Chapter Two

  “Witches,” Tad repeated.

  Simone nodded, flicking a glance his way as she pushed her curls out of her face, not caring when the tangle fell right back. “What about witches?” he asked, slow and skeptical.

  She sighed, her expression hardening. “Isn’t that just like Joe? Dodging a mess instead of dealing with it.”

  Tad snorted, his lips quirking despite himself. She wasn’t wrong. His dad did have a talent for sidestepping anything inconvenient. “What was it he was supposed to tell me?”

  She folded her arms and leaned back against the counter, her gaze weighing him like she was debating whether or not to waste the effort. “I figured you’d know already. That’s the only reason I brought it up. Guess that was my mistake.”

  “Well, it’s out there now,” Tad said, standing his ground. “Might as well keep going.”

  Simone held his gaze for a beat, then huffed. “Fine. Witches are real.” She said it like she was stating the weather, her tone dry as bone.

  Tad let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

  Her eyes were sharp, her expression unwavering. “I don’t joke about who I am.”

  He stared at her, caught between skepticism and the weight of her conviction. “You’re saying you’re—?”

  “A witch,” Simone interrupted. “Your grandmother, too.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice lower but no less firm. “We don’t advertise it, but we’re not exactly hiding either. It’s just... part of things around here. Joe just never had the guts to deal with it.”

  His head was spinning. “Grandma Helen?” he echoed incredulously.

  She nodded and pointed to the big pane window behind him. “So was Kat Dane. Whoever did this was more powerful than me-”

  His brain stuttered, and he closed his eyes, holding up his good hand to stall the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Hold on a second,” he said, feeling a little bit like the world was imploding. “Let’s just back up a minute.” He took in her wild hair and beat-up jeans. “You're a witch,” he deadpanned.

  Even though it wasn’t a question, she treated it like one. “Born and raised.” She lifted her chin proudly. When he still looked at her skeptically, she sighed and ran a hand through her wild copper curls. “Look, I don’t have time to convince you. Believe it or don’t—it doesn’t change the facts.”

  “Yeah, okay, but you’re acting like this is normal,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her and the room as if the very idea of witches defied reason.

  “It is normal,” Simone snapped. “You think magic isn’t part of the world just because Joe decided to bury his head in the sand? Grow up.” She took a breath, calming herself, and her tone softened—just barely. “Magic’s not some fairy tale. It’s dirt and roots and blood. It’s real. Always has been.”

  He felt surprise flood his chest, unsteadying him. He tried to tamp it down, rearranging his features into what he hoped was indifference, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Simone frowned at him, unimpressed.

  “You don’t believe me.” She clicked her tongue, the annoyance in her voice unmistakable. “Fine. Stay here,” she said as she brushed past him. “I’ll show you.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t have to do that—” he started, trailing after her into the living room. She shoved a jar into his hands, cutting him off. He blinked at it. A cutting of some plant floated in the water, the blunt end visible through the glass.

  “What is this?” he asked, holding it up.

  “Thyme,” she said, already moving away from him. With deft fingers, she snapped off a thin tip of another plant and came back to him.

  “Aloe,” she said, holding up the green bit like it was self-explanatory. She closed her eyes, her brows drawing close. “It’s easy to work with. Natural healing properties.”

  “I don't see what this has to do with-” He stopped speaking as the plant in her hand began to wither. He watched, dumbstruck, as the aloe grew smaller and smaller, curling in on itself until it was hard and brown. The air grew bitter. It bit his nostrils like vinegar, and he could taste something almost metallic on his tongue.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes. “There,” she said triumphantly.

  He frowned at her. “What-”

  “Look,” she snapped, jabbing a finger at the jar in his hands.

  He glanced down, unsure what she meant. At first, he didn’t see anything unusual. Then, it clicked. A tiny bloom of purple flowers had appeared, where before there had been nothing. He squinted, lifting the jar closer. She tapped the glass, redirecting his attention to the root system spreading below.

  What had been plain water moments ago was now teeming with delicate white roots, twisting and curling in intricate patterns.

  His fingers felt numb, and he struggled to steady the jar as all the blood seemed to rush from his head.

  “Hey, easy there,” she said, snatching the jar from his unsteady grip before it could fall. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.” She set the jar on the coffee table and placed a hand on his arm. “Breathe. Through your nose.”

