Maybe that’s the moment I snapped.
I could go home now, change into my pajamas, and hunker down with a steady stream of Disney movies and hot cocoa until I can stand to face the world without my friend. I could drag out my old jewelry supplies—abandoned when my crafting turned to spellwork—and count seed beads onto string. How many bracelets could I make before I successfully brainwashed myself into ignoring everything I know about Riley and buying the lie the police fed us about the Fairmont Academy suicide pact?
Something thumps outside, yanking me back to the here and now as my skin ices over with fear. I realize that I have never been in the house alone before. Normally, I’d look to Riley. She’s the one with a plan. Without her, I’m aimless.
I swallow. The air is thick with floral smoke. It sticks in the back of my throat as my boots creep across the floor. It’s probably raccoons under the porch or the wind rattling through the shutters. My fingers start to tremble, but I open the door anyway, swiftly, ready to run past whoever is lurking on the other side and straight on until I make it back to my car.
But there’s no one there. The porch rattles under my feet, and in the distance, a car radio fades up the winding road. No one ever drives all the way out here. Even Riley and I have always been careful to park up at the top of the long tree-lined driveway and walk down so that no one spots us trespassing.
Something catches my eye. Under one of the boarded-up windows near the front of the house is a white box. It stands out starkly against the porch.
A FedEx box.
Of course. I’ve never been here for a drop-off before. I forgot that I’m supposed to be at school. The world is a different place between eight and four.
It takes some balancing to get from one side of the porch to the other. The wood creaks under my weight, and I think of Riley’s rough laugh when we first started exploring the house. “It’s old as hell, Mila. It doesn’t care how much you weigh. It’ll screech under any weight at all.”
I pick up the box. It’s addressed to Serafina Pekkala, care of Yarrow House.
Serafina Pekkala is the witch from The Golden Compass, one of Riley’s all-time favorite books.
My pulse quickens. Riley bought almost all her supplies at Lucky Thirteen. But every now and then she’d find something online that Toby didn’t have in the store, usually from the Hoodwitch or the Wiccan superstore in the Bay Area. And she’d have it delivered here under the name of whatever famous witch she thought of while she was checking out. There had been a book of sigils for Strega Nona, a bottle of pure cardamom oil for Winifred Sanderson, and a set of Alice in Wonderland tarot cards delivered to Pansy Parkinson—Riley was firmly pro-Slytherin.
The box clutched in my hands, I run back into the kitchen, not remembering to be mindful of the loose planks. The door rattles shut behind me. My head swivels as I push aside the bric-a-brac on the shelves, searching. Cold metal touches my palm, and I give a squeak of victory as I pull the ceremonial dagger off the shelf. Its handle, inset with a gigantic fake ruby, glints in the dim light. Despite its six-inch-long blade, Riley and I never used it for anything except cutting twine off the dried herbs. Toby gave it to us as part of a Black Friday sale last year. It’s a silly thing, basically a gigantic fancy letter opener. But the edge is sharp enough. I plunge it into the tape holding the box together, slicing open the cardboard and peeling it back.
Inside is the oldest book I’ve ever seen. The cover is smooth, like the most worn parts of my Doc Martens. The spine is rough red fabric. There is no title anywhere to be seen. And no receipt to give it away.
Letting the dagger and the box fall to the floor, I settle the book gently into my lap. It is massive, almost too wide for me to hold in my hands. The pages smell like a thousand used bookstores as I turn them. The font is as absurdly ceremonial as the dagger—faux German-looking, as though every single page should start with Once upon a time . . . Except they don’t say that. Instead they say things like Coax the Rain from the Sky and Draw the Rot from the Heart of Your Enemies.
Each spell is more dramatic than the last, with ingredients lists longer than any I’ve ever seen before. I don’t know how many spells I read through before I get to the last one. Nothing else matters once I reach the page that says, The Seven-Day Breath of Life. In spidery handwriting, there’s an annotation next to the spell’s title in rust-colored ink. It says, Lazarus.
Hot tears spill out of the corners of my eyes for the first time in two days. I know wherever Riley is, she sent this book to me. She gave me something more valuable than her killer’s name. She sent me the key to bringing her back. If magic is about being grateful, I’m more grateful than I’ve ever been before. There’s hope. For the first time since Riley went down to the creek, something other than darkness cracks open in my chest.
“Thanks, friend,” I whisper.
FOUR
ON THE OUTSIDE, the magic-supply shop is a cute yellow Victorian house with wisteria vines dripping down from its white gingerbread trim. It’s in the middle of a row of similarly pastel houses, a block over from the heart of downtown Cross Creek. Most people wouldn’t notice it at all except there’s usually spillover parking from the movie theater in front of it. Even then, they’d have to notice the small sign in the window: Blessed Be, We’re Open.
Or they’d have to do what Riley did when we were in middle school and Google “Wiccan supplies near me.” That’s the only way we even knew to call it Lucky Thirteen since it isn’t written anywhere on the outside.
My eyeliner is smudged from my quick cry at Yarrow House, but I rub it under my lashes with my thumb until it’s punk-rock smudgy instead of sad-girl runny. It wasn’t that neat to begin with. My hands have been wracked with lack-of-sleep tremors for the last couple of days. The adrenaline coursing through me isn’t helping. My heart is racing like it’s Christmas morning.
I can bring her back. I can fix this.
I leave my backpack in the trunk of my car so that my truancy is less obvious. My parents haven’t called my phone yet, so I figure I’ve got until the end of the school day until Fairmont tells them that I left. I might as well make the most of my free time.
The moment I’m through the door with the bells tinkling behind me, I’m crushed into Toby’s sharp freckled collarbones. Every day, no matter what, she smells like medical marijuana and sandalwood, although when Riley and I first started hanging out at the store, we’d only been able to identify one of those scents.
Toby doesn’t look like the owner of a yellow Victorian house or a Wiccan store. She’s half a wrinkle away from looking more biker grandma than biker chick. Her skin is saddle-leather, pre-melanoma tan and covered in tattoos done by different artists. Her long hair might be white with bleach or age.
“Oh, Mila,” she says, stepping back but squeezing my shoulders to hold me in place. Her eyes scan my face wildly. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to the service. I knew I wouldn’t be welcome. But you haven’t left my thoughts.”
I flinch a smile at her. “Thanks. I’m okay.”