into the ground and the cycle of his life—and death—would be complete.
Sobbing, she turned away from the glowing red numbers and mashed her face into her pillow. She’d never been so miserable. Her sisters had gone to the funeral. Genevieve simply wasn’t ready to say good-bye.
She cried until her ducts could no longer produce tears. She cried until her throat burned and her lungs ached. Then she remained utterly still, absorbing the silence, lost in her sorrow. Minutes later, or perhaps an eternity, a buzzing sound reverberated in her left ear, and a fly landed on her cheek. Weakly she swatted the insect away.
“Bitch,” she heard.
“Murderess.”
“I wish
Genevieve rolled to her back and blinked open her tired, swollen eyes. Three tiny fairies swarmed around her face, flashing pink. All three were female and scowling. She recognized them from the bar.
“You killed him,” one of them hissed.
“You killed him,” the others reiterated. “You could have used your magic against the demons, but you didn’t. You killed him.”
“How could you love him? You don’t care about him. The demons have sworn their vengeance upon him for killing their brethren and are even now desecrating his grave, yet here you lie, doing nothing. Again. Someone even took his body from its casket.”
“What?” She jolted upright. A wave of dizziness assaulted her, and she rubbed her temple with her fingers. “Desecrating his grave, how? And who dared take his body?”
“Does it matter?”
Without another word, Genevieve leaped out of bed. Her knees wobbled, but a rush of adrenaline gave her strength. Arms shaking, she tugged on the first pants and T-shirt she could find, then raced through the hallway. The wolf—what had Godiva named him?— trotted to her, following close to her heels. He was almost completely healed, and his brown eyes gleamed bright with curiosity.
“There’s trouble at the cemetery,” she felt compelled to explain. Trouble she would fight against. Heart racing, she grabbed her broom and sprinted outside. No one—no one!—was going to destroy Hunter’s grave. Whoever had taken him
Moonlight crested high in the night sky, scooping low. The citizens of Mysteria did everything at night, even funerals. A cool breeze ruffled her hair and kissed her fiery hot, tear-stained face. Moving faster than she ever had in her life, she hopped on her broom and flew toward Mysteria’s graveyard. When she passed the wishing well, she flipped it off. When she passed Knight Caps, closed for the first time in years, she pressed her lips together to silence a pained moan.
Soon the graveyard came into view.
Monuments rose from the ground, white slashes against black dirt. Only a few patches of grass dared grow and the only flowers were silk and plastic. Death reigned supreme here. Broken brick surrounded the area with a high, eerie wall. The closer she came, the more chilled the air became, heavier, laden with the scents of dirt and mystery.
Her eyes narrowed when she saw the open, empty casket. Her eyes narrowed further when she saw the group of demons taunting her sisters and spitting on Hunter’s grave.
Hunter’s mourners must have already escaped, for there was no trace of them. Her sisters were holding hands and pointing their fingers toward the short, monkeylike horde of demons whose wings flapped and fluttered with excitement as they tried to claw their way through an invisible shield.
Both Godiva and Glory appeared weakened and pale, their shoulders slumped. Genevieve dropped to the ground, tossing her broom aside as she ran to them. She grabbed both of their hands, completing the link. Power instantly sparked from their fingertips. In pain, the demons shrieked.
“Thank the Goddess,” Glory breathed. Her hands shook, but color was slowly returning to her cheeks. “I wasn’t sure how much longer we could hold them off.”
“There weren’t this many left at the bar.” Right now Genevieve counted eight. “Hunter and Falon killed a lot of them.”
“They keep multiplying,” Glory said. “I have a feeling we can kill these, too, but more will come. You’re the vengeance witch, Evie. Do something.”
Genevieve focused all of her rage, all of her sorrow into her hands. They burned white-hot. Blistering. Her eyes slitted on her targets. “Burn,” she said. “Burn.”
One of the demons erupted into flames, its tortured howl echoing through the twilight. Another quickly followed. Then another and another turned to ashes, until only one remained. “Go back to hell and tell the others if they ever return I’ll make their deaths a thousand times worse.”
The creature vanished in a panicked puff of black smoke.
So easy. So quick. Exactly what should have happened at the bar.
Finished, depleted, she allowed her hands to fall to her sides. Weakness assaulted her as it always did when she used her powers to such a degree. She should have felt a measure of satisfaction. She should have felt vindicated. She didn’t. Inside, sorrow still consumed her.
“Everyone must have raced home,” Godiva panted. She hunched over, anchoring her hands on her knees. “We need to do something to prevent more demons from attacking.”
“Like what?” Glory settled on the ground, her hand over her heart. “Genevieve warned them. What more can we do?”
Genevieve stared up at the stars. “A part of me wants them to return.” Her tone lacked emotion, but the cold rage was there, buried under the surface. “I want to kill more of them.”
Arms folded around her, comforting arms, familiar arms. “That puts other citizens at risk,” Godiva said softly. “If Hunter were still alive, you’d want him protected. Let’s give everyone else the same consideration.”
She closed her eyes at the pain those words brought—if Hunter were alive—but nodded. Always the voice of reason, Godiva was right. If Hunter were alive, she would do whatever was necessary to protect him. “Do you know who took his body?” She gulped, the words foul on her tongue.
“No.” Glory.
“No.” Godiva.
Genevieve fell to her knees in front of the empty casket. Tears once more burned her eyes. There was a fresh mound of soil beside her, the spot Hunter was supposed to rest in for all of eternity, a gift to Mother Earth.
Pause. Silence. Not even insects dared speak.
“I don’t know,” Glory hedged. “Spirits are so unpredictable.”
“Genevieve . . . ,” Godiva began.
“Please. Do this. For me.”
Her sisters glanced at each other, then at her, each other, then her. Concern darkened both of their expressions. Finally Godiva nodded. “Alright. We’ll raise the spirits, but only until the next full moon.”
Elation bubbled inside her, not obliterating her sadness but eclipsing it.
Five