Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The bonfire was in full blaze under the heavy orb of the full moon. Holly sat on an old log, the heat of the flames warming her cheeks and the orange glow pushing back the darkness in a perfect radius around them. Winter transitioned from a lively jig to a slow, heartbreaking melody that sounded as if she were wrenching the notes from the depths of her soul. Winter had been playing the violin since she’d discovered their grandmother’s old fiddle in the attic. When she wasn’t fixing things on the farm or beating the weight bag behind the barn, she was pouring her demons into music.

Missy had woven buttercup and lilac crowns for Aunt Rose and Aunt Daisy, who were sitting in more comfortable camping chairs. The twin aunts looked like fairies with their braided white hair and flower crowns, the flickering light and shadow smoothing over the age on their faces. Holly thought briefly of her mother, who should have been sitting there with them, blossoms bright in her dark hair.

Missy, Winter, and Holly were wearing winter crowns fashioned of dark green ivy leaves and plump holly berries coated with glittery fake frost. The crowns were used year after year, but Missy made real ones for the December 1 st celebrations.

Missy added another branch to the fire, and the flames jumped, bright sparks scattering into the sky while Winter played as if her heart were rendering in two. Not for the first time Holly wondered if Winter was good enough to play in an orchestra and whether Winter had chosen to stay on the farm because of what they were instead of what she could be.

“What a beautiful celebration,” Aunt Rose said. She wrapped her crocheted shawl tighter around her shoulders and smiled softly at her twin. “Each one left is a treasure.”

Holly zipped her sweatshirt to her chin and swirled the liquid in the blown glass goblet in her hand. “You two talk like you’re a hundred years old when you’re not a day over sixty.”

Missy lifted a matching goblet filled with Wicked Good Apple cider and said, “Here, here!” She drank deeply and made a face. “Ugh, I forgot this wasn’t wine.”

“Missy, you’re not supposed to drink that yet,” Holly scolded, refilling Missy’s glass. “That’s for the ceremony.”

Missy pouted. “Can we get this ceremony going then?”

The quarterly bonfire wasn’t exactly the silly tradition Holly had led Connor to believe. For two centuries the Celeste women had celebrated the seasons based not on the sun or length of day, but by the way the Book of Valleys was divided. At each celebration they made offerings for their farmlands to prosper. Holly wasn’t sure it actually did anything, but it was tradition, and she knew how powerful tradition could be. She certainly wouldn’t be the first to break it. Besides, it was something special they did as a family, just as any other family might celebrate Christmas or Chanukah.

Winter drew out the last note on her violin, and the fire popped in the sudden silence. She sat down and propped the violin on the log, her expression closed off. Holly worried about Winter more than she did Missy. Missy was social and bubbly and irrepressible. Winter was still water: deep and contained.

“Your turn to start,” Missy said to Winter. Winter nodded, and grabbing the salt shaker from beside the log, she sprinkled a ring around the them. Then she pulled a square of newspaper from her sweatshirt pocket and unfolded it. Holly spotted the black-and-white photograph of Wicked Good Apples with the headline: “Local Apple Farm Goes on TV .”

Winter gave thanks for the apple farm’s new chance at breaking even and tossed the paper into the flames. The aunts followed, with Aunt Rose throwing in a dried apple blossom and Aunt Daisy dropping in a crocheted apple. Was it Holly’s imagination, or did the fire flare higher with each thanksgiving?

Missy offered the pair of earrings that “Jason complimented and told me made me look like a bad bitch,” which had nothing to do with the apple farm, but then Missy never did give offerings that had anything to do with the orchards. It was finally Holly’s turn. She stood and tilted her face to the stars before she reached into her pocket.

Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she squinted through the smoke and flames into the darkened orchard. Was that the figure of a man? Was Connor skulking around, spying on them? Was his crew filming them? She’d kill him!

A strange chill swept over the clearing. She began to shiver and her teeth chattered as if it were twenty degrees rather than sixty. She skirted the fire, her gaze probing the darkness. “Connor?”

Winter vaulted to her feet, her hazel eyes wide and her stance battle ready. “No,” she hissed. “Something that shouldn’t be here.”

