Chapter 2

Two

Getting out of the house was more difficult than I'd anticipated. Not because I still had nothing but my cloak from the night before to wear (that was easily taken care of with a glamor), but because Thomas was thoroughly distracting.

In the end, it was Johnny who got him to let me go—even if he then held me up at my car for another five minutes before Chase called him back in.

Joshua was the only one who was able to behave himself, but I had a feeling that was because he had every intention of coming back to visit me again.

In the car, it almost feels like the night was a fever dream, but I look at myself in the visor mirror, and can see the shadow forming from one of their bites. A half dozen others exist under my cloak.

A bath tonight will take care of those. The lingering consequences of the night… I'll be interested to learn what those truly turn out to be.

My house is on the way to the Carraway plot—thankfully—and I needed to trade in these kitten-heel boots for something with tread when I put on real clothes and rejoin the real world.

But when I get to the drive, I stop just before the weather-worn plank that marks my address numbers for the postman.

My wards are still up. I can see the faint slick and shimmer of them in the mid-morning air, but they feel just a little off.

The rock that stands to one side of the lane is missing a larger chunk of moss than I'd expect from an animal. But if someone tried tampering with the boulder struck through with quartz veins like hard lightning… they didn't succeed.

I glance at the others I can see from here. None of them look damaged.

Driving through the wards helps put me a little more at ease. The spell is still intact, and there's a ghostly flicker waiting for me on the porch.

Four ephemeral wolves sit—two on the wood planking, two on the swing—watching me with their dark, ghostly eyes.

"Good Morning," I say as I step out of the car and lock it. "Did you have a fun night running through the county?"

They nip at each other as I cross the gravel, standing and hopping away from each other.

Like pups playing.

Trapped inside of the four men I just left, they'd been caged for twenty-seven days of every lunar cycle. They know they're free now, and they know I'm the one who gave them that freedom.

I run my hand over the head of the closest. I can't touch them, of course, but he leans toward me, wanting.

These wolves can only interact with the physical… to damage it.

There's no need to feed them, no need to bring them inside when it's raining…

"Go play." I tell them. "Just stay within the markers of the property. I'll let you know if I need you."

With silent barks, they race away, disappearing through an enormous Himalayan blackberry bush. I watch the spot where they vanished for a moment.

Having them is stranger than I expected… maybe it's because I have the potential to have their human counterparts too…

Brushing that thought aside, I let myself into the house and set about getting ready for some dirty work.

There's a new message on the ephemera glass. Dark purple letters on smokey gray glass.

Elaria wishing me a blessed Samhain.

She's the only other witch from my coven I regularly keep in touch with aside from my mother.

My response is quick. A finger to the glass, I speak my message, and when I let go, my glass clears. My words will form on hers, waiting for her to see them.

And now, it's time to get uncomfortable.

Trips to the Carraway plot are the only time I wear jeans. The pair is a decade old and has the protective dirt still ground into the denim. The hiking boots are newer—because I hate having wet feet.

Hair in a braid and windbreaker on, the only thing I have to load into my car, is the shovel etched with binding runes.

I dislike short trips home, but I dislike putting off unpleasant tasks even more.

When I start my car, a wolfy face pokes out from the foliage, watching me, and if I didn't know better, I might feel hunted.

Instead I blow the wolf—Joshua's if I had to guess—a kiss and head for the main road.

The pack runs beside and behind my car until I reach the wards at the end of the drive and then, they break off.

I'll get used to it, eventually.

The highway is a long, winding canyon of trees, close enough to the coast that the gray of the stormy autumn ocean peeks through every now and again.

It's calming… right up until I turn off for the golf course that mars the dunes. But I don't have to drive all the way to the enormous club house with its pretentious patronage.

There's a little service road that's easily missed, and a half mile down it, I park beside a chain-link fence and the vine covered carcass of a defunct substation.

Anyone paying attention would notice there are no power lines attached to it, but the warning signs are still up.

From there, it's a hike.

I toss the shovel over my shoulder like a rifle—it can be more dangerous—and step into the undergrowth.

