Spells Trouble (Sisters of Salem #1) - P. C. Cast Page 0,33
“Now.” She turned to the girls, smoothing her hair with the back of her hand. “Which tree will you visit first?” But before they could respond a moth fluttered from the door, up the stairs, and past Xena who, with catlike reflexes stalked after it.
Mercy met Hunter’s gaze. “It’s weird.”
For a moment it looked like Hunter might almost smile. “Sadly, I think Aunt Xena is one of the least weird things we’re going to have to deal with.”
Mercy felt her shoulders slump. “So, the trees?”
Hunter nodded. “The trees. Didn’t the sheriff say he found old man Thompson’s body not too far from the olive tree?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Then we might as well start there,” said Hunter firmly.
Mercy concentrated, trying to sift her thoughts through the fog of grief that blanketed her mind. “You—you don’t think Mr. Thompson’s death had anything to do with the tree, do you?”
“Mag, I don’t know. That’s part of what we have to figure out.” She moved closer to her sister and forced Mercy to meet her gaze. “I need you to try to pull yourself together. If the gates are messed up we have got to figure out how to fix them—and I can’t do that by myself.”
Mercy struggled to make her mind work. “Okay. I’ll help. Promise.”
“So, you agree that we should check out the Greek tree first?”
Mercy fought against gravity to lift one shoulder. “Sure. Whatever you and Xena think is best. I’ll wait down here while you get dressed.” Her legs gave out and she sat on the couch, staring at the cold fireplace.
Hunter put her hand on her twin’s shoulder. “I’ll be down in a sec and I’ll bring you a change of clothes, too.”
Words stopped coming again, so Mercy nodded wearily as she picked listlessly at the embroidery that decorated her grass-stained, torn dress and continued to stare at the ashes of what used to be a warm, brightly burning hearth fire.
Nine
“I think I better drive,” said Hunter as she studied her sister.
Mercy shrugged. “Okay with me.”
“Girls, remember, what you do today is gather information. Study the trees. Bring back details about everything—how they look, smell, and feel—sense the space around them. Reach out with your minds and your hearts, as well as your senses. We need details so that we can accurately consult the grimoires for what must be done next.” Xena had changed into a pair of their mom’s jeans and her sweatshirt that said KALE in bold letters across the breast. The cat person had hastily grabbed the clothes from Abigail’s room while Hunter and Mercy dressed. They still smelled vaguely of cinnamon and spice. Mercy had to force herself not to hug Xena and breathe in deeply. “Do you understand?”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got it. Right, Mag?”
Mercy was staring at the fireplace wishing she’d had the energy to build a fire. Maybe it would chase away the cold that had settled deep in her soul.
“Mercy, did you hear me?”
She blinked and looked up at her sister and Xena. “Sorry. What?”
“I was telling Xena we understand what we have to do at the trees.”
“Yeah that. We’ll check them out.”
“Good,” Xena said, though she sent Mercy a dubious, slit-eyed look. “Be careful. Do not let people see you. Neither of you have car papers yet.”
“You mean a license,” said Hunter.
“Yes. As I said, car papers. Girls, be wise. And safe. And do not be gone long. Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?”
“No, stay here,” said Hunter. “People are going to start bringing by food. They should see you so they know we’re not alone. An adult will keep them from being too nosy.”
“You are correct, of course. I will reassure the townsfolk. I shall also bring out the grimoires and have them ready for when you return. Now, do you have any questions?” Xena licked her finger and then smoothed back a section of Hunter’s hair that had escaped from her ponytail.
“Eww, Xena. Stop. No, we’ve got it. Really. Right, Mercy?”
Mercy managed to nod. Even though she felt almost too heavy to move she followed Hunter to the garage and climbed into the passenger side of her mom’s silver Camry. The key fob was in the cup holder where Abigail always left it, and for a moment the twins just sat. Hunter’s hands rested on the steering wheel—Mercy’s were lifeless in her lap.
Hunter leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. “It smells like Mom.” Her voice was strangled.