Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The King Below

The clearing is empty, save for the trees, as I spin around, looking for signs of the dark figure who has been stalking me in my dreams.

“Hello?” I call out.

The forest is quiet, muffled. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles across the sky, but I hear only its echoes. The trees around me are a mixture of old dead wood and brittle obsidian glass. And I am all alone. But the moonstone talisman around my neck is still pitch black.

Something catches my eye.

Off to one side of the clearing is a lit jack-o’-lantern sitting on the ground. His smile is happy and friendly, his candle flickering orange in the darkness.

“Who put you here?” I wonder aloud as I walk over to it.

Another light glints through the trees when I approach the pumpkin. I look out into the woods and see, with surprise, that two rows of lit jack-o’-lanterns form a path deeper into the forest.

“All right, then,” I say, almost amused by the surrealism of the scene. I follow the path of the pumpkins, my shoes padding quietly. After a few steps, I kick them off and ground my feet on the forest floor, taking several deep breaths. My fear, once so overwhelming, has vanished completely. Walking farther, I draw my green cloak closer to protect it from the flames inside the pumpkins.

The trees around me shift and morph. The change is so slow, it’s almost imperceptible. I lean over a jack-o’-lantern, being mindful of my cloak, and place a hand on one of the pines. A tiny portion of rotten bark breaks away and cracks into glass shards in my fist, but the rest of the tree still stands. And there it is: that death energy I felt in Miranda’s arm. Along with a tiny thrum of life. That in-between condition. I stare at the tree in wonder. It is living and dead, existing in both states simultaneously.

I back away and start walking down the lit path again. The faces of the jack-o’-lanterns become chaotic, more sinister, with each passing step. Grins turn to sneers, which turn to snarls and fangs. And then, quite suddenly, the pumpkin path ends.

Before me is an old stone wall and wrought iron gate.

The Goodwin graveyard. I suppose it makes sense that it would all end here. At least Celeste and Miranda are far away and safe. It’s that thought that guides me forward.

I push on the gate, but it does not budge. Locked. Another push and the gate groans but doesn’t swing open. A prickle of fear runs along my neck. The gate always opens for a Goodwin witch. But perhaps the rules are different in the Land Below. I do my best to ignore the fear and confusion. The pumpkins led me here, so it’s clearly where the King Below wants me to be. There must be some other option. Angry and annoyed, I rattle the iron bars.

Off to the side of the gate, there is a long, hand-carved wooden table covered with clusters of dried herbs. These bundles of plants look more alive than anything else in the forest.

“What game is this?” I shout out into the darkness, but I receive no response.

I study the herbs. Sage, lavender, rosemary, mugwort, rose petals; there must be over a dozen different piles.

“It’s a choice,” I whisper to myself.

I have half a mind to choose none, to walk back down the way of the pumpkin path. If the King Below wants to toy with me, see how he likes it when I don’t play along.

But I continue to study the herbs carefully. My hand hovers over sage; wisdom would come in great hand during any confrontation. Mugwort maybe—to strengthen my powers? Or perhaps the rose petals, to offer protection to the ones I love.

But my mother’s first lesson in the kitchen, nearly twenty years ago, echoes in the back of my mind. I pick up the rosemary.

“There is power in remembrance,” I say quietly. The other bundles of herbs disappear, as does the table that held them. A low metallic groaning sounds behind me as the gate to the graveyard finally swings open. It teeters, beckoning me onward.

The usual smell of damp earth and oak moss–covered headstones doesn’t greet me in this shadow world. I walk over to the headstone with the most polished granite and a small bundle of dead flowers beside it. I place a hand softly on top.

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” A quiet, wet, and rasping voice sounds out from the darkness. I spin around. In the corner of the graveyard is a mound of boulders, piled twelve feet high, with a figure sitting atop it.

A dark indigo cloak billows in an invisible wind. I shudder, remembering damp hands on my neck. I creep closer. The boulders are not boulders after all, but a precariously piled mass of rotting pumpkins, arranged into a chair-like shape at the very top.

“It would have been lovely, yes. Had I been allowed to celebrate in peace,” I say, finding my voice. A wet, guttural laugh vibrates throughout the graveyard.

“You came to me, remember?” the man atop the pumpkin throne says. He leans down toward me, his long silver hair coming into view.

“Your hounds and shadows were invading,” I respond. “I hardly had a choice. Besides, I wasn’t interested in my sisters seeing me dragged to hell.”

“Yes.” The man nods appreciatively. “It was a nice surprise when you successfully Shadow Walked here, rather than my Cerberaxi having to take you. It was quite considerate, letting me conserve my energy.”