  “I need to sit down,” he muttered, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth. His head was spinning, a high-pitched ringing building in his ears.

  She guided him to a wicker chair, and he collapsed into it, the straw groaning under his weight.

  “Good. Now breathe,” she said, watching him closely.

  He struggled to make sense of what he just saw. “What did you just do?” he asked, his voice uneven. He turned his head to stare at the tiny purple blooms on the side table beside him.

  She settled onto the couch across from him, leaning back with a sigh. “It’s complicated,” she started. “Think of it as energy transference. From the aloe to the thyme.”

  “Energy transference?” He tried to digest that, but his brain kept getting in the way. “I don’t—”

  “Don’t overthink it,” she interrupted. “Magic’s about moving energy. I pulled it out of the aloe, gave it to the thyme, and the thyme used it to grow. Simple as that.” She gestured vaguely toward the jar. “Roots, flowers—the whole nine yards.” Chagrin crossed her face. “I probably used too much aloe, but I was trying to make a point.”

  His head pounded, and it hurt to think. “But I thought witches used spells and stuff.”

  “We do,” she said, nodding. “For the complicated things.” She tilted her chin at him. “Like your arm. That’d take me three days—minimum—to gather the right materials and write a proper spell.”

  He frowned, looking at the thyme in its jar. “Why couldn’t you just—”

  “Because it’s not that simple,” she cut in, her tone sharp but not unkind. “If I dumped energy into your body like I did with the thyme, it’d be a gamble.” She ticked off the possibilities on her fingers. “You might grow more hair. Maybe your metabolism would go into overdrive. Hell, you could end up not sleeping for days. The results would be random.” She eyed him. “It’s the intention that makes it harder.”

  He rubbed his head, trying to process her words.

  “Come on,” she said, standing up and holding out a hand to help him. “You look like you need a drink.” Tad hesitated for a moment, then accepted her offer and rose unsteadily to his feet. He followed her into the kitchen, trying to organize the whirlwind of information in his mind.

  “So you’re telling me Katherine Dane was a witch and some kind of curse caused the explosion?” he asked, his voice careful.

  Simone nodded, already reaching into a high cupboard. She pulled down an amber bottle and set it on the counter with a solid thunk. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  He looked past her towards the Dane farm. Even from a distance, the charred remains were a stark reminder of the devastation. The sight of it helped to clear his head, forcing him to focus. The sun had finally set behind the hills, and now twilight was creeping over the countryside, filling the hollows with long shadows. “And you saw the whole thing happen.”

  She nodded again and handed him a glass. He studied the liquid in his glass as he rewound the events in his head, looking for pieces that didn’t fit. “Who were Richard and Anne to Katherine?”

  “Richard was her brother.”

  Tad raised an eyebrow. “Was he a witch too?” He wondered if a man could be called a witch too, but Simone shook her head before his brain could fall too far down that rabbit hole.

  “No, you’re missing the point,” she said sharply. “Whoever sent that curse wasn’t after Rich or Anne. They were after Kat.”

  “Why?” he asked doggedly.

  But Simone had stopped paying attention. Her eyes were focused on the window. “What is that fool doing?” she asked, her face set in furious lines.

  “Who?” he asked, following her gaze. A truck had pulled up to the Dane house, and a person was walking around the site with a flashlight. The beam of light lit upon the trees and ground around the site, flicking side to side like they were searching for something.

  He cursed under his breath and made for Simone’s front door, immediately reaching for his shoulder walkie before remembering he was in plain clothes. He dug in his jeans pocket, fishing for his phone.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Simone asked, jogging to keep up with him.

  He glanced at her. “That site is unstable,” he said, thumbing through his contacts for Karla’s cell. “I need to keep it clear.” He was sure he had her number, but it wasn’t under the K’s.

  “Well, Henry’s not going to listen to you.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “You know who it is?”

  She nodded, a slow, deliberate motion as her lips pressed into a thin line. “Henry Fowler,” she said, her voice laced with disdain. “He’s a good-for-nothing sonofabitch, and he’s going to take one look at you and tell you to piss off.”

  It wasn’t anything Tad hadn’t heard before. Not finding Karla’s number, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and opened the screen door, stepping out onto the porch and peering up into the sky. It was getting late. The sun was slipping below the hills, and dark storm clouds gathered on the edge of the horizon. He raised his hand to block the hard orange light from his eyes and squinted at the remains of the Dane house. The light from Henry’s flashlight was like a spotlight in the growing twilight. He clenched his jaw and turned away.

