Chapter 34
thirty-four
LIZZY
Three Weeks Later…
We saved the article. It’s tacked up on the fridge, held in place by our favorite magnet.
Love may be the real magic—I think we can all accept that now. But the real gut-buster? The one that makes me smile whenever I reach for a cold beverage or a wedge of brie?
Being reminded that the men who tormented my family died horribly painful, gruesome, ugly deaths.
They’re in Hell now, Oliver assures me. Facing an eternity of endless torment. He gets the inside scoop from an associate there named Hattie; tells me about it in horrifying detail whenever I’m sad. It never fails to brighten my mood.
Maybe that makes me callous. Maybe at the end of all this, I’ll find myself in Hell right alongside them.
But I don’t care. What’s that saying? You live by the sword, you die by the sword?
Those hunters died as Calista died. As far too many women have died at the hands of selfish, vile men.
Men for whom power is a drug that can never satisfy their ultimate cravings, no matter how much of it they steal.
But for every one of the bastards who went out crying for their mamas, with their eyes melting from their skulls and their flesh peeling from the bone, another one escaped.
And beyond that, certainly hundreds more exist throughout the world.
They’ll say a few prayers for their fallen brethren, lick their collective wounds, elect a new leader in a cheap gold robe, and double down on the cause.
The same can be said of the chaos demons.
According to Merrick’s sources, Killroy and Matthias have reconnected, but they’re MIA, hiding out in one of the remote lower realms of Hell.
Together with the chaos demons still loyal to Matthias, they’re rethinking their strategy.
Gathering strength. Getting the fucked-up band back together.
We know it’s only a matter of time before the hunters and the chaos demons emerge and converge, slithering back into our lives like poisonous snakes. Stronger, next time. More committed than ever to their mission to wipe us off the face of the planet.
But this time, we’ll be waiting for them. Stronger and more committed to our mission, too.
I’m still processing the whole Brendan thing.
I always sensed he never really cared about me, but to know he was the present-day leader of a cult formed hundreds of years ago with the singular mission of murdering women in exchange for power—and that he’d been tracking me for years, waiting for the opportunity to make his move, to lure me into his net—it still makes my skin crawl.
Sometimes I can shrug it off with a little self-love pep talk.
Amuse myself by thinking about all those pink dildos popping up at his office.
All the buttholes in his pants he probably didn’t even notice until someone else pointed them out.
But I still have nightmares. I still cry in the shower, frantically scrubbing my skin as if I can exfoliate the memories of his touch.
I still sleep with the lights on, even with Merrick at my side, and I can’t go to bed without checking the doors and window locks three times, pleading with the house to keep us all safe for one more night.
Healing takes time. This, I know.
For once, I’m prepared for the long haul.
“Dinner’s ready, Lizzy.” Rachel swats me on the butt as she breezes through the kitchen, breaking me out of my momentary haze. “Better hurry before Warren finishes your wine.”
“He wouldn’t dare, and by the way, Rachel…” I glance down at her boobs, then whisper, “Your nipples get all perky whenever you say his name.”
Rachel turns the approximate color of said wine. “Shut up! They do not!”
“Also,” I lean in close. Point to my lips. “You’ve got BJ lips.”
“Oh my god!” She shoves me away, trying not to laugh, frantically scrubbing at her mouth. “Warren? No. He wishes. It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I ever—”
“Ladies. Did I hear my name taken in vain?” Warren saunters into the kitchen with two glasses of wine. He passes one to each of us, but that lascivious grin is all for my big sister.
Slut, I mouth, clinking her glass, then mosey into the dining room, straight to the head of the table. We don’t have assigned seats, but I feel like I’ve earned it, seeings how I’m the farthest along in my magical studies and I look fucking adorable tonight.
The bruises have finally faded, the cuts healed. My hair is in a perfect set of ginormous Princess Leia cinnamon buns, and I’m wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt with a silvery broomstick-riding witch on the front that says, Witch, Please!
It’s ironic.
Also, slightly less campy than Kate’s shirt, which features a watering can sprinkling a patch of flowers. Underneath, it reads: I Got So Excited I Wet My Plants!
Rachel’s shirt says Resting Witch Face, but you can’t really see it under her power suit-du-jour.
Still, I know she’s wearing it, and that’s what counts.
I bought them myself, with my first actual legit paycheck.
I’m working at Helena’s bookstore. Pretty sure Mary Shelley is the real boss, but I kind of love it, which is shocking, because…
you know… work. But I think it actually suits me.
And I’m starting to love reading, too, which has thrilled my professor to no end.
“Does everyone have their adult beverage of choice?” Helena says from the chair at my right, waving a bottle of Pinot. I hold out my glass for a little top-off, because Hell, it’s not my fault these lightweight motherfuckers can’t keep up.
Merrick, seated to my left, slides a hand under the table, fingers trailing between my thighs.
You know, for someone who used to hate touching, he sure can’t keep his hands to himself.
Guess that’s what happens when you break the seal.
Which we do now, pretty much any chance we get.
Sometimes he even gives my witchy sisters fake assignments to go forage for some random non-existent spell component just so we can bang by the portal—it’s an experience.
I clamp my legs shut, pinning him in place. Manifesting orgasms at the dinner table—in full view of everyone—is not permitted.
“Time for a toast,” Helena says, lifting her glass. “To our first official group dinner.”
Drinks in hand, we all raise our glasses.
“To my star students,” says Merrick, looking over me and my sisters. “Making excellent progress with minimal prodding.”
“To new friends,” Oliver says, and when Medusa plops her head on the table beside him, pouting, he nuzzles her slobbery face and adds, “and old ones, of course.” Kate giggles, turning pink. No one brings it out in her like Oliver.