The form drifted closer, as if its feet were somehow gliding across the ground, and as it neared the salt circle, its features, although still hazy, sharpened enough that Holly gasped. It couldn’t be.

A man dressed in dark trousers, a finely tailored coat, and a bowler hat swayed before them. His features were translucent, but Holly could see the blunt nose and a dark eye that burned with hatred. His hair was combed flat while his moustache had been waxed into points. He had narrow shoulders and reedy legs, but there was nothing frail about the spirit itself. It looked as if it existed from an excess of sheer spite alone.

Aunt Rose and Aunt Daisy stood to close ranks with the sisters. “Who are you?” Aunt Rose demanded.

The spirit’s eyes bore into Aunt Rose with the passion of a brimstone minister staring down evil itself. “Where is the witch?”

The ghost’s voice was thin and muffled, as if he were shouting through an invisible curtain between worlds.

Holly exchanged glances with Winter, who was coiled as tightly as a spring beside her.

Councilman Miller reached into his bulging coat pocket and withdrew an apple. He rubbed it across his sleeve before taking an enormous bite with tobacco-stained teeth. One of his eyes was milky white, just as Amy had described. Holly wasn’t imagining it: she heard the snap of apple skin as his teeth sank into the white flesh.

“Witch,” he hissed again once he’d chewed and swallowed. “Where is the witch who took everything from me?”

“Begone,” Aunt Rose ordered. Holly felt a soft buzz along her skin coming from Aunt Rose’s direction. “You don’t belong here. Go to your afterworld and let us be.”

“I cannot rest, cannot find peace,” the councilman moaned. “She stole it from me. I could have had everything. I could have been great. Then I saw the truth, and I knew.” He drifted closer but screamed when he reached the line of salt and undulated backward like a mirage. “The poisoned apple,” he spat. “She poisoned it. She murdered me.”

His haunting, hateful eyes roamed over each woman until they landed on Holly. She felt his stare as if it were burning all the way through her flesh and into her soul. “ You! You did this!”

Holly pointed her thumb to her chest. “Me?”

“Witch! It is your turn to suffer!” The councilman’s howl was a piercing, whistling shriek that made Holly’s flesh creep.

“You have the wrong person,” Holly said, drawing herself to her full height. No way was she going to be cowed by a woman-hating councilman, dead or alive. “You are a ghost, and you’ve been caught between worlds for hundreds of years. Let go of your hate and you’ll be free.” She didn’t actually know if that was true, but wasn’t that the premise of every haunting? Unresolved business?

“Not until you die a most gruesome death, Autumn Celeste. Not until your flesh rots from your bones, and the acid in your stomach turns inside out, crawling up your throat and scalding your mouth and blistering your tongue. Not until you suffer the way you made me suffer.”

Holly blinked, finally realizing that he’d mistaken her for Autumn. She’d never seen a likeness of Autumn—there weren’t any photographs or renderings of the woman—but it was possible Holly strongly resembled her ancestor, especially if Autumn had had dark hair as the firstborn in the family.

Missy rolled her eyes. “Blah blah, you hate women, you’re so scorned—we get it. Find a new lie to tell yourself, ghostie.”

The councilman hissed at Missy, but there was no shutting Missy up once she was on a roll.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but your creepy ass has snagged us a film crew, and they’re here right now. They’d love to blast your ugly mug all over the TV, not that you know what that is. Let me give them a shout.”

Before the councilman could respond, Missy threw her head back and let out a blood-curdling scream. Councilman Miller shot backward as if she were cursing him.

“I don’t know if they heard me,” Missy said, encouraged by his reaction, and screamed again.

Councilman Miller retreated another few feet and tossed Holly a look so filled with malice that fingers of dread tapped down her spine. “You will die, Autumn Celeste. You will die a horrible, torturous death.” An instant later he vanished. The chill in the air evaporated, and Holly once again felt the heat of the fire on her back.

“I guess ghosts are real,” Winter said flatly.

“No wonder Autumn despised him,” Holly said, irritated with the tremble in her voice. It was never pleasant to have your death promised by something so filled with hatred that it had managed to defy the natural order of things for two hundred years.