“Happy to be of service,” I say sarcastically.

He takes no note of the acid in my voice.

“I am glad you have finally been learning your true craft. It’s why I offered you gifts upon your arrival. You will soon come to learn that I enjoy rewarding good behavior, Hecate.”

“What gifts?” I ask, mystified.

He blanches from atop his throne and peers down at me disapprovingly.

“I lit your way for you,” he says.

“I know how to navigate this forest without a pumpkin path. I’m a hedge witch,” I remind him.

“And, of course, I gave you herbs.” His voice is growing impatient.

“I can buy rosemary for three dollars at the local supermarket—”

The King Below swoops down from his pile of pumpkins, and before I can move away, those long pale fingers have wrapped themselves around my throat. I let out a strained gasp as he squeezes the air out of me. Up close, he is just as I dreamed him: gaunt, with skin stretched tightly over protruding cheekbones and dark purple shadows under black eyes.

“Try that again, dearest,” he seethes.

“Thank you for your very generous gifts,” I croak, satisfied when a few droplets of my spit splatter on his face. He releases his grip on me, and I fall to the ground.

“Good. You’re a fast learner. I like that,” he says, breathing heavily, almost wheezing. He walks back toward the pumpkin throne, but he doesn’t ascend again. Instead, he leans against the pile, steadying himself.

“You’re weakened,” I say, coughing. “You can’t even climb your throne.”

He looks down at me with disdain.

“I have been without a hedge witch for two hundred years. And the last one—Abigail, was it?” He scoffs. “Well, she was hardly trained at all—a puny little thing. She didn’t make it a year before her heart gave out. Very few would last as long as I have without proper help. But yes,” he admits, “I am weak.”

I smile up at him smugly. “Then perhaps I have a chance in this fight after all.” Maybe I could avenge us all. My mother, my father, Abigail Browne, and all the hedge witches who came before me.

The King Below laughs that horrid, raspy cackle. “Who says there needs to be a fight?” he asks, whipping his cloak open with a bit of flourish. He is wearing a black three-piece suit. The only embellishments are the chromatic crown atop his head and the key hanging from a chain around his neck. Around us, the trees in the graveyard explode into flame, but not like they had the night of the hellhound attack. No, the trees are not on fire. Thousands upon thousands of floating candles drift up and down among the leaves, somehow managing not to singe the trees themselves.

“I think you will find I can be quite persuasive.” The King Below stares at me hungrily. Memories of my nightmares flash before me. A river full of lost souls. A gaping chasm in the ground. Me, forever bound to a single twisted tree.

“What exactly are you trying to convince me to do?” I ask, unable to keep my voice from shaking slightly.

He opens his arms wide and smiles at me in an eerily friendly manner.

“To be my hedge witch, of course,” he says. “Become mine, and I will grant you eternal life. Together we will hold dominion over Death.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence.

“I get to choose?” I ask uncertainly. The King Below chuckles.

“Yes. The magic doesn’t take unless the hedge witch agrees. That’s where I’ve had trouble in the past,” he admits with a dark grin.

It’s my turn to laugh. I stand up and smile.

“Fine then. Thank you for the opportunity, but I’m afraid I have to decline,” I say.

He stares at me for a beat.

“Ah yes. I was afraid you might be of that inclination initially,” he mutters, shaking his head. But after a moment, he looks up and gives me another serene smile. “No worries. I came prepared.” He twists on his heel to face the throne and snaps his fingers loudly.

A long, glittering gold chain snakes its way down the makeshift arm of the throne. At the edge of the chain, a shimmering translucent specter appears, a golden collar around her neck and a gag in her mouth. Recognizing her eyes immediately, a desperate cry escapes me.

“Yes,” the King Below hisses in eager acknowledgment. “Mommy dearest is here to say hello.”

He grabs the chain and yanks it toward him. My mother trips over her own feet at the tug and falls to her knees before him. “Don’t mind the gag—a necessary evil, I’m afraid. She might have all sorts of ideas to poison you against me, and I can’t allow that. But isn’t this such a nice reunion?”

I am frozen, rooted between the headstones of two of my ancestors. Knowing retroactively that Margaret had been a wraith has not prepared me to see the spirit of my mother. I want to run to her, push the madman away, and release her bindings. I want to beat against her chest for all the lies she’s told and then collapse sobbing into her arms as she strokes my hair. But I know the King Below won’t let me within ten feet of her.

“What is this?” I ask, horrified. “You think showing me my mother gagged and chained will soften my heart to you?”

