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  Willa gasped when the droplets of water on the window lifted from the glass and sailed through the air, arcing over to the woman’s outstretched palm. The water gathered there until she cupped a small puddle. Then, she brought the water to her mouth and drank, sighing heavily as the cold water trickled down her throat and chin.

  The woman then took a few more hesitant steps toward the window, gazing out with a longing that brought tears to Willa’s eyes. Slowly, cautiously, like prey emerging in the presence of the predator, the prisoner lifted her left hand and reached out through the crooked opening. As the rain hit her skin, making divots in the grime, the woman actually laughed, an aberrant sound in the dismal prison.

  Fascinated, Willa watched her hand dip and undulate, dancing and weaving through the raindrops. Some of the despair and damage drained from the woman’s face, replaced by a serene glow. Then, quick as a snake, the woman retracted her hand, startled by a small noise outside.

  The woman gazed down at her hand, tracing the marks made by the raindrops.

  A loud scraping noise came from the top of the stairs. Instantly, the woman cowered and hurried back to her wall. She stood, trembling, staring up at the door at the top of the stairs with wide, fearful eyes. Willa followed her and waited, her heart racing, her muscles tensed with anticipation.

  Several bolts slid out of place before the door pulled open. Harsh light spilled down the stairs and a figure descended, hidden in the light. Willa squinted, trying to see who it was. She could tell it was a man, but his whole figure was blurred, as if she was seeing him through murky water.

  The woman put a hand out to steady herself against the wall, but she stood her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. Despite knowing this was a dream and she could do nothing, Willa placed herself next to the woman.

  The man, the captor, stopped in front of his prisoner, his bulky, solid form looming over her. A dagger flashed in his right hand and Willa wanted to cry out a warning.

  “Wynter?” he said in a hauntingly suave voice. There was some implied question in the woman’s name that Willa didn’t understand.

  Wynter swallowed twice, kept her chin lifted and answered in a surprisingly steady voice, “No.”

  Even with his figure blurred, Willa saw the man’s jaw set, the muscles in his right arm tense. With a startling swiftness, he threw himself at Wynter, pinning her to the wall and locking her right arm in a crushing grip. She tried to pull away, but his strength far outweighed hers. Willa, now panicking, stood next to the woman, close enough to hear the change in her breathing. Willa’s own chest grew tight with fear and dread of what would come next. She wanted desperately to stop what she knew was coming, but she was helpless, only a static observer.

  The man set the tip of his long, slender dagger to the skin of Wynter’s forearm just above the last festering, red cut. He brought his face within a breath of Wynter’s and she squirmed, trying to free herself. The air in the room shifted, turning colder, and once again Willa was able to feel what Wynter felt. Her captor was pushing into her thoughts, somehow forcing an image into her brain. Willa saw it clearly in her own head: Wynter standing in a circle with her captor and ten others, blackness all around them. He wanted her to accept the image, to want it, to agree to it.

  “No!” Wynter affirmed, banishing the image from her and Willa’s minds. Willa stood breathless as the man leaned his weight into Wynter, pressing her harder against the rough stone wall.

  Wynter pushed her teeth together and met his cold stare.

  Slowly—torturously slowly—he pressed the blade into her flesh and then pulled back, opening the skin, two white petals splitting back to reveal red. Fiery pain race up Willa’s arm. Hot blood rushed out of Wynter’s wound in a sickening gush; she cried out in pain.

  Then she snapped her head to the side and met Willa’s wide eyes. “Help me!”

  Simon lurched, awakened by Willa screaming and thrashing beside him. Startled and disoriented he reached for her. She swung her arms, hitting him across the face and chest. He ducked and tried to dodge her next blow. More powerful than her thrashing were the emotions pouring out of her: despair, desperation, and thick, frantic fear.

  What the hell?

  When he finally managed to get a hold of her arms, she screamed louder and started kicking.

  “Willa! Willa! It’s me.” He gripped her arms and brought his face close to hers. “Willa, what’s wrong?”

  She stopped thrashing, but her eyes remained wide and wild. The look on her face sent a chill down his spine. Her eyes pulled from him as she studied the small living room with its few framed nature photos, TV, and couch. Dull light from the streetlamps streamed in through the blinds on the two small windows behind the couch. “Simon?” she gasped.

  “Yeah, it’s me. What’s going on?”

  Willa collapsed against him, exhausted. “A dream.”

  He put his arms around her. “Must have been some dream.”

  “It was. It was the most powerful, terrible dream I’ve ever had.” She turned her face into his chest. “It was awful.” Tears rushed to her eyes, and soon, Simon’s shirt was spotted and wet. He held her tight, kissed her hair.

  “What was it?” he whispered.

  For a moment, Willa didn’t respond. Simon could feel her struggle to come out of the emotional after-shock of the dream. One image flashed in his mind, pulled from hers—the glint of light on a sharp blade. He shuddered.

  After several deep breaths and being in the comfort of his arms, she told him everything. He listened quietly, his hold on her tightening with each terrible detail. “She needs my help, Simon. What am I going to do? I have no idea where she is.”

