Turner scowled. “This is some—”
The oak sprang alive in his palm, shooting toward the ceiling, spreading in a vast canopy of white salt branches, its roots exploding over the floor and knocking Tripp to the ground. They wrapped around Turner and sank into his skin. For a moment it was impossible to tell the tree from the man. Then the glimmering branches evaporated.
Mercy was the last. Alex helped her balance as she tipped into the cauldron. She drew out a prancing horse, its mane flowing like water behind it.
As soon as Mercy set her feet back on the floor, the horse sprouted wings and reared back on its hind legs. It circled the room, seeming to grow larger and larger, its hooves shaking the ground. It leapt directly at Mercy, who screamed and threw up her hands in defense. The horse vanished into her chest, and for a moment, two massive wings seemed to extend from Mercy’s back.
She murmured a word Alex didn’t understand. She was beaming.
“We need to cleanse the ash,” said Dawes.
“Wait,” said Tripp. “There’s something else in there.”
He tipped over the edge of the crucible again and plucked a sixth salt figure from the leavings.
“A cat?” Turner asked, peering at the sculpture in his palm.
Dawes released a sob and pressed her hand over her mouth.
“Not just any cat,” Alex said, feeling an unwelcome ache in the back of her throat.
There was a scar across one of the cat’s eyes, and there was no mistaking that indignant face. The ritual had chosen Cosmo as Darlington’s guardian, although she doubted that was the cat’s true name. She remembered the white cat she’d seen in the old man’s memories. Just how long had this creature been around?
“Will they really protect us?” Tripp asked.
“They should,” said Dawes. “If you’re under threat, lick your wrist or your hand or … I guess anywhere you can reach.” “Gross,” said Mercy.
Dawes pursed her lips. “The alternate spell requires that I remove someone’s tibia to stir the pot.”
“No, thank you,” said Turner.
“I can make it fairly painless.”
“No, thank you. ”
Alex remembered the address moths Darlington had used to remove her tattoos, a gift he’d given her, an attempt to show her that the uncanny might be good for something other than causing her misery. This was the cozy
magic of childhood imagining. Friendly spirits offering protection. Cats and snakes and winged beasts to stand guard over their hearts. She tucked the salt Cosmo into her pocket, beside the Arlington Rubber Boots box she carried with her everywhere now. She needed magic to work for them for once. If they could bring Darlington home, if they could drag those demons back where they belonged … well, who knew what might be possible? Maybe she wouldn’t have to be haunted by Hellie or Darlington or anything else anymore. Maybe the Lethe board would take pity on her. She could make them the same offer she’d made Anselm. She’d happily barter her gifts if it meant she got to keep the keys to this kingdom.
“How soon can we try to go back?” Alex asked.
Dawes clicked her tongue against her teeth, calculating. “The full moon is in three days. We should wait until then. The door will open for us. It just won’t be easy this time.”
“Easy?” Turner asked in disbelief. “I don’t want to go through every damn minute of the worst moment of your lives again. Thank you very much.”
“I mean the portal will be harder to open,” said Dawes. “Because we won’t have the advantage of Halloween.”
“I don’t think so,” said Alex. “That thing is going to swing open wide for us.”
“Why?”
“Because something on the other side is going to be pushing on it, trying to get through. The tough part is going to be closing it up again.”
“We should…” Dawes chewed the inside of her cheek as if she’d stored words there for winter. “We should be prepared for … something worse.”
Tripp dragged his Yale sailing cap off his head, leaving his hair rumpled.
Alex noticed his hairline was starting to recede. “Worse?”
“Demons love puzzles. They love tricks. They won’t just let us walk back into their realm and play the same script twice.”
Tripp looked like he wanted to crawl into the crucible and never come out. “I don’t know if I can do it all over again.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Mercy said. Her voice was harsh, and Tripp looked like he’d been slapped. But Alex finally understood why Mercy
disliked Tripp so intensely. He was too much like Blake. He wasn’t a predator—his only cruelty was the casual kind, the blade of having more than everyone else and not quite knowing that was a weapon in his hands— but on the surface, he was cut from the same smug cloth.
“We all have a choice,” said Turner.
Alex opened her mouth to argue—that they didn’t if they wanted to live without torment, that they still had debts to pay—when she smelled smoke.
“Something’s burning,” she said.
They charged down the stairs.
“The kitchen!” Turner shouted.
But Alex knew Dawes hadn’t left the stove on.