He smirks and shakes his head, his silver hair floating in the air behind him.

“No, no, dearest. Your mother has been waiting quite some time for you. I was ever so surprised when she showed up six months ago. I’ve been hiding these days. You know, it takes a lot out of me to help spirits cross over. It steals a piece of me every single time, chipping away at my soul, like a bird pecking at a block of seeds, until all that is left is an empty husk. A suffering I wouldn’t have to endure if you would do your job !”

His shout is the first loud noise I’ve heard since I began my Shadow Walk. My mother and I both flinch in surprise. There is howling off in the woods behind the graveyard. The hellhounds are close. The King Below collects himself, straightening his tie and clearing his throat.

“My apologies,” he says with a curt nod toward me. “I only meant to say that, despite my hiding, I couldn’t help but make an appearance for the lovely Sybil Goodwin. My delight over her death was immeasurable. The thorn in my side, the witch who spent years preventing me from claiming you as my own, using the very gifts I gave her to keep me from ascending on Samhain or Beltane. I finally had her in my clutches. I’m sure you can only imagine the reunion we had after being apart for so many years.” He grabs my mother by the neck and lifts her up. He plants a wet, sloppy, slurping kiss on the side of her cheek before dropping her back to the ground. My mother glares at him, but he pays her no attention.

“I’ve enjoyed her company so much, I couldn’t bear to actually let her pass on. But for you, I would.” He studies my face and must find some satisfaction in my look of horror as I realize what he is saying. He nods happily.

“Say you will be mine. Become my hedge witch, and I will release your mother. She will be free to finally rest.”

My mother lets out a series of despairing moans and shakes her head wildly at me. The King Below steps in front of her, blocking her from my view. I swallow the sobs that threaten to escape my lips. I know he must see my despair, must see how he has me trapped. But I can’t give into him. I force my face into a glaring frown and look at him with a dead, unaffected stare.

“Why would I sacrifice my life and freedom for a woman who lied to me for thirty years? Who sold me away before I was even born?” I ask him.

The King Below’s eyes widen. He looks between me and my mother a few times before breaking out into maniacal laughter.

“Ooh, I do love your cruelty, Hecate! You are going to be marvelous, aren’t you? I was worried you wouldn’t have what it takes. And yet here you are, gloriously tossing aside the woman who raised you. I would be in raptures if it weren’t all in refusal of me.” He licks his lips as he stares at me, and fiddles excitedly with the key around his neck. I recoil in disgust.

“Am I free to go now?” I ask. I am not sure what bluff I am playing. I scan the graveyard and nervously twist the strands of rosemary in my hands. Perhaps I can find a way to fend him off while my mother escapes.

“Oh, but do stay! I have one more tactic of persuasion. This one isn’t even dead. Yet.” he purrs and snaps his fingers again. Another figure, not spectral like my mother, but solid, appears on the opposite side of the throne. The poor soul is wrapped completely in chains. Chains that are red with heat. Glowing hot iron shackles. Beautiful icy-blue eyes stare at me as the body tenses in prolonged agony.

“No,” I breathe, rushing toward Matthew.

The King Below flicks his wrist, and the ground beneath me rumbles. Skeletal hands shoot out of the graves and wrap around my ankle. I try to shake them off, but their grip is like a vise, bone cutting into my skin.

“Please,” I beg, watching Matthew fall to his knees in pain from the burning irons. “Please stop hurting him.”

The King Below tuts.

“You say no to your own mother but immediately fall into line for this creature?” He kicks out a long leg and shoves Matthew’s chest into the ground. “Careful, Hecate, you’re on the verge of making me wildly blind with jealousy.”

“Please,” I beg again. I have discarded what semblance of an upper hand I might have had. But I cannot stand the sight of Matthew’s anguish.

“You know,” the King Below says out loud to all of us in the graveyard, “the Cyphers have been a pain in my ass for nearly half a millennia. My own progeny, so hubristic, so sycophantic. I always knew they would only ever disappoint me. A family of screwups with too much power.” The King Below looks back at me. “His sister betrayed me too, you know? Married a mortal man without my approval.” He leans down and looks Matthew in the eye.

“You can bet that she’s first on my list when I finally walk the land above.” He grins demonically.

Matthew fights against his chains, rage seething in his eyes.

The King Below tuts and leans down, coming face-to-face with him.

“I was so eager when you were born, Matthew. So pleased by your innate power and strong will. Finally, I thought to myself, here will be a man worthy of calling himself my descendent. You, the one I entrusted, tasked with making sure my hedge witch was properly trained since her mother refused. The one I gave all the resources to, as well as dreams to guide you, and what did you go and do? You fell in love! And decided to thwart me at every turn from claiming what was rightfully mine !”

