Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Halloween

Saturdays make the best Halloweens. Crisp, clear skies and cool weather, with a high in the forties, is always preferable. Throw in a crescent moon to grace the sky during the day and set early, leaving the night dark and ideal for ritual casting, and there could be no better conditions for Samhain. Truly, my thirty-first birthday is destined to be ideal.

If only I hadn’t opened my door and offered sanctuary to a necromancer a week before. Then there would be no dark tarnish on this day.

The windows of my cottage are thrown open, letting in cool, crisp air. The forest has come alive with color, the peak of fall extraordinarily late this year. Only the pine trees are left in their evergreen. Everything else is a wash of vermillion reds and ochre yellows.

I sit at my vanity and take the curlers out of my hair. I’d nearly torn them off my head after waking from my most recent nightmare. I had thrown on a cap and run to my bathroom, where I’d taken a ripping-hot shower to wash the feeling of those damp hands off me. That dream had been so real I’d almost convinced myself I’d been Shadow Walking. But unlike the night of the hellhounds, I have no new scratches or sores from where the tree rooted in my skin. The only mark on me is a slight bruise near my left shoulder, from Miranda’s yank yesterday.

But reality or dream, it was a promise of what was to come. Unraveling my final few curlers, I try not to focus on it. But of course, if my mind can’t think about the horrifying nightmare, it wants to wander over to Matthew. Both trains of thought are equally abhorrent to me.

The clock on my fireplace peals out nine chimes, and I hasten my pace, swiping shimmery emerald eyeshadow on my lids and twisting my loose curls into a wild bun, with several locks spilling over. Black stockings with spiderwebs etched out in several patches, and a green tartan dress over a long-sleeved cream blouse, are my choice of clothing for today. The final piece of my wardrobe is hung on a silk hanger in the closet. A long, forest-green cloak with gold geometric trim. A gift from my mother many years ago. As I put on my Edwardian emerald earrings that dangle and frame my face, I consider not wearing the cloak this year.

My shoulders droop. Is this how it is always going to be from now on? Will I see anything my mother ever touched and be filled with bitterness and hurt? Will every little happiness that she brought to my life be tarnished and tainted, never to be enjoyed fully again?

“You’ve got bigger problems, Kate,” I whisper, needing the reality check. There is no guarantee I’ll make it past whatever horror the King Below has planned for me today.

A knock sounds at my front door. Scooting away from the vanity, I rip the cloak off its hanger and throw it over my shoulders. As a final flourish, I fasten my moonstone talisman like a necklace.

“Come on, Merlin,” I say to the cat, watching me get dressed. He spent the previous evening pawing fretfully at the guest bedroom door. I peeked my head inside a few hours before, momentarily convinced that Matthew would be in his bed, sleeping peacefully. But no, the room was empty.

Merlin gives me a disgruntled sound of displeasure as I grab the basket filled with caramel apples off of my kitchen table.

“Suit yourself. You always love the munchkin masquerade, but you’re free to skip it this year if you wish. Celeste will be disappointed, though,” I remind him.

When I open the door, my younger sister smiles tentatively at me. Her dark hair is stick straight, as it always is, cut sharply at her chin. In her hands she holds a picnic basket similar to mine, but hers is full of store-bought Halloween candy. She is dressed all in navy blue, and her cloak looks as if it is made of pure liquid silver. For a moment, I am reminded of my nightmare and the horrid silver-haired man in the indigo cloak. But I quickly shake the thought from my head.

“Happy Birthday, Kate!” Celeste shouts happily, her voice melodic as always. “Aw, and you’re wearing last year’s present. That color looks so pretty on you!” She smiles at the moonstone talisman hanging from my neck. The ornate gem has turned green, as it normally does when it detects my hedge craft. But there’s something different to it now, specks of silver that swirl around the verdant backdrop. My stomach twists at the thought of some invisible magic surrounding my own, waiting.

“And is this my favorite nephew?” Celeste exclaims, looking down at my feet.

Merlin chirps happily and wastes no time jumping the several feet up into her open arms. She nuzzles him contentedly.

“Are you going to sit in my basket today, hmm?” She scratches him under his chin, and his purrs are loud enough to be heard all the way into Ipswich proper. I look around the front stoop: Celeste is all by herself.

“No Miranda?” I ask. Celeste gives me a disapproving frown.