  Simon exhaled. “Oh my, Willa. I have no idea. There was no clue at all as to where that basement might be?” Her desperation to act became his and his mind whirled, searching for an answer, an action.

  “None. I’ve never seen it before. The only thing I could see out the small window was grass and rain.” Her face crumpled. “Oh, my gosh! He’ll kill her unless I get there. I can feel it. She’ll die. She’ll die.” Willa broke down into sobs and Simon tucked her into his chest again, stroking her hair.

  He said the only thing he could say. “Okay, okay. We’ll figure it out. We’ll find a way to help her. I promise.”

  Chapter 9

  New Moon

  Present Day, October

  Ruby Plate’s ghost stood under the giant canopy of the weeping willow’s branches in her own backyard as October’s first cold rain beat down on the earth. Ruby’s soul was tethered here and had been since the day of her death so long ago. At first she’d been delighted to be around to watch over her granddaughter, Amelia, but now she was full of bitterness.

  For years she’d watched her beautiful home fall to pieces, and now there was a Dark witch sleeping under her roof. The witch who infected her home, a virus that destroyed and devoured all that was once beautiful and strong, was talented and determined. All her attempts to stop him, get rid of him, had been met with strong resistance. Her own magic had mostly been lost with her death and there was little she could do. She couldn’t even get to the poor Light witch in her basement. She could feel that the woman was fading quickly, the fight bleeding out of her.

  To watch this Dark witch darken her doorstep and torture the life and magic out of a Light witch was like death repeated day after day. It was like her soul and heart were being constantly polluted. All her hard work to make this home and this town a haven for magic . . .

  How did this happen? How do I fix it?

  There had to be something she could do. Why else would her soul be stuck here? Ruby felt if she could right this wrong, then she’d finally be able to cross over to the Otherworld and find peace with Charles, her husband.

  Oh, how she missed him!

  Ruby shook the thoughts of his face and hands from her head and tried to focus on the task at hand. Ignoring the rain, she moved to the basement window and looked down at Wynter, who was asl
eep, sitting against the wall. Ruby sensed that some magic still clung to Wynter, enough to fight Holmes, but not defeat him. And not enough to free her from the basement. Ruby had tried all she was capable of doing and her creativity was now stretched thin, her ideas drying up like a puddle in the desert. This frustrated her beyond words. In life no one could match her power; she was not accustomed to weakness.

  He would cut Wynter again soon. Ruby had forced herself to watch every offense of his blade, fueling her determination to stop it. She could still remember the sensation of pain—she felt each and every cut of Holmes’s knife she couldn’t prevent.

  Ruby suddenly felt like a prisoner herself, chained to the house, powerless to serve any great purpose other than annoying the Dark witch now inhabiting her haven.

  She raised her eyes to the shadowy night. Why? What do I do?

  Wynter moaned in her sleep. It was too much to stand. Ruby had to get away from the sight of the poor witch withering in her basement. She returned to the willow and sat against the trunk. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, open her heart to the Powers of the Earth. There had to be a way to reach the magic, to beg for help.

  Saturday night after the dreadful dream at Simon’s apartment on Friday, Willa had the dinner shift at the diner. Simon was at a night class and her parents had the car for a date to the symphony in Denver. This meant she’d have to walk home.

  Of course, ten minutes before the end of her shift it began to rain.

  She stood at the back door of the diner, staring despondently at the icy October rain dripping off the small awning, puddling on the cement. The day had already gone badly. The dreadful dream lingered with her, an emotional hangover she couldn’t shake. The woman’s—Wynter’s—damaged figure followed her every thought and haunted her every action. Her morning classes had been a waste of time and the diner had been extra busy. As if those weren’t hard enough, now she had to walk home in the freezing rain.

  I should really get my own car.

  Willa pulled the hood of her inadequate jacket up over her head and sighed before dashing out into the rain. Within a minute the cold water had soaked through her jacket, shirt, skirt, and shoes. She hurried as fast as she could, but it made no difference. Head bent against the weather, she focused on the pavement, the familiar cracks and stains on the sidewalk enough to get her home. But as she neared Plate’s Place, a coil of instinct moved up her spine. Willa slowed her steps.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and she shivered. All she wanted was to get home to a hot shower, but she couldn’t ignore the urge to slow and look up at Ruby’s house. Ever since the mysterious man—rumors around town said he was only known by the name Holmes—had moved in, Willa had avoided the house. He made her nervous, uneasy. Over the last few months, she’d only seen him a few times, mostly from a distance, but the sight of him always induced a ripple of cold fear in her stomach. He’d done nothing to improve the state of the house. In fact, it seemed to have aged another decade since his arrival, looking worse than ever. On top of all that, he’d hit that poor dog without bothering to stop.

  Looking up at the derelict structure, Willa felt immensely sad. Her desire to rescue the house welled up in her throat and she found herself fighting tears. She shook her head. I really need a shower and some solid, dream-free sleep.

  Willa took a step, ready to hurry on home, but was stopped by a ripple of movement on the side of the house. Stepping back, she peered down the side yard, trying to see through the curtain of rain and darkness.

