Try as I might, I can’t bite back the smile as I think about Winn.
She stops writing. “Wait, what’s with that goofy grin?”
I wave it off, though I can feel my face warming.
“Josephine Hemlock!” She shoves me so hard I have to grab the kitchen table to keep from falling off my chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I give her this look that I hope says, “Hello? Can’t talk here.”
Maggie mock glares. “Fine, I’ll let it slide as long as I get to meet him.”
I nod, dipping my quill back in the potion. Nana gave us a list of witches to send letters to. We have no idea where Stacia is, which means we can’t send our words directly to her. Much like the door spell, we have to know the location in order to send or go there. Either that, or we need to have met the person recently to tap into their wavelength.
The letters are all the same:
Dear Friend, We are in need of assistance, if you are able. Having finally gathered the strength to go through my Carmina’s things, we’ve discovered that she has something that belonged to her close friend Anastacia Black. We have not had contact with Ms. Black since before Carmina’s death, and are unaware of her location. If you know where she is, we would very much like to return her valuable possession. Sincerely, Dorothea Hemlock
I don’t like lying, but Nana said if other witches find out that the Curse is after us they might be too afraid to affiliate with us at all. And if we mention we think our hunters are men? Everyone would write us off as crazy.
Nana’s cane clicks down the stairs, and when she appears she looks absolutely haunted. “Forgive me, Josephine, but I still can’t do it. I can hardly touch the cover.”
She leans against the wall, spent, and I know exactly what she’s been trying to do—read my mother’s history. Each book has its own unique enchantments, but every single one is made so that you can’t open it until you’re ready to face what’s inside. And since Mom should still be alive and writing in her history, Nana and I haven’t been able to break past that spell. It would bring too much sorrow, and thus Mom’s book remains clamped shut.
I was okay with that up until we needed the information inside.
Nana sits at the table, and I give her a hug. She pats my arm, leaning her head against mine. “How are the letters going?”
“We have . . .” Maggie scans the list. “Twelve down, eighteen to go. But my hand is killing me so can we please take a break?”
“Two more from both of you. I’ll make an afternoon snack.”
Maggie groans as Nana heads for the fridge, but we both get back to work. The faster we write, the faster we can find Stacia. And then we can discover if she has any bit of information that could crack this mystery and save Nana and me from my mother’s fate.
My phone buzzes, and Maggie practically mauls me to see the screen. “Is that your boyfriend?” She frowns when she sees the name. “Just Gwen. Boo.”
I roll my eyes as I open the message.
Tell me you’re better. We need to hang out asap. I miss you!
I’ve only been sick 4 days! I’m that important?
Yes 
Btwn Winn and this you’ve disappeared. Can I at least come visit?
Talk about a stab to the heart, but it’s true. Gwen, Kat, and I usually hang out every day. I didn’t see much of her last week, and I’m willing to bet Kat didn’t either since she’s here half the time. Gwen must be bored out of her mind.
I don’t want u to catch this. I’ll call u 2 nite, k? I should have my voice back by then.
You better. Or I’ll be forced to seek comfort in Adam’s arms.
Is that a threat?
Shut up.
Fine :P
I close my phone, locking away the guilt over lying to her. I’ll make it up to Gwen the second I can.
“What’d she want?” Maggie asks, scribbling furiously.
I shrug. Picking up the quill, I finish off the letter I was working on. It’s for Lorena Starr, one of Nana’s friends from her childhood. I remember stories about how Lorena would visit here, and she and Nana would curse the boys who picked on other kids. Now Lorena is the head of her house, tied to her home and the responsibility of protecting it. They are the keepers of knowledge that younger generations need. I might be important for preserving the Hemlock bloodline, but Nana is just as vital. Without her, I’d know nothing.
I watch Nana as she stirs soup at the stove, an unsettling feeling coming over me. I push it back. Worrying will get us nowhere. We both know the risks of seeking out this dark man and his magic, but there’s no turning back. Like she said—it’s us or them.
But the feeling won’t go away. My heart pounds too fast, and my hands are so clammy I wonder if I really am getting sick. Then I freeze, realizing what’s going on. It’s not Nana I should be worrying about. It’s Kat. The panic hits me like ice water.
Something is after her.
My chair crashes to the floor when I stand. I rip out a handful of hair and close my eyes, picturing Kat’s room—the black-and-purple bedspread, the punk posters, the glow stars on the ceiling. My fingers go numb as the magic pulls me to her house. I can feel myself shifting planes, and when the hair in my hand turns to ash, I’m there.
But Kat isn’t.
I say her name, though nothing comes out. The house is completely silent, since her parents both work at the town hall. I swear the bus would have had her home by now, and it seemed like my gut was saying to come here.
Glass shatters downstairs. As I run for the kitchen, I know what Kat meant when she said it was like she was having a heart attack. It feels like my chest is about to explode. It feels like I’m going to die. And if I feel like that . . .
Kat stands in the middle of the room, swatting at something on her face. When she turns I see what it is—a bubble of water covering her mouth and nose.
SEVENTEEN
No matter how much water Kat wipes away, the bubble stays in place. I’ve heard of the spell—it’s an easy combination of fish scales, raven hearts, and dew gathered from tombstones—but I’ve never seen it in action. How simple it is—almost comical in appearance, and yet terrifying in practice. When our eyes meet, hers start watering.
I’ve never seen Kat cry.
I want to tell her it’ll be okay. That’s the least I can do to calm her, and I can’t manage it with my stupid voice gone.
Her pale skin begins to turn blue, which makes the pain in my chest burst into something part agony, part will to survive. I rush to her side in time to keep her standing and scan the kitchen for any reagents I can use to stop this. It has to be something pure, something with life to purge the death.
The orchids.
Kat’s mom loves her orchids. They’re all over the house, and she treats them like babies. I once heard her singing to them as she sprayed special water over their leaves. She’ll freak when she finds them all dead . . . but it’s my only option.
Kat might weigh nothing, but when she goes limp in my arms the weight brings me to my knees. After lowering her to the floor, I hold my hand to the orchids on the table. I use my magic to suck out their life, and they shrivel into black husks. Their power radiates through my hand, pure and clear and hopeful. I rush for the next group around the TV, then the batch in the living room, until I have enough orchid life in me that it assuages the pain in my chest. The magic begs for me to keep it for myself, but I quickly push back the thought and run to Kat.
I put my trembling hand to her mouth. It’s cold and wet, still submersed in the bubble. The moment I release the orchid life, the water turns black and hot. My scream goes unheard as the death spell sears my hand, fighting against the life. It sputters and hisses, turning into steam the color of ash. I gag on the smell, putrid like the decaying carcasses we keep in the basement.