Chapter 13

Kate

I’m the first one awake in the morning, sitting up and stretching. I notice that Marlowe is lying on his side, still dressed in a hoodie but missing pants. He’s naked from the waist down. Why is that so fucking hot? I squint at him as the rain continues to come down. It’s much lighter this morning, and I can see the vaguest hint of sun in the butter-yellow color of the light.

More fox rain.

I’m wearing my hoodie, too, which is embarrassing. I was so into it last night, with the fabric pushed up and my tits hanging out, that I didn’t even notice. I bite my lip as I consider how to wake the men up, and who I should start with first.

There’s a pounding knock at our bedroom door.

“Katelynn Poppy, you ho, don’t you dare! Come downstairs.” It’s Georgia, shouting at me through the old wood door. It’s in fucking dire need of a new paint job. You know how when someone works a specific trade, their life reflects the opposite? Like, a painter’s house needs painting. A mechanic has cars that need fixing. Writers have dusty books that they never read.

I sigh and put my face in my hands, but I’m smiling.

Marlowe sits up, also taking note of our matching hoodies and naked asses. The way he smiles down at me, I see two things. Love-spell Marlowe. And the guy from the missing poster whose friends and family call ‘im Lo. Wow.

Miriam is an idiot.

Marlowe and I stare at each other’s mouths as his shadow spreads its bat wings in invitation.

“I went out for coffee. Come drink it while it’s hot.” Georgia again, and then her footsteps retreating down the hall. Flick puts his paws on the door and whines. Stix bites my toe. Ebon returns from outside as a buck naked Tanner sits up with an overhead stretch. His shadow copies him on the wall, both tails curled like a strand of DNA.

Brooks has his eyes open, but he’s still lying on his back. His shadow stares down at him from above, like they’re looking at each other. Does that mean he’s looking at himself? Looking inward or something?

“How come you don’t get all cute and pissed off when Georgia bosses you around?” Brooks turns his head toward me with a stern frown, pushing back that beautiful black and red bang swoop from his forehead. “She’s a side character, and I’m your man.”

I almost choke on my own spit, scrambling out of bed and snagging a pair of sweatpants before I become impaled. Literally.

“Hurry up!” I call over my shoulder as I do my best to escape the men. “We should really pick up the pace. If we can get over to Mrs. Madsen’s place soon, we can finish the job, pack up, and get paid.”

I’m terrified to see how many influencers show up there today, but there’s no point in wasting energy on a foreboding spell when it’s our last day on-site.

“Gross, Kate.” That’s what Georgia says when I join her and the girls in the kitchen. There are seven to-go coffees on the table. Not surprising. Georgia goes out for coffee most mornings. It’s part of her daily routine. She hands me a latte, and then gestures at the remaining drinks in the cardboard carrier. “Take your pick, boys. One plain coffee, one mocha, one iced. I had no idea what to order.”

I look over my shoulder to see that I escaped no one.

Well? Brooks’ haughty expression asks. He drops his witch hat on his head, all of the eyes swinging in different directions as he takes in all three girls at once, a set of eyeballs for each. He puts my hat on for me, its tongue already reaching for my latte. I slap it off.

“Gross?” I repeat, sipping my coffee and smiling. It’s from Georgia’s favorite place down on Harrison, the cafe with the gold walls, the old brickwork, and the incredible croissants. There’s a bag of those in the middle of the table, too.

Brooks steals the plain coffee and Tanner … he’s not a mocha guy, but he takes it, purposely leaving the iced coffee for Marlowe. That’s some cute bromance. Does Lo even notice, I wonder?

Boot Miriam, get me. Fire Dennis, hire Tanner. Good trades to make.

“Yes, gross. You’ve got a goofy look on your face. I’m just happy that this old house is solid and we didn’t have to hear anything last night.” She sighs as I sip my drink, the men fanning out around the kitchen. Tanner sits on the counter beside Marlowe. Brooks leans against another counter, coffee in hand.

Fernanda and Tacy are both staring at me like something’s wrong. Georgia is good at pretending like nothing is. Too good. I stare at her. I can somehow sense the spirit of my phone inside the pocket of my sweatpants.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

Fernanda looks at the table while Tacy bites her lip. Georgia inhales and runs her fingers through her hair.

“Kate …” she trails off, and it’s Marlowe that ultimately answers.

