“Just past midnight.” Rachel laughs under her breath. “Want some coffee?”
“Please.”
Rachel gestures for Mercia to enter the house and follows her inside. She is instantly overcome by the oppressive atmosphere lingering in every corner, an unmistakable presence accompanying any Miser influence. It weighs her down, cloys at her skin and mind, every part of her screams at her to run away as far and fast as possible.
“The last time I felt anything so off, there was a poltergeist living it up in Holland’s lake house.” Mercia glances over her shoulder. “Holland had thought it would be funny to play with a Ouija board after some party I wasn’t invited to.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened? Things flew around the house the entire weekend we spent there.” Mercia walks into the kitchen, and leans against the island.
“You didn’t, like, clean out the place with magic?” Rachel reaches for the coffee machine.
Mercia barks a laugh and shakes her head. “Unlike some witches, I tend to steer clear of making contact with anything outside of this world. There are things out there—horrible things. You don’t want to get too close to them.”
Rachel switches on the coffee machine and readies the mugs.
“My magic hasn’t settled yet,” Mercia continues. “At this point, it’s still volatile. I can do a bit of everything, but not much of anything either. And the brain injury isn’t helping with the whole being a witch thing. I can, for example, use some elemental magic, but if I’m not careful, a simple rain spell can turn into a hurricane. Same goes for reaching out to the dead—I can communicate easily enough, but possession is a serious concern.”
“Did you try finding Astraea Hayward after she went missing?” Rachel asks over the boiling water.
“The girl who vanished in front of Alice’s Vintage Emporium?”
Rachel nods.
“No. It never occurred to me to try to find her.” Mercia grimaces. “One thing I know for sure is that if Astraea Hayward was dead, my oumie would’ve said something. Anyone who dies in Shadow Grove goes to visit her after passing over.”
“So, if she’s not dead then where is she?”
Mercia shrugs. “I—”
A door slams shut, the sound resonating from somewhere on the first floor. Rachel and Mercia look at each other, eyes widening. Both spring to action, running out of the kitchen to find the front door firmly shut and the sofa empty. The sound of an engine starting reaches Rachel as she pulls the door open, and she sees Greg’s Mercedes backing up dangerously fast, almost reversing all the way up Mrs. Crenshaw’s driveway.
“How did he get out of those knots?” Rachel asks aloud.
The drawn-out croaking coming from the living room is answer enough.
Mercia punches the doorframe and makes an indignant noise of frustration. “Your mom is really getting on my nerves.” She pushes her fingers through her hair.
Rachel pivots and marches to the living room where her mother sits on the armchair, staring at the empty sofa with her mouth open. Saliva dribbles down her chin and onto her chest. In her hands is a picture, a black scan of some kind. Rachel moves closer and sees the sonar scan of a fully developed baby in the womb. She raises an eyebrow.
“So you can tear up all the photographs in the house, but not the scan? What gives, huh, Mom?”
Her mother turns her head slowly to look at Rachel where she stands, still gaping. Only then does Rachel see the bold red letters on the back of the scan, spelling out a single word. Mine.
Rachel throws her hands in the air. “I give up.”
She picks up her laptop from the armrest of the chair her mother now occupies, makes sure she has her cellphone in her pocket, and backs out of the living room, her eyes never leaving Jenny.
Mercia stands in the open doorway, waiting. As Rachel reaches it, she notices Ziggy’s glow, no more than a speck in the dark, moving closer, quickly winding across the open field beside Mrs. Crenshaw’s house.
Rachel gestures for Ziggy to enter the house before she closes the door on the world.
“Now what?” Mercia asks.
“I’m going to sleep.”
Rachel seethes as she heads up the staircase, balling her hands into tight fists as she clutches her laptop against her chest, her teeth grinding together. It is entirely possible that this is a side-effect of whatever the Miser Fae is doing—after all, it seems like everyone in town is affected in some way or another—but there is only so much she can take.
Even Rachel Cleary has her limits.
Eighteen
We are the Hollowed Ones
Every evening, just before bed, Rachel asks Ziggy the question she yearns to hear her mother ask her. “Did you have a nice day?”
Tonight, Ziggy answers with two, not as bright, flashes.
Rachel sighs as she places her hand on the glowing sphere, causing the golden light to ripple down Ziggy’s surface. “Yeah, me neither, Zigs. Tomorrow is another day, so let’s get ready for bed and hope for better.”
Ziggy doesn’t seem as happy-go-lucky as usual. The Fae light simply drifts off and hops onto the pillow, before rolling underneath the covers and hiding in the most inconspicuous place on her bed—a winking emoji throw-pillow.
Rachel turns to her closet, searching for something more comfortable to sleep in. Shorts and a T-shirt seem inappropriate attire for the oncoming cold, but she’s still unsure if she’ll sleep comfortably by wearing winter pajamas. Besides, with her mother acting like a whack-job, she might have to go outside during the night on short notice.
Creak.
The soft sound infiltrates her busy mind.
Creak.
Closer this time. Rachel suspects it’s the old house settling as the winter draws nearer. Nothing to get worried about. She hopes.
Creak.
The light goes out. Rachel spins around just as a clammy hand clasps over her mouth and nose. A heartbeat passes before she’s slammed up against the wall and pain shoots through her shoulders. Whatever sound she wanted to make is lost in the back