A moment later Connor burst into the clearing, his eyes wild. The moment he spotted her, he ran over and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I heard screaming. Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

“That fucking ghost was here,” Missy answered for her, “and he was a giant dick. I think Holly’s right: I think he’s been scaring off our customers ever since he started showing up. Oh good, your camera guy is here. I want to expose this jerk for what he is. I’m going to turn this around on him and get every woman in America buying our apples just to spite his sexist ass.”

Connor glared at the cameraman. “Shut it off,” he snarled.

His cameraman seemed taken aback but dropped the camera without comment.

Connor turned back to Holly, the warmth of his hands comforting after the chilly encounter. “Tell me what happened.”

Holly had known it was possible ghosts existed, had even believed Amy’s story about seeing one in their orchards. She’d trusted Connor when he’d told her he was haunted as a child. But admitting there might be a ghost on their property was a far cry from actually interacting with one. Amy’s fear had been palpable when she’d described her encounter with the councilman, and now Holly understood why. Councilman Miller was an overwhelmingly vile man in death; she shuddered to think how amplified that would have been in life.

Holly suspected she knew the exact event that had drawn Councilman Miller back to the physical plane four years ago. She’d shared her theory with her sisters and aunts after the disastrous spaghetti dinner. They were responsible—Holly and her sisters. They must’ve unleashed the ghost when Aunt Rose could no longer contain their power. She didn’t know how, but the timing was just too coincidental. Holly shivered to think what else they might still be drawing to them simply by existing.

Councilman Miller now clung to this world with nothing but a thirst for revenge, and he wouldn’t rest until he’d destroyed the Celestes’ apple farm.

Until he’d destroyed her .

In his immaterial form, the councilman was confused about time and believed her to be Autumn. Or at least that’s what Holly thought was happening; she didn’t know much about ghosts. She lifted her face and met Connor’s worried eyes. Fortunately, she knew an expert on the subject.

“No, no, no, turn the camera back on,” Missy ordered with a stamp of her foot. Her voice was so authoritative that the cameraman actually lifted the camera before he glanced at Connor and quickly lowered it again. Missy spun around to face Holly and crossed her arms over her chest. “Come on, Holly. This is perfect footage. I want to be on TV, and I think I can leverage this. I have a degree in publicity that you never let me use.” She shifted her focus past Holly to Connor. “I give consent to interview. I saw the bastard, and I’m willing to talk about him.”

“It’s in your contract that no Celeste will interview on camera,” Connor said, rubbing his palms up and down Holly’s arms.

He was probably dying to have Missy’s account on tape, so the fact that he insisted on sticking to the terms of their bargain made Holly a little weak in the knees. She was a sucker for a man with honor.

Missy was pouting prettily. She’d always been adorable when she was in a snit, even as a young girl. “You don’t trust me,” she accused.

Surprised, Holly stepped away from Connor. Was that how it seemed to Missy? Holly was only trying to protect the family by keeping them clear of more paranormal associations than necessary; she wasn’t trying to stifle Missy or become a Celeste dictator. Although, when she made decisions for all of them, she supposed it could be construed that way.

Was she the proverbial hand crushing the butterfly? She didn’t want any of their faces on national TV, especially not in connection with ghost hauntings, but since when did she get to make decisions for everyone else? Besides, she was the one putting their family in danger by pursuing Connor when she knew he was out to expose them. She didn’t have any right to tell the others what to do or what not to do. It was time she learned to let go and trust.

“I do trust you,” Holly said on a deep breath. To Connor she added, “I’ll waive the clause in the contract.” She knew Missy wouldn’t be stupid enough to mention the witch part of their conversation with Councilman Miller on national TV, and she should have trusted her sister to make her own decisions long before now.

“Are you sure?” Connor asked. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, but he waited for her reassurance.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

A minute later the camera was rolling as the light crew arrived and set up around Missy. Missy checked her reflection in the lens, primping her curls and wiping away eyeliner from her cheek. She tried to get Winter to stand in the frame next to her, but Winter resolutely crossed her arms and refused.

While Connor began interviewing Missy, Holly walked over to Aunt Daisy and hooked her arm through her aunt’s. In a low voice she said, “This ghost business is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Aunt Daisy patted her hand. “Dear, when aren’t we flirting with disaster?”