September 15, 1971

The sky in the color of steel today, and the bitter wind has begun to blow from the North. The flags are flying at half-mast, and there seems to be a hush over the town of Gloucester. We heard this morning that the Lady Marie went down in last night’s storm.

All five fishermen abroad are believed dead-Captain James Dallman, Tim Flanagan, Arnold Jenning, Jason Dallman, and Andrew Lewis. The storm came up so suddenly that the men on board weren’t even able to radio for help. They sank fifty miles off Eastern Point.

They haven’t found the bodies.

Sam has been quiet all day. He knew Andrew Lewis pretty well. We all did, actually-Drew grew up only two blocks from our house. He was two years older than I am and was a big baseball in the neighborhood games and taught them how to field and bat. Sam looked up to him.

Some people said that Drew should have tried for a career in baseball-he evn got a college scholarship to play. But Drew just wanted to be a fisherman like his dad. He didn’t want to leave Gloucester.

And now he’s gone. Of course, that’s the risk you take, being a fisherman. It’s a dangerous job. Not even all the magick of Wicca can save you from the full force of a storm.

— Sarah Curtis

“Let me take you home.” Hunter stood over me, worry etching fine lines around his mouth. “I’ve finished with the sigils. There isn’t much else we can do tonight.”

When I stood, I felt like every muscle in my body was aching. The night’s tension had made me stiff.

Erin and Sky were talking together in the living room, and they both seemed subdued as we said good-bye. Still, there was something in Erin’s gaze as she looked at me that seemed sharp and wary. I felt like I had spent the evening under a microscope. I was on edge until Hunter and I were safely tucked into his beat-up Honda. He turned the key in the ignition, and we were off.

As we neared a heavily wooded dip in the road, the fog grew thicker and Hunter had to slow the car. My senses snapped to alert. The road revealed itself only a yard at a time, and deer were known to dart out onto the asphalt. It could be very dangerous.

Hunter slowed even further as we headed into a curve that I knew all too well. It was here, almost two months before, that Cal had suddenly reappeared after he and his mother had left Widow’s Vale. It had been a dark night like this one, and Cal had been standing right in the middle of the road. At the memory, the hair on the back of my neck began to prickle, and without even realizing it, I cast out my senses.

I felt nothing. I exhaled slowly, trying to calm myself. There’s nothing here, I told myself. Focus on your breathing and calm down. Another deep inhale and Hunter was easing around the curve, beginning to accelerate slightly. I felt better.

Just then, Hunter slammed on the brakes and the car swerved sickeningly.

Someone was standing in the middle of the road.

“Cal!” An involuntary cry escaped me.

Goddess, help me, I thought desperately. Hunter muttered curses and fought with the steering wheel. I felt the jarring pressure of the seat belt across my chest as we came to a sudden skidding stop and I was thrown forward in my seat. We were half on, half off the shoulder.

I turned to make sure Hunter was okay and saw that his eyes were huge. He was staring straight ahead, still gripping the steering wheel. In front of us, the figure in the fog had not moved.

I stared at it, my lips moving dumbly for a moment before I realized that it wasn’t Cal—at least, not in any incarnation I knew. The figure had a human form, but it was shadowy and indistinct. It looked vaguely female. Who—or what—was it?

I leaned forward to look at it more closely and saw that it seemed to be part of the mist—as if the fog itself were struggling to come to life. For a moment I thought it was an optical illusion, a trick of mist and light, but then the figure actually turned and looked directly at us. Its eyes seemed to see, and it gazed at us mournfully. Sadness gripped me with iron claws. Holding my breath, I didn’t dare to look away.

I reached for Hunter’s hand and found that it was icy. After a long moment the figure disappeared.

“What was that?” I whispered.

Hunter didn’t respond. Instead he merely closed his eyes, and I knew that he was pouring every ounce of concentration he had into casting out his senses. I leaned back against the plush car seat and did the same. Around us, by the side of the road and into the forest, I cast out with my mind. I felt the heartbeats of a brood of young fox kits, frightened by the footstep of a doe nearby. I sensed a small field mouse and the silent swoop of an owl overhead, diving toward its prey in an elegant, deadly arc. I felt the quietness of the trees, their collective silence that had stood sentry and witness, rooted to that spot, in some cases, for over a century.

But there was no human presence in the woods.

A shudder rippled through Hunter, and I knew that he had felt what I had. Nothing.

“Was it—” Thinking again of Cal, I felt my body grow cold. “Do you think it was—a ghost?”

I didn’t even know whether such a thing was possible, but Hunter didn’t laugh at me. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.

Something about his tone of voice made me ask, “Do you think it could be another message from your parents?”

For a moment Hunter was silent. “Yes,” he said finally. “It could be. But it could also have been a number of other things.” I realized that Hunter was holding back, but I didn’t ask him what he was thinking. I could guess. Amyranth. Ciaran.

“I think we should tell Erin about this,” he said.

At the mention of her name, a mental image of Erin’s appraising glance flashed through my mind, and I felt a small pinprick of impatience. But I immediately pushed the feeling aside. Hunter was right, and I knew it. “When can we meet?” I asked.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” Hunter asked, and I nodded. That was the last thing we said as the car plodded forward at its snail’s pace. Wrapped in fog, the night had a sense of unreality, and I was so, so glad to have Hunter sitting next to me—strong and sure, like the trees that loomed in the mist, standing guard over the forest.

The next day dawned clear and chilly, with a pale blue sky dotted with puffy clouds. Last fall’s brown, brittle leaves danced by my windowpane on the breeze.

It was such a beautiful day, the incidents of the night before seemed unreal. . and unlikely. Had everyone really freaked out over a few lightbulbs bursting? That could have been an electrical surge—a problem in the wiring at Hunter’s house. And the figure in the fog could have just been an odd mist formation. Clouds took on strange shapes all the time, I reminded myself.

I lay in bed, enjoying the warmth of my flannel sheets and down comforter, listening for the sounds of my parents and sister as they went through their usual Sunday routine of showers and breakfasts. But the house was silent. Rolling over, I glanced at my digital clock. Nine forty-seven! They hadn’t even bothered waking me for church.

I lay back against my pillows, unsure how I felt about that. Wicca was my religion, after all, the religion that felt like home to me, as natural as breathing. And I hadn’t been going to church much lately. Still, our church filled me with warm feelings. It held lots of good memories for me, memories of my family and of my community.

Suddenly I felt like the last child to be picked up from a party—neglected and forgotten. I knew the feeling was childish, but I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t so much that I really wanted to go to church. I just wanted to be asked.