“Six murders in Humboldt County—in Eureka—just last night. Six.” I look back at him as he lifts his eyes from the screen of his phone. “Fifteen was the total number for the entirety of last year.”

I rip my own phone out and do a quick search. Several words jump out at me all at once.

Gruesome. Dismembered. Bloody.

Eaten.

Whispers About Witches - An Abrupt Murder-Spree Caused by Magic?

That’s the title of one article. I check social media, finding videos with captions that say things like Should We Relive the Salem Witch Trials? And Witches Appear, People Die: are the Witchwood Boys killers?

“We’re … being blamed for the murders?” I ask, blinking in confusion at the screen. I look over at Brooks, finding a perplexed divot between his dark brows. “Did something from the woods kill these people?” I pause and let the horror sink over me. “Did … did the Hag kill these people?”

She hasn’t been corporeal once since we’ve seen her. Nothing we could fight, nothing we could touch (except the maggots). And vice versa. I put the phone down, my mind racing.

“The Hag is a definite possibility,” Brooks admits, setting his coffee aside and then pausing, eying it like maybe that was a mistake. Instead, he picks it back up and chugs it.

“Isn’t it equally possible that these murders are just the result of some psycho? Not to be that guy, but since when did people need an excuse to act on their fucked-up impulses?” Tanner shrugs and hops off the counter, getting ready to open the back door for Flick. He spots one of the giant banana slugs back there, curses, and then grabs his bow from beside the fridge.

Opens the door.

Salts an arrow.

Fires it into the slug’s head.

The creature shrivels up with a scream that I’m grateful the neighbors can’t hear, and then Tanner lets the dog into the backyard. Flick urinates right over the puddle of goo that used to be a car-sized slug.

“Sorry. Don’t want my dog digested by a terrestrial gastropod.” Tanner grins, like he thinks that’s funny. He comes across as such a brute, like some forest animal, that I find it unbelievably sexy to hear him make a science joke like that.

Heat for him blooms in me and then dies, smothered by the frostbite inside my heart.

Murders. Six of them. Men, women, all adults. Fortunately no children. The dismemberment, the blood-spattered walls, the bite marks. The entrails. The missing limbs.

Coincidence? Serial killer appears randomly in Humboldt County at the exact same time as magic? I doubt it. I highly fucking doubt it.

A pall comes over my shoulders, like the shadows of a massive wingspan, blotting out the sun. I know it’s all in my imagination, but I can’t help myself.

“It’s the Hag, isn’t it?” I ask, looking at Marlowe this time. Brooks is being practical. Tanner is trying to make me feel better (ironic that the idea of a human serial killer is actually the more preferred option). Marlowe though … he scowls at me.

That’s how I know.

“Of course it’s the Hag,” he says through bared teeth. “Bet you that filthy bitch finally clawed her way out of the tree.” He hops off the counter and his boots are loud on the kitchen floor, dry bones clacking as they swing from the laces. “If she’s out, we’re screwed.”

“No, we’re not.” This is Brooks, his breathing steady and even, but his gaze a million miles away. Glassy in thought. “If she is, we’ll have to put her back. If we go into the Witchwoods, so will she.”

“ Or … we can leave her out here and flee back to the woods.” Tanner considers that for a minute, grabbing a tennis ball from the counter. He tosses it absently for Flick, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. I love the rough brush of his fingertips against the golden blond. “Whatever the safest option for us is.”

Nobody has any answers. Tacy looks like she’s about to have a mental breakdown. Fernanda is calm, but she’s not giggling or blushing anymore. Georgia already looks tired.

“You have … magic wards or something on your house, right?” she clarifies, looking to me for the answer.

“We buried deer hearts in the yard at all four cardinal points,” I reassure her, laughing at the look she gives me. “The Hag Wytch won’t be able to get into the house without putting in some effort.”

“If she did escape, she’ll probably go after people who have been in the Witchwoods first. I’d stay here today as a precaution,” Brooks tells my friends, voice grim, the biggest eye on his hat narrowed in concentration. Tanner’s wolf ears are swiveling like satellite dishes. Marlowe’s hat has sprouted … a coffee plant?

I want to say that we’ll stay here, too, but I doubt that’s what we’re going to do.

If we hide indoors and leave the Hag Wytch alone, then there’s nobody left to deal with her. We should be careful to stay away from any of the murder scenes though, just so that nobody gets the wrong idea.