“No, though I can’t imagine you’re surprised. She’s too busy trying to figure out how to deal with her destroyed hand.”

“Well, I’m sure she will figure something out. Shall we?” I say, closing the cottage door. After all, if Miranda believes she can just waltz into people’s homes and start singing her Siren song, then clearly she can do anything, right?

It’s an ungracious thought, but I’m too angry to care.

Celeste is not one to huff, but I could blister at the look she gives me. We walk down the quiet lane, our two picnic baskets swinging from our arms, Merlin riding contentedly on Celeste’s shoulder. The only sounds are crunching yellow leaves beneath our feet along the long stretch of road. But I can almost hear Celeste’s mind working double time as she debates whether or not to talk. Eventually, as we approach the first set of colonial houses on the outskirts of town, she breaks the silence.

“So …”

“Can we not just enjoy the holiday?” I say before she has a chance to speak her mind.

“You can’t seriously think I’m not going to ask you what happened last night,” she whines.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I insist. Celeste snorts.

“Of course not, no need to explain why Miranda came home with a decaying limb, right after getting into a confrontation with the heir of the Pacific Gate.”

I stop and stare at her. Several children already in costume shriek as they run past us. Celeste rummages into her bucket and pulls out several miniature candy bars and begins pelting the kids’ backs as they get farther away. She laughs happily as several Snickers find their mark.

“When did you remember?” I ask.

Celeste rolls her eyes. “I didn’t remember. I always knew. A girl doesn’t forget a face like that, even after ten years.”

“So, why didn’t you say anything?”

Celeste almost looks hurt by the question. “Because you didn’t. I wasn’t about to rat you out to Miranda.”

I can hear the sounds of the parade already. It wasn’t meant to start until half past ten, which isn’t for another five minutes or so. But it’s underway.

“C’mon,” I tell Celeste, “We need to get to the front as fast as possible.” We rush through gathering crowds, swatting away orange and black streamers dangling from the lampposts. Eventually, we settle at the edge of the road, across the street from Zumi’s, with another crowd of adults who all gaze at our cloaks admiringly. The parade will soon make its way down to us.

I’m more eager this year than usual to pass out the apples, both because I want the chore to be done and because if an evil death deity plans on visiting Ipswich tonight, I want the town’s children to have all the protection I can offer them.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” Celeste pushes again while we wait. She asks quietly enough, and the marching band is drowning out most other noise, but I still find myself glancing around, looking for anyone who might be listening.

“Miranda tried to Siren Matthew. Things got out of hand, and he ended up fighting her off me,” I say quietly.

“Miranda did what ?” Celeste shrieks. I shush her urgently. Before I can clarify the events of the previous evening, we are interrupted by a gaggle of college-age girls and boys who have cut across the parade road.

“Oh my god,” one of the girls exclaims. “Are you Celeste Goodwin?”

Celeste needs no time to collect herself before turning to the girl and affecting a smile as she nods.

Several of the college kids squeal excitedly and begin to swarm us.

“I’ve been following you online for years. Years!”

“Will you read my fortune for me? Please!”

“I can’t believe you’re in Ipswich! Weren’t you in St. Martin last week?”

“No, you dolt. She was in Ibiza,” comes a cry from the back of the group.

The crowd around us murmurs disapprovingly at the mass of students blocking the road where the parade is due any minute. Celeste does her best to give each kid a moment of her attention. A kiss on the cheek here, a selfie there, all while trying to usher them away from the street. At some point she grabs my hand, and we bob and weave through the crowd, escaping her mob of admirers.

“Sorry,” she whispers, but not the least bit embarrassed. “Oh, look, here come the cute ones!” She claps happily as the parade comes into sight. Ipswich parents walk their children, in full costume, all along the town square. Men on stilts and women in fairy wings dance up and down, leading the parade. Several kids spot Celeste and me. They immediately drag their parents over to us, ignoring the adults on the other side of the road eagerly holding out store-bought candy for them.

We have a system developed over the course of many years. And even though she hasn’t been home for the holidays in some time, Celeste takes to it perfectly. She sets her picnic basket down so the passing children can pet Merlin. If a child is well behaved and considerate, they get a piece of her candy. If there is one who’s absent-minded or a little too rambunctious, they get a slice of caramel apple. A hoard of monsters stop by to pet my little familiar. Frankensteins, vampires, superheroes, ghosts, and ghouls all take a moment to nuzzle Merlin, who plays his role perfectly. For a handful of extra-special children, he even does a full belly flop and rollover.