  “I don’t care what he says,” he said, thumping down the stairs to his cruiser. “He needs to evacuate the site immediately. It’s not safe.”

  Simone followed close behind, her boots crunching on the gravel. “I’m coming with you,” she said, tone flat and matter-of-fact.

  He opened the trunk of his cruiser, shaking his head resolutely. “Out of the question. You need to stay here where it’s safe.”

  “You don’t know Henry like I do,” she said sharply. “Trust me, you’re gonna need me.”

  “No,” he said firmly, rummaging through the trunk. He pulled out his stun gun and slammed the lid shut with more force than he intended. “That’s not an option.” The stun gun, cheap and awkward, sat strangely in his hand. He hadn’t used one since the academy; Eliasborough wasn’t exactly the kind of place where you needed anything more than a stern voice and a calm demeanor. But Simone’s words had gotten under his skin. He double-checked the safety, tucking the device into the open enclosure of his sling. He’d rather be prepared than caught off guard.

  Simone didn’t miss a beat. “He’s not some drunk and disorderly gas worker,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You don’t know what this man is capable of. I do.”

  Tad closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the ache throb in his shoulder. He didn’t have time for this. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to make you change your mind?”

  ---

  Greer opened her eyes and gasped.

  For a moment, nothing made sense. Everything was cold and wet, and her body felt weighted, sluggish. Shapes swam in her vision—blurs of gray and green—and the sound of rushing water filled her ears, distant yet deafening. She blinked hard, trying to focus.

  Her head throbbed as she struggled to piece together where she was. The gritty texture beneath her cheek, the stale smell of damp fabric, the faint metallic tang of gasoline—it clicked all at once.

  The car.

  The bridge.

  The creek.

  Eyes wide, Greer struggled to sit upright, but the seatbelt held fast, holding her in place. Freezing water was rushing through the open driver's side window, pooling beneath her and soaking her clothes and her legs were bent awkwardly against the door. Strands of hair were plastered to her face. She shivered and goosebumps rose along the bare skin of her arms.

  She pushed herself up as far as the seatbelt would allow, her muscles protesting and her elbows scraping against the rocky creek bottom that lay beneath the open window. In front of her, her phone bobbed against the dashboard in the icy current, its screen flickering erratically, and nearby, her earbuds lay stark white against moss-covered rocks, submerged and useless.

  “You okay?” a voice asked from above her.

  The voice startled her. Her gaze snapped upward to the passenger-side window, now above her like a skylight.

  A man crouched on the side of the car, steadying himself with one hand against the frame. Steady brown eyes in a sun-beaten face peered at her from beneath a battered baseball hat.

  “Looks like you’ve had a hell of a morning,” he said.

  Greer opened her mouth to respond, but the car rocked unsteadily as he moved suddenly, pulling open the passenger door above her. For a moment, his silhouette was framed by the dense canopy of trees, their dark leaves filtering the dim light into shifting shadows.

  He crouched on the door’s edge, steadying himself with one hand against the frame before lowering himself carefully into the car. One boot splashed into the water beside her while the other knee pressed gingerly against the middle console above her. Bracing a hand against the dashboard, he leaned closer, his solid frame filling the narrow space as he bent over her.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes roaming over her, looking for signs of injury.

  She shook her head. “I’m stuck,” she said, tugging on the unyielding seatbelt.

  "Let me," he said gently, his fingers already reaching for the strap. He glanced at her, their faces just inches apart. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

  Greer didn’t argue, her breath hitching as his hand brushed her arm. He found the buckle and tried to release it, but it didn’t budge. He frowned, giving it another firm tug. “It’s jammed,” he muttered, his voice calm but focused.

  With a quick motion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. Flipping open the blade with practiced ease, he said, “Hold still.”

  Her breath caught as the small knife gleamed in the dim light. She froze, her pulse pounding, as he slipped the blade beneath the taut strap. “I’ve got you,” he reassured her, his voice low and steady.

  The blade bit into the fabric, and with a few sharp strokes, the seatbelt gave way. The sudden release made her flinch as the tension snapped.

  “You’re free,” he said, snapping the blade closed and sliding the knife back into his pocket. His hand rested briefly on her shoulder, steadying her. “Take it slow.”