What a nightmare.

“Answer your phone if I call,” Georgia warns me, pointing my way.

I stare back at her for a minute before I nod.

If the Hag is around, she really might come after my friends again.

I’m not sure what I’d do if I lost one of them.

Something is wrong.

I know that as soon as we pull up to the curb in front of the Pink Lady.

An eerie foreboding eats away at my stomach and a ringing clangs rudely inside my skull. Everything tastes metallic, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles like it’s been electrified. My palms and feet itch. My stomach twists into a complicated shibari knot.

“Do you guys feel that?” I ask, and all three men give me some form of acknowledgement. A curse. A yup. A growl (obviously Marlowe).

“Well, that didn’t take very long, did it?” Lo asks, shoving open the driver’s side door and climbing out. “The Hag Wytch is here, and we’ve found her. Saves us the trouble of a search.”

My palms are sweaty as I open my door and follow Marlowe out onto the street.

Ah. I know what it is that tipped me off first.

There aren’t any other people here.

No influencers. No news vans. No police officers.

“Stay close to me, kitten.” Tanner puts his arm around my waist, keeping me tucked up against him as we cross the wet pavement and pause at the bottom of Mrs. Madsen’s porch. The ghost is there in the window, and its mouth is open, revealing a seemingly bottomless black pit.

It looks like it’s screaming in silence.

“If the Hag is in here, then she wants us to find her.” Brooks walks up beside me and hands over a machete. He has another strapped to his belt. All four of us are wearing our hats, and any leftover charms we had are pinned in strategic spots, just in case. “There’s no shame in running, Kate. Do you hear me?”

“Right. There’s no shame in the four of us running. Understood.”

Brooks gives me a look like he knows I’m being purposely obtuse, but he says nothing, moving forward to join Marlowe.

“Bet you those fucking influencers did this, fed her by diving into the Witch’s Tree,” Marlowe is bitching as we clomp up the front steps in our boots. Brooks joins him, knocking hard enough to rattle the glass in the front door.

While we wait, I look around.

Everything seems fine. The sun is out again, and I can hear seagulls, can smell the saltwater rolling off the bay. I feel like I can smell something else. Blood. It’s like an iron brand on the back of my tongue, and I try to swallow past it.

“Somebody’s dead in there. Make no mistake.” Tanner puts that feeling to words, releasing my waist to pull out his bow. He nocks an arrow in preparation. I clutch the handle of the machete in a sweaty palm. The guys and I have been meaning to work on my physical combat skills (since I have precisely none), but where can we find the time? Are we supposed to have less sex to make room for ass-kicking lessons?

My only use is as a wildcard, like I was when I stabbed the Hag Wytch last time. I might not be able to fight on the same level as the rest of my coven, but I don’t have to let myself be useless either.

A glowing vulture lands on a tree branch in the front yard, its many eyes fixed on the ghost in the window.

“Shit. I don’t know if we should go in there.” Brooks sighs, reaching up to his hat and removing a charm that looks like a tiny key. He taps it against the door lock, and it clicks open. He works his jaw, making those awful bossman decisions for our group. A difficult risk assessment. “But we do need to know if she’s solid, if she’s here. No point in running.”

Brooks makes the decision, just like that, and then carefully pushes the door in. Marlowe is right behind him and Tanner is on my heels.

Everything looks fine inside, too.

It’s not. It smells so bad. Now that I’m walking through it, I wish I had my mask.

We move down the hallway as a group, and its natural creepiness doesn’t help much. I thought this hall was haunted when I first walked the length of it, but with the smell of blood, it’s so much worse. Striped wallpaper on the upper half and heavy wood paneling on the lower. Creaky floors. Paintings in muted watercolors that depict faceless people on the cold, craggy Humboldt coasts.

There are even gas lamps in here, just like the ones I have on my porch.

Brooks pushes the door at the end of the hall in.

It, too, creaks as it swings wide, revealing the stuffy parlor where I signed the work order with Robin Madsen on our first day here.

There’s a puddle of ruby red draining away from the dark, saturated fibers of a blood-soaked carpet. The walls are painted in spatter. Something wet and pink and glistening hangs from the chandelier overheard, dripping blood. An intestine?

And there. Right in the middle of the room. Out of my worst nightmare.

