Undead Girl Gang(10)

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.”

She releases me and starts to weave between the round tables set around what had once been the living room of the little house. I always wondered if Riley felt comfortable here because she also lived in the same building as her family’s business.

Unlike the Greenway Funeral Home, not much has been done to disguise this room’s original use. A velvet rope is stretched across the bottom of the staircase next to the door, keeping people from wandering up to Toby’s bedroom. The long glass case with the cash register blocks the path to the hallway leading to the rest of the house; packs of tarot cards and handblown glass wands sit inside the case, obscuring the view of what’s beyond. The fireplace is uncovered, stacked with wood waiting for the cold to deepen. There are expensive statues lining the mantel and the windowsills. The books on the built-in bookcases sit face-out with neon orange price tags stuck to their covers.

There are no other customers. There rarely are.

Toby scoops small gemstones into her palm and opens a tiny velvet sachet to pour them into. I recognize the beginnings of a charm bag. I have one in my underwear drawer to summon my true love to me—way to ignore the call, Xander—and one in the glove compartment in my car that’s supposed to increase my luck—which it failed to do the day that Dan Calalang dinged my side door.

“Now would be a good time for you to come join my circle,” Toby says, pivoting toward the farthest wall. A scoop of dried rosemary goes into the bag, followed by salt. Sometimes, magic looks a lot like how my mom prepares chicken. Riley would say that’s because food is magic, too. “I always worried about you girls practicing on your own, away from a guiding hand. Too many prepackaged, inorganic spells. Plastic will choke your magic like soda-can rings around a duck’s neck. The Goddess can’t reach you through fossil fuels.”