He lands another kick at Matthew’s head this time.

“Stop it! Stop it!” I shriek. I smash the skeletal hand around my ankle. Shards of bone pierce into my skin, drawing blood.

Wriggling free, I run full force toward the King Below. He whips around and grabs me by the throat.

“I will dole out whatever punishment I see fit!” he snarls. “The boy tried to take what was mine. Don’t you see, Hecate?” He releases me, his voice growing soft as he strokes my face. “He tried to prevent our union. We could have been together a week ago if not for him. I sent Margaret to you, to test you. To see if you could let a spirit pass through you. I was bitterly disappointed at your failure. I demanded the Cyphers do something about it. The wimp of a patriarch refused to act. But oh, I was so pleased when Matthew ran off toward Ipswich against his father’s wishes. I thought surely, he would teach you what you needed to know and then bring you to me. I could have spent the past seven days reveling in your flesh, gaining strength so that I might walk the realm of the living again. Imagine my dismay when he instead cast an insipid little shadow charm to kept us apart.” He huffs. “No worries. Such trifling bits of magic will no longer stop me once we become one.”

One of his long, spindly fingers strokes my neck. His eyes fall on my lips, and his mouth parts slightly.

“I will destroy you before I ever agree to be your hedge witch, do you understand?” I gasp from under his grip. Tears flow from my eyes. “You will fade and rot away before you see the surface of the living world.”

The King Below lets out an aggravated roar and backhands me with surprising force. My skull vibrates from the strength of his hit, and I fly backward. I land forcefully atop one of the gravestones, the wind instantly knocked from me. My ribs crack and I slide limply down the slab of granite, wheezing for air, but no breath will come to me.

My grandmother’s name on her tombstone bears down on me. I can hear my mother’s sobs as the King Below sighs unhappily.

“Now, look what you made me do,” he groans. “You need to be more careful, Hecate. If your spirit is damaged while Shadow Walking, your body could reject it when you try to reenter. Or it will take on the damage itself.”

I ignore him, pressing the rosemary in my hand into the carved grooves of my grandmother’s name. I try to speak but struggle to find breath.

“If you start behaving, I might find it in my grace to heal you,” the King Below sings out happily. “Gwaed is awfully useful for that—just ask your mother.”

I manage to suck in a slight breath of air. My ribs burn from the pain of it. I try to remember how it had felt to speak to Margaret’s spirit. Of all the darker sides of hedge craft I’ve learned this week, that one had felt the most natural.

“Please,” I rasp, pressing the flowers firmly into the stone. “Please, ancestors, help me.” I open my mind the same way I had when healing Miranda’s arm. The history and energy of the Goodwin graveyard resonates in the ground around me. Memories of my grandmother’s kindness; of my great-aunts sitting together, laughing; old stories I was told of women I’d never met, but whose love and magic still ran through my veins.

“Please, be here with me,” I say in an almost silent prayer. My tears fall into the grass as the King Below laughs.

“Be serious,” he scoffs. “I am a necromancer, Hecate. You can’t turn the dead against me.”

“Not their bodies,” I croak in agreement.

He frowns. A wind whispers through the grass of the graveyard, and my mother’s eyes widen in surprise. Figures, shimmering and translucent, pop in and out of view, all across the rows of headstones. A feeling of belonging, of love, of protection, fills my soul. All my foremothers are here, answering my call.

“Enough!” the King Below bellows. He lets out a snarling yell, raising his hands above his head. The ground shakes heavily. My ribs scream from the jostling movement. Grass splits and clumps of dirt explode from the ground. Graves all around me burst open with necrotic energy. Skeletons begin to crawl out of the earth. Yellowed antique clothes, decomposing flesh, discolored bone. It’s all a blur as the bodies of every Goodwin witch emerge from their rest. I stare in horror as they all slowly turn to face the King Below. Waiting for instructions.

“Take control of your spirits, you worthless calcium deposits,” he roars.

The whispering all around me increases, growing louder. Skeletons skirt around the graveyard, grasping and clawing at empty air. Shimmering specters swirl above me in a silver tornado. My head is swimming from the lack of breathing. I grip the rosemary tighter.

The frightening mass of ephemeral beings above me rushes down, their wind blowing my hair into a chaotic whirl as they fly together toward the pumpkin throne.

The King Below recoils in horror as he is swarmed. I hear the distinct snapping of chains as my vision begins to blur.