Sisters Read online

  Sisters

  The Hunter Sisters Book I

  by Eliza Nolan

  Copyright © 2019 Eliza Nolan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: Lilly Dormishev

  Editing by Kate Foster

  For my brother Jon

  1

  Eva

  Fiona hugs the spirit board to her as we scramble from her car towards my front door. The evening sky has fallen dark, and the only sound on our quiet, residential street is the whistling wind as it blows the snow swirling around us. I tug the faux-fur lined hood of my parka closed against the stinging cold.

  Fiona brushes her long black hair out of her face, and I wince as I notice her lip is bleeding again. My eyes fall on the worn toes of my leather boots. It’s my fault.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. My best friend Fiona and I were sparring in class today when I got the jump on her—first time ever—and kicked her in the mouth. It split her lip, and I feel terrible. I am the worst best friend ever. Please don’t let her hate me.

  “Stop apologizing.” She dabs at her lip with a tissue, like it’s nothing. “I’m the one with more experience. I should have seen it coming, and you should be proud. This means you’re getting better.” Her eyes brighten. “And hey, if I get a fat lip, I’ll look wicked tough.” She evil-laughs and pokes me in the side, forcing me to laugh. “Besides, how else was I going to guilt you into trying this spirit board with me?” She holds out the wooden board.

  “I can’t believe that thing was only a dollar,” I say. “It’s gotta be an antique.” Fiona found the board at a second-hand shop a few days ago and has been begging me to help her try it out ever since. I don’t believe in all that spirit-world stuff, but I also don’t need to be guilted into trying it out—she’s my best friend, of course I’ll play along. Anyways, the board looks cool, and what could it hurt?

  My foot slips on the icy sidewalk, and I waver before regaining my balance.

  “Maybe we can use it to summon a spirit that will help us not fall on our asses.” I smirk.

  “I know, right?” She chuckles.

  “Who do you expect to contact, anyway?” I ask.

  We climb the front steps, and I dig in my purse for my keys.

  Her eyes sparkle with menace. “I don’t know. Has anyone died in your house? Do you know if you have any ghosts?”

  A chill crawls up the back of my neck, and I shudder.

  Fiona’s mouth drops open, and she points an accusative finger at me. “You shivered. You said you don’t believe in the spirit world.”

  “I’m cold.” I grimace, busted. Mom and Dad always say there’s nothing out there, and that all things can be explained by science. We even saw a documentary about it once. Ghosts don’t exist. End of story.

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

  We tromp into the front hall and stop short. I shrink back from the jingly music booming from somewhere further inside.

  “Oh no,” I say. A flush creeps across my cheeks as the humiliation of the situation sets in. “Let it Snow” is blasting through the house. “Grace is home, and she’s gotten into the Christmas decorations.” I cringe in embarrassment. The smell of fresh pine needles tickles my nose and I sneeze.

  “Gesundheit,” Fiona mumbles. Her face deadpan, her eyes follow the fresh evergreen garland winding up the bannister, dripping with glittered pinecones, and tied off with fluffy, red bows.

  “I swear my house was normal when I left this morning.”

  Even back when I did get along with my older sister, her Christmas obsession was embarrassing. It gets worse every year. Christmas is so overly done at our house that the past few years I’ve legit started the holiday season with Christmas burnout.

  Fiona moved here to the Boston area this fall when her parents were stationed at the nearby Air Force base. She hasn’t yet been subjected to Grace’s Christmas fixation. With Fiona’s dark clothes, thick eyeliner, and long, black nails, she’s definitely more into Halloween than Christmas—one of the reasons I like being friends with her. I frown at Fiona apologetically and peel out of my parka, tossing it on the bannister, covering some of the over-the-top garland, then invite Fiona to do the same.

  “Wow! I didn’t realize Grace was a total Christmas freak.” She winks. “It’s cool. As an army brat, I assure you that every school in every city I’ve lived in had at least one.” Fiona unwraps herself from the layers of scarf, coat, and gloves.