The morning passes in this way, with Celeste and me both too distracted to pay attention to each other. But when the mass of the parade begins to slow down, and the children are fewer and farther between, she turns to me again.

“I can’t believe Miranda would try to Siren him,” she whispers over the music. I give her a skeptical eye, and she shrugs in acceptance.

“Okay, I mean, I know that she enjoys the occasional man to be besotted with her. But I thought she gave that up after getting married. And to think she would try it on him !”

“It didn’t work, Celeste,” I say.

“Of course, it didn’t work.” She laughs. “Miranda was a fool to think it would.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, shocked. Had it been so obvious to everyone but me that Matthew was a liar with a blackened heart? A pang rips through my chest. I still can’t believe how quickly I fell under his spell.

“Miranda knows the Siren doesn’t work on men who are already in love,” Celeste says before breaking out into cheers for a well-dressed little witch at the caboose of the parade with her parents. If my sister notices the way I have paused, she doesn’t react. The crowd at the side of the road splinters off, some people gathering in the square, others returning back home.

“Shall we head back to Mom’s?” Celeste suggests, packing Merlin into her basket. “There’s lots to do before tonight.”

I barely hear her. Revelations have come so quickly these past few days, I can’t keep up. I tossed and turned last night after kicking Miranda out of my cottage. I went through each and every interaction I’d had with Matthew, playing them over in my head again and again. The crystal pumpkin, his carving of my cottage, the night of the hellhound attack. I’d been so certain of his heart. But Miranda had wounded that conviction, and Matthew’s confessions all but obliterated it. By his own admission, he is a sworn follower of the King Below. And he attacked my sister.

Because she was hurting you, I remind myself. And Matthew hadn’t just admitted his guilt yesterday; he’d also offered what seemed like sincere advice and warning. And he’d told me he loved me. If what Celeste is saying is true, then—

No. I can’t fall into the trap of glimmering hope and allow myself to be tricked yet again. If he cared for me, he would have told me the truth before Miranda forced it out of him. And he could have stayed, could have explained himself, but he ran into the shadows once his deception was revealed.

“Kate?” Celeste asks after we have been walking for some time. “Are you okay?”

I’ve been rubbing at my temple, the bright light from the sun exacerbating a sudden headache.

“Miranda didn’t mention that,” I say finally.

“What?” Celeste tilts her head.

“She didn’t say the part about men in love. She said only men without hearts, men who were incapable of devotion, were able to resist the Siren.”

Celeste tuts angrily and mutters something I don’t quite catch under her breath.

“She certainly has a lot to answer for, Kate. But I know she feels badly about what happened.”

“She feels bad because she went up against a hexan more powerful than her and walked away the loser. I’m not sorry for her,” I shoot back.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive her today, Kate,” Celeste snaps impatiently. “Do what you want—it’s your birthday. I’m just letting you know, as a third-party observer, that she was regretful this morning.”

I don’t respond and we walk in silence. Several times on our way back to Goodwin manor, Celeste is stopped by more of her followers. She beams with every interaction, reveling in their adoration. I am too lost in thought to pay any of them much attention.

When we walk into the manor, Merlin jumps out of Celeste’s basket and begins to run wildly around the first floor, a path he has zoomed through thousands of times. I forget how much he must miss the wide-open space of this house.

Mom’s Halloween record is playing in the open entryway. I look toward the large family room and notice with surprise that the doors are thrown wide open, and all the furniture has been removed. I look to Celeste with raised eyebrows.

She shrugs. “I got bored and knew it needed to be done for tonight.” As she speaks, she won’t meet my gaze, which makes me narrow my eyes. She has never been one to do chores out of boredom.

“Fancy a drink in the kitchen?” she offers sweetly before I can press her further.

“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” I say suspiciously as we walk past the dining room and through the butler’s pantry.

“It’s after noon.” She shrugs, leading me into the kitchen. The hinged door swings shut behind us, and Celeste turns around with a flourish, looking at me excitedly.

