Spells for the Dead by Faith Hunter

Author:Faith Hunter [Hunter, Faith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

There were lots of houseplants on every level, all in the south-facing windows to give them the best sunlight. Someone knew their plants. After a trek through the house to get an overview, I started by reading the plants on the upper level, flipping lights on and off as I moved. The attic library was full of paperbacks, mostly romance and fantasy, with a few thrillers, all by people I had never heard of. There were comfy chairs and two recliners, cozy furniture you could put your feet on. The plants here were flourishing in little blue clay pots in the south dormers, alive and healthy. They were happy plants, the soil the right composition and drainage for species, moisture, and nutrients. I felt like I was getting what might be called a baseline of what the houseplants had been like before the death and decay energies.

Stella had been gone for weeks, but the plants were fine. Someone else took care of them. I assumed it was the housekeeper, but she was dead too so there was no confirming my guess.

Thinking about that, I went down the stairs. Reading plants, touching the soil, occasionally sticking my fingers deeper, invading the root-space. On the bedroom level the plants were less healthy. They drooped even though they didn’t need water. They looked sadder. They felt sadder too, when I touched their soil. I gave each one a little boost, hoping it would be enough. On the main level, all the plants were dying. When I touched the soil, it felt dry and . . . weak wasn’t exactly the word, but they needed nutrients and water.

As I touched the plants off the kitchen area, I began to feel nauseated. My head started to ache. As I neared the basement stairs, my fingers started to tingle and felt cold to the touch. But I forced myself to dress out in a spelled uni and gloves, requested a null pen from T. Laine, and went downstairs.

The plants near the basement’s French doors, close to where the bodies had been found, were brown and dead. I thought back. For once I hadn’t noticed the houseplants consciously, my attention on the bodies, but in my memory, they had been green when I was here last. I didn’t touch them, curling my arms around myself in a hug.

For safety’s sake, I returned to the stairs, holding my middle, looking around at the rotted guitars, the cracked plastic casings of electronic equipment, the pile of dust and rusted wire where the piano used to stand. The metal chairs were piles of rust. The wall colors were faded and brittle. The carpet was gone and the slab cracked, as if I looked at a long-abandoned house.

At the top of the stairs I heard a thump and shout. I stripped off the uni and other protective gear and raced down the hallway, into the kitchen, my heart in my throat, breath fast. No one was in the kitchen. And then I heard a faint panting.

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