Dark Corner

Chapter 1

Farewell to Emma Tangledwood

Present Day,

Black Mountain, North Carolina

I gazed across the open field surrounding the cabin, Agatha Hollows’s cabin up Black Mountain, North Carolina. For the most part, it stood well, being two hundred years old. The covered front porch had its share of creaking boards but still was a comfortable place to rock. We had patched the roof and replaced the front steps. Besides that, the cabin stood as it did when Agatha Hollows stood in it.

Eighteen-year-old Abigail lay on the ground, a book of Appalachian folk remedies open in front of her. Her long hair, once blond, now almost white since her turning into a full-blooded witch. Her skin was iridescent, but the most remarkable change were her eyes from sky blue to violet, the same color as her great-grandmother’s eyes—the sign of a very powerful witch. The humans call it albinism, a condition caused by a lack of pigment in skin, hair, and eyes. Light passes through the eyes and reflects back out, causing the irises to appear violet. In the case of Abigail, her change was not from lack of pigment but the opposite. She had become a perfect being, able to see all the colors of the human and witch spectrum. As her powers grew, she would also be able to see the colors of the alternate realms. For now, she appeared to be merely an amazingly beautiful young woman. Her Australian shepherd puppy, Tracker, shared her eye color as familiars do. Abigail was able to see through Tracker’s eyes. Ghost eyes is what the Native Americans called them, considering these puppies sacred.

If I were still a girl in my former body, I would be jealous of her, but I was trapped in this feline body, elegant and slender but a cat just the same. Heads turned when Abigail walked, her elfin body glided, slicing through the air. I asked her repeatedly to dress more ladylike, a remnant of my upbringing. She refused, donning her ripped jeans and leather jacket. Even in peasant garb, she carried the air of royalty as well she should as she was the heir to the throne of the Oakhavens. Great-granddaughter of Elizabeth Oakhaven, Abigail was the keeper of the Oakhaven bloodline, descendants of the original earth walkers, white witches with unlimited power. I loved Abigail as I loved Elizabeth. For that reason, I devoted my life to training and protecting her. Unfortunately, she shared her great-grandmother’s stubborn streak. I found my patience growing short with her.

I heard gurgling noises and turned to see Tracker carrying a protesting fluffy orange tabby in his mouth. He prefers me to describe him as fluffy, not chubby, Pixel he does. Since the recent darkness had ebbed, the Australian shepherd pup had resorted to puppy behavior, and taunting Pixel was his favorite play. “No, Tracker,” I scolded him, but he did not understand or chose not to. He continued nipping at Pixel and taunting him.

My protests drew Abigail’s attention from her book. “Tracker, put Pixel down.” The puppy obeyed and ran to Abigail’s side, wiggling his tailless butt.

Pixel dusted off his fur. He stood upright and pranced away. “Me hungry,” I heard him say as he made his way toward the stream, which flowed adjacent to the cabin.

I could follow him, search for food, but I was uneasy leaving Abigail. I felt a stirring in the air. It brought back memories of intruders descending upon Agatha Hollows so long ago. Chills traveled through my fur. Pixel flew back as though he felt my fear. He tilted his head and then pounced on me.

“Pixel, we’re fine. Nothing to worry about,” I told him.

Pixel gave me another sideways glance. He sensed when I was telling half-truths. Not that I would lie to him, but I thought it best at times to conceal the complete truth from him.

“Terra, why won’t you let me read my great-grandmother’s book of spells?” Abigail slammed the book she was reading shut, not the one she was referring to.

“You’re not ready for the power contained in that book yet, Abigail. You have to understand who you are first before you become who you should be. Your magic is entwined with these woods just as Agatha Hollows was, that’s why I have you studying the Appalachian folklore.”

“I thought my family was from Salem.”

“Yes, that’s true, Abigail, but before that from Ireland. And before Ireland, they were.” I stopped myself. “That’s something we’ll talk about once you are able to understand.” I stepped across the book, rubbing my body across Abigail’s face. Abigail ran her fingers along my fur until our attention was drawn away by Pixel.

My friend, the big orange cat, scampered about, trying to catch the first dragonfly of spring. He stopped suddenly, stuck his nose up in the air, and the dragonfly landed on his head. He crossed his eyes, trying to see it, and then he let out a Pixel roar of laughter. The dragonfly flew off with Pixel in pursuit.