On the center of the marble island, sitting atop our grandmother’s black lace dessert stand, is the cake to end all cakes. My mother’s Better Than Anything Ultimate Halloween Birthday Cake. She only ever made it for me on my thirteenth and eighteenth birthdays, since it was such a labor. Layers of chocolate apple spiced cake with bittersweet ganache between them, an absolute slathering of peanut butter frosting, and salted caramel drizzle on top for a final flourish. Even mortals who attempt this cake end up imbuing it with some sort of magic since it takes so much time and effort. A witch who knows what she is doing can easily impart good luck and protection for an entire year on whoever eats the first and last slice. Not to mention, it’s utterly delicious.

“Happy Birthday, Kate,” Miranda says timidly from the corner of the kitchen. She is dressed in a sea foam–green empire waist dress, and her right arm is wrapped and hooked into a makeshift sling she has fashioned from one of Celeste’s Hermes scarves.

“You got it done in time!” Celeste claps her hand giddily.

“How did you do this?” I ask in awe. Miranda begins to answer, but Celeste jumps in.

“We worked on it all last night. Well, I worked last night while Miranda dealt with … stuff,” she says, gesturing to Miranda’s limp arm. “And then she insisted on doing the rest of it while I distracted you all morning. Didn’t I play my part well, Miranda?” Celeste asks sweetly.

“Very well, dearest.” Miranda smiles, then turns to me. “We needed to make sure you had The Cake for your thirty-first.”

My throat constricts and the back of my eyes prick painfully. Not only have they made me this incredible tribute, but the kitchen is sparkling clean, which is another miracle unto itself.

“Shall we eat?” Celeste suggests. She grabs the cake stand and brings it to the breakfast nook, where three bowls of pasta are already placed and steaming with heat.

“Spill-Your-Secrets Spaghetti?” I ask Miranda with surprise, eyeing the hearty meat sauce loaded onto the noodles. It was one of our mother’s best recipes and one of the only ones she ever taught Miranda and Celeste.

Miranda nods. “Yes, but I left out the taro root, so it’s safe. No spilling of secrets, I promise,” she says.

“Ugh, you know I wouldn’t even care if it wasn’t safe,” Celeste says, shoveling pasta onto her fork. “All I’ve had to eat today is Almond Joys and a peanut butter cup. I’m desperate at this point.” She takes a massive bite and sighs happily.

“I love salty food,” she says through a mouthful of noodles.

Miranda and I both laugh and follow suit. The first bite of my mother’s spaghetti is always the best. The familiar flavors, Cretan oregano and dark opal basil, hit me a little harder than I expect. I glance at my sisters. Both of their gazes are misty as our eyes meet. This is the first time we’ve shared this dish since our mother passed.

“Thank you for this, Miranda,” I say quietly, setting my fork down. “It’s delicious.”

“Mmm.” She hums in agreement. “It is good, isn’t it? Not quite the same as Mom’s, but still decent.” A ghost of a nostalgic smile graces her face as she takes another bite. Celeste ignores both of us, still hungrily devouring her portion of the meal.

Once all our bowls are empty, Celeste clears away the dishes and, with great fanfare, places the birthday cake at the center of the table.

“Now remember, you have to have the first and last piece for the good luck to take effect,” she says with a giggle as she cuts a gigantic piece of the cake and hands me a plate.

“I don’t think I am going to be able to even finish this one,” I say, staring at the layers of peanut butter frosting and caramel dripping over the chocolate spice base.

“Well, at least try,” Celeste says, cutting a piece for Miranda and a small sliver for herself.

My fork sinks into the impossibly moist cake, and I gather as much of the icing into this first bite as possible. The apple spice and chocolate flavors hit first, infused with calming intentions, and I feel instantly relaxed. Then comes salted caramel, tasting of hope and good fortune. My sisters wait until I swallow before digging into their own pieces. Miranda eats hers eagerly, but Celeste only manages two bites before setting her fork down.

“Still too rich for me,” she says with a hum. “And now it’s time for presents!” She claps her hands and gets up from the table. She grabs two boxes wrapped in brown craft paper off the kitchen island and sets them beside me on the table.

“You didn’t need to get me anything,” I say. Celeste rolls her eyes.

“Since when do we not get each other birthday gifts?” Miranda asks through a mouthful of cake. “Open mine first,” she demands.

I laugh and start unwrapping the present tied with ocean-blue ribbon. Inside the box is a stationery set, notecards with greenery trimming their edges, and a small bunch of dried elderflowers.

