The Seventh Witch Read Online Free PDF

Great-Aunt Mary.”
    “I know.” Lifting a shoulder, I shrugged. “But that’s the way it’s always been. On the other hand, I think Great-Aunt Mary relishes her title of ‘great-aunt.’”
    “She’s kind of formidable, isn’t she?”
    I snorted. “That’s a nice way to put it,” I said with a shake of my head. “You should’ve seen her go after that snake. I didn’t know a woman her age could move that fast.”
    Tink glanced over at me, her eyes suddenly full of concern. “That must have been really scary. Are you okay?”
    “Yeah,” I replied, hooking my free hand through her arm, “but I’m worried about Abby. Do you think she’s acting strange?”
    Tink tilted her head and pursed her lips. “She didn’t have much to say about the snake, but maybe she’s been a little nervous.”
    “Did you notice her reaction when you mentioned ley lines?” I stared at Abby’s straight back. “What do you know about them?”
    “Not much,” Tink replied, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. “They’re lines of energy running through the earth. Some guy back in the 1920s mapped them out in Great Britain. He noticed that a lot of prehistoric sites, like Stonehenge and Avebury, were aligned with each other.” She glanced at me, her eyes shining with excitement. “Here’s the really cool thing, though. Wherever two lines intersect, there’s a lot of poltergeist activity and UFO sightings.”
    “Do you really believe that stuff?” I scoffed.
    She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Ophelia. I’m a medium and my family is a bunch of witches. Why wouldn’t I?”
    I laughed. She had a point. In spite of the setting, we weren’t exactly the Waltons.
     
    When we arrived at Cousin Lydia’s, the scene was a repeat of breakfast multiplied. Wide planks set on sawhorses and covered with checked tablecloths lined her yard. Ham, fried chicken, meat loaf, buttermilk biscuits, corn bread, bread and butter pickles, black-eyed peas, calico beans baked in a syrupy sauce, and more pies and cakes than I could count, bowed the tops of the makeshift tables. The air filled with the smell of home cooking, and my stomach growled in response.
    So much for never wanting to eat again.
    Women, in plain dresses or in cotton T-shirts and jeans hustled back and forth from the house to the tables, their hands laden with more food. A few of them stood at the tables, removing plastic wrap and aluminum foil while they shooed away marauding insects. Men, dressed in jeans, rough-spun shirts, ball caps, and work boots, sat in lawn chairs scattered about the yard, swapping tales and watching their womenfolk work. Occasionally one would rise and help fetch a heavy iron pot or a basket loaded with food.
    As Tink and I added our offering, I noticed the women eyeing each new entry into the “who could cook the most” contest that seemed to be going on. It was as if they were gauging how their donations stacked up to everyone else’s. I saw more than one eyebrow lift when a young woman, no more than eighteen, placed a bag of Doritos next to the pea salad. After she’d walked away, one of the women nudged the woman standing next to her.
    “That Ruthie,” she said, nodding toward the retreating girl, “I guess a new bride doesn’t have much time for cookin’.”
    The group tittered in response.
    Turning away from the table, I observed Great-Aunt Mary. Someone had placed a comfortable armchair from inside the house beneath one of the spreading elm trees, and she sat like a queen on a throne receiving the homage of various relatives.
    Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spied Aunt Dot, with a light of determination shining on her face, bearing down on me. I looked around for a place to hide but was too late. She grabbed my arm and pulled me from group to group. I heard so many names that my mind went into overload—I’d never be able to remember so and so, a cousin three times removed who married a great-great-great-niece of