Spells Trouble - Kristin Cast (mobile ebook reader .txt) 📗

the death certificate and necessary burial permit.” He plucked a pen from the table and offered it to Hunter. “Mercy.” The creases of his forehead deepened as he went on, all the while speaking to the wrong twin. “Take your time. We’re in no rush.”

Hunter snatched the pen from the funeral director’s outstretched hand. “I’m Hunter, not Mercy.” Without reading the pages, she pressed the tip of the pen against the first paper and drew the loops and swishes of her practiced signature so hard the letters imprinted across the other four sheets.

“Apologies, Hunter.” Mr. Parrott cleared his throat and rubbed his palms against his thighs. “You girls wouldn’t happen to have your mother’s birth certificate or know if she created a will, would you?”

Mercy scooted to the edge of the settee and snatched the pen off of the table. “We want Abigail buried at home. Does it say that somewhere in these?” She picked up the pages and shook them. “I won’t sign anything if we can’t have our mother buried at our home.” Mercy’s wide-eyed, panicked gaze swung to Hunter. “I won’t sign these, H. I won’t!” She threw the papers down and they drifted to the floor.

Hunter gripped her sister’s knee. Mercy was sinking, pulled under by the anvil of grief she’d pressed into her heart.

Mr. Parrott swept up the papers and returned them to the table with an undisturbed grace that spoke to his years of handling the bereaved. “I will list the burial location when I file the permit. If there’s an issue, the city will get back to me quickly.”

“There won’t be an issue.” Tears splatted against Mercy’s shirt, darkening the heather gray fabric. “Our family members have been buried at our home for hundreds of years.”

The funeral director clasped his hands and nodded. “They have been, and Abigail will be, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

Hunter picked the pen up off the floor and handed it to Mercy. She met her twin’s eyes and telegraphed the look to her—sending her strength and understanding through their unbreakable bond. “Here, Mag. Let’s sign these and go home.”

Mercy nodded, a short, jerky movement, and wiped her face on her sleeve before taking the pen and signing each of the papers. When she was finished, Hunter wrapped her arm around her sister and helped her to her feet. Hunter needed to do something for Mercy. But the one person she would have gone to for advice was now waiting at the sheriff’s office to be claimed.

Eleven

The entire drive back toward their house from the Parrott Family Funeral Home, Hunter thought about how she could help Mercy and what her mother would have said. Every thought that occurred to her eventually led nowhere. She was alone and in the dark like she’d always been. By now, the stillness was a comfort, something to hold on to when the world turned inside out and true darkness fell. And it didn’t get darker than the death of Abigail Goode.

Mercy said nothing, did nothing as Hunter flipped on the turn signal and headed down Sycamore Street to take the long way home. A part of Hunter dreaded going back to their house, the hollow skeleton that had once been the most comforting place on earth. Her mother had been the marrow, the lifeblood, the heart. But what did that make her? What did that make Mercy? Were the sisters walking shadows that took up space without giving anything back in return? Hunter rubbed her tight, dry lips together. Her mother hadn’t felt that way about her daughters. And neither should Hunter. Perhaps the Goode sisters each held a piece of marrow and blood and heart. And if Hunter could bring their home back to life, she could definitely figure out a way to revive her sister.

With a sigh, Mercy blew Hunter’s thoughts right out the window. She strained against her seat belt, turned to face Hunter, and folded her legs up under her before stilling again and resuming her listless stare out the window as Hunter guided the car through the quaint neighborhood that framed Main Street. Each house was a cupcake, fatter than they were tall and each decorated in a different shade of pastel. If Hunter had more experience driving, she could get them home blindfolded and without GPS.

Mercy let out another sigh and rested the back of her head on the passenger window. “How are you so okay with everything? I feel like I’m dying.”

The trench in Hunter’s stomach deepened. It wasn’t an accusation, but it stung nonetheless. “I’m not okay with everything.” Hunter kept her eyes fixed on the road like it was the only thing preventing the car from careening into one of the cupcake houses.

“You don’t seem upset.”

This time Hunter did look at her sister. She opened her mouth to speak but wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to slam on the brakes and throw open the door and rush out into the middle of the street and curse the sky, the earth, the gods, whichever was responsible for taking her mother. But that would do her no good. And that would leave Mercy alone in her own darkness, her new darkness, and she wasn’t sure if Mercy could find her way out. Hunter closed her mouth and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“It’s just…” Mercy sagged deeper into the seat. “Business as usual for Hunter Goode.”

Hunter bit the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t her fault she was better at dealing with problems than Mercy, or that Mercy had the luxury of only having to face one devastating thing. It didn’t matter how many times Mercy had been there to comfort Hunter while she cried about her latest bullying tragedy, or how many times Mercy brewed Hunter a pot of healing tea and talked about problems as simple things, shimmering bubbles of pain that would eventually pop and leave no trace. Mercy had never fully understood Hunter’s pain because she’d had