It’s the Hag Wytch, hunched over Mrs. Madsen’s body and feasting.

The Hag turns her head a full one-hundred-eighty degrees to look at us, bloodied flesh hanging out of both mouths. Her beak. Her human lips. As we stand there, she begins to chew, human teeth grinding up Robin’s body.

There are bits of Robin everywhere. Brains splashed on the wall behind the forest god. More intestines coiled on the floor. My head spins, but I know that I can’t give into the feelings. This is one of those moments that decides whether you live or die.

“Close the door!” I shriek as the owl monster ruffles her feathers and then comes at us. Brooks slams it shut, but he’s not breathing nearly as hard as I am. He’s calm. This fucker.

Tanner is already pushing me ahead of him down the narrow hallway, and then we’re running with Marlowe right behind us.

We only make it as far as the living room when the Hag comes barrelling through the closed door without causing any damage to her or it. She wheels overhead as we crash to the floor, her shadow sweeping over us.

I turn my head to the side, looking up.

She’s still not entirely corporeal. That’s a good sign, right? Not that it stopped her from killing and eating people.

With such a wide wingspan, she shouldn’t be able to fly in here. But her wings, they go right through the walls. She’s as much of a ghost as … well, the ghost is a ghost. It gapes up at her with its mouth open wide in that silent scream.

And then she snatches it up in her claws.

I gasp and shove up to my feet, like I might be able to do something to help. I know that I can’t, but the urge is there.

The Hag Wytch uses her clawed feet to bring the squirming ghost up to her human lips. From those very same lips, she issues a pleased-sounding sigh.

“ You’re such a pretty bird. Hi there, pretty bird.” The Hag shoves the ghost into her human mouth, and then that silent scream is no longer silent. I can hear the spirit shrieking in pain, and it sounds oh-so much like a living girl in that moment.

Missing seven-year-old Kim Wonders. That’s who I thought this ghost might be.

I almost throw up as the Hag chomps through transparent, ghostly flesh like it’s bone-and-gristle. Grinds it between her teeth. Swallows. She turns her head toward us and screams through both mouths. Her beak makes a shriek, like a bird. But the other … it’s the sound of a child’s cries.

Something about that noise snaps Brooks right down the middle.

“ Brooks, are you in here with me?” the Hag whimpers.

Oh, fuck.

His little sister’s last words.

Flames spring up on the Hag’s feathers, and she shrieks at us again, flapping her wings and taking off.

Brooks follows, and so do I, coming to a stop only when Marlowe and Tanner catch me outside on the front walk. They each grab one of my arms, forcing me to stop while Brooks keeps going. He crosses the road, hops the short iron fence on the other side, springs across the lawn of the Carson Mansion.

The Hag circles a few times, flapping her wings, and then settles down on the highest tower. It’s four stories up with beautiful jade green trim and emerald siding. A crown jewel against the churning navy of the bay.

Her claws dig into the roof, but they don’t leave any marks. She hunches and fluffs her feathers, staring down at us with ice-blue eyes and bloodied human lips.

“ I can’t go. Who will take care of Mother?” she cries, using the voices of her victims to taunt us.

The three of us are panting, standing there on poor Mrs. Madsen’s front lawn while Brooks pauses at the base of the house, looking up. He studies the Hag, like he’s determining whether or not to go inside, climb the steps, take the fight to her.

In the end, he’s much too practical for that.

Brooks retreats across the lawn, hops the fence, crosses the road, until he’s standing right in front of us. Whatever emotions he’s feeling, they’re already under lock and key.

“Now what?” Lo asks, head tilted back, sunshine cutting his face in half as it catches on the oversized brim of his hat. His mouth is sunshine, but his eyes are shadows.

“For now, we lock up. We leave. We … God. We get breakfast or something and try to figure this shit out.” Brooks moves around us, and the other men release my arms. We all turn as a group to watch him clomp up the front steps, drag the door shut, and then use the same key charm from before to lock it.

He comes back down but says nothing, heading straight for the truck.

We climb in together. All four doors close in quick succession. We take off.

It’s quiet for several minutes.

Tanner is the one to break it.

“Well,” he begins, “at least she’s still running from us .”

And that’s it.

The Hag is free, and she’s eating people, and our plans are in the fucking toilet. Again.

We just can’t catch a break, can we?