Omens, Portents, & Ill Will

From the author of Teen Witch—the wildly popular guide to Witchcraft—comes the third spellbinder in the “Witches’ Chillers” series about sixteen-year-old Bethany Salem and her friends in the Witches’ Night Out (WNO) coven.

Each book focuses on the teens’ strength, courage, and willpower to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles, with enough authentic magickal practice thrown in to keep you on the edge of your seat.

In Witches’ Key to Terror, the members of the Witches’ Night Out coven find themselves in deep trouble at the Bindart farm in Northern County. A devastating fire, a rash of farm accidents, a poisoned apple, and a woman’s mysterious disappearance—what is going on at Bindart’s Farm and Orchard?

People keep secrets but ravens and rabbits bring messages—if you can decipher them. In the following excerpt, Cricket Bindart calls on the “Great Mother of the Fields” for assistance, as Bethany and the WNO are on the brink of being drawn into a dark harvest of danger. Do you dare to join them?

a grisly warning
Sixteen-year-old Cricket Bindart knew that she was in deep trouble. The dead bunny dangling from the mailbox at the end of her driveway was a good indication that something was very wrong. The note attached to the limp animal only served as conclusive evidence. “You’re fast, but I’m faster” along with a few expletives that her pious father definitely would not appreciate. But who was it for?

In the cold moonlight, the animal’s blood dripped black across the back of the note, smearing the addressee’s name. Was the note for her father? Her older sister? Maybe her twin brother, Tad? Herself? Bile rose in her throat as she quickly wiped her sticky hand on her jeans.

A noise in the orchard made her heart kick into double-time. To her left, the light of the full moon trickled across the dead