“You always say I’m never ready. I’ve read every book you’ve given me. I know how to make a mustard plaster, insect repellents, and even a love potion. I think I can even churn butter if I had to, so what’s the point, Terra?” Abigail reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out a cigarette.

I jumped on her lap, swatting it out of her hand.

“Hey,” she yelled, pushing me off her lap.

I landed in a mud puddle, then jumped out. The mud clung to me.

Abigail put her hand over her mouth to hold back her laughter. “Gee, really, really sorry,” she said, not attempting to conceal her sarcasm or her laughter.

I shook myself off. I had reached my limit. “Are you done, Abigail? Did you enjoy that?”

“Geez, Terra, it was an accident, okay?”

“I told you I don’t want you smoking. It will kill you.”

“So I survived the tornado of black magic, but one cigarette is going to kill me. I don’t think so.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out another cigarette.

“Okay, Abigail, put away the cigarette. It’s time,” I said.

She paused with the cigarette halfway up to her lips, the lighter half-open in her other hand. “Time for what?”

“Go get the broom on the front porch.”

Abigail ran up the steps and brought back the old straw broom leaning against the rocking chair. “What’s this for?”

“I think it’s time you learned to fly.”

“But you said that the whole flying broom thing was a myth. That’s not how witches fly.”

“I said that because you weren’t ready and I didn’t want you running off and trying to ride your first broom and crashing.”

“Really, Terra? I’m going to fly.”

“Yes,” I told her.

“Okay, what do I do?” She held the broom.

“First you need to straddle the broom.”

“Okay.” Abigail did.

I went up the front stairs, jumped on the railing for a good vantage point. Pixel bounded back and joined me on the railing. “What doing?” Pixel said.

“I’m having fun with Abigail.”

“Me like fun.”

“Okay, Abigail, now you need to get a good running start.”

Abigail ran across the length of the front of the house and then back and then again and then again. “Nothing’s happening,” she yelled.

“You have to create enough lift. The faster you run, the more lift you’ll create.”

“Okay,” she said, panting.

Pixel gazed at me. “We’re playing a joke on Abigail,” I said.

Pixel roared and fell off the railing. He jumped back up.

“Wait, wait, Abigail,” I said.

Abigail stopped, huffing and puffing, clutching the broom.

“You have to recite the flight incantation while you’re running.”

“Now you tell me,” Abigail said. “Okay, fine, what is it?”

“It’s Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”

Abigail began running with the broom between her legs, shouting, “Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”

“Faster, Abigail,” I yelled.

Back and forth she ran. “Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”

“Say the words faster.”

“Ohwhatasill—” Abigail stopped dead and then said, “Oh, what a silly goose I am.”

Pixel fell off the railing again. Abigail snapped the broom in two over her knee and stormed into the house.

Pixel inhaled deeply. “Me hungry?” He could smell what I did—Mrs. Twiggs’s cauldron boiling with a concoction for which I had given her the recipe. He scurried into the cabin with Tracker and me close behind.

“Oh dear, Terra, I don’t think I’m doing this right.” The new Mrs. Twiggs, light on her feet Mrs. Twiggs, filled her wooden ladle from the iron cauldron hanging above the fire in the big stone fireplace and breathed in. Since her transformation to a Wiccan, Mrs. Twiggs had turned into a much younger woman. Not so much that the humans could tell but enough that those close to her could. “I followed every step in Agatha’s recipe. I know I did.” She shook her head.

Pixel tiptoed up to the cauldron, stood on his hind paws, and sniffed. “Me like.” He grinned at me, his smile resembling that of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Pixel’s days were full of new discoveries, and his delight in them never ceased to delight me.

Over the past few months, Mrs. Twiggs had spent most of her time at the cabin, helping me with Abigail’s schooling. She understood we needed Abigail to become who she was meant to be—a powerful witch in a long line of powerful witches. The Leaf & Page, her cozy tea and vintage bookshop in downtown Biltmore Village, had been shuttered. She felt it best left in the good hands of her deceased, beloved husband, Albert.

“It takes time, Mrs. Twiggs. Magic is a study of patience and repetition. Just the slightest wrong turn of the spoon or a pinch too much of this or that and any potion can turn bad.” I said with authority. I had learned this firsthand from Elizabeth, who I studied under in Salem. “All magic is chemistry. The chemistry of combining herbs and ingredients but also the chemistry of the witch who brews them.”

“I don’t know why this isn’t working, Terra. You said Agatha used this potion to bring on visions.”

