” said Xena.
“That sounds logical and even like it should be easy, but Mercy’s been going through those old grimoires like she’s cramming for finals and what we did today was all she came up—”
“Wait! I have an idea.” Mercy leaned forward, digging through the piles of grimoires. “Xena, did you pull the copies of Sarah’s grimoire?”
“You mean the original Sarah Goode?” Xena asked, perking up, too.
“Yeah, that’s exactly who I mean.”
“Actually, I did.” Xena pointed one long-tipped finger at a book that rested behind the others. It looked more like a fat folder than the other leather-bound journals. “It’s good to see that my feline intuition has not left me—even while I’m in human form. It told me you might need copies of the most ancient grimoires.”
Mercy grabbed the folder and sat back against the couch’s cushions. She opened it carefully out of habit, even though the pages within were Xeroxed copies of the fragile originals, which remained in a temperature-controlled lockbox in a Chicago bank. Generations ago the Goode witches began copying the oldest grimoires so that the knowledge of their ancestresses would never be lost, and then sealed away the originals.
“I like to think about the fact that someday Goode witches, our great-great-granddaughters, will copy my grimoires,” said Mercy as she searched for the right entry. “It makes me feel like I’m gonna live forever.”
Hunter snorted softly. “It makes me stress about my handwriting.”
Mercy looked up and grinned at her sister. “Well, that, too.” She turned a few more pages and then pumped her fist in victory. “Yes! Here it is.”
Hunter leaned closer, reading along with her. “Hey, that’s the original spell that Sarah used to close the gates in the spring of 1693.”
“Yep. Xena made me think of it when she said that we needed to look deeper and come up with a stronger spell. What could be stronger and deeper magic than the first spell?”
Hunter sat straight up. “Mag, you could be onto something!”
“Right?!” Mercy’s finger traced the words as she read Sarah’s loopy cursive writing. She glanced up at Xena. “Did you know Sarah had help with the first spell?”
“No. I am old, but not that old. I don’t believe I have ever read the original spell. Like you kittens, I learned the history by listening to the Goode witches retelling it.”
“Sheesh, Xena, exactly how old are you?” Mercy asked.
“One never asks a lady her age.” Xena sniffed haughtily and then continued, “I assumed the original spell was almost exactly like the one the Goode witches perform during every Feast Day Ritual.” She peered down at the copy of the ancient grimoire. “How interesting! Sarah had four people who aided her.”
“Seriously?” Hunter scooted nearer to Mercy so she could follow along.
“Yeah, look at this,” said Mercy. “Sarah was at the Norse gate, just like we were. She positioned two medicine women from the Illinois tribe at the Greek and Hindu gates, and—” Mercy paused and squinted as she struggled to make out the smudged scrawl. “I think that says Gertrude Smythe, pioneer woman and Goodeville resident, at the Japanese gate and Oceanus Martin, Pioneer Woman and Goodeville resident, at the Egyptian gate. Using smoke to signal the others, Sarah led them to begin the spell, which was almost identical to the one Abigail led us through except—” She paused and felt a jolt of surprise.
“They sealed the spell and the gates with their blood!” Hunter finished for her.
“And we need to repeat this spell as close to the original as possible.” Mercy chewed her lip. “But there are no members of the Illinois tribes left here anymore. There aren’t even any reservation lands in Illinois.”
“Such a tragedy—such a horror what happened to the indigenous peoples,” said Xena softly, sadly.
“We should add something during the ritual in remembrance of the Illinois tribe,” said Hunter.
“That’s a really good idea,” Mercy agreed.
“Hey!” Hunter’s face lit with a smile. “We do have someone very close to us who has ties to the settlers of Goodeville!”
“Ohmygoddess! Jax!” Mercy and Hunter high-fived.
“Jax would be an excellent addition, but I am in agreement with both of you that it would be wise and respectful to say a prayer for the wise women and make an offering to them during the spellwork,” said Xena as she finished her chocolate, placed it on the table, and settled back to groom herself.
“We’ll do that for sure, Xena,” said Hunter as Mercy nodded.
“Okay, so, we have Jax who is a descendant of Goodeville’s founding ancestors—and we can represent Sarah—all three of us. You”—Mercy jerked her chin at Hunter—“Xena, and me. But we still need one more person.”
