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

Mercy ignored her.

“Heather’s arrogance is why I thought she might work. I figured she’d love ‘playing witch,’” Hunter air-quoted. “But her family’s farm is ten miles outside Goodeville city limits, and I think we really do need people to stand in for the original settlers. So it has to be someone who lives within the limits of the town.”

“That’s Kirk.”

Her sister picked at her nonexistent thumbnail. “Okay, but you’re going to have to have a serious talk with him before the spell.”

“I will. And he’ll be cool with it. Promise.” Mercy was glad her voice sounded so sure, because her intuition wasn’t nearly as convinced. She shook off the feeling—really, we don’t have a choice. “How about you and I tell Jax and Kirk we’ll meet them after football practice tomorrow? We can explain what we need the two of them to do—together. You know Kirk hates to look like any kind of a sissy in front of another guy. It should at least make him receptive enough to listen to what we have to say.”

Hunter opened her mouth to speak, but Xena interrupted. “I want you to be very careful about what you disclose to those boys. Tell them only enough to set the intention to strengthen and heal the trees. They do not need to know the true history of Goodeville. They should not know about the gates.”

“But, Xena, won’t it be better to clue them in on—”

“No!” The cat person’s eyes flashed yellow and her hair lifted as she met their gazes—all lightness gone from her expression. “I have been guardian of Goode witches for generations. Modern townspeople will not understand. Sarah Goode fled as a result of ignorance and hysteria once. That tragedy must not be repeated. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Xena,” the girls spoke together.

Xena sighed and reached out to stroke each of their cheeks. “I am sorry to be so stern with my kittens, but you must heed me on this. The less they know, the better.”

“We’ll only tell them enough to set their intention,” said Mercy.

“Don’t worry, Xena. We’ll be careful,” added Hunter.

“Excellent. Now, I am rather sleepy. I need a bath and my cannabis truffle or three.” Xena stood and shook back her hair. “I shall see you in the morning, my lovely kittens.” She leaned over and licked each of them on their foreheads before padding gracefully up the stairs.

The girls exchanged a glance. “She’s a lot sometimes,” whispered Mercy.

“Sometimes?” Hunter quipped with a smile. “I’ll text Jax and let him know we’ll be there after practice.”

“Okay, I’ll text Kirk, too, in a sec. I just want to be sure I’ve read every part of Sarah’s ritual.” Mercy scanned the rest of the page, making quick notes on her phone of the supplies they’d need: an offering for each and a tool for each of them to use to draw a little of their blood. Mercy chewed her lip. Little tiny ritual knives? Where the bloody hell am I going to get some of them?

She turned the page to the end of the spell, which was also the end of the grimoire. As she closed it, her fingernail caught on a corner of a blank page glued to the inside rear cover of the book. Mercy picked at the corner, and carefully peeled the copied sheet from the cardstock cover. It was a poem, which wasn’t very shocking. Sarah’s grimoires were littered with poems, though most of them were written in the margins beside spells. Their ancestress had definitely been an aspiring poet. Not a big fan of poetry, Mercy had quickly scanned Sarah’s other poems as she’d concentrated on the witch’s actual spellwork. But something about this particular poem pulled at her attention. It was written in bold cursive that appeared to be in Sarah’s hand, but the letters had been smudged by whatever had stuck the page. Mercy smoothed her fingers over the page and squinted to make out the words.

There shall come a day

when they will sicken

with sulfur and rot

fierce and deadly

the Goode witches sworn

cannot prevent it

cannot protect them

and so the gates shall fall open

until a chosen god is forsaken

then by parting they are mended

together again

Mercy’s breath left her in a gasp as her eyes traced the lines over and over. How long had this poem—this prophecy—been stuck to the back cover of this old copy and ignored? And even before, in the other copies that had been made of the ancient grimoire, had anyone noticed that one of Sarah’s poems was foretelling the destruction of the gates? In the sick pit of her stomach Mercy Anne Goode knew the truth, and it made her want to puke.

“What is it, Mag?”

Still staring at the words written by their long-dead ancestress, Mercy said the first thing that came to her mind. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

Sitting beside her on the couch, Hunter turned to fully face Mercy. “Mad at you? What are you talking about? We can tell each other anything. And if this is about Kirk, I promise not to be mean. I’ll just listen.”

“It’s not about Kirk.” Mercy cleared her throat. “It’s about the sick trees and the gates. I’ve, um, been thinking really hard about what could have started their sickness—about what’s different today than in the generations before us.”

Hunter nodded. “Yeah, me, too.”

“Well, there’s one thing that I keep circling back to. I haven’t said anything because I knew it’d upset you—and I could be wrong. I wanted to be wrong. But what I just found at the end of Sarah’s ritual makes me believe I’ve been on to something.” Mercy chewed the inside of her cheek before blurting, “H, what if all of this is happening because you chose Tyr instead of a goddess?”

Hunter’s expressive turquoise eyes narrowed and her hand automatically lifted to clutch her talisman. “If Tyr was the problem Mom would’ve known—would’ve stopped me from choosing