She holds up a small item that’s little more than a blur in the candlelit room. I step closer, and realize what it is: a cutout of Chris Pine’s face, glued to a popsicle stick. In front of each of the cushions is another popsicle-stick-impaled hottie: Chris Evans, Idris Elba, Keanu Reeves, Antonio Banderas in his prime.
Oh. My. God. “I, well—I really don’t…” She looks so hopeful, I hate to disappoint her. “I, um, mainly read urban fantasy. Mrs. Fontaine could tell you. So I don’t think I’m the best judge.” My palm throbs, reminding me that I need to get home and dosomething about it. Here’s hoping aloe works on supernatural burns. “Like I said, I really need to?—”
“Sit.” The command comes from Ella Campbell, commonly known as Hot Yoga Grandma. But she doesn’t look remotely grandmotherly at the moment. In the light of the candles, her face looks angular, severe. Her eyes are dark hollows. “And open your hand.”
Crap, crap, crap. “My…hand?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, girl! After what I read in your cards today, we don’t have the luxury. Your hand. Open it, right now!”
I could disobey her. But instead I find myself sinking down onto the cushion Mrs. Fontaine indicated, cross-legged, my purse in my lap. In front of me, a candle flickers in the nonexistent breeze. Slowly, carefully, I unfold my hand from its fist and raise my palm.
Ella sucks in a breath, and the temperature in the room seems to drop a degree. “That symbol. It’s the same one I saw before, the one I drew for you. How did it come to be burned onto your palm?”
Her eyes are fixed on mine, those dark hollows drawing me in. “I don’t know,” I tell her, trembling. “Right after the power went out, I…I saw it. In the air. On the walls and the door of the room I was in. When I tried to get out, it…it marked me.”
“This is bad,” Mrs. Hernandez says in a monotone. “They have risen.”
What in the everlasting hell? “You recognize this symbol?” Ella and I say at the same time.
Mrs. Hernandez doesn’t answer. Instead, she yells, “Louise!”
There’s a scuffle in the other room, and then Mrs. Fontaine comes skidding into the room, enchiladas in hand. “Honestly, Dru,” she scolds, “there’s no need to yell. I almost tripped andspilled the whole plate. The wholeenchilada,one might say. If you could just be patient?—”
“Forget the enchiladas!” Mrs. Hernandez barks. “Look.” She grabs my wrist, her grip an iron fetter, and yanks my palm toward the firelight. The brand of the scroll and dagger stands out, an angry red against my pale flesh.
The plate of enchiladas falls to the floor, sauce and filling splashing everywhere. Mrs. Fontaine falls to her knees beside me, peering so closely at my hand that her silver-streaked hair falls forward, brushing the burn. “It’s happening,” she whispers.
I pull my hand back, clutching it to my chest. “What’shappening? Tell me what this symbol is! Why am I seeing it everywhere? Why is it on my hand? And how the hell can I get it off?”
Normally, I wouldn’t dream of cursing in front of Mrs. Fontaine. She’d probably smack me over the head with a ruler. But this time, she doesn’t react. “It’s the mark of the Blood Witches,” she says. “It hasn’t been seen in many a moon.”
Many a moon? What are we, in the 1800s? “The mark of…excuse me? What is a…a blood witch?” My voice cracks. Is that what Cooper really is? Is he responsible for this? I knew I was right not to trust him.
“Yes,” Ella says, glaring at Mrs. Fontaine. “What is a blood witch, Louise? And why is my body tingling all over? Don’t you dare say it’s because of your graphic description of that lake scene, or the next plate of enchiladas is going on your head.”
Mrs. Fontaine straightens, regarding the wreckage with disgust, as if she’s just realized what a mess she’s made. “First, I’ll clean this up,” she says. “And then, Rune and Ella…we need to talk.”
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Five minutes later,the enchiladas have been scrubbed away, the lightsstillhaven’t come back on, and I’m sitting in a circle with the Sinsters as Mrs. Fontaine clears her throat. It feels like storytime at the library, except my hand is burning and Mrs. Hernandez is nursing a giant glass of bourbon.
“What do you know about this?” I say, digging the piece of paper that Ella scrawled the scroll on out of my purse and holding it up in my good hand. “The mark of the Blood Witches, you called it? Why is it popping up everywhere I turn? Why is it burned into my freakingpalm?”
Mrs. Fontaine pales. “Who drew that? Was it you, Rune? Because that symbol is dangerous, and you can’t just leave it lying aro?—”
“I drew it.” Ella leans forward, getting so close to the candle in front of her that I’m afraid her boobs might catch fire.
“What do you mean, you drew it?” Mrs. Grant’s voice rockets upward, painfully close to a squeak. “Where did you see this?”
“In myhead.When I read Rune’s cards for the fair. Maybe if the three of you weren’t busy hoarding secrets, I would’ve known better. But no, you didn’t say a word, and now here we are.” Sheglares at the other Sinsters. “Answer Rune’s questions, if you please. And then I have some questions of my own.”
Mrs. Grant fidgets nervously on her cushion. “Before we explain about the Blood Witches, there’s something else you should know. We—Dru, Louise, and me—we’re…well, we’re a…”
“A coven,” Mrs. Fontaine says, her voice clear and firm. “All right? Now you know.”
Stunned silence falls over the room—or, at least the part of it that Ella and I inhabit. And then, despite everything, I start to giggle. “A…a coven? Are you saying you’re witches, too?”