“That person should live within the Goodeville city limits,” said Xena as she paused in her grooming. “She or he will also represent the pioneers who came here with Sarah.”
“Em is perfect. She loved being part of the grief spell and her dad’s family has run the funeral home downtown for more than a hundred years. Her grandparents and great-grandma just moved from here to that retirement place in Florida last year.” Mercy sighed deeply. “But I don’t know if she’s up to it.”
“If she is not, you cannot wait until her time of grief is over,” said Xena. “The gates must be sealed immediately.”
“You’re right. I’ll call her and see how she’s doing.”
“Has she talked to you at all today?” asked Hunter.
Mercy shrugged. “Sorta. I’ve been texting her. A lot. She said nothing feels right and her mom is totally not okay. Other than that she’s only sent crying emoji faces.”
“Do not expect her to be able to help you,” said Xena.
Mercy got up and headed for her purse. She fished around inside for her phone. “Well, if she can’t it’ll have to be Kirk.”
“Oh, hell no!” said Hunter.
Xena growled softly.
Mercy frowned and looked up from her phone. “Hey, he helped with the grief spell.”
“He was freaked out by the grief spell and almost screwed it all up,” said Hunter.
“Well, of course he was. Like Em said, he was totally inexperienced about witchy things. I talked to him and explained spellwork. He’s better now. And if we have to use him I’ll take full responsibility for prepping him.”
Hunter rolled her eyes and Xena growled again.
Mercy put a hand on her hip. “Do either of you have a better idea?” When neither said anything Mercy continued, “Then it’s settled. Emily is our first choice, but if she can’t do it we’ll use Kirk.”
“Grandma and Grandpa are like zombies.” Emily’s voice sounded so, so far away as she spoke softly into the phone. “Well, scratch that. Grandpa is like a zombie—if a zombie did nothing but drink whisky and watch ESPN. Grandma is a cooking zombie. She walked in—hugged me—starting crying—ignored Mom—and went straight to the kitchen. She’s been there ever since. Literally the only time she leaves is to refresh Grandpa’s glass, visit the ‘powder room’ as she calls it, and get a new box of Kleenex. She hasn’t stopped crying.”
“Em, I’m so sorry. Is your mom any better?” Mercy balanced the phone on her shoulder while she rinsed the pot she’d used to make the cocoa.
“Absolutely not. Meemaw and Peepaw can’t make it to the funeral, even though it won’t be for four more days. They’re on a Greek island cruise and said something about not being able to get a flight out from any of their ports of call. Mom thinks that’s bullshit, and I have to agree. But, Mag, the truth is they never liked Dad, and they hate his parents. Plus, you know my parents’ marriage hasn’t exactly been good—not that that matters to Mom right now. She’s, like, totally broken, Mag. She keeps talking about everything she should’ve and shouldn’t have said to Dad. And then she cries so hard I swear I think she’s going to puke. It’s awful.” Emily paused to sob softly and then blew her nose. “Sorry.”
“Hey, take your time. I’m totally here for you.”
“Thanks.” Emily sighed deeply. “So, Mom only left her bed when Grandma got here, and when Grandma ignored her and started cooking Mom retreated back to her bedroom and the bottle of pills the doc gave her.”
“Can I please come get you? Even for just an hour or so? I made hot chocolate. I could add some witchy herbs to it to help you relax.” Mercy put the pot in the dishwasher and cringed as it clanked noisily against a plate—though Em didn’t seem to notice.
“Relax?” Emily’s laughter was filled with sarcasm. “I can’t relax. I’m the only one holding it together. I had to answer, like, a zillion funeral questions today—including stuff about Dad’s casket. Jesus.”
“Bloody hell, Em, can’t the adults do that? You have a house full of them.”
“Oh hell no. My house is filled with old people who are barely functioning. I swear if I wasn’t here Dad would be on a slab in the morgue for fucking ever.” She sobbed brokenly into the phone. “Wilson keeps asking me what Dad would want.”
“Wilson? Isn’t he just a first-year apprentice?” Mercy was sure she remembered that he was fresh out of college. Em liked to say he still looked like a very gawky, zitty teenager. “How’s it okay that he’s running the funeral home?”
