My eyebrows were overdue for shaping. And the look in my eyes reminded me I had a whole lot more than the Blood Ceremony to process. Let me find Abi, I promised my reflection. Then I’ll take time off.
We exited our cars and made our way through the gate and around the bend. I stumbled at the sight of the empty rocking chairs lined up to either side of the door before I noticed the bright pink Volkswagen parked next to River’s nondescript sedan. The urge to proceed barefoot, my wands at the ready, was overpowering.
I tugged the intertwined pieces of wood from a thigh pocket and brought them up for inspection. The old wand was cracked and a bit stubby compared to the new one, which had been donated by the crabapple tree adjacent to my garden—the same crabapple now known to house portals. The fresher piece of wood was slowly and surely incorporating the older wand into its embrace. Protruding branchlets had created a live, organic filigree running the entire length of both.
Tanner cleared his throat behind me.
“Witches first,” he said, waving me up the stairs.
“You go on. I need to take a reading.” I finished removing my boots and let the dust settle under and around my feet. The ground below responded to my inquiry with a nervous flutter.
Witches welcome. Druids walk. Hidden folk return.
From a far-off section of the property came a wave of melancholy, and from a different quadrant, a sensation of…
I probed deeper, waited, held out a metaphorical hand to steady and support.
One who talks with the dead.
Blank space. Shrouded—or perhaps cloaked?—in a thick mist the color of newborn clouds rising from fir trees.
I focused on the task ahead and made my way up the steps and into the farmhouse. Tanner and the others were inside. The murmur of their voices rose and fell, circling through the rooms and toward the yard in back.
Hand on the knob of the screen door, I paused and looked behind me. The paint on the Volkswagen had to be a custom job, draping the curves of the vehicle like shimmery fondant on a wedding cake. I had never seen the car before, and the cheery, optimistic color evoked an immediate invitation to play.
Instead of taking up the offer, I pivoted to face the darkness of the long hall and the silhouettes of Belle and Rose bustling between patches of shadow and light.
“They’re out back,” said Belle, lifting the lid off a wide-bottomed pot hunkered on a burner of the old propane stove. An intensely herbal smell permeated the small room. Rose gave me a curt nod and disappeared behind the refrigerator door.
Folding chaise longues, stacked with extra pillows, had been set up for Peasgood and Hyslop.
“They intercepted us at the ferry,” Hyslop was saying. He rubbed at his forehead then glanced at his brother. “We were expecting Gramps, but Pea got a text saying one of their workers would pick us up. The guy had one of those hand-lettered signs and everything.”
Hyslop wore his hair close-shaved at the sides and back and let the top section flop over his eyes. Peasgood’s hair was twisted into a man bun I knew Harper would envy.
“He frikkin’ wore overalls,” Peasgood said. Anger rose in both their faces. “But the second we got to their car, we knew something was up.”
His brother picked up the story. “They had it planned out,” he said, his arm movements growing more animated. “They parked on one of those little side streets up the road from where the ferry docks, wedged their SUV right into the bushes, so when we got close, the driver—the woman—popped out. They had us by the neck one moment, bagged and facedown the next.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Ten years of druidic training and we were completely overpowered.”
“And it wasn’t so much a physical overpowering as a…a…” Peasgood looked to his brother for help. “Hy, how would you explain it?”
“One, we didn’t think to put up our defenses when we got off the boat. Never even occurred to us we could be walking into a trap. And two, the second the guy’s hand was on my neck, I felt collared. My free will was gone.” He lifted his chin and leaned forward. “Can you see if anything’s there, any marks?”
“Puppeteer,” said Wes. “It’s the Puppeteer Lock. Calliope, come here. You should see this. I didn’t think of it when Sallie collapsed. I’ll call Rowan and have her look at the girl’s neck.” He kneeled next to the chaise and swiped the flashlight on his cell phone. “See these residual pinpricks? That’s how the collar attaches. Goes right into the skin, releases a spell-laced liquid, and you do what you’re told.”
A grid of minuscule red dots circled Hyslop’s throat. My heart went out to Sallie. I stepped away from the group and dug my phone out of my bag. Pulling up my messaging app, I texted Harper to remove the bracelet Sallie made for him if he was still wearing it, bag it, and give the bag to James for safekeeping.
I added the emoji for poison, hoping it would convey a sufficient sense of urgency, and looked up from my phone’s screen. A wavering shape emerged from the worn and weathered path leading to the older parts of the orchard. What I first read as heat rising from the dry ground and distorting the figure’s clothing was, as they shuffled closer, not the effect of heat at all.
A middle-aged, average-sized female was accompanied by a cloud of shimmering particles, browns and greens from across the natural spectrum intermingled with flickers of purple and yellow.
The woman stopped walking and squatted. The confetti-like bits dropped with her. She raised her arm away from her shins, described a generous