As Mrs. Twiggs talked, Pixel leaped up and reached with his paw to bring the spoon to his mouth. He lapped the potion up before we could stop him. “Mmm, good. Pixel like. Pixel like.” I knocked the spoon away from him. He stopped in his tracks, shaking his tail ferociously. His eyes dilated. “Feel funny, Terra. Pixel feel funny. Pixel no like.” Pixel’s eyes rolled back into his head. He whispered in my ear, “They come. The hunters come.” His eyes rolled back, and he pounced on me. “Me hungry. Me hungry.”

“What just happened?” Mrs. Twiggs asked. “I tried the potion and had no visions.”

I had no response. Pixel was an ordinary cat—no, I do him injustice, he’s an extraordinary cat, fearless and brave but a cat all the same.

Mrs. Twiggs scooped the ladle again and brought it down so I could lap from it. The potion tasted gritty against my tongue. I waited for the explosion of light but nothing. I didn’t have any traces of the gift of vision. I never had even when I was a girl. Mrs. Twiggs on the other hand didn’t need any potion to peer into the future. Her gifts included prophecy, but we had yet to determine her Wiccan ancestry. I had her make the recipe, hoping her bloodline would be revealed.

Abigail sulked in the corner, guitar in her hand.

“I have dinner on the stove,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

We all sat down at the small kitchen table. Mrs. Twiggs served up the honey ham, sweet potatoes, and fresh biscuits. Pixel gobbled his up, making slurping noises. I ate more slowly, skipping the potatoes.

“Terra, I’ve invited the ladies over. They are still recovering from the events of Halloween, and I think we need to ease their minds.” Mrs. Twiggs referred to the Ladies of the Biltmore Society, our local group of Wiccans. Before transforming into their true Wiccan selves, the ladies had been a garden club devoted to maintaining the legacy of Frederick Law Olmsted, the master gardener who created the gardens at the Biltmore Estate. The ladies had recently defeated a darkness that had settled over Asheville, the town nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains where we had made our home.

“It’s because of those events that we need to continue their training,” I said.

“I thought that was all over. That we’re safe now,” Abigail said.

I didn’t want to let the others know yet that we’ll never be truly safe. The magic we had woken in Asheville was a beacon shining out to the rest of the world and beyond. Creatures following that beacon would come. I hoped that Mrs. Twiggs’s powers or a premonition enhanced by Agatha Hollows’s potion would give us sufficient warning to prepare for the battle to come. “We must always be ready and keep our skills sharp, Abigail. For now, let us enjoy our meal.”

Tracker sat patiently by Abigail’s side. He was now a full-grown dog, nearly sixty pounds. He waited on any movement of her hand signaling treats from the table. Pixel had finished and was now hovering over Mrs. Twiggs, purring and nudging against her, seeking seconds and thirds.

I finished my meal with relish, washing it down with the saucer of cream Mrs. Twiggs shared with Pixel and me.

“I’ll clear the table. We’ll have dessert when the ladies come. I’ve made peach tarts.” Mrs. Twiggs bustled around the table, clearing the dishes, humming softly to herself.

Abigail sat by the fire, strumming her guitar. It was her most prized possession. I leaped onto the stool next to her. “Terra, why am I wasting my time with these spell books? I’ve read everything you’ve given me, memorized every potion, every incantation.”

“You’re not ready for your great-grandmother’s book.”

“You told me I’m the only one who can wield it. I’m not afraid of it.”

“Because you’re not afraid that means you’re not ready to open it.” Abigail and I had this argument constantly.

“All these spells you have me practicing are useless. This spell right here.” Abigail reached down and picked up a book called Spellbound. She read out loud. “Tied by knots of thread, held by hands of dead, bound by earth, covered by dirt, lie eternal by woods.”

I knew that spell well. Agatha had used it often with the folk who lived in the nearby cabins. “Appalachians believe the dead would come back to life if not put to rest. Agatha used that spell not only to calm their fears but as a precaution against dark spirits that preyed on the newly dead.”

“Did it work?”

“Not really.”

“Why am I practicing it?”

“Because Agatha believed it would work. While the occasion never arose that a dark spirit brought a body back to life doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. More importantly, you have to understand the history of the power you wield. Your family oak is the center of that power, and like the rings of its trunk that power radiates throughout these Western North Carolina woods. Agatha’s magic was also part of these woods, so understand your history first.”

