Free The Problem with Promises by Leigh Evans Page B

mark flickering like a glow worm.
    The meadow smelled of the pack, and of fear, and of recent death. The hair stood up on the nape of my neck as I walked past the tree to which I’d been chained before Knox had plunged the knife into my chest.
    The long grass at the edge of the field still struggled to bounce back from the trampling of Elizabeth’s boot heels. Some of it looked a little seared and dry, which was odd—almost as if someone had dragged a lit torch along it.
    My gaze followed it all the way to—
    That’s when I had one of those moments. Edison with his lightbulb. Newton with his apple. Lady Gaga the first time she saw a pair of fake, bling-studded eyelashes. There are coincidences and coincidences. If Elizabeth was truly following the leylines, then they were extraordinarily conveniently placed. What are the odds that these magical underground ribbons of power would just happen to coincide with a path through the woods, and more extraordinarily, the only gap in the long line of the living fence created by old cedars?
    That was no natural break in the shrubbery. I’d cut the hole myself, with a hedge trimmer I’d permanently borrowed from Home Depot. Aleezahbet wasn’t following leylines.
    So what was she laying a trail down of?
    *   *   *
    I turned off my flashlight as I entered the cemetery. I didn’t need it anymore. Ghosts are inner-lit. Between my glow-stick arm and Casperella there was enough light.
    The Fae ghost hovered near the edge of the cliff, where she could monitor the witches’ progress. Judging how the tatters of her gown were weaving nastily around her, she wasn’t happy about it. I crept to one of the pine trees, and using its trunk to hide my presence, took a quick peek. Trowbridge and Cordelia had just placed one fallen log over the two-foot span, and were heading back to forage on the incline for another.
    I’d better hurry.
    “Pssst,” I whispered to the ghost.
    She turned. Her face was a vague smear. Her hair, definitely unappealing, dark Medusa ropes that floated in a current I could not see.
    I cut to the chase. “Before the sun rises, we’re going to summon the gates to Merenwyn. It will be open for a short time and then it will be closed.” I put enough finality in my tone to infer that it will never be opened again. “If you want to return home, that will be your chance to go through.” I pointed to the crumbling edge of her wall. “You’ll need to cross this wall, though, before the ward the witches are setting is complete.”
    She silently regarded me.
    Being mute has it drawbacks.
    A quick glance toward the pond. Trowbridge, face set in a snarl, was entering the water. Expression grim, he bent over and scooped up some mud. He waded back toward the improvised bridge he was fashioning.
    He’s going to need a shower after this.
    “Come on, Casperella. Here’s your chance. Just go.” I gave her a little quick off-you-go wave to spur her on her way, and then when she didn’t do much more than hover in front of me, I added my tight, Starbucks-barista’s smile. The one that was shorthand for “Here’s your drug-of-choice. Now, please, go swill it elsewhere while I prepare the next addict’s drink.”
    It’s uncomfortable to find yourself being studied by a ghost. And a little disquieting when the apparition decides to come closer for a better look-see. I backed up until my hip brushed a pine tree. “Well, you can make up your own mind. I’ve done my good deed for the day.”
    I thought she might touch me, or worse, try to steal some of my magic again. If so, I was going to do something. Punch her. Or run. Whatever worked.
    But all she did was float past me, leaking sadness and longing, until she came to the edge of her wall. There she hovered, rags flapping around her, her back turned toward the pond and potential freedom, with her gaze fixed on the cemetery.
    What on earth was she so focused on? Escape was in the opposite direction.
    I pivoted. The