“Oh, he’s not really. Mr. Burton, from Sunset Funeral Home in Champaign, is really in charge, but Wilson keeps calling me and asking me details about Dad’s service. How do I know what my father, who was murdered when he was thirty-nine years old, wanted when he died? It’s not like he chatted with his sixteen-year-old daughter about his fucking funeral arrangements!”
Mercy wiped her hand on a dish towel and felt sad and sick and angry all at the same time for her friend. “Em, just tell Wilson to figure it out by himself!”
“I c-can’t.” Emily sniffled. “Someone has to at least try to do what Dad would want, and I seem to be the only somebody who cares.” She started sobbing again.
“Oh, Em. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I wish I could do something—anything.”
“You can.” Emily blew her nose. “Keep texting me. Even if I don’t answer. Just being here for me is everything.”
Mercy heard a woman’s voice calling Emily’s name.
“I gotta go. Grandma wants me to taste something. Again. It’s disgusting, Mag. Everything she cooks has way too much salt in it—like it was made with tears.”
Mercy didn’t know what else to say except, “I love you, Emily Parrott.”
“You, too, Mag.” And the cell went dead.
Mercy walked around the corner from the kitchen. Hunter and Xena raised mirrored brows at her.
“No way she can do it.” Mercy sat between them as she let out a long, disgusted exhalation. “I knew Em’s mom was a flake. Not just because she’s from that super rich family from New York and she always seemed to be looking down her nose at the rest of us, but because she was never here. I liked her dad a lot better. I mean, he forgot things—like school stuff.”
“And her birthday,” Hunter added.
Xena hissed sharply and said, “There is never any excuse for forgetting a kitten’s date of birth.”
“Yeah, all of that, but he was a nice man. And he told Em he was proud of her—a lot. But her mom’s family isn’t even coming back for the funeral—wankers.”
“That’s awful,” said Hunter.
“Her dad’s parents are here now, but they won’t speak to her mom and they’re so wrapped up in their own grief that they’re not helping Em at all. You guys, she’s having to make all the decisions for her dad’s funeral.”
“Oh! Poor kitten! Will she not escape to us?”
Mercy shook her head. “No. She feels like she’s the only adult in the house.” Mercy met her sister’s turquoise gaze. “H, it’s going to have to be Kirk.”
Xena growled.
“Bloody hell, Xena, stop!” Mercy told the cat person, who cringed back like she was afraid Mercy would swat at her. Mercy rubbed a hand across her face. “I’m sorry, Xena. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” Then she turned to her sister. “Seriously, H, if you can think of anyone else who already knows we’re witches—and I mean real witches—and who we can trust, I’ll totally go with you to talk to her, or him. Do you?”
“I’ve already thought about it. I considered Heather.”
“Heather? As in the president of the drama club?”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah. Remember a few Samhains ago she came by and asked Mom for some Wiccan tips because she wanted to write a modern version of Macbeth and make the witches draw down the moon?”
“I remember,” Mercy said. “I also remember she kept talking over Abigail the whole time she was explaining the points of a pentagram to her. Heather is one of the most arrogant people I know.”
“Actually that would be Kirk,” muttered Xena between licks of the last of the cocoa in her empty mug.
Mercy ignored her.
“Heather’s arrogance is why I thought she might work. I figured she’d love ‘playing witch,’” Hunter air-quoted. “But her family’s farm is ten miles outside Goodeville city limits, and I think we really do need people to stand in for the original settlers. So it has to be someone who lives within the limits of the town.”
“That’s Kirk.”
Her sister picked at her nonexistent thumbnail. “Okay, but you’re going to have to have a serious talk with him before the spell.”
“I will. And he’ll be cool with it. Promise.” Mercy was glad her voice sounded so sure, because her intuition wasn’t nearly as convinced. She shook off the feeling—really, we don’t have a choice. “How about you and I tell Jax and Kirk we’ll meet them after football practice tomorrow? We can explain what we need the two of them to do—together. You know Kirk hates to look like any kind of a sissy in front of another guy. It should at least make him receptive enough to listen to what we have to say.”