There are no marked trails, the plants grow thick, and spelled seeds keep them that way. My windbreaker is slicked with the dew from the morning—the canopy is thick enough, the sun doesn't dry anything down here.

It's part of what makes it perfect for the Carraway plot.

The soil is constantly moist, and in one corner, it's always a soupy mix mimicking quicksand.

The earth here is happy to eat whatever we feed it.

The stones are more than willing to keep it in, and the trees eager to conceal.

Ringed by tall, hewn rocks driven into the ground, the Carraway plot is very clearly a cemetery. A place for things that need to be buried, but in ground that is not consecrated.

A chill settles over me as I step through the narrow entrance, slipping through the zig-zag opening as though I'm performing a dance.

My grandmother's headstone is the cleanest. The clearest. Her name is not inscribed, nor any dates. Instead, it reads:

DISTURB NOT THE DEAD

NO LONGER NEEDED BY THE LIVING

LET ROT TAKE WHAT MUST BE GIVEN

LEST RUIN DESCEND

TEMPT NOT THE IRE OF BLOOD AND ASHES

Carved into the granite, painted over with lime, the stone is set at a skew. A sign of the settling earth, and possibly of an attempted escape.

The soil is mounded, but not overturned. Grandma may have woken, but she didn't get up.

I pull the heavy bag of salt from the metal box beside the narrow entrance to the plot and untie the drawstring.

"Let's get you back to sleep, Nana."

Drawing out handfuls, I sprinkle it over the softly risen earth. "Keep your old ass in the ground."

It's the intention that matters, more than the words.

Especially here.

Nothing leaves a Carraway plot without a witch's permission… but a witch buried in this ground has the unique ability to break those rules. I wish I knew what spells held her caged in her coffin.

I use the shovel to stab at the soil, driving the salt a little further into the ground, and with each smack of metal on dirt, the mound deflates—like it's releasing an odorless gas—But it's only the remnant magic of whatever spell tried to unearth her.

My grandmother was a powerful witch. A woman who made other witches quake in fear. She was beautiful and strong… And speaking of her was strictly forbidden in mixed company. I imagine I will learn the truth of why she's here shortly before my mother dies.

And not a day before it's necessary.

With the ground level again, I take a moment and breathe in the thick, cold air. My grandmother deserves a moment's respect, no matter the reason she wound up in this place. I set the shovel aside.

The rain has kept her headstone clear of dirt, but not debris. I pick the twigs from it one at a time, tossing them into a pile in the corner. But I can't stay long. As soon as it's cleaned, I grab the bag and my shovel and, lock the box up again. It doesn't need it. The runes inscribed in its lid keep it safe, but my mother's paranoia runs deep.

Walking away from the Carraway plot, I always breathe easier. The place has protections to repel the normal person and even on me, they work to some extent.

The birdsong that had been absent on the trudge in is there, not obscured by the ominous-defaeus .

I can take the time to enjoy the bright green around me. The ferns drip with long held water, and the trees are so covered in moss, at certain points on the trail it's like being in a room with carpeted walls.

But the forest always ends, no matter how deep I've been lost in it.

My car is covered in a light mist, and coated in pine needles. The inevitable rain later today will deal with the latter.

The gravel from when the substation was in use is the only thing keeping this part of the clearing from turning into muddy soup. If this was dirt, my car would have sunk like a stone.

The car is tiny. I'd bought it without the intention of needing to accommodate more than myself and maybe Elaria. Looking at it now, all I can think of is the trio of men stuffed into the back seat last night.

Maybe I should invest in something a little bigger…

Nothing I can do about that right now. I put the shovel away, knock as much of the dirt from my shoes as possible. But once I'm in the car, I don't linger. I want to get away from the energy of the Carraway plot, and the golf course that has slowly been leaching its way further and further outward.

The highway is, once again, a strange respite from those feelings, but it doesn't last. On the bridge over the slough, a shiver racks through me and I swerve a little.

I'd swear…

But when I look back, there's nothing there. No silver slick of a spell, no shimmer of a protection. But I know I crossed a threshold… to what is the only question.

There are too many random little things tugging at me today to ignore.

I don't turn off toward my house. There's one more thing I need to do in town.