Page 68 of Strike It Witch

“Why did you want to talk to her?”

Ida held the lavender against her cheek. “She’d been so terrified of death. I thought if I showed up on the other side and walked with her a while, she might feel better.”

“Why did Sexton refuse?”

“He said she was too far gone. That to pull her back would be wrong.”

“Was she?”

“She’d only been dead two days when I approached him, her ashes already scattered in the paranormal section of thecemetery.” Ida sounded close to tears. “I swear I could feel her there. It was so frustrating. I’d been out of town on a job when she died of a freak heart attack. Only forty years old.”

“Oh, Ida. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. Time’s made her loss sting less, though I still miss her.” She cleared her throat. “As much as I’d like to punch Sexton in the kisser for what he did, I keep my distance. He could make the afterlife very uncomfortable for she and I if he chose to.”

That cinched it. No way was I taking her with me tonight. I didn’t need her and Sexton hashing out their beef while I was summoning a death god. Or whatever the rats were going to summon, because I was a hundred percent sure that whatever came forth, it wasn’t going to be the actual Mictlantecuhtli.

We back-and-forthed a little more, but Ida finally agreed it was best for her to stay home. She left shortly after our talk to go watch the latest BTS performance, and I loaded Cecil, Fennel, and a fully prepped tote bag into the Mini and took off for Sexton’s cemetery.

Paranormals didn’t do funerals the way humans did, with caskets and viewings. We couldn’t take the risk. All paranormals were cremated immediately after death to prevent the body falling into the wrong hands. It was the one thing we all agreed on.

Beyond cremation, various sects, groups, and packs had diverse ways of honoring their people, but most Smokethorn County paranormals ended up at Whispering Willow Cemetery.

Whispering Willow lay on a half-acre between Smokethorn and La Paloma, near a crossroad and a ley line. It was primarily a place for paranormals—most humans ended up at the three-acre Victory Gardens on the outskirts of La Paloma, though there were a few buried here alongside their paranormal spouseor parent, and some cremated paranormals buried in Victory Gardens alongside their human loved ones.

Sexton not only ran Whispering Willow, he lived onsite, though he had a human-presenting manager in the front office for appearances. The only buildings on the property were the office, a large supply shed, and a tiny house Sexton wouldn’t even be able to stand upright in, much less live in. I suspected he lived underground. Many paranormals did—burrowing shifters, ogres, and certain elementals. Even earth witches occasionally lived beneath the soil.

I parked the Mini outside the heavy, wrought-iron gate. Sexton had left it unlocked but asked that we go in on foot so as not to rouse the spirits any more than necessary.

Gods only knew what that meant.

Lamps dotted the property, imparting soft, dreamy light. Enormous willow trees provided shade in the daytime and gothic ambiance at night. Cement benches for the bereaved to rest on were scattered throughout. In the center of the only roundabout were several tiny headstones. Sexton had planted wildflowers atop the small graves. As many times as I’d been here, I’d never once seen the flowers dead or even wilted.

Tucked in the left corner was a military mausoleum, honoring paranormals who’d served in war. In the right corner, there was a private mausoleum for wealthier clients. And one long strip of land was reserved for the scattering of ashes for those who preferred to keep their cremains above ground.

When Mom died, I’d been unsure what to do with her ashes and had ended up putting her in a wooden urn I set on her fireplace mantel. Maybe someday I’d bring her here.

Cecil, Fennel, and I traversed the main road, enjoying the brisk night air. I squinted at a crumbling, cross-shaped headstone and pretended to read the inscription.

“Alas, I told ye I were ill.”

Cecil snickered. Fennel flicked his tail, annoyed by my dad joke.

The rats showed up at the rear entrance of the cemetery a few minutes before midnight. This section had been recently expanded, and there were no bodies here. Sexton had assured me of that.

“You’re alone?” Denzel peered around, shivered. “That’s creepy as hell, even for a witch.”

Kale shivered, too. Both men had worn nylon basketball shorts, hoodies zipped to the chin, and rubber flip-flops. “Man, I sure wouldn’t come here alone.”

Fennel and Cecil had melted into the shadows after we’d finished our preparations and before the rats arrived. They’d intervene only if I needed them.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said. “What do you need?”

“We’ve got it. Just make sure you stand back,” Denzel said.

To say I was concerned about whatever these goofs were about to conjure up would’ve been an understatement. Kale and Denzel were a walking, talking Dunning-Kruger effect, and that was never a good thing when it came to dipping into the otherworlds.

So, while the rats prepped their containment circle, I casually walked the perimeter of the wider one I’d drawn around the area with spelled salt mixed with rosemary. At each directional point, I dropped one of the pressed glass pendant charms Cecil and I had prepped in the garden room, each representing an element—trapped bubbles for air, droplets for water, a burnt wick for fire, and a pinch of soil for earth.

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