Spells Trouble by Kristin Cast (mystery books to read .txt) 📕

she made her way languidly to the pantry and began pawing—literally—through the canned goods. “Yes, I am aware of your strange dietary predilections. It is the only thing my Abigail and I ever crossed words about. Ah! Here it is! Delicious albacore.” She carried the can to Hunter and plopped it down in front of her. “Do be a dear and open it for me.”

“How about I show you how to open it yourself. It’s really easy.” Hunter stood and started for the electric can opener that sat in the corner of the kitchen counter between the coffee maker and the blender.

“Oh, no, thank you, kitten. I loathe electric appliances. What if I broke a nail?” Xena batted a hand at Hunter dismissively while she peered down at the cards. Her gaze shifted from the one face-up. “Oh, excellent! You’ve decided on a spell and you’ll be beginning at the Egyptian tree.”

Mercy glanced up at her. “Am I the only one confused by tarot?”

“Yes!” Xena and Hunter said together.

Xena slid onto the bench seat and licked the back of her hands, then smoothed them through her crazy hair as she leaned into Mercy and read her notes. “A stang! That’s a rather good idea. Very powerful in the hands of the right witch.”

Mercy paused in her list making. “Am I the right witch?”

“Of course, kitten.” Xena licked the back of her hand again and tried to smooth a strand of Mercy’s hair.

Mercy backed out of her reach. “Xena, it’s not cool when you do that.”

“I’m just trying to help you look your best. You’re rather disheveled.” Xena hesitated and sniffed in Mercy’s direction. Her yellow eyes widened. “Mercy Anne Goode, you smell like—”

“Nothing that’s your business!” Mercy said quickly, super grateful that the whirring of the can opener kept her sister from hearing their exchange. She gathered her sticky notes so that when Hunter turned with the open can of tuna Mercy held them out to her. “Could you gather these things for me while I cut the stang? Then we’ll meet in my greenhouse and put everything together.”

“Sure, Mag,” Hunter said, and took the open can of tuna to Xena.

“You do not think I’m going to eat from a can, do you, Hunter? Your mother is no longer with us, but we have not yet deteriorated into barbarism.”

This time Mercy and Hunter shared their eye roll. “Perish the thought,” Hunter murmured, detouring to the cabinet that held Abigail’s collection of bone china.

“I suppose you want us to pour the cream for you, too?” Mercy asked, though she’d already taken a wine goblet from another cabinet.

“I do so love it when my kittens take care of me,” said Xena, smiling and making a humming sound that was eerily purr-like.

Mercy had to smile, too, when she and her sister put the bowl of tuna—albacore with a small silver fork—and the crystal goblet of cream in front of Xena, who forked through the tuna delicately, still purr-humming with pleasure.

“Now, shoo, kittens!” Xena said, “Get ready for your spell. And remember, as you gather the items, hold your intention. That was one of the reasons my Abigail was such a powerful witch. She was wonderful at setting intentions.”

Hunter read the list Mercy had given her. “These things are all in Mom’s pantry, right?”

Mercy nodded. “Yeah, but I think we should add fresh herbs along with the oils made from them. The rosemary, mint, and thyme are in the garden. Want me to get them?”

“Nah, I’ll harvest them for you and wash them. I need to cleanse the moonstones while I add intention to them anyway. Plus, you’ll be busy carving the stangs,” said Hunter.

“Stangs? As in more than one?” Mercy’s fingers drummed against the old grimoire she held. “You really think we can’t use the same one for each tree?”

Hunter opened her mouth to answer, but Xena interceded before she could speak. “You must have unique spellwork items for each tree. The power needs to be fresh and focused—not shared. Think of the Egyptian tree only as you prepare. Once you are successful with healing that tree, then you shift your intent to the next.”

“But shouldn’t we be moving quicker?” Hunter asked. “The trees are getting worse and worse.”

“Which is why you must concentrate on one at a time. Do not fragment your powers. Be clear. Be strong. Be decisive. That is the advice your mother would give you. If you’re in a hurry stop complaining and get to work.” Xena poured the cream from the wine goblet over the tuna, dipped her head, and began to lap delicately at it.

“Gross, Xena!” Hunter disappeared into the pantry.

“Oh, bloody hell that’s disgusting.” Mercy gagged as she hurried out the back door and headed for the pretty little greenhouse that had been an early birthday gift from Abigail.

Mercy stood the ladder against the wide trunk of the ancient oak that had watched over the Goode Cemetery for more than two centuries. She’d fashioned a strap around the well-sharpened hedge trimmers, which she slung over her shoulder, much like her giant boho purse. Before she began to climb the ladder Mercy went to the tree and pressed both of her hands against her trunk. She breathed deeply, catching the scent of the newly blooming lilac bushes, big as trees, that framed the little wrought-iron fence enclosing the cemetery. She listened carefully, hearing the cardinals that loved the oak so much, as well as the whirring of dragonfly wings as the helicopter-like insects darted from the water feature that decorated the other side of their spacious backyard. And then Mercy felt it—the inhale and exhale of the mighty tree that vibrated softly against her palms.

“Hi there, Mother Oak.” Mercy spoke with familiarity to the tree because she knew the tree well. She’d grown up in her shade and spent uncounted hours in the deep V where the massive boughs first split from the trunk, reading and hiding from weekend chores. Mercy’s lips lifted in remembrance. “It’s