Hunter opened her mouth to speak, but Xena interrupted. “I want you to be very careful about what you disclose to those boys. Tell them only enough to set the intention to strengthen and heal the trees. They do not need to know the true history of Goodeville. They should not know about the gates.”
“But, Xena, won’t it be better to clue them in on—”
“No!” The cat person’s eyes flashed yellow and her hair lifted as she met their gazes—all lightness gone from her expression. “I have been guardian of Goode witches for generations. Modern townspeople will not understand. Sarah Goode fled as a result of ignorance and hysteria once. That tragedy must not be repeated. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Xena,” the girls spoke together.
Xena sighed and reached out to stroke each of their cheeks. “I am sorry to be so stern with my kittens, but you must heed me on this. The less they know, the better.”
“We’ll only tell them enough to set their intention,” said Mercy.
“Don’t worry, Xena. We’ll be careful,” added Hunter.
“Excellent. Now, I am rather sleepy. I need a bath and my cannabis truffle or three.” Xena stood and shook back her hair. “I shall see you in the morning, my lovely kittens.” She leaned over and licked each of them on their foreheads before padding gracefully up the stairs.
The girls exchanged a glance. “She’s a lot sometimes,” whispered Mercy.
“Sometimes?” Hunter quipped with a smile. “I’ll text Jax and let him know we’ll be there after practice.”
“Okay, I’ll text Kirk, too, in a sec. I just want to be sure I’ve read every part of Sarah’s ritual.” Mercy scanned the rest of the page, making quick notes on her phone of the supplies they’d need: an offering for each and a tool for each of them to use to draw a little of their blood. Mercy chewed her lip. Little tiny ritual knives? Where the bloody hell am I going to get some of them?
She turned the page to the end of the spell, which was also the end of the grimoire. As she closed it, her fingernail caught on a corner of a blank page glued to the inside rear cover of the book. Mercy picked at the corner, and carefully peeled the copied sheet from the cardstock cover. It was a poem, which wasn’t very shocking. Sarah’s grimoires were littered with poems, though most of them were written in the margins beside spells. Their ancestress had definitely been an aspiring poet. Not a big fan of poetry, Mercy had quickly scanned Sarah’s other poems as she’d concentrated on the witch’s actual spellwork. But something about this particular poem pulled at her attention. It was written in bold cursive that appeared to be in Sarah’s hand, but the letters had been smudged by whatever had stuck the page. Mercy smoothed her fingers over the page and squinted to make out the words.
There shall come a day
when they will sicken
with sulfur and rot
fierce and deadly
the Goode witches sworn
cannot prevent it
cannot protect them
and so the gates shall fall open
until a chosen god is forsaken
then by parting they are mended
together again
Mercy’s breath left her in a gasp as her eyes traced the lines over and over. How long had this poem—this prophecy—been stuck to the back cover of this old copy and ignored? And even before, in the other copies that had been made of the ancient grimoire, had anyone noticed that one of Sarah’s poems was foretelling the destruction of the gates? In the sick pit of her stomach Mercy Anne Goode knew the truth, and it made her want to puke.
“What is it, Mag?”
Still staring at the words written by their long-dead ancestress, Mercy said the first thing that came to her mind. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
Sitting beside her on the couch, Hunter turned to fully face Mercy. “Mad at you? What are you talking about? We can tell each other anything. And if this is about Kirk, I promise not to be mean. I’ll just listen.”
“It’s not about Kirk.” Mercy cleared her throat. “It’s about the sick trees and the gates. I’ve, um, been thinking really hard about what could have started their sickness—about what’s different today than in the generations before us.”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah, me, too.”
“Well, there’s one thing that I keep circling back to. I haven’t said anything because I knew it’d upset you—and I could be wrong. I wanted to be wrong. But what I just found at the end of Sarah’s ritual makes me believe I’ve been on to something.” Mercy chewed the inside of her cheek before blurting, “H, what if all of this is happening because you chose Tyr instead of a goddess?”
Hunter’s expressive turquoise eyes narrowed and her hand automatically lifted to clutch her talisman. “If Tyr was the problem Mom would’ve known—would’ve stopped me from choosing him.”
“I keep telling myself that, but what if Abigail didn’t know? What if no Goode witch could’ve known because it’s never happened before?”
