Spells Trouble (Sisters of Salem #1) - P. C. Cast Page 0,29

“Really need that drink.” He cleared his throat several times and wiped his mouth on the back of his tan sleeve. Mercy cringed at the white crusty crap that rained from the creases of his lips.

Anger bubbled strong in Mercy’s chest and the words that had been dammed within her broke loose. “Sorry, but we don’t have the fresh-squeezed lemonade we’d usually offer you—with a plate of cookies or a sweet little spell or two. You see, our mom, the Kitchen Witch everyone loved, died. Horribly. Last night. We’re a little off our social game at the moment. But, hey, come on in. Hunter’s probably curled up in a fetal position in the kitchen crying. I’m sure she won’t mind being rushed by someone who is—gasp!—thirsty.”

Mercy brushed off the butt of her dress and turned to stomp up the stairs. Anger felt good—better than despair. Better than grief that was a chasm so deep her words got lost in it. She glanced back over her shoulder from the wide double doors. The sheriff was already following her, but the deputy was shifting from foot to foot, picking at the brim of his hat.

“You gonna stay out here?” Mercy shot the words at him. Now that she’d found them again they seemed to be firing out of her.

“Well. Um. No. Ma’am. I’ll come in and—”

She didn’t wait for the rest of his annoying and predictable reply. She marched into the house not holding the door open behind her—and ran smack into a tall woman about her mom’s age who was wearing Abigail’s fluffy flowered bathrobe. Her brown, black, and white hair was thick and fell in a mass down her back. Her unusual amber eyes narrowed.

“Excuse you, Mercy!” The woman moved back gracefully instead of staggering.

“What the bloody hell—”

“Sheriff! Deputy! Sorry it took me so long.” Hunter rushed from the kitchen carrying two beading glasses of iced tea. “I was distracted by our Aunt Xena.”

“Our who?” Mercy felt like her head was going to explode.

Hunter stared into her eyes giving Mercy the look. The one the twins had been sharing since they could formulate complete sentences. The look meant just go with it and ask questions later.

“Aunt Xena,” Hunter said briskly, pushing past Mercy and the stranger to hand the two men the tea. “You were asleep when she arrived a few hours ago. I thought I told you she was here. So much has happened.” Hunter rubbed her temples and winced like she had a headache before continuing. “Sheriff, Deputy, would you like to sit?” She gestured to the couch.

The sheriff was gulping the tea so the deputy said, “No. Thank you. We won’t stay long. We know you have a lot of plans to make. So, um, Xena? You came to take guardianship of the girls?”

With sinuous grace Xena made her way to the empty couch and perched on the arm, carefully covering her bare legs with the bathrobe. With the back of her hand she smoothed her hair before she spoke. “Yes. Of course. No one else is suitable to be guardian of our girls.”

Mercy stared at the woman—at the multicolored riot of hair and those distinctive amber eyes—and her stomach flip-flopped.

The deputy wrote a note in his little book. “I didn’t realize Abigail had a sister.”

“Oh, she didn’t,” Hunter said quickly. “Xena is really Mom’s second cousin from back East. It’s just that we’ve always called her auntie.”

“Okay. Got it. And you’re planning on remaining here, in Goode-ville, with the girls?” asked the deputy.

“I will always be here for the Goode girls,” said Xena. She looked at her hand and frowned before licking a speck of something off one of her long, sharp fingernails.

“We should go,” said the sheriff as he handed Hunter his empty glass. “Lots to do with this murder happening and all…”

Deputy Carter wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Girls, we’re here if you need us. And, again, please let me offer my deepest condolences on the loss of your mother. She was a wonderful woman.” He placed his untouched glass of tea on the coffee table, nodded respectfully to the girls and Xena, and then followed the sheriff, who was already on the porch, out the door.

Mercy put her hands on her hips and faced the woman balancing delicately on the arm of the couch. “Who. Is. This?”

“Well, believe it or not it’s—”

“Mercy Anne Goode, you’ve known me since that stormy night you were born three minutes before your sister. Now, I know