Almost to Die For by Tate Hallaway Page A

secrets only by accident.
    We rode the rest of the way in silence, each lost in her own thoughts. I watched the fields roll by, which, after a turn to the left, quickly became tangled woods. We were nearly there! Shadows of oak and maple darkened the road, and Mom flicked on her high beams, watchful for rabbit or deer. Slowing the car, we scanned for the turnoff, which was easy to miss, thanks to the trees and the warding. I spotted it first. “There,” I said, pointing, as Mom smoothly guided the car onto an unpaved dirt road that was little more than tire tracks.
    I loved the covenstead. Most of it was undeveloped, except a small cabin near a swampy lake. I’d spent many happy summer days in my childhood wandering the forest and swimming in the mucky water, sort of like some people did at their “cabins up north.” Except my cabin belonged to about twelve families, all of whom used it for recreation and, most often, for magic.
    The night seemed darker the deeper we drove into the coven’s property. Tall trees crowded the border of the narrow path, and occasionally a branch of an overgrown bush scraped noisily against the car’s frame. The air felt expectant and heavy, like just before rain.
    Something whitish flashed through the woods, as though at a gallop. I thought it might be the tail of a deer, so I said, “Slow down. There’s a buck or something out there.”
    Mom put her foot on the brake, and we all scanned the forest. Hitting a deer could crack a radiator or worse. On top of potentially wrecking the car, there was the fact that killing a deer would be a very inauspicious beginning to the Initiation.
    “Are you sure?” Mom asked after a moment of agonizingly slow progress. “I don’t see anything.”
    Whatever it had been was long gone. “It must have really been cruising,” I said. “There’s no sign of it now.”
    Mom brought the car up to speed, such as it was on the narrow passage. I recognized the stand of birch trees ahead; we were almost to the bend in the road that would bring the covenstead in view.
    I hugged myself in the dim interior of the car. This was it. The big night. Bea and I had imagined this so many times; my heart began to race with anticipation. Just ahead, the woods opened to a clearing that was littered with cars. We bumped along the uneven grass to find an empty spot. Scanning the vehicles, I noted familiar bumper stickers and license plates. It looked like almost everyone was here already.
    “Oh, I’m so excited,” Bea said, bouncing happily in her seat in the back.
    Even Mom cracked a smile. “You girls will do great. I just know it.”
    “Did Aunt Diane tell you about her dream? ” Bea asked Mom. “This year will be memorable.”
    Mom gave me a proud, anxious look. “I hope she’s right.”
    “Memorable doesn’t necessarily mean good,” I reminded everyone quietly as Mom pulled the car into an empty spot between a large oak stump and a dusty white van.
    “Stop being such a pessimist,” Bea said with a broad smile. “It’s going to be great.”
    I still wasn’t convinced, but Bea’s enthusiasm was infectious. I could feel myself smiling back, despite my worries. Once out of the car, Bea grabbed my hand with a giggle. She pulled me, bounding, to the back door of the cabin. I couldn’t help but laugh along.
    The covenstead was built by hand sometime in the 1970s. Everything about it was very “back to the land,” from its rough-hewn exterior to the broad, communal floor plan. We let ourselves in and slipped our shoes off in the mudroom, which was really not much more than a long hallway with a few benches and pegs on the wall for hanging coats. There were several dozen shoes and coats already piled around, and we could hear the murmur of voices and laughter in the living room.
    “I wonder if Nikolai is here.” Bea twirled her pigtails as she whispered in my ear.
    I rolled my eyes. He was supercute and everything, but I didn’t quite understand why Bea