Abigail shut the book with a snap and put it down. She went back to her guitar. She did not have the patience yet for what I needed to teach her. And I did not have the experience to be a teacher. I was Elizabeth’s apprentice; Abigail’s great-grandmother had been my mentor. I felt a bit of a fraud trying to teach magic to a witch who would grow to be more powerful than I would ever be.

“They here. They here,” Pixel singsonged from his perch on the windowsill. I glanced out the window and saw the cars pulling up to the cabin. The ladies were here, all of them wearing their black ceremonial cloaks and pointed hats. The hats were not necessary, but the ladies insisted on wearing them. One by one, they filed up the cabin steps. Doris Stickman first, tall and thin as a rail, her ebony skin glistening in the moonlight. She was followed by the much smaller Nupur Bartlett, her red Bindi on her forehead representing her strength. The smallest of all the ladies, she was our most powerful warrior. Next came the wide Jean Branchworthy, with her moon-pie face. She stopped and smiled at me with her smoky eyes. Then Gwendolyn Birchbark, who stopped and politely bowed, a dichotomy of her proper Chinese heritage and her Southern warmth and hospitality. Following her was the freckle-faced Caroline Bowers. I bowed politely. Her bloodline was royal, dating back to Rhiannon the queen of witches. In the previous weeks, she had been conversing with me in my dreams. Wanda Raintree almost skipped up the steps, her hair tied in a single braid, wrapped in Cherokee turquoise and silver. Then the youngest of them all, June Loblolly, our Viking princess. She carried her hat, her hair flowed free, a silver carved circlet on the crown of her head. She walked with poise, demonstrating her former modeling career. Since turning, all the ladies walked purposely in contrast to their outward human appearance of old age. These ladies were our coven.

“Terra, dear, can you come over tomorrow? I want to practice my magic but find I need your help to do it,” Jean Branchworthy said to me as she continuously snapped her fingers trying to exude a spark. “See. Nothing.”

I nodded as the ladies settled down, each taking a seat around the table. Pixel pranced around their feet, tail upright, sniffing for any hidden treat and making gurgling noises.

Mrs. Twiggs slowly walked to the table, carrying a very old and tattered black pointed witch’s hat. She carefully and respectfully placed it in the center of the table. All the ladies removed their hats and placed them in a circle around the hat.

“Tonight, we remember our fallen sister, Emma Tangledwood. We pray for her light to follow its true path to the next world while we release her magic into our world.” Each of the ladies stood and placed a hand on Mrs. Tangledwood’s hat. The ceremony was a token of love, grief, and respect.

I drifted away, remembering a similar night. A group of young Cherokee healers had come to train with Agatha. She closed the curtains as the candle glow illuminated her long, angular face. I saw a glimpse of her true self, and I never looked at her the same way again. My eyes flew open. I thought I saw Mrs. Tangledwood’s hat move, just a twitch, no more than a field mouse’s whisker. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief until I noticed the ladies appeared to have seen it also. They were quiet, wide-eyed, and waiting. Another twitch. A collective gasp rose from the ladies gathered around the table. This was not Emma Tangledwood; this was not of her making. The hat flew off the table, knocking Mrs. Stickman to the ground.

“Abigail,” I shouted. “Read the incantation—now—Abigail, speak the words,” I urged her, rubbing against her with force.

Abigail stood, watching the hat in disbelief as it flung into dishes and crashed into pots and pans.

Mrs. Loblolly grabbed the hat in midair and wrestled it to the floor, wrapping her body over it. When she looked up to smile at us, she was hurled into the blazing fireplace.

Mrs. Stickman raised her arms, releasing a deluge of rain over Mrs. Loblolly, extinguishing the fire. Smoke filled the room.

“Abigail,” I screamed over the downpour.

Pixel pounced from under the table, grabbing the hat in his teeth. He rolled around the floor, ripping at it with his claws.

“Tied by knots of thread, held by hands of dead, bound by earth, covered by dirt, lie eternal by woods.” Abigail said as Pixel flew to the ceiling entangled with the shredded hat. Pixel and the hat fell to the floor with a thud.

Pixel stood up, shook himself off, and stared the hat down. “Bad hat,” he scolded, giving it one more swipe with his paw before he turned his back and started cleaning himself.

Chattering away, the ladies settled back around the table as if nothing had happened.