  Greer blinked. “I’m fine,” she murmured, though the wobble in her voice betrayed her.

  “Uh-huh,” Chris replied, his lips twitching into a faint, reassuring smile. He shifted to steady her as she sat up out of the water. “I’m Chris, by the way,” he added, flashing a smile. “Figured introductions were overdue.”

  The name hit her like a hammer. She blinked at him, her pulse quickening. “Chris Mueller?” she asked, her voice almost inaudible.

  Chris’s eyes widened slightly. “Yeah. How’d you—?”

  “It’s me,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. “Greer. Greer Dane.”

  Chris froze, his hand still braced against the dashboard. For a heartbeat, he just stared, and Greer felt the weight of his scrutiny as he took in her face—the scars, the sharp edges time had carved into her.

  “Greer,” he repeated, a slow smile breaking across his face. “Holy hell.”His gaze softened, a flicker of something warm and familiar passing over his face. “It’s been years.”

  She nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah. Years.”

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  For a moment, they just stared at each other, the heavy air thick with shared history, and she thought he was going to say something more, but then his expression shifted, his focus sharpening. “Come on,” he said, snapping back to the present. He dropped his arm and wrapped his wide hands around her waist. “Let’s get you out of here.” He motioned upward with a jerk of his chin. “I’m gonna boost you up.”

  At first, she didn’t understand what he meant. Then, her eyes traveled up, and she realized the only way out of the car was through the open passenger door. She shivered again, nodding. He stood, grunting with the effort, and heaved her up. Her head and shoulders cleared the door opening, and she scrambled for a handhold outside the car until her fingers closed around the back door handle. She dragged her body up the rest of the way and flopped like a fish onto the side of the car.

  The change in the air was obvious immediately. Gone were the clear blue skies. They had been replaced by rolling fields of clouds pushed by an insistent breeze that chilled her damp skin. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like a sleepy dog. The metal of the car was hot against her chilly skin, and she shivered again. She looked down and watched him brace himself against the back of the passenger seat. When he reached for the edge of the door frame, she saw a flash of pale skin as the sleeves of his tee shirt fell back. He pushed himself out of the cavity with far more grace than she had managed and crouched on the side of the car, his thick work boots bunching up his faded jeans.

  His gaze raked her face, and she shifted under the weight of his scrutiny. Her instinct was to look away, but she kept her eyes on his. He smiled again, but the flush of recognition was tempered by old hurt. “I never expected to see you again.”

  She looked down at her hands, shame flooding her. “Me either.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked, looking her over. “Nothing broken?”

  “No,” she said. Her shoulder, the one she landed on, hurt like the devil, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. She looked at the car. “That’s more than I can say for my car.”

  “Yeah,” he said regretfully. “We’ll have to call you a tow.” He leaped down onto one of the rocks that littered the creek bed. She tried to follow but ended up falling most of the way down. He caught her belatedly, grunting with surprise.

  Being close to him brought up feelings she hadn’t thought about in years. But memories of her childhood crush conflicted with the reality of the man in front of her. Gone was the gangly, rebellious youth who used to pretend he was too cool to spend time with her; in his place was a man who knew himself. She remembered a boy with a permanent scowl and a penchant for moodiness, but this man had smile lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

  Clearly, life had treated them differently.

  Trying not to measure herself against him and failing, she looked back at the car, lying on its side like a sad turtle in the shallow creek. “Thank you,” she said, stepping out of the circle of his hands and gesturing to the car. “How did you find me?”

  “I was coming around the bend,” he pointed up the hill, a familiar gesture, “and I saw the car go over.” His sharp eyes flicked to hers, searching her face. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug, looking away from his gaze. “It just died. The engine shut off, and the lights went out.”

  He looked back at the car and grimaced. “Well, nothing we can do about it now. Come on,” he said, picking up her backpack from the bank and tossing it to her. “We’ll get you someplace dry,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  Greer grabbed the backpack by the top handle, frowning at the water that dripped from it. She hadn’t even noticed him pull it out of the car. “Do you still live up here?"

  He nodded. “We put the house in my name last year.” He shot her a grin. “Don’t know how the old man would manage without me at this point.”

  Greer tilted her head, studying him. “What about your mom? She still around?”

  Chris shook his head, his grin fading slightly. “Nah. She got remarried a few years back and lives down in Eliasburough now.”