“A reminder to stay in touch. Since I so rarely hear from you,” Miranda says primly.

I accept the critique. “Thank you. I was running low.”

“Mine next,” Celeste says, shoving the box with a silver star lace tied around it.

I untie the ribbon, and the paper falls away. I lift the top off the small box. Inside is a delicate gold ring with three tiny ornaments on the head. An anchor, a sprig of thyme, and a starburst.

“I had it custom made!” Celeste claps. “I got one for myself too—see?” She holds out her hand, and indeed there is the same ring on the index finger of her left hand. She looks at Miranda.

“You have to wait until Christmas for yours,” she says.

Miranda and I both laugh. I slip the ring onto my index finger, to match Celeste’s.

“Thank you—it’s beautiful,” I say to her. She grins at me.

“I thought it would be nice to have during your Containment, a reminder that your sisters are always with you.” Her eyes get a little misty as she says this.

Miranda and I glance quickly at each other, both remembering that Matthew had warned me against the Containment before he left. I haven’t decided if I will heed his supposed list of truths. But it is clear from her frown that Miranda is decidedly against him. If she suspects I might follow his advice, there could be hell to pay after this very short-lived peace.

“Miranda, maybe Win could look at your arm some time tonight?” Celeste says, oblivious to the increased tension. “She might be able to suck some of the death magic away.”

“There is no magic to draw away. It’s just dead,” Miranda says mournfully. I bite my lip, horrified by my cruel treatment of her the night before. I had all but kicked her out of my house into the freezing cold to fend for herself. And then she’d spent the rest of the evening and this morning making me a cake, without the use of one of her arms.

“I can try to look at it,” I say softly. Miranda shakes her head.

“There’s no need.”

“Oh my god, Miranda, just let me look at your arm,” I insist. I push my plate away, empty except for a few cake crumbs, and scoot my chair to the side of the table. Miranda sighs but gingerly unties the scarf holding her arm in place. I take a moment to help her unwrap the gauze. I prepare myself for a stench of rotting flesh, but none comes. Beneath her elbow all the way to the tip of her fingers, her arm is mummified. The skin has shrunken around atrophied muscles, veins protrude under the surface but are void of all color. Around her wrist are black markings in the shape of a gripped fist. I scan the surface of the dehydrated and blue skin, looking for any telltale injury that I can begin to heal. But there are none. No scrapes or cuts have affected the surface. No burns or blisters. Only death.

“Celeste,” I whisper. “In the crystal cabinet in the butler’s pantry, grab me the vials that read ‘Winter Cherry Sap’ and ‘Moonseed Paste.’ ” They are some of my mother’s strongest ingredients, which she brought back from one of her trips to the covens in India.

“And a bowl of clean water and some towels,” I say more loudly as Celeste scurries away to fetch my requested items.

“Do you really think you can fix it?” Miranda asks hesitantly.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to try,” I answer honestly. She nods her understanding. I roll my sleeves up and stretch out my sore shoulder, being careful not to touch right along the bruise.

“I’m sorry I grabbed you so hard,” Miranda says as we wait for Celeste. I shrug and shake my head.

“I’m more interested in you apologizing for using your Siren.” I surprise myself with this request. Miranda’s eyes widen with surprise as well, and then harden.

“I did it to protect you.” She says this firmly, and though I want to fight her on it, it’s clear she believes what she is saying.

“And yet you failed to mention the other reason your Siren might not have worked against him.”

Miranda looks away, for once having the decency to be ashamed.

“Yes, that possibility came to mind once he gave his little confession,” she waves her good hand dismissively, but her cheeks are flushed red.

“Why was it so impossible for you to believe that he might love me? Celeste guessed almost immediately.” I stare at Miranda, trying to see my own reflection in her green eyes, wishing I could understand what it was that warped me so brutally in her perspective.

“I don’t know,” she whispers as Celeste rushes back into the kitchen, her arms full of supplies.

“Have you brought me the entire pantry?” I ask her as she lays several tinctures and bottles down onto the breakfast table. She sets a clear glass bowl filled with fresh water right next to Miranda’s arm before looking at me.

“I don’t know, Kate. I panicked.” Celeste throws her hands up in the air in exasperation and sits down petulantly in her seat, always the shadow of the child she once was.