  I’m about to suggest we dodge the whole experience and escape upstairs to my room, when the sweet, buttery aroma of newly baked cookies pushes its way through the thick smell of evergreen, making my stomach grumble and mouth water.

  Fiona pauses and smiles. She has been here long enough to know that my sister’s cookies are worth stealing.

  “I heard somewhere that sugar has healing qualities.” She forces back a smile as she dramatically dabs at her cracked lip with a tissue.

  “You obviously need cookies.” I nod sagely. We kick off our boots and laugh as we follow the scent down the front hall and into the dining room where our eyes are bombarded by more Christmas flare. The window frames are drowning in tinsel, evergreen, and gold organza bows. Christmas lights blink like hazards around the doorways to the living room and kitchen. Grace and her bestie, Jenna, stand over the dining room table with matching red and white-striped aprons, rolling out and prepping their next batch of cookies, all the while bobbing their heads to the music.

  My shoulders sag and my smile fades. Jenna’s here. That explains why the house was decorated so quickly. Jenna likes Christmas almost as much as Grace—and together they are so much worse. I caught them making Christmas vision boards in August. Seriously.

  Jenna smirks, her eyes narrowing to give me the usual stink eye. Jenna’s also the reason Grace isn’t friends with me anymore. Grace and I used to do everything together. I even helped her bake Christmas cookies. We weren’t just sisters but best friends as well. Then Grace met Jenna—Christmas lover and popular high school senior. Jenna took Grace under her wing, but she didn’t want me. She makes that clear every time she sees me with her poison dart glare. And Grace simply goes along with it. Apparently, blood is not thicker than water for my sister.

  I glare back at Jenna.

  “What the hell?” I shout over the music. “It’s only a day after Thanksgiving!”

  I head for the speaker dock on the oak hutch behind Grace to shut off the obnoxious song, but she cuts in front of me, brandishing her rolling pin. “Uh uh. Mom and Dad said I could have the downstairs to make cookies. If you wanna listen to your gothy emo stuff you gotta use the speakers in your room.” Her eyes latch onto the battered, wooden board in Fiona’s arms and she scrunches up her nose. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It’s a spirit board.” I grip the back of the dining room chair, bracing for whatever lame insult she’s about to fling our way.

  “Halloween has been over for a while now,” she groans.

  “They probably need it so they can communicate with their people,” Jenna adds. Grace and Jenna nudge each other and roll their heads back, laughing.

  The music fades, and a new song starts with keyboards and drums. Grace and Jenna begin swaying in unison as they belt out the lyrics to “Santa Baby.”

  Fiona and I share an eyeroll.

  “How are we related?” I ask Grace. I hook arms with Fiona, leading her away from my weird sister, through the door to the kitchen where the musi
c fades and heat from the oven makes the room warmer than the rest of the house. Cozy.

  The first batch of cookies—unfrosted Christmas trees and wreaths—lie on the wire cooling racks next to the oven.

  Fiona and I smile as we each load a hand full of warm cookies.

  “Don’t take those,” Grace yells from the other room. “They’re for my friends.”

  I stack a few more onto my towering pile out of spite.

  Fiona nods towards a pack of red pillar candles on the kitchen island. Probably purchased by Grace for Christmas. “Grab those. We can use them to set the tone for our first seance.”

  “Great idea!” I pop a cookie in my mouth, balance the other cookies in one hand and scoop up the package of candles.

  We race up the wooden steps, our stocking feet dulling the thunk, thunk of our feet, then we pad down the hallway to the safety of my room, where we collapse back on the bed laughing.

  “My sister is bananas.”

  “I didn’t say it. You did.” She laughs and bites off the top of a Christmas tree cookie.