  Greer raised an eyebrow. She’d never met Chris’s mom—he’d never talked much about the woman who dropped him off at his grandpa’s every weekend—but she’d always had the impression the other woman was eager to leave him behind. “And now you’re the one running the place?”

  “Apparently,” he said, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Funny how things work out.”

  She followed him as he picked his way across the creek to the far side, where the slope back to the road was gentler.

  “So what brought you back?” He tossed the question over his shoulder as he paved the way through the uneven terrain.

  She stalled for time, focusing on her footing as they crossed the creek, the cold water soaking into her already sodden sneakers. How could she possibly explain the truth? No one would believe her—that she’d stumbled into another world, a place where everything was old and broken, and she was chasing answers?

  "Just closing up the house," she lied.

  His nod was steady, and somewhere in the trees, a crow jeered, mocking them. “So what now?” His words hung in the air as he idly scratched his stomach, his gaze roaming the dense foliage of the canopy overhead for the source of the call. He glanced at her, his eyes sharp. “Will you put the house up for sale?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” she admitted. “I hadn’t given it much thought yet.” The house had been in her family for generations, and it felt wrong to put it on the market, but what use did she have for a house in the middle of nowhere?

  He stopped short, grunting with surprise, and she barely managed to avoid colliding with his back. Raising a hand, he pressed it against the air in front of him with a frown. “What the hell?”

  Greer maneuvered herself to stand next to him, the water of the creek flooding into her already sodden sneakers. “What’s wrong?”

  Chris had a puzzled expression on his face as he ran his hands through the air. “Can you feel this?”

  She stepped forward and put her hand out; fingers splayed like she was searching for a wall in the dark. She continued to move until she touched something firm and invisible. She reached out with her other hand and found the same barrier.

  He reached past her, his long arm extending over her shoulder. “It feels like jello,” he said, giving it an experimental push.

  He wasn’t wrong. It did feel like jello.

  Her gaze fell to the ground. In front of her was a milky white stone, dirty with age but still lighter than the others closest to it. She knelt and let her fingers graze the top. Electricity leaped up and bit her, and she jerked her hand back with a hiss of pain.

  Shit. She knew what that was. Dread unspooled within her.

  Chris glanced down at her, concerned. “You okay?”

  She nodded, sucking on her burned fingertips. “It’s a ward line,” she said without thinking, pointing at the rock. He looked down and his brow furrowed, confusion written across his face.

  “Who would do this?” he asked, frowning.

  “My grandma?” she guessed.

  His frown deepened. “But she’s dead,” he said, meeting her eyes. “If she set it, it should’ve fallen when she died.”

  Greer froze.

  How the hell did he know that?

  She squinted up at him, suddenly seeing him in a whole new light. Now that she thought about it, his first question about an invisible wall-in-the-air thing was who made it- not how could it possibly exist. She didn’t doubt living next to a witch could make a person take certain things for granted, but his passivity was… surprising.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. He was right. “Then someone else,” she suggested. “But who would have the balls to run a ward around her home? If she ever found out, she’d-”

  But he was only half listening to her. He was scanning the creek bed around them. “Ward's ain’t hard to do,” he said. “Hell, I can make a ward with enough will and premade charms.”

  She stared at him. “How do you know so much about magic?”

  He gave a noncommittal gesture, his gaze returning to the trees on the other side of the invisible ward. “I dunno,” he said. He flashed her a quick grin, but she balled her fists on her hips and shot him a look that said she wasn’t buying it. “You pick things up living around here,” he said when he realized she was still expecting an answer. “It ain’t easy living next to your grandma. You gotta know what to expect next. So I learned,” he said with a casual lift of his shoulders.

  It sounded as plausible as any answer, but she frowned at him.

  “Come on, G-bug, don’t look at me like that.”

  Annoyance flashed through her. He was acting like they were still kids. She hadn’t been his G-bug for a very long time.

  “Well, if you’re so smart, what do we do now?” she asked. “If the line won’t let us out, I doubt it’ll let anyone in.” She rubbed her bare arms anxiously. There went any hope she had of getting to the other witch before she dropped out of reality again.

  Chris came back to her side and took off his hat, scrubbing at the hair beneath. His ginger blond hair was starting to recede at the temples. It made the line of his nose stronger. His gaze shifted to take in the bridge and its crumbling side. He made a noise and stuffed his hat back on his head.