I smirk but turn back to focus on Miranda’s arm. This won’t be an easy task, I’ve never worked on anything so brutal. For a moment, I think about Matthew, how he has never been good around life and how I, in turn, have never been good around death.

But as I wrap my hands around the leathery, dry skin of Miranda’s ruined arm, I realize perhaps that isn’t quite so true. Death was kept from me. I was shielded from it for years. But I had taken to it naturally when Shadow Walking. Matthew had claimed one of the powers of my craft was Siphoning, the ability to transform life energy into that of death. But he had also suggested that process could be reversed. Maybe I could do this after all.

I try to ground myself in Miranda. Most of her body pulses with vibrant, electric life. Her arm, though, is a shadow.

However, I realize with excitement, not devoid of energy. There is no sensation of life, but I still connect to something. It’s similar to the dry grass walls I’d use to guide my way through the Fall Festival’s labyrinth, similar to the bones of the baby bird I’d found in the forest. I hold onto that death energy and use it as an anchor. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, sending my intention through the arm and up toward her living skin above her elbow. With each breath I try to draw the living energy back into the necrotic arm. It wrestles with me, hesitant to return to the ruined flesh. It won’t be enough. Pushing down panic, I take another breath and open my mind further, searching. The clock by the door ticks loudly, the kitchen refrigerator buzzes, and the very walls of the house begin to whisper. One hundred and fifty years of our ancestors’ lives have been witnessed by these walls, and echoes of their vibrant laughter and magic ring in my mind.

“I ask for your blessings to revive what has been lost,” I whisper, pulling all of the energy toward me, up through the floorboards against my feet. Births, marriages, midnight spell work—all the joyful history blends together. The tragedies are there as well. My father’s passing, every screaming match between me and Miranda, every facet that makes up the mosaic of life filling this house, I gather it all and direct it toward my sister.

And then, beneath the surface of her mummified skin I can feel it, the faintest pulse of life. Weaker than any I’ve ever felt before, but still present. With a breath of relief, I immediately grab the winter cherry sap and pour it into the bowl of water, watching as it swirls into nothingness. It would be deadly to drink, but it is without a doubt one of the strongest rejuvenators of atrophied muscle. I slowly dip the dish towels Celeste has placed nearby into the sap water, letting them soak through, and then ring them out. Placing each damp cloth gently onto Mirandas arm, I press them into her, massaging the oily water into the cracks and crevices where her skin is fully desiccated.

I repeat this process over and over again, always focusing on that tiny thrum of life in whatever few cells of her arms still work. Slowly, the thrum grows stronger until eventually all the water in the bowl has been used up. The skin on Miranda’s arm is still discolored, but it is hydrated, fuller, not so completely stuck to the bone.

Celeste watches the whole process with obvious fascination and disgust. Miranda keeps her eyes averted from her own injury. Once every last drop of water is gone from both the bowl and the dish towels, I squeeze out moonseed paste into my hands and quickly rub it onto Miranda’s skin.

“This is to complete your rejuvenation. You will need to apply this paste every day until the color returns to normal. Mix some aloe in to speed up the process.” I say, rubbing her arm vigorously, trying to coax the blood vessels and tissue back to working order. “You must be energetic in your application,” I say between breaths. “Let your arm know who’s boss.”

Miranda gives a polite laugh but still looks at her veiny blue arm in disgust.

“We can wrap it in bandages if that would be easier for you,” I suggest. “You will need to change them every day when you switch out the paste.”

“Thank you,” Miranda says to me. “You’ve done a very fair job, Hecate.” She gives me a stiff smile, and I have to suppress my simultaneous laugh and eye roll. I’ve given her back a limb, but I suppose “a fair job” will have to suffice.

Miranda stands quickly, almost knocking the vials still on the breakfast table completely over. “We should all be getting ready. The coven will be arriving soon,” she says.

As if on cue, the grandfather clock strikes three in the afternoon. I let out a yelp. The sound of the clock so closely matches the tolling I’d heard in my dream last night, and for a moment I expect to hear the howl of a hellhound echoing around the manor.

Both my sisters stop and stare at me.

“Kate?” Celeste asks. “Is everything okay?”

I look out the kitchen window, toward the rough October sea under a crystal-blue sky. The sun is getting lower, inching toward the horizon, the threat of shadows just beyond. I set my mouth into a grim line and turn toward Miranda and Celeste.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say.