“No.” Hunter spoke firmly. “That’s not it.”
“H, just read this. I just found it on a page that was stuck to the back of the copy of Sarah’s grimoire—for who knows how long. It’s a poem, but it reads like more. Like it could be a warning, or even a prophecy—one that’s coming true right now. And it’s pretty clear that a god, not a goddess, is the problem.” Mercy lifted the copy of the ancient grimoire and held it up so Hunter could see it, but her sister stood as she pushed the book away, refusing to even look at it.
“I’m not reading the old crap you found to justify whatever you’ve made up. Tyr’s my god. We’re close, unlike you and Freya.”
Mercy jerked back as if Hunter had slapped her.
“Don’t pretend to be shocked. It’s obvious. You don’t even wear Freya’s talisman.”
“That’s not fair! I love Freya. It’s different for a Green Witch. I don’t need a talisman to be close to my goddess. Freya is in every tree, every flower and bush—in the earth herself. Freya is all around me.” Mercy shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d say something so awful to me.”
“It feels shitty to have your sister question your choice of gods, doesn’t it?”
Mercy stared into Hunter’s eyes and within their blue-green depths she saw an unexpected anger—so fierce that it was like gazing into a tsunami.
Mercy felt her own anger stir. “Yeah, it feels shitty. But the difference is I didn’t say it to hurt you.”
“No, of course you didn’t mean to hurt me. You said it without thinking about me at all—as usual, it’s all about Mag.”
“You’re wrong. You’re wrong about me and you’re wrong about the poem.” Mercy held up the open book again. “Just read it and then tell me that something written back in 1693 isn’t saying that choosing a god started all of this. And it also says that you’re going to have to—”
“No!” Hunter slapped the book out of Mercy’s hands. “Stop talking. I am more than done listening. Tomorrow we’ll get Jax and Kirk, complete the ritual, and fix the gates. And then I never want to hear you say one more word to me about Tyr.” Hunter stalked up the stairs.
“Fine!” Mercy called after her. “But when it doesn’t work—again—it’s going to be your fault!”
Hunter said nothing.
Mercy picked up the copy of the grimoire from where Hunter had knocked it out of her hands and onto the floor. She smoothed the page and read it again.
and so the gates shall fall open
until a chosen god is forsaken
What else could it mean? Mercy gnawed at her lip. She stared at the page, wondering what the bloody hell she should do.
And then she knew. Mercy quickly stacked all the grimoires together, even the piles that had been on the kitchen table. She carried them into the library that long ago had been built as a formal dining room, but for generations had held books and comfortable, overstuffed reading chairs instead of fine china and a gleaming wood table. She didn’t bother putting them away, but piled them on a coffee table.
Then she returned to the kitchen. First, she grabbed her laptop and quickly copied the ancient ritual—translating the more difficult thee’s and thou’s and the other language that was confusingly archaic. She figured they’d all be on their cells together—on speaker—and one of them, probably me ’cause I’m good at this stuff, would lead everyone through the ritual, but with novices participating they’d need extra guidelines, especially if something happened. When she was done, Mercy printed out five copies of the ritual, as well as one of the poem or prophecy or whatever it was. She stacked the ritual instructions beside the copy of the old grimoire, folded the Xeroxed page that held the poem, and put it in her bottomless purse.
“And now one more thing that will take care of the Hunter problem,” she muttered.
On the table, exactly at the spot Xena liked to perch in the morning—or whenever was morning in cat time—Mercy opened Sarah’s spell book to the newly unstuck page that held the prophecy and then placed a wine goblet, the kind the cat person liked to fill with cream, on top of it.
She wouldn’t have to say anything. Xena would get the message, and if she was mistaken—if she’d misunderstood the poem—if it wasn’t actually a prophecy—nothing would come of it. But if she was right …
Mercy’s feet felt weirdly heavy as she trudged up the stairs while she texted Kirk.
How bout I meet u at school tmrw after practice?
He responded right away.
k! see u then sexy!!!
Mercy texted back, Kay! But in her mind she knew it wasn’t going to be okay. Not until they faced the truth about what was making the trees sick, whether her sister wanted to or not.