  “Come on,” he said, sloshing through the water.

  She followed him beneath the bridge, their splashing footsteps echoing off the rounded walls to the other side, where the cool water pooled under the shade of trees. She followed him up the bank, slipping on the slick ground. She grabbed the tree roots that stuck out of the dirt for purchase as she made her way up the steep slope. Once he reached the top, he extended his hand toward her, and she gratefully used his weight to leverage herself up the rest of the way.

  “Watch your step.” He watched concerned as she scrambled up, her sneakers skidding against the dirt and rocks. When she was finally at the top, he held a low-hanging branch out of the way, and she crossed over onto the hard-packed dirt road. A large black truck sat in the middle of the narrow road. Beyond it was the crumbling side of the bridge. She walked to the edge and looked down at her little car. It hadn’t fallen far. She could’ve probably jumped from the edge of the bridge down onto the car.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, coming to stand next to her. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out her phone. “I grabbed this.” He handed it to her, and she took it, thumbing it on. The screen distorted, running sideways in thin black and white lines. She stepped away from him, and the home screen returned to normal the further she got from the bridge. She held it up to the sky, searching for a signal.

  “It’s no use,” he called. “We don’t have cell coverage out here.”

  “Then how are we going to call for help?” she asked, shoving the phone into the back pocket of her cut-offs and coming back to his side.

  He motioned to the road behind her. “We have a landline up at the house. We can use that.”

  She hugged her arms to her chest and glanced at him. He was watching her.

  “Do you think it’s related?” he asked, nodding toward the creek. “Did the ward do this?”

  Shit. She hadn’t thought of that.

  Her arms wrapped tighter around her, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to cling stubbornly to her skin beneath the slowly drying fabric of her shirt. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

  He blew out a frustrated breath. “Come on,” he said, turning away. “No sense in standing around. I’ll take you up to the house, and we’ll sort this out.”

  As he guided her back to his truck, she tried not to tug self-consciously at her tee shirt, which stuck to her skin. He opened the passenger door for her like a gentleman and gestured to the empty seat. He waited until she was settled, then closed the door and walked around the truck. He opened the driver’s door and slid into his seat. He grinned at her as he threaded his keys into the ignition.

  “You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon,” he observed, the corners of his lips twitching upwards, eyes gleaming with barely concealed amusement.

  “I don’t understand why you’re not freaked out,” she said, reaching for the seat belt. “We’re trapped here, and you’re treating it like it’s no big deal.”

  But he wasn’t listening to her. He frowned and turned the key, but nothing happened. “What the hell?” He tried the key a second time. Still nothing. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

  She watched as he unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the truck. As an afterthought, he reached back into the cab and pulled a lever near the steering wheel. The hood released with a loud metallic pop. She unbuckled her seat belt and followed him to the front of the truck, an icy knot of unease twisting in her stomach.

  “I don’t get it,” Chris said, threading his fingers under the lip of the hood and pushing it up. He raised the long metal pole to hold it in place and then peered into the dusty expanse of his truck’s engine. “It was working just a minute ago.”

  Greer glanced back at the broken bridge, unable to keep her mind from connecting the dots. “I think that answers your question about them being related,” she said.

  He swore, all traces of his good mood gone, and let the hood slam close before checking the watch on his wrist. “It's almost eight,” he said, then squinted at the sky. “The sun’ll be setting soon. Whatever we do, we need to do it fast. It’s gonna be dark soon.” He exhaled loudly and took his baseball cap off, running a hand through his hair and making it stand on end.

  “I’ll walk up to see Fred, I guess,” he said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. “Maybe he can give me a jump.” He replaced his hat and glanced at her. “You can stay with the truck if you’re not up for the walk; I won’t be too long.”

  Dealing with the Clarkes was the last thing she wanted to do just then, but she wasn’t about to sit back and let someone else handle it for her. She grabbed her backpack from the truck. “No, it’s fine,” she said, falling into step beside him. “I’ll go with you.”

  That low on the hill, the forest rushed right up to the side of the road. It barely left enough room for the narrow ditches that ran alongside. She could smell the damp decay of the leaves in the trench that was perpetually saturated with runoff. Gnats hovered over the wetness. They abandoned their rotting kingdom when Greer and Chris neared, and she ducked her head against their relentless assault. In contrast, Chris stared straight up the hill, undisturbed by the small cloud of insects over his head. As they neared the Clarke’s, the forest fell away on one side, giving way to the irregular line of green and golden fields. She’d walked that same path hundreds of times as a kid when the summers were hot, and the woods still held their mystery. Most of those times had been with him.

