Mercy bent to look into the car through the open passenger’s side window at Emily and Xena. “Okay, Em, drop Xena off at the park, and then get right to the cherry tree. You two have candles and matches, right?”
“Yes,” said Emily. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”
“Kitten, you must focus on your intention. It is your will that holds all of us together in Ritual.”
Mercy ran her hand through her long hair and shoved it back behind her ears. “That’s hard to do knowing she hates me.”
Xena touched her arm. “No. Hunter hates what she must do tonight. And I hate it for her, don’t you? How would you feel if you knew that you must reject Freya?”
Mercy sighed. “I’d feel awful.”
“Then understand her instead of judging her. Now, go.” Xena paused. “And as you walk to the Norse gate, gain control over your feelings. Blessed be, my kitten.”
“Blessed be, Xena,” Mercy said. “Good luck, Em.”
“Break a leg!” Emily said as she drove off, waving out the window.
With a sigh Mercy hefted her big purse across her shoulder and headed to their backyard and through the little gate to the fields beyond—tracing the steps she and Hunter and Abigail had taken four short nights, but an eternity, ago.
Dusk settled around the cornfields. The evening had been warm, and a soft breeze caressed the growing crops that brought to Mercy the scent of fertile earth and corn silk. The thick stalks whispered secrets she could almost hear. She relaxed into the familiarity of her world and let the earth comfort her internal wounds.
My intention is to lead this ritual to heal the trees and seal the gates with the blood of witches mixed with the representatives of those who once walked this very path—and the unique power that fills this land.
Mercy repeated her intention over and over until it became like the lyrics of a song that wouldn’t leave her mind. It blocked everything else and consumed her attention.
She closed her eyes tightly before she was able to approach the mighty apple tree that guarded the Norse gate, and readied herself. She knew what she would see, though as she drew closer and closer to the wide trunk and the umbrella of ancient boughs, Mercy was surprised at how little evidence there remained of the horrible battle and their heartbreaking loss.
Only a few of the gnarled roots that pushed up from the ground like arthritic fingers showed signs of the goddess’s inferno that had immolated her mother, though a dark scorch marked the skin of the tree’s trunk. Mercy stared at it as her internal mantra faltered.
“Oh, thank you, Athena.” Awestruck, Mercy bowed her head and pressed her hand against the blackened bark. At the place where Abigail Goode had died to save her daughters—and her town—the outline of a perfect heart had been burned into the tree.
Then she lifted her head, wiped away her tears, kicked off her shoes, and got to work—and as she prepared to open the ritual, Mercy breathed deeply, evenly, until she felt so grounded that the bare soles of her feet tingled. Then she began allowing emotions to bubble up and release—bubble and release.
Feeling invigorated, Mercy reached into her boho bag and extracted a thick white candle exactly like the ones her four impromptu coven members were, hopefully, also readying. She placed her candle at the base of the apple tree, beneath the point of the heart the goddess had scorched into its bark. She returned to her bag for matches, her phone, and the little jar filled with the last apple butter she and Abigail would ever make together. Mercy’s smile was bittersweet as her finger traced the pentagram she’d painted on the side of the Mason jar last fall to mark the final batch of that season’s harvest.
“I’ll think of you every fall—every time I make jam or apple butter or homemade bread. I’ll think of you always, Mama.” Mercy placed the jar beside the white candle at the base of the tree, then she waited, repeating her intention mantra over and over.
She didn’t wait long. Her phone bleeped with the first text message, a smiling cat emoji from Xena—followed by Emily’s READY! And then Jax’s LOCKED & LOADED!
Quickly, she joined the four of them in a group call and hit the speaker button as she tucked the phone into a niche in the tree’s bark.
“All right, you have placed your candles at the base of your trees?”
“Yes!” Three voices echoed back to her, like ghosts lifting from a grave.
No! No negative imagery! Mercy pushed the thought from her mind and continued.
“Your offerings are ready?”
“Yes!” they replied.
“Okay,” Mercy said. “Get your matches out and give me a second. Let me find Hunter.”
Mercy faced her tree and centered herself, breathing deeply once, twice, thrice, and then sent her sixth sense—that magical spark that flowed rich and thick through every sister of Salem, each daughter who carried Sarah Goode’s legacy—down, down, down to find the vein of power that hummed beneath her bare feet and formed the potent pentagram that surrounded Goodeville. As she tapped into the thrumming ley lines she thought of Hunter—of everything she loved about her sister. Her generosity and kindness—her strength and wit—and above all the thing that was always there, no matter what else was happening in their world, the connection that bound them irrevocably together. The bond that had begun at their conception, forged by blood and sealed by nine months of a shared womb.
Mercy gasped as she connected with her sister. Against her closed lids Hunter swirled as a glowing sapphire orb with silver glitter as if a piece of the cosmos had come to earth, and glistened like a spot on the map of her soul.
“She’s there! She’s at the olive tree!” Mercy’s eyes opened and she crouched before the white pillar candle. As she picked up the match she turned to the glowing face of her phone. “Okay, light your matches while I open the ritual.” Mercy struck the match and lit her candle. “And so we begin. We are vessels, cleansed and protected, ready to be conduits for energy. Remember, we do not keep that energy. We only guide it. Visualize the gate before you, deep within the trunk of this ancient tree who has stood guardian for hundreds of years.”
She paused to be sure the others were with her, and as she did she thought of Hunter, sending her sister an image of a brightly burning flame. Please see me, too, Hunter! Please understand! Light your candle! The sapphire orb in her internal map sparked suddenly brighter. Is that it? Did you light your candle?