  2

  Grace

  Eva and Fiona clomp up the steps, finally giving us our space again. I take a long, deep breath in and try to release the tension Eva inevitably brings by her very existence lately. As if she doesn’t know that Christmas is my favorite time of year. It’s not like it’s a big deal—I waited for Thanksgiving to be over.

  “They’re besties now? That didn’t take long,” Jenna says.

  “Right?” I sigh. I sprinkle flour on the rolling pin, smoothing it with my hand, then roll the dough out on the cutting board.

  Once upon a time Eva and I were inseparable, best friends, but this past year I guess we’ve grown more distant. Then a few months ago Fiona moved to town and started going to our school. She’s in several classes with Eva and they’re both computer geeks, so it makes sense they became friends. Whatever.

  I don’t know how we ended up at odds, but that’s where we definitely are now.

  “She’s right,” I say. “We can’t possibly be related.” Eva and I we’re born just over a year apart. I’m a junior, and she’s a sophomore. Some say we look alike, but our hazel eyes and golden-brown hair doesn’t make up for the fact that Eva is six inches shorter than me, and a bit… well, she’s got muscle. I’m more delicate. On the inside we couldn’t be more different. I’m working on loving the life I have and being on the path to becoming my best self, meanwhile, Eva insists on taking fighting or martial-arts classes or whatever and being a contrary brat about literally everything. So we’re like polar opposites.

  “Maybe one of you is adopted, and your parents never told you,” Jenna says in my defense.

  “Right? I mean, Mom told us once they thought they couldn’t have kids, and then they end up with two; one right after the other. How does that even happen?” I shake my head. Mom and Dad wouldn’t actually lie, but seriously, what kind of fertility doctor were they using? You can’t have kids, but, wait, okay, here’s two?

  I press the wreath cookie cutter into the thin slab of dough, then push in a tree-shaped cutter next to it.

  The timer dings, and I brighten at the prospect of a new batch of cookies. The music transitions to the chimes I know so well, and I sing along with Mariah Carey to the opening of “All I Want for Christmas” as Jenna and I twirl and dance.

  I skip my way into the kitchen, where my eyes lock on the nearly empty cooling racks. All the Christmas joy instantly vanishes. My cheeks burn with irritation. “EVA!” I yell at the ceiling. Even though I know she can’t hear me over the music, and if she could, she’d pretend she hadn’t.

  Jenna pops her head around the corner. “What is it?” Her face falls when she sees the two remaining Christmas tree cookies on the otherwise empty wire racks.

  “First Christmas cookie heist of the season,” I say. Mom and Dad will hear about this.

  Jenna shrugs, bounces into the kitchen and pulls out the newest batch. “That’s why we always make extras.” She winks and smiles.

  This is why Jenna is my best friend. She can always pull me out of a funk.

  3

  Eva

  We spread out on the braided, indigo rug between my bed and my desk—lit candles on either side. The flames flicker, sending obscure shapes dancing along the bedroom walls. Fiona opens the old wooden box and pulls out the planchette. The rounded pointer is dark and weathered; it looks like it could be made of real ivory. She flips over the box to show the outside and lays it flat between us.

  I cross my legs, and scoot in towards the board.

  “This belongs in a museum. I can’t believe the lady at the store didn’t at least try to sell it online,” I say.

  “She didn’t even know what it was.” Fiona scoffs. “It was in their Halloween clearance bin!”

  But there’s something about the cracked wood and tarnished hinges—it isn’t a Halloween decoration. It’s older, much older.

  Fiona leans in. “I heard sometimes spirit boards are haunted by evil spirits that’ve visited them in the past. Think we’ll be so lucky?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  I laugh and hope Fiona doesn’t see my shoulders tense. She’s been trying to get a rise out of me ever since I told her I didn’t think it would work.

  Fiona smiles. “Anyways, the board looks cool, even if it doesn’t work.”