  “Almost there.” He pointed to something up ahead, and she followed his arm and saw the roof of the Clarke’s house cresting over the road.

  “Oh good,” she muttered, a knot of dread forming in her stomach. “I wonder if Pattie still hates me.”

  “She’s mellowed in her old age,” Chris said. He smiled at her, a hint of his former self peeking through the grown-up facade. “Hasn’t yelled at me once all year.”

  Greer almost laughed without meaning to. “Has she forgiven you for that time we picked her strawberries?”

  He grinned, and for a second, she was seven again, walking with the eleven-year-old boy she had a crush on.

  “Did you know she’s won prizes for them?” he asked. “The strawberries, I mean.”

  “Seriously?” Greer shook her head. She had a vivid memory of eating the sweet red berries under the shade of the oak tree in Chris’s yard. “I wish I’d known. Maybe I would’ve appreciated them more.”

  He chucked. “I’ve tried to apologize, but she won’t talk about it. Every time I try to bring it up, she changes the subject.”

  Greer did laugh, then. “My mom used to say that Pattie Clarke could hold a grudge longer than anyone else she knew.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Greer let Chris take the lead, the gravel of the drive crunching under their feet as they made their way to the porch. The front door was open, and she could hear the sounds of a baseball game from inside. Chris knocked politely on the wooden edge of the screen door.

  A woman’s face appeared at the door. “Chris?” Her voice filtered through the screen, laced with surprise. “What brings you around?”

  He jerked his thumb toward the creek. “My truck won’t start. I was hoping Fred still had that electric starter?”

  Behind Chris, Greer shifted her weight, her eyes darting to the forest across the road. The tall eastern pines loomed in the fading light, their jagged tops etched against the bruised sky. A thunderstorm brewed in the distance, heavy clouds rumbling low, and the first faint flicker of lightning lit the horizon.

  Greer’s chest tightened as she glanced at the woods. She’d always hated them, their shadows darker and deeper than they should be. As a child, she’d run through the fields behind the Clarke farmhouse without a second thought, the grass brushing her knees, the wind in her hair. But the forest was different—a boundary she’d never dared to cross. Now, fifteen years later, it hadn’t changed. If anything, it seemed to loom larger, more menacing.

  Greer heard springs squeak; then, a man’s voice drifted from inside the house. “What’s this now?” Fred joined Pattie at the door and squinted into the dying sunlight at Chris. “What happened?”

  “My truck won’t start,” Chris repeated. “I was wondering if I could borrow that little starter of yours.”

  “Where’s it at now?”

  Chris motioned south again with his head. “Down by the crick.”

  Fred followed the motion with his eyes and scowled. “What were you doin’ down there?”

  “There was an accident, and I stopped to help—”

  “An accident!” Pattie exclaimed. “Is anyone hurt?”

  Chris shook his head. “No, but now my truck won’t start and—”

  “What happened?”

  Chris paused, then glanced behind him at Greer. Before she could say a word, Greer saw Pattie’s moon face peering around Chris. “What? Is someone with you—” Pattie froze when she saw Greer, the question dying in her mouth.

  Greer forced her lips up into a tight smile. “Hello.”

  Pattie’s expression turned sour. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought we’d seen the last of you witches.”

  Greer opened her mouth to respond but froze. The tingling buzzed in her fingertips, faint at first, then sharper—electric.

  Her breath caught. Not now.

  ---

  Tad waited for Simone on the front steps, tapping the fingers of his good hand against his thigh, itching for a joint. Inside, Simone was throwing supplies into a pair of duffle bags. His shoulder throbbed like a mother, and he massaged it with his good hand, feeling restless.

  The storm clouds gathered menacingly on the horizon. The wind plucked at his tee shirt, bringing with it the smell of ozone.

  Fuck. What was taking her so long?

  Getting to his feet, he made his way to the squad car. He rummaged inside for the orange pill bottle the ER doc had given him. With a feat of dexterity, he braced it against his thigh and twisted the thick white cap. Tapping out a single white pill onto his tongue, he dry swallowed it and recapped the bottle.

