I sank my teeth into my lower lip. “Okay, um, bye then.”
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Mary,” he said my name softly, like a caress on the wind. My racing heart did a little flip, and I gave him a small wave.
Halfway to the cemetery, when the chilled autumn air had cooled my cheeks and the pounding in my chest had returned to a steady rhythm, I realized I should have asked him what happened after he took the wolfsbane potion that night. It should’ve stopped the transformation into a werewolf altogether. An icy shiver rushed through me and I tucked my hands into my pockets. The leaves on the trees rustled in their red and gold fury.
The thing was, Frank could have killed Isabella if the potion hadn’t gone into effect during the full moon. Notthat he’d have wanted to. He would have changed into a werewolf and had no control over his actions.
Which was why the fae deemed werewolves a significant threat. The idea of Frank being imprisoned and left to waste away in chains for the rest of his days intensified the already icy air around me.
But therehadbeen a potion, and he’d taken it. From what he said, he’d taken it before, so he must have a regular supplier with expertise in this area. I couldn’t shake the question swirling in my head. What was Lydia doing with wolfsbane potion? Even if making it wasn’t taboo, if it mixed with a love potion it became deadly, so Cupid’s Confections didn’t handle them.
Frank must have been making a deal under the table with someone to get it.
Before entering the cemetery, I went to the bathroom inside the church and washed off the berry juice. It was most likely fake anyway and itched horribly. Upon leaving the place of worship, I proceeded to the gates of the burial ground.
I stopped outside them. I used to make up stories about the names on the headstones. What characterized theirlives, strange twists and secrets unknown to others. I never suspected that one of those beings might try to contact me. It felt like an odd violation of my sanctuary.
Pastor Collins taught that witches who wielded death magic represented the worst kind of abomination. Growing up, I’d always assuaged myself that at least we weren’tthosekinds of witches.
Turned out I was that kind of witch.
Still, lives would be ruined unless I identified Isabella’s killer. My mind drifted to Frank, and the appreciation in his eyes caused my heart to swell.
Frank Churchill was more than my longtime crush. I’d watched him from the sidelines growing up, helping Ms. Bates and her mother whenever they needed it. He often volunteered to referee the weekly impromptu soccer matches put together by the kids in the town. Not to mention last spring, when funds that maintained the ancient texts beneath the church ran out and Pastor Collins had considered auctioning them off, Frank and his aunt had stepped in with a generous donation. I should have known then that he valued history.
Whether or not he knew it, he’d not only saved years of fae religious history, but he’d also saved my internship.
He was a good man. A great man.
I would dive into the dark to discover the truth. I’d taint myself to prove that Frank belonged in the light.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped past the gate.
“Isabella?” I whispered her name over the headstones, lingering memorials to lives once warm and full.
Nothing.
Part of me hoped she wouldn’t come. That I could claim my head wound or brief insanity caused this. But no, then Frank would remain in danger.
I was a medium. That was what the ghost claimed. The bridge between life and death—a witch who dealt in death magic.
I had no idea what I was doing.
“Isabella,” I called a little louder.
Hex, I hoped I didn’t have to bang my head against another headstone to jumpstart my powers again.
A coldness moved through me as I walked deeper and deeper into the cemetery. I looked over the headstones, realizing Isabella would eventually be buried here, thoughthey were probably holding her body until the investigation was complete. Which was why the town was holding a candlelight vigil tomorrow at the church.
How could she contact me here before her physical form was buried? Perhaps I needed to go to the morgue. An icy shard slid down my spine. I may enjoy this sacred ground, but even I had my limit.
Antique-style light posts, featuring a vintage lantern box and frosted glass panes, lined the graveyard’s edges, illuminating the space as darkness fell. I tried to focus on my witch magic, a part I’d never sought to access very often but had been there anyway, lurking in the shadows. My shoes sank into the soft soil, and the night air, cool with the promise of autumn, wrapped around me like a familiar embrace. The headstones, aged and worn, dotted the landscape covering the bones of the earth, weathered by centuries of whispered secrets. The mist rolled in, a ghostly carpet unfurling across the ground, curling between the tombstones with a quiet hum.
As a child, I’d learned the basics of spell casting, but as I’d gotten older, I’d found ways to put it off more and more. I’d always considered witchcraft to be loudand present, like my sisters. But perhaps it was more a hushed conversation with the world than a spectacle. The coolness of the mist filled my lungs. The air tasted like something deep, ancient.
“All right, then,” I murmured. “Let’s see what I can do…”
The haze drifted around me, swirling, beckoning, almost as if it listened. I grinned, rolling my shoulders and tipping my head to the sky.