Abigail stood still, her eyes on the hat. “What just happened?” she asked. “Am I crazy? Or did a possessed Halloween costume go crazy and tear up the cabin? Terra?”

“I-I…” I had no response.

“What are you all doing?” Abigail asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m shook and mad, really mad. Aren’t you supposed to be the dream team? The League of Justice? The most powerful white magic in Asheville?”

“Abigail, calm down. This is why I’ve had you study the spell books. Magic cannot be destroyed, only transferred,” I said, nuzzling up to her and rubbing against her. “The magic left by Mrs. Tangledwood’s passing was absorbed by her hat. The dark creatures we woke in these mountains craved that magic. They would use it for evil. Mrs. Tangledwood left that magic for us. Magic is neither white nor black, evil nor good. It is how we use it and who commands it.”

“I miss Emma. She was such a good friend,” Doris Stickman said, her eyes clouding with tears. Although it had been over six months since Emma Tangledwood passed, the ladies still missed her. A gentle rain flowed over the table, focusing on Mrs. Stickman.

“Doris, you’re doing it again,” Mrs. Twiggs scolded.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. I can’t control my emotions.” Mrs. Stickman held a handkerchief to her eyes.

Walking around the table, Mrs. Twiggs put her arm around Mrs. Stickman. “Bless your heart, Doris. I miss Emma too.” She paused and then said, “Emma lives on in our hearts and through her legacy. She donated the proceeds from her estate to the preservation fund for the Biltmore Estate and its grounds. I’m stopping at the Tangledwood Estate tomorrow to help Miss Hartwell sort through her belongings for the upcoming estate sale.”

I nudged her. “Yes, Terra, I know we have more urgent matters to discuss,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “Terra, why don’t you explain to our friends?”

I leaped onto the table. As I paced back and forth, I searched for the words that I could not find. “The black magic that took Mrs. Tangledwood opened a door for other magic to enter. The woods are awakening. I’ve seen shadows stirring. Shadows drawn to our white magic. They need to feed off us, drain us of our light.” We all stared at the shredded hat. A dark cloud gathered over Mrs. Stickman. Pixel leaped into her lap, kneading her with paws and purring. “No fear. No fear. Terra fix.”

Mrs. Stickman smiled. As quickly as it came, the dark cloud disappeared, and a small rainbow appeared in its stead. “I will be working with each of you individually to help you.” I assured them with a confidence that I hoped I could live up to.

Abigail stood up and passed out spiral-bound notebooks to each of the ladies. The ladies browsed through the books, studying the handwritten recipes.

“These are basic spells, potions, incantations. All of them will help you focus on your individual powers,” I explained, walking back and forth along the table.

Mrs. Loblolly raised her hand. “I can’t read this. What language is it?”

“This is Ogham. It’s an ancient language of the druids. Each of the stick symbols you see represents different trees. Each tree has different words associated with it, depending on how the symbols are arranged. The symbols themselves hold great power. They’re still used on headstones to this date to open portals to different realms.”

“If we can’t read these spells, what good are they to us?” Mrs. Loblolly said.

“They’re written in that language because very few can read it, and I’m going to teach you all how to read Ogham starting tonight.” I used my paw to point out a symbol in the book. “This symbol is for the rowan ash tree, my bloodline spirit tree.” I pointed at the two adjacent symbols. “This is the oak, and this is the thorn. When the three combine, it makes the holy trinity of the fairy world.”

Abigail stood up again, walking around the table. Standing behind Mrs. Stickman, she pulled back her silky black hair and placed a silver pendant around her neck. Mrs. Stickman examined the pendant, which was engraved with the oak, ash, and thorn trees. Abigail repeated this, placing a pendant on each woman. “These will help protect you as you learn. Their strength comes from our strength. Those pendants are all formed from the same piece of silver. The woman who owned this cabin owned that silver. She blessed it and enchanted it,” I said, remembering Agatha Hollows hiding the silver in her storehouse so the soldiers would not find it.

“Tea anyone?” Mrs. Twiggs carried a tea service to the table and began pouring, releasing a sweet fragrance similar to apple blossoms.

“Is this part of the ceremony?” Mrs. Bartlett asked, accepting the cup from Mrs. Twiggs.

“No, just something to soothe our nerves. A little chamomile.”

“To understand the power of the silver pendants, you must first understand the woman who enchanted it,” I said. “Agatha Hollows trained as a Cherokee medicine woman, yet she wasn’t Cherokee. Agatha befriended the Cherokee during the time of the Trail of Tears as the Cherokee were forced to leave their homes. She was summoned by their cries.”