  She’s right. Through multiple coatings of wood polish the archaic markings are burned into the surface. The alphabet is written in an arc in the center, and on either side it’s framed with demons. One has the body of a black spider with spindly legs and the head of a man. The other is an almost human woman with long hair in a dark dress. But from her head grows coiled horns, like that of a ram, making her appear somehow majestic. Her feet are cloven. Something about her gives me the creeps. The hooves, I think. Goose bumps prickle up my arms. I pull my hoodie closed and rub my forearms to combat the chill.

  I smooth my hand across the board and over the horned woman’s dress. “She’s not creepy at all.”

  “Seriously,” Fiona agrees.

  We place our fingertips on the edge of the ivory planchette. Her nails are longer than mine and her fingers are stacked with silver rings, but we’re both wearing the same black nail lacquer. Fiona’s style is definitely rubbing off on me.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never used one of these. Ask a question?” She shrugs.

  “Is anyone here?” I say.

  The planchette shoots across the board so fast I nearly topple forwards trying to keep my fingers on it.

  yes

  Fiona squints and tilts her head. “You don’t have to put on a show or anything. I’m totally cool if the board’s a dud.”

  I pull my hands off. “I didn’t do that.”

  I search her eyes. We’ve only known each other a few months, but I already know she’s no actress. She didn’t do it. Or at least she doesn’t think she did. Maybe it’s a subconscious thing or something. But her eyes pin me—she legit thinks I did it.

  “I didn’t. I swear!” I say, holding out my hands.

  “Shhhh. I don’t think you’re supposed to swear around these things.” She winks.

  I laugh, because of course it’s our subconscious moving the pointer. Hers, mine, or both. It doesn’t matter which. But there is a logical explanation, because—science.

  We lean forward and touch the tips of our fingers to the planchette again.

  Her eyes land on mine and she says, “Who are we talking to today?”

  The planchette slides slower this time, but deliberately over the letters on the board. M, A, T, E, R, D, A, E, M.... I scribble down the letters on a pad of paper and show it to her.

  “What the heck is materdaemonium?”

  I stare at the word. “A last name?”

  She slips her phone out of her pocket and types, then her eyes widen. She flips it to face me. I skim the small screen where she’s entered the name on her brow
ser. Fear washes over me.

  The search engine is suggesting an alternative:

  Did you mean Mater Daemonium?

  Mater Daemonium or “Mother Demon...”

  4

  Grace

  Jenna and I hunch over our work on the kitchen island where we’ve set up the decorating station. I hum along with “Holly Jolly Christmas,” swirl the brush in the bowl of vibrant green icing, then drag it across a tree-shaped cookie. I lick a glob of sweet frosting off the side of my thumb. It melts in my mouth, and I close my eyes to savor the moment.

  We still have the final batch in the oven, but we’ve mostly switched to decoration mode. I can’t wait to post photos. My followers will devour the images.

  “See,” Jenna says. “I told you Eva’s dragging you down. Everything is better when you cut the negativity out of your life.”

  Sadly, it seems she’s right. I’ve tried with Eva, but she’s always so contrary.

  Now that she’s upstairs and out of sight, I’m in my element with Jenna and making Christmas cookies. Best life ever!

  Jenna uses a brush to drop dots of red on the tree, and then holds up the bowl of sparkling sprinkles.

  “You wanna finish this one?”

  I take a small pinch of edible glitter and rub my fingers together over the cookie, allowing it to rain down in a scattered effect.

  “Tah-dah!” I say in a near shout, and then laugh covering my mouth with my hands. I may have overdone the sampling and am totally hopped up on sugar.

  “Awesome!” Jenna booms back, with the wildness of her own sugar buzz dancing in her eyes. She smiles and places the cookie next to the other finished trees.

  I move near the stove to grab the ones from the cooling racks, but smoke starts to seep from the cracks around the oven’s door.

  “Oh, shoot! shoot!” I say. Why didn’t the timer go off?

  I throw open the oven and shrink away as flames rush out; heat licks my cheeks and singes my forehead. I jump back from the flames, shrieking.