Undead Girl Gang(9)

“Most magic is just telling the universe you’re thankful to be here,” Riley had said that day before closing her eyes to light the first candle.

I hope that I’ve been thankful enough to have built up some brownie points with the universe. I need a big favor right now.

After lighting a stick of incense—rose, for luck, and because it’s the best for covering the rodent stench—I yank down the books by the handful, making a stack on the floor. I know that it’s unlikely that I’ll find a way to use magic to uncover a murderer in Sexual Sorcery: Lust Spells for the Hedgewitch, but I’m not going to leave a single stone unturned here. I sit on my backpack to keep the dust off my jeans and turn on the noise-canceling app on my phone that I normally use for studying. It makes the house sound like it’s trapped in a rainstorm, which kind of adds to the whole Hogwarts library vibe of the day. I flip through every page of every book, reading carefully. I understand that finding a “Hey, Here’s Who Killed Your Friend” spell might be a bit of a stretch, but I’m not above patching together a variety of spells. I make a list of stones and herbs that inspire people to tell the truth, and I dog-ear a spell for opening your third eye to see into the past—though that one only works in dreams, which would require me to actually sleep.

I wonder if I should track down a Ouija board and just let Riley herself guide my hand . . .

I squeeze my eyes shut, dizzied by how stupid this feels. Maybe my parents and my sisters and Dr. Miller are right. Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I snapped the second my mom shook me awake and whispered, “There’s been an accident,” in my half-dreaming ear. I hadn’t believed her. I clung to her shoulders until her forehead crinkled in pain and her brown eyes started to leak tears. My mom isn’t much of a crier. She prefers to choke down all her feelings and let them out in fizzing bursts.

She had left me alone in my room. The first thing I did was roll over and grab my phone, the impulse to text Riley and ask if it was true so strong that it momentarily wiped away my reasoning. And then I dropped the phone onto the carpet. My nails clawed into my sheets. My body writhed, possessed by blinding pain. That’s when the screaming started, rising out of me without my permission. Guttural screams tore through my throat until I was sure my esophagus would crack and bleed, leaving me permanently silenced.

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.