  The screen door screamed, and Simone came outside, still stuffing baggies and plastic Tupperware into one of the two bags she carried on her shoulders. Tad tossed the pill bottle back through the cruiser’s open window and jogged forward to help her with the burden.

  “Got everything?” he asked mildly, wondering why she needed so much stuff to talk to one dude, but she didn’t catch the sarcasm in his voice.

  “God, I hope so,” she said, following him to the car. He opened the back, and they tossed the bags inside. “But you never know with Henry.” Tad opened the passenger door, and she slid inside. To her credit, she didn’t give the mess inside the car a second glance.

  The ride to the Dane house was only a few minutes, and they spent it in tense silence. He pulled the squad car into the Dane driveway, parking it behind Henry’s maroon truck. Henry himself was nowhere in sight. Tad killed the engine.

  “Where did he go?”

  She was already peering into the growing darkness, her brows furrowed. “I don't know.”

  Tad maneuvered himself out of the car and turned in a circle, trying to spot the man he'd seen earlier. The site was as silent as the grave, save for the wind that howled around the remains of the house.

  “Pop the trunk, will you?” she asked, moving toward the back of the car.

  He helped her get the bags out of the trunk and watched as she fished inside one, coming up with a dark gnarled piece of wood.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  She looked startled. Then, she looked down at the wood in her hand. “Lilac root.”

  He wanted to ask what it was for, but she was already pulling more things out of her bags. He left her to it, opting instead to grab the big mug flashlight from the car and patrolling the pit perimeter.

  Where had the man gone? It wasn’t like there were a lot of places for a person to hide. The blast had taken out most of the structure, save for a few blackened beams that leaned dangerously over the open pit left by the basement. Most of the plants that had surrounded the house had been burned away as well, leaving dark ground that smelled like sulfur.

  He walked to the very edge of the pit and stared down into the blackened basement. The sun had long since set, and twilight had fallen over the countryside, made darker still by the storm clouds that filled the ashen sky. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and a gust of cold wind blasted over the hill. Movement in the corner of his eye, like the flash of silver fish scales, caught his attention.

  “Hello?” he called to the darkness below him.

  “Did you see him?” Simone called.

  He shook his head. “The light must be playing tricks on me.”

  She hefted one of her bags over her shoulder and headed toward him, the bag rattling as she walked. “Something’s off here,” she said. She turned her head, looking at the ruins with a concerned expression. “Don’t ask me what, but I’m not taking chances. I’m running a circle.”

  “Come again?”

  “A protective circle,” she said, already kneeling to unzip her bag. “I’m drawing one around the site.”

  He frowned. “To protect us?”

  She snorted, not bothering to look up. “Not us. Everyone else. If there’s something bad here, we need to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.”

  He suddenly felt like he’d swallowed a rock. He could only nod.

  “Give me your hand,” she instructed.

  He set the flashlight down and held out his hand. She took it in one of her cool ones and touched her root to it. She muttered something, and he felt a pinch of bright pain.

  He snatched his hand back. “Ow, what was that?”

  “I tied you to the line,” she said, eying him sharply. “Stay where you are,” she said. “I can’t have you mucking up my work before I’m done.”

  As she walked away from him with her clinking bag, Tad bent to pick up the flashlight at his feet. He looked back at the cruiser and considered getting in to wait for her to finish. It would’ve been the smart thing to do—the safe thing. But the idea sat wrong in his gut.

  He turned back to the remains of the basement, the flashlight’s beam slicing through the darkness. The pit yawned below him, blackened and silent, but it called to him all the same. Bobby’s warning echoed in his mind. Climbing down there at night was a bad idea. A rookie move. They should wait until morning when the light could expose whatever might be hiding in the shadows.

  But he knew in his bones that there was only one place the man could’ve gone, and Tad wasn’t one to let a mystery go unsolved. His mother used to say that it would be the death of him. So far, he’d proved her wrong.

  He walked forward and squatted down. Carefully, he maneuvered one of the boards that poked out of the hole to lay flat against the basement wall. He stood up and tested the board, shining his light into the pit. It was dark down there, blackened by fire and night.

  “Tad!” Simone yelled, running toward him. “What are you doing? I’m not done yet! It’s not safe!”

  He knew she wouldn’t understand.

  “You do your thing up there. My thing’s down here.”