Page 87 of Witchy Woman

“Mom. If you want me to leave you here—really leave you here—then I will. But I want to help you.”

She only takes a moment before replying. “Okay, but I have one condition.”

Any empathy I’ve had for my mother slowly slips out of my body one droplet at a time. One condition? After I’ve literally risked my soul for her? After I thought maybe she’d taken some ownership of how she treated us?

“What? What do you want?”

“If you grab me, you have to grab him, too.”

Him? If she says Draven, I’m turning around and not ever coming back.

“You do realize I’m not a goddamn Uber, right?”

She sighs, as if annoyed I’m even questioning her. “It’s both of us or neither of us.”

“I’m not—” I start.

“It’s Peter. Your dad,” she exhales heavily. “And I’m not leaving here without him.”

Chapter 39

The Grasp of Hellfire

It’s Peter. Your dad.

The words stop me dead. It’s the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth.

“He’s...” I can’t finish the question. Could he be alive? Hope rises in my chest, however timidly, at the thought. Can we have him?

“He’s dead. He can’t come back to us. But his soul has been trapped here, and I can’t leave knowing that I’m leaving him behind. He deserves to move on, and that’s not happening while he’s trapped here. So, if you can’t do this, I’m waiting here until someone can,” she replies.

I admire her determination. I admire the love she has for Dad. I only wish she loved us half as much.

But she’s also right—the horrid witch—I couldn’t possibly take her with the knowledge that he stays put. It’s both or neither. I don’t have anything to connect me to him like Mom’s compact, I don’t even remember what his voice sounds like. But Dad? Dad is worth the risk.

“Fine. But you first, and then I’ll find him.”

She makes an irritated grunt. “Fine. I have him right here, though. He shouldn’t be difficult for you to grab. He’s just less corporeal than I am since he’s only a soul.”

No pressure.

I take a centering breath, focus on the magic coming from my sister and my grandmother—they’re going to shit a brick when they find out—and breathe out any uncertainty. There’s no place for it here.

I envision my body, feel my arms reach out past my little window for my mother. Watch as in my mind’s eye I wrap them around her for the first time since I was a little girl. It isn’t comforting, isn’t the kind of hug I get from Hazel, from Grandma, from Ash. It’s just a means to an end.

I pull against invisible restraints. Against the laws of nature—the laws of Hell—to bring her back to us. Mom focuses on me. With every pull she becomes more real, less of an apparition and more like the woman I’ve always known. Her eyes are visible first, the eyes I inherited. The eyes that stare into me, not breaking the connection.

Slowly, so slowly, she yields. Inch by inch she is freed from the gooey grasp of hellfire. The stink of sulfur fills my nose, but I keep pulling. Keep focusing on her eyes until I can actually feel her touch, feel her arms hugging around my waist, and use the magic I’ve spent months honing to push her through my fiery window.

And she’s there.

I know she is. I haven’t broken the connection with Hell, but I know she’s there just as much as I know Grandma and Hazel are there.

Mom’s hands find the open spaces right next to my neck and squeeze. I shudder at her actual touch. “Your father. You have to get him. Go, please. I tricked Draven into leaving to have some time but he won’t be gone long.”

It would be so easy to break the connection. To call it a win, to quit while I’m ahead. But I can’t.

I can’t leave Dad.