“Summoned?” Mrs. Raintree asked. “My people believed the winds were alive with spirits and could call to them.”

I stared at her. She stopped herself from asking the unspoken question, instead saying, “Terra, I’ve been catching some very disturbing dreams in my dream catcher. Nightmares, really. Being chased through the woods, hunted. The faster I try to run, the slower I advance. The ground swallows me up.”

“Wanda, I’ve had that dream too,” Mrs. Bowers said. “Except I’m not running through the woods, I’m in town shopping. It’s a beautiful day. I’m strolling along the shop fronts in Pack Square, but I feel someone watching me. I quicken my pace, and then suddenly the noisy street is quiet and I’m the only one around. The street opens up, engulfing me.”

I saw by their expressions that all the ladies of the Biltmore Society were sharing the same or similar nightmare. Its meaning eluded me. Wiccans’ dreams can be more real than reality. Their waking hours are veiled by the humans they walk among. As the ladies’ bloodline has thinned through the centuries by mixing with mortal blood, the human world has become more real than the Wiccan world. They cannot see the magic that surrounds them. The wonder that this world and the next hold for them. In their dreams the true world awakens.

“Terra, what about the ninth Wiccan we need to complete our circle? You said a true coven has nine,” Mrs. Stickman said.

“The ninth will find us when it’s time,” I told her. “While we wait, we will concentrate on strengthening your individual powers. Study your notebooks, learn your potions and incantations.”

Mrs. Twiggs brought out a three-tier tray of homemade butter cookies. Pixel swiped his paw and knocked one off onto the floor and then moaned when Tracker gobbled it up. “Bad Tracker. Bad Tracker,” Pixel scolded, swatting the puppy with a paw. Tracker’s ghost violet eyes did not blink. Even though Pixel and Tracker had become great companions, lines were drawn when it came to table scraps, especially baked goods.

“I’ll stop by each of your homes to help you with your training,” I said.

Mrs. Twiggs continued stirring her cauldron in the fire. “I just can’t get this right.” She turned to the ladies.

I leaped off the table and ran to the cauldron. Standing on my back paws, I took a deep breath. “It’s missing hogweed.”

“Hogweed?” Mrs. Twiggs repeated. “There’s no mention of hogweed in the recipe.”

“These recipes have changed throughout the centuries. They need tweaking, or sometimes the person writing them down might have left off an ingredient. I can smell hogweed is missing, and it feels to me as if that is what is needed,” I said.

“Where do I find hogweed?”

“The hogweed we need is not found in North Carolina. What we need was originally from Asia and then brought to Ontario as an ornamental plant. We’re going to have to visit Karen Owen.”

Mrs. Twiggs returned to the kitchen. Instead of more tea, she brought out sherry glasses and a decanter. As the women talked and cackled into the night, I sat by the fire with Abigail, who held Pixel on her lap. I thought about what Pixel had said and how the potion had awoken something in him even though I knew it had no strength.

“What wrong, Terra, what wrong? Why you look at me? Pixel bad?” Pixel leaped off Abigail’s lap, tackling me and biting my ear. “Sorry about cookie.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. The whole world could be crumbling down around us, and Pixel would still be worried about a cookie crumb. His bravery and his appetite had no bounds.

Abigail smiled, watching us tumble and wrestle. Pixel made me feel more cat than witch. I gave into my feline urges when he was around.

Abigail and I waited on the front porch as Mrs. Twiggs said good night to the ladies and walked them out to their cars. Abigail sat on the rocking chair with Tracker at her feet. I sat on the railing, watching as the ladies drove into the night, my tail slashing like a metronome keeping time. In the distance I could hear the cracking of the oaks, thorn, and ash as the enchanted trees opened the road, allowing the ladies to pass. As quickly as they went by, the trees closed back over the road.

“Double, double toil and trouble.” Abigail glanced up as she stirred her tea. “Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

I turned to stare at her. “Anne Hathaway was a witch. Her family name was Hawthorne. You don’t think Shakespeare came up with that line himself, do you? His wife was more than his muse. Many of the great women in history were witches.”

“I was kidding. I didn’t mean anything.”

“Be careful what words you speak, Abigail Oakhaven. For a witch as powerful as you, words hold great magic.”

Abigail shrugged and retreated into the cabin, leaving me in the darkness.