Spells Trouble (Sisters of Salem #1) - P. C. Cast Page 0,45

her ears. It worked. It actually worked! Hunter Jayne Goode accomplished an advanced spell using only her natural gifts and the strength of the moon and her chosen god, Tyr. If Jax didn’t have hold of her hand, she’d probably float away.

“No way!” Emily pointed at the Mercy trapped in the basin of water. “She blinked!”

Kirk pressed his palms against the floor and scooted back a few inches. “She? That’s an it! A water creature that we’re supposed to, what? Just ignore?”

Hunter’s nostrils flared and she bit down on the meaty sides of her tongue before allowing herself to react. “It’s not a creature. It’s Mercy. A very small part of her, anyway.” She sat up a little straighter. This was her spell, her successful spell, and she would own it. “We asked to have her grief washed away. Not the whole thing but a tiny piece of it. Enough that she could be herself again.” She gestured to the image of her sister staring up at them from the cauldron. “And that’s exactly what happened.”

Mercy clapped and managed to sit up a tad straighter. “It is me! I knew it.”

Kirk scooted back toward the circle and leaned into his girlfriend. “You’re okay with all of this?”

Mercy cocked her head and shrugged. “Nothing we do is evil or bad. It’s all based in love and light. And, like Hunter said, it was just a small piece of my grief.” She turned and took Kirk’s hands in hers. “Those same two things brought you here tonight to help me, and they did. You were so powerful tonight, Kirk. So perfect. This couldn’t have happened without you.”

Hunter’s cheeks flamed. Love and light hadn’t brought Kirk there; she had. She had been the beacon of peace and hope. She had wielded the power. Hunter tightened her free hand into a fist. If Kirk had left, and he almost had, she would have figured out how to make the spell work without him. He was unnecessary, trivial. A small blip in both of their lives. A high school fling. Hunter’s jagged nails bit into her palm. In ten years, neither one of them would be able to remember his name. They’d call him “the quarterback” or “that guy” or maybe they wouldn’t call him anything at all. Maybe Hunter would become a Sabrina witch and erase all trace of Kirk Whitfield from her sister’s memory and they’d never have to speak of him again.

Warm liquid pooled in Hunter’s palm and trickled down the side of her hand. She unclenched her fingers and stared down at the blood sprouting from the crescent-shaped wounds her fingernails had carved into her flesh.

Hunter let go of Jax’s hand and clutched her pendant. She needed to refocus, reground herself. She would never erase Mercy’s memory. She should never even think such a thing. Wielding the power, being a conduit, it was all getting to her. It had to be.

“I’m closing the spell,” Hunter blurted as she clenched her hand and hid her bleeding fist behind her back. She felt four sets of eyes press against her as she closed her own and searched for the right words. The spell no longer flowed from her. Hunter was clogged up. A big, fatty, hairy clog. She’d name it Kirk.

“At this time and at this place we thank Mother Moon and Father Tyr for cleansing our friend and sister and purifying her heart and mind and soul. We know you will remain near, as will we.” Energy pricked Hunter’s fingertips and she followed her urge, her intuition, and plunged her bleeding hand into the water. The icy cold liquid shocked her and sent her eyelids fluttering open. “This rite is ended,” she continued as she watched her blood eat away the blinking image of her sister before sinking down, down, down. Hunter wet her lips and shouted the final closing line she’d heard her mother use time and time again. “Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again!”

Scarlet ribbons snaked around the glowing moonstones, turning each a petal pink. Emily sucked in a breath as the rocks lifted from the cauldron’s bottom, reeled into Hunter’s palm by the power of her blood.

Thirteen

It was hot inside the Goodeville precinct. Too hot. The kind of hot that made every inch sweat and stick and itch. Frank Dearborn twisted the faucet knobs and let cool water splash against his swollen knuckles. How could anyone live like this? Inside all hours of the day, fake