“To the most beautiful witch I’ve ever laid eyes on,” says Warren, attention lasered in on Rachel, who rolls her eyes but can’t hide her renewed blush. Also, the nipple thing. So obvious!
I tried to make a bet with Merrick about which one of my sisters will get laid by a sexy demon first, making it an official family tradition, but he coughed and stuck his nose in a book and asked me to pass him a highlighter, the most unsexy thing ever, thereby ending the conversation.
Pointedly avoiding Warren’s gaze, Rachel holds her glass aloft and says earnestly, “To new beginnings.”
Kate, who’s almost entirely back to her old self, other than the side effect of calling up flowers whenever she touches the dirt, goes next. “To the ancestors who came before us.”
“To the ancestors who planted the cannabis patch out back,” I add. “It’s a thing of beauty.”
“Lizzy, be serious!” Rachel’s got another eye roll, just for me. “We’re having a moment!”
“Okay, fine, fine.” I’m laughing as I take it all in, looking over everyone seated around our table. Thinking about all the twists and turns life took in order to set us on our paths—paths that ultimately converged right here, in the Bonnivarde ancestral home, in Graves Hollow, New York.
For the first time in my life, I finally feel it. Like I’m part of something real.
Part of a sisterhood, bonded by blood and history—a bond that nearly shattered, but one that we continue to rebuild.
Part of a crew of magical demons and an ancient familiar, new friends and allies who fought our battles with us and helped us all come out stronger on the other side.
Part of something that I chose… and they chose me back.
I raise my glass. Smile, bigger and brighter than ever. And I know, in this moment, I’ve finally stopped running. “To family.”
“To family,” everyone echoes.
The house is truly the gift that keeps on giving, and after a raucous feast, we’re served up a spread of tea and pastries that put all the world’s bakeries to shame and completely reroute poor Rachel’s conveniently forgotten metabolic health journey.
We load up our plates and head to the living room with our tea and goodies, the fire already crackling, where we come upon a strange delight.
A door, just to the left of the hearth, that wasn’t there before.
“Here we go again,” Kate says. “Shall we see what’s behind door number three?”
Ever since we connected with the ancestors for the epic hunter flameout, the house has been…
different. Happier, if such a thing can be said about a house.
Helena thinks it’s rejoicing, reconfiguring itself to meet our needs and slowly revealing its secrets, especially now that my sisters and I have decided not to sell.
Have decided, as a matter of fact, to make this house our home.
We’ve spent the weeks since the attacks reconnecting.
Truly reconnecting. Studying magic together, yes.
But also doing all the sister stuff we missed out on before.
Going out for lunch. Gossiping about celebrities.
Walking in the woods. Talking, after so many decades of pretending, about the past. It hasn’t always gone smoothly, but it’s honest, and right now, that’s our medicine.
I haven’t felt hopeful about anything in so long, it’s hard to trust the feeling.
But with my sisters, with Merrick, with my demon friends, with Helena…
our newfound little family… I’m finally starting to believe it’s real.
To nurture that feeling, that little seed waiting to bloom into something big and bright and magical, knowing that together, we can face whatever comes our way.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” I say. “Crack ’er open.”
Kate opens the door, revealing a small library with a few well-stocked bookshelves, a table set up with a Scrabble board, a cozy seating area by a window that looks out onto the woods out back, and a fully stocked bar cart.
“Ooh! Something for everyone.” I head inside, the whole gang piling in behind me. Finding a nice bottle of bourbon, I add a little splash to my tea. “Anyone else?”
Oliver takes me up on it, but the others are too busy scoping out the books.
“Oh, my word!” says Merrick. “Is that a first edition Jane Austen?” Pulling his sleeve over his hand to act as a glove, he slides a leather-bound book from the shelf and gently opens the front cover.
A photograph slips out, landing face down on the floor.
Goosebumps ripple along my arms. Photos were the one thing we never found in this house. It was as if my mother had systematically destroyed them. She didn’t even have any selfies, nothing with Helena, nothing from her plant store. None from our childhood.
I bend to retrieve it—a black and white shot of a man standing in front of a motorcycle, his dimpled smile on full display.
Handsome, in a rakish sort of way. He’s laughing, one hand stretched forward as if to reach for the camera.
For the person behind the lens. Someone it seems he likes, very much.
I shrug and turn it to show Merrick. “Some guy. No idea who.”
Merrick closes the book, all but forgotten as he takes the photo between his fingers. His face pales.
“Merrick? What is it?”
He grinds his teeth together, the muscle on his jaw feathering.
Rachel joins us, peering over Merrick’s shoulder. “Oh my god,” she whispers, clutching at her throat.
“That guy,” Merrick grinds out, “is the most powerful demon in Hell. He’s cunning, ruthless, cold, and will never stop hunting you. Yet here he is, stuffed into a library book, right under our very noses.”
“Wait… Matthias?” I ask, and I can tell by the deadly gleam in his eyes I’m right.
“No,” Rachel hisses. Her skin is the color of old milk. “No way, look again.”
“I’ve spent the better part of two decades under the bastard’s yoke,” Merrick says, handing her the photo. “I bloody well know what he looks like.”
Warren leans in for a look, confirming with a curse under his breath. “No mistaking it, love.”
“Guys.” I look back and forth among the demons, then to Rachel. “I don’t understand. Why would our mother have a picture of Matthias?”
Kate, to my absolute horror, is crying. Big, fat tears silently rolling down her cheeks.
“Lizzy…” Rachel’s hand trembles as she hands me the photo. “It’s Dad.”
Thank you so much for reading Lizzy and Merrick’s story in The Good Witch’s Guide to Bad Choices!