  At first, all she could make out was a white shape. Then there was movement. Automatically, Willa took a few more steps forward, moving off the sidewalk and onto the yellowed grass of the front yard, the neglected lawn protesting with a squashy crunch.

  Finally, her mind was able to reconcile the image, the force of her realization rocked her back on her heels.

  The hand. Wynter’s hand!

  Just like in her dream, Wynter’s hand, wrist, and part of her forearm protruded from the open slit, a round peg in a square hole. Her fingers moved in small waves, undulating in the raindrops, weaving them over her skin like silk over a loom.

  In the feeble light of the street lamps, Willa could see the spots where raindrops had penetrated the layers of dirt, almost like divots in the skin. She squinted harder, the jagged ridges of the scars now caught the light.

  A stumbling step back.

  Willa’s eyes shot up to the house. All the lights were off. She tried to remember if Holmes’s truck had been in the driveway and started to move toward the window, the weight of her steps producing a subtle squelching sound in the grass. It was barely audible, but it was enough—Wynter’s hand had disappeared. Willa almost lunged after it, wanting to dive to the ground and look in the window, call out to the trapped woman, scream that she was going to help, but the sound of a vehicle made her turn.

  Oh, no. No!

  Holmes pulled into the driveway.

  Willa stumbled back to the sidewalk, her body tight with panic, her hair, neck, and face soaked with freezing rain. Torn between the need to help Wynter and the desire to get away from Holmes, she could only stand and gape at the vehicle and its occupant.

  What do I do?

  Holmes emerged from his truck.

  Willa cringed and wished she could evaporate into the air. It only took him a second to find her and meet her eyes with a powerful stare. Move! She screamed to herself. She fumbled with her jacket, as if she had stopped to adjust it and not to discover the secret in this man’s basement. He blinked several times and then stared, straightening up, cocking his head. His sharp-as-steel gaze assaulted her, dangerous and exposing.

  Just walk. Walk past him.

  Willa wanted to look back to the window, but she found her eyes locked with his. Cold moved through her body, sinking deep into the marrow of her bones. Something in his eyes . . . He wasn’t just looking at her, he was looking in her. Oh, no. No. Just a person walking home from work. No hand. No secret. I don’t know.

  The cold inside her worsened. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to force her weakening legs to move faster. Holmes’s sharp eyes narrowed. He slammed his truck door shut. Willa jumped at the sound, her racing heart threatened to break out of her ribs. She gripped her purse and prepared to run, run as fast as she could, but Holmes turned and walked away from her, toward the house.

  Willa almost cried out in relief. When she heard the side door slam shut, she broke into a run, her feet slapping hard against the wet sidewalk.

  Holmes stood in the living room of the old house, peering out the window at the rain-drenched street. His phone was tucked between his shoulder and his ear.

  “Any luck, Holmes?” Archard demanded.

  “No, Archard. I just tried again and Wynter still refuses, but I can feel her increasing weakness. Her roots in the magic are almost dead. I’ll push more assaults. It should only be a few more days.”

  “I hope you’re right. Our window of opportunity has now shrunk to a pinhole. Time is short.”

  “I’m aware of that. I promise it will be done in the next few days.” A car drove by and Holmes eyed it suspiciously, but it didn’t slow.

  “Don’t fail me. Our circle must be complete for the blood moon.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Any other problems?”

  Silence. Holmes checked the street again, uneasy.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I have a ghost.”

  Archard sighed irritably. “So what? It’s just a ghost.”

  “Yes, well, this ghost doesn’t seem to approve of what I’m doing in the basement.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Holmes frowned, biting back a rush of temper. “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else, Holmes?” Archard now sounded bored and anxious to end the conversation.

  “Well . . .”

  “Well what?”

  “A girl,” Holmes said flatly.
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  “What girl? What about her?”

  Holmes moved to another window and looked through the tattered curtains. “I’m not really sure. There was a girl walking past the house tonight and I sensed something from her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Magic.”

  Archard scoffed. “That’s not possible. We checked the whole town. There are no other witches left in Twelve Acres.”

  “I know that, Archard, but . . .”

  “But nothing. If the girl is an undiscovered witch, then she is no threat to us. Forget about her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. Call me as soon as Wynter breaks.”

  Holmes ended the call and frowned down at the phone. He then went to check the yard from the kitchen window.

  Chapter 10

  New Moon

  November 1930

  Amelia stood beneath the curtain of willow branches, hidden and safe within their embrace. A crisp autumn breeze caressed the branches, gently pulling a few slender, yellow leaves away with it. The sky above was velvety dark and dotted with stars, but the moon was nowhere in sight. Amelia looked down at the red pouch in her hand.

  New moon. A time for healing and a time for beginnings.

  She slipped the final ingredient, a red quartz crystal, into a pouch and cinched the purse strings. The accompanying puff of air smelled of the other ingredients: earthy allspice, sharp black peppercorns, and comforting thyme. Everything she needed for a courage spell. She thought briefly of doubling the contents of the pouch; she needed more courage than she thought existed in the whole world.