Page 95 of Hex You

She wasn’t sure if two wrongs made a right or if Kylie, confronted with evil and death, had decided that life was too short to hold on to anger no matter the cause. Either way, Hunter was grateful for the opportunity to mend their friendship.

She lingered at the threshold of the open front door until Emily’s car was nothing more than a gleaming spot in the distance.

“Home sweet home,” she said to no one, since no one waited inside. She set her keys in the oyster shell bowl on the whatnot table and tossed her bag onto the couch on her way to the kitchen.

She opened the note taped to the plastic wrap covering the top of the lattice crust and read aloud, “‘From the Medfords. Another thank-you for saving us.’” Hunter took a deep breath, filling her heart with the power of community.

Goodeville had also changed over the past couple weeks. No longer did she feel ostracized or afraid of being found out as a real witch. True, some still gave her space or whispered under their breath as they passed, but most were happy, grateful even, that she was thereto help if ever another otherworldly being was loosed in their small town.

Hunter set the pie on the counter next to the others and turned the knob of the gas stovetop and lit the burner under the half-full teakettle before shuffling toward the pantry.

Today was the day. Tonight was the night. Now was the moment.

Her hand lingered on the doorknob. There had to be another way to procrastinate, another movie to see, another extra-credit assignment to complete.

She chewed her lower lip.

No, if she didn’t try to contact her mom and sister now, she never would. Plus, they had to want to talk to her. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were glad to be away from her. Maybe Mercy and Xena couldn’t even come to her. They might still be in the Egyptian Underworld, fixing whatever it was she’d had to fix there. Or maybe they had fixed the problem, but didn’t want to see her. Maybe—

She shook her head, clearing the swarm of negative thoughts. “You’re being ridiculous. You know time passes way differently in the Underworlds. What seems like weeks to me could be months, years, or even decades to Mercy and Xena.”

But what if she wasn’t being ridiculous? What if Mercy and Abigail were actually mad at her? What if Mag had realized that Hunter should have been the one to die and not her? What if her mother was resentful that she hadn’t taken action that night at the apple tree? Both times, Hunter had frozen. Both times, someone else had paid the ultimate price.

She exhaled a shaky breath and pulled a tall mason jar of salt, a box of long matches, and a wicker bin of Mercy’s prepared tea sachets off the shelf.

“Pull yourself together,” she scolded, setting the items on the kitchen counter.

The teakettle whistled, spitting a cone of hot steam into the air.

Hunter took a sachet from the bin, turned off the burner, andgrabbed a mug from the rack, the phraseWitch, please!in bold letters across the cup. The sweet, fruity, and comforting scents of chamomile and lavender drifted up from the mug on curling tendrils of steam as Hunter poured hot water over the dried packet of herbs. She held the warm mug in both hands, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.

In times like this, when the only noise was of the old home shifting in summer winds and the night sky chased away the sun, Hunter heard them—footsteps on the staircase, laughter in the halls, her mother and Mercy discussing plants and food and love. They were echoes, and like every sound, the memories would eventually fade.

Hunter swallowed, and her eyelids fluttered open before they could swell with tears.

She would see her family tonight.

She took the fuzzy bathrobe, the one Xena had worn nearly every time she’d morphed from a majestic Maine coon to an even more regal human, from the apron hook outside the pantry door and slipped it on over her T-shirt and jeans.

Wrapped in her mother’s bathrobe, matchbox in the pocket, mug of tea in one hand, and jar of salt tucked under her arm, she pushed open the back door of the Victorian home she had chosen to live in forever and stepped into the night.

The crescent moon hung high in the sky casting a faint glow over the backyard, Mercy’s greenhouse, the rows of white pillar candles Hunter and her friends had laid out for their private celebration of Mercy, and the path to the family cemetery. Hunter could walk the property in a blizzard, in a rainstorm, in black as pitch, but she could hear her sister’s voice in her head.

There’ssupposedto be some ceremony involved, H.

Hunter smiled, adjusted the jar of salt under her arm, and snapped her fingers.“Let there be light.”

The pillar candles flamed, illuminating the worn path that led to each Goode’s final resting place.

Hunter walked slowly, following the memories of her former self, her former family, whole and real and completely alive, until she reached the cemetery’s wrought iron gate.

It unlatched and opened before she had the chance to reach out. Its hinges creaked a word of welcome, a sign of her power, of her connection to this plot of land and the bones resting beneath.

“Merry meet,” she whispered as the gate creaked closed behind her.

Merry meet.The wind twirled through her hair, carrying with it the voices of her ancestresses.

The bathrobe swept over the grass as Hunter wound through the grave markers to the iron firepit at the center of cemetery. Pentagram and crescent moon cutouts danced around the pit, revealing the rough bark of dried pine logs and smooth brown coils of cinnamon sticks.