Mercy’s intuition demanded she continue and set the spell. All she could do was move forward and believe Hunter came with them.
“Now, place your offering near your tree. Let your intuition guide you as to where, and as you place it tell your tree that this offering is in honor of the gate it guards and the ancient world beyond. Jax, release your dove feather and thank the peoples who came before us—whose land we now call our own.”
Mercy lifted the jar of apple butter. She kissed it, and then reached up and, on her tiptoes, placed it in a niche where two low-hanging limbs joined. “Thank you, mighty apple tree. I make this offering in honor of the Underworld you guard and the Norse land from which you come.”
“Holy crap!” Jax’s awed voice sparked through the phone. “The feather! It just lifted way, way up with the wind and then disappeared—only there isn’t any wind!”
Mercy smiled. “Good. That’s really good, Jax.” She didn’t wait for a sign from Hunter. She knew her sister’s offering would be different—dangerous. The offerings at the other trees set the stage for Hunter’s, heightening her power—and Mercy fervently hoped it would be enough. She drew another deep breath and continued.
“Okay, here we go. Face your trees. Ready?”
“Ready!” they chorused.
“Imagine that beneath your feet is a thick stream of power,” Mercy said. “Something that runs deep and fast within the earth. Xena, what color is yours?”
Xena responded immediately. “It is the yellow of cat eyes. Rich with power.”
“Jax, what color is yours?”
Jax’s voice was filled with excitement. “Mine is red! Mercy! My eyes are closed, but I see it! I really see it!”
“Emily, what color is yours?”
Emily gasped and shouted, “It’s pink! Just like springtime cherry blossoms! Oh, Mag, it’s beautiful!”
Mercy smiled. “And mine is green, like new apples.” She waited for a moment, hoping Hunter could see her sapphire blue ley line—but she had to keep going. “Think about your ley line while you take out your athames.” Mercy heard the rustling as her three coven members did as she told them. “Prick your palms, just below your thumb.”
Mercy didn’t hesitate. She pulled the athame from the pocket of her embroidered jeans and pressed the razor-sharp blade against her flesh. It hurt less than she thought it would—mostly it just stung—and then she squeezed the meaty part of her palm until her blood welled in fat drops. “Now, pull your ley line up through your body and push it from the center of your forehead, like a blazing star, to shine against the gate hidden within your tree.” Mercy concentrated, pulling her stream of emerald power up, up, up through her body. It wasn’t quite as sluggish as it had been that terrible night when Abigail had died, but it didn’t fill her body with the glowing energy that always blazed from their mom during Ritual.
Mercy fisted her hands and concentrated harder. It felt like running a marathon. Sweat beaded on her face as she forced the slim stream of power up and out her third eye so that it washed the hidden gate within the tree with a pale light the color of unripe apples.
She stared at the gate, expecting it to be powerful and whole, just as it was every time their mother had shown them this ritual. It was there. It was standing. But instead of a bright, glowing gate, it had turned black, like charcoal. Mercy swallowed bile. “Are any of your gates open?”
“Yes! Mine is! It’s kinda hard to see ’cause there isn’t a lot of light, but it’s pink, like the ley line. It looks terrible—all crumbly—and it smells bad!” Emily panted, like she’d just climbed a wall of stairs.
“Mine looks weird! Like it’s made of old blood, and it reeks!” Jax, too, gasped with effort.
Xena’s hiss was followed by a low, deep yowl that lifted the hair on the back of Mercy’s neck.
“Xena! What’s happening?” she shouted into the phone.
“Oh! That must be your Egyptian friend,” Xena said. “I can see him beyond the gate. Oh, my. He does have the face of—”
“Xena, is the gate open or closed?” Mercy interrupted.
“Closed, but not well. It—it was once golden.” The cat person panted. “But now it flakes like cheap jewelry and the smell is truly vile.”
“All three of you—focus on your ley line! Make it shine as bright as possible from your forehead directly onto the spot where your blood dripped on your tree. The ley line power mixed with your blood will close the gate—believe it, know it, make it happen now! And then repeat after me: By blood and offering—”
“By blood and offering—” they repeated.
Mercy continued as she channeled her ley line into the tree. “Through the power of olde—”
“Through the power of olde—”
Mercy’s voice rose, amplified by the energy passing through her and the generations of Goode witches that filled her DNA with magic. “Bind this spell with our intent, set well and block this hell, block this hell—BLOCK THIS HELL!”
The three followed her, shouting the conclusion of the spell. The power sizzled, sputtered, and finally faded as Mercy’s black gate disappeared. “Now, lift your candle, ground yourselves again, thank your tree, and blow out the candle as you say, ‘So I have spoken; so mote it be.’”
Mercy completed the spell with the others.
“So mote it be!” chorused through the phone.
“Mag! The smell is gone!” Emily’s voice trilled through the phone.
“Mine doesn’t stink anymore, either!” said Jax.
“The vile odor is gone from my tree as well,” said Xena. “Oh, kitten, it must have worked!”
Emily and Jax cheered and Xena’s musical laughter lifted with the wind.
Mercy didn’t feel triumphant. Not yet. She needed to reach Hunter. She closed her eyes and, wearily, found her ley line so that she could connect with her sister. She focused on her sister, seeking … seeking …
But found nothing.
Mercy tried again.
Nothing. No sapphire orb—no swirling stars and moons—not even the strange, psychic tickle she had always been able to feel, always been able to find.
“Emily!” she shouted into the phone. “Pick up Xena and get back here for me! Jax, meet us at the olive tree.” Her voice faltered. “Hunter’s gone!”