T*Witches: Double Jeopardy by H.B. Gilmour, Randi Reisfeld Page A

salt and brine. And something else, too. A jumble of odors that had nothing to do with this time and place. A fragrance at once stale and seductive that reminded her of the spirit she and Cam had once conjured, the awesome specter of Leila DuBaer, their grandmother.
    “Leila plus,” Cam whispered, grabbing Alex’s hand. “Don’t you get the feeling we’re not alone here? And I don’t mean just rabbits, squirrel, deer, and Dylan, either.”
    “Although he’s in the mix,” Alex confirmed. “I smell him, but faintly.”
    “Faintly is so not Dyl’s odor.” Cam laughed tensely. “Not in that laundry hamper he calls home.”
    “Uh, did you hear that?” Alex squeezed her sister’s fingers.
    “Nuh — no,” Cam stammered. “But something … icky … just brushed against my shoulder, Als.”
    “Like a cobweb?” Alex breathed in again. “Or a musty old robe or something?”
    “Old? How ’bout Jurassic? Talk about cold feet,” Cam said, feeling brackish water squishing in her shoes.
    “What’s that poem? ‘The woods are lovely, dark, anddeep, but I have promises to keep —’ You know, by Robert Frost.”
    “This can’t have been the woods he was talking about,” Cam ventured. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he were here.”
    “Who, Robert Frost? He’s dead.”
    “Duh,” Cam said.
    They slogged along, staring, sniffing, holding hands. “Bad thought,” Cam broke the silence. “What if this is a setup? What if Thantos led us here —”
    “For what?”
    Cam shrugged, then shrieked. “Something just … REACHED OUT AND TOUCHED ME!”
    “Ah, the woods are full of telephone commercials,” Alex tried to joke, then said seriously, “I smelled it, Cam. It’s … a person. People. You know, like Leila. Old … people.”
    “You mean dead people.” Cam cut to the chase.
    “Well … yeah. Spirits, ghosts, whatever. I think we’re … like, someplace we’re not supposed to be.”
    “Understatement alert,” Cam said. “But we can’t just evacuate the premises. Dylan’s here, too, right? You smelled him. I feel his presence.”
    An unexpected gust of warm air ruffled Alex’s hair and wafted against Cam’s cheek.
Go back, I pray you
, a deep, wounded voice urged.
    Alex ran her fingers over her head. The breeze had left her scalp tingling. “Did you hear that?” she whispered to Cam. “A woman’s voice. Young, sad …”
    “No.” Cam was stroking her cheek, where a feeling of comforting warmth still lingered.
    “Saddest voice I ever heard,” Alex murmured. “What is this place?”
    “A graveyard,” Cam answered, certain, but mystified about how she knew.
    Alex nodded. “It’s a witches’ graveyard. A … some kind of burial ground.”
    They were almost at the water’s edge. The sounds of the bay came to them, waves lapping against a shore, seabirds cawing. “Look! There’s the tree,” Cam said excitedly. “The one Dylan was leaning against —”
    If you love him, go back
, the voice warned again.
    Alex spun around. “Where are you? Who are you?” she asked, peering into the graying light.
    There was no one there, no answer.
    And then they saw Dylan! He was collapsed on the ground at the foot of the big tree. His eyes were closed. In his hands he clutched the predator’s cap.
    For the sake of him who loves you, go now
, the heartbroken voice whispered.
Do not lead him this way
.
    “Alex!” Cam’s shout brought her back to reality. Hersister was kneeling in the gritty mud beside Dylan, hugging him. “Hurry. He’s breathing! He’s okay, I think.”
    “Dylan!” Alex shouted, elated, rushing to them. Up close she could see that mixed in the dirt and mud smeared across Dyl’s face was a dried reddish-brown crust of blood. “He’s cut. That creep must have hit him —”
    Cam found a plastic container half buried in the sand. She rinsed and filled it with fresh seawater and hurried back to Dylan. As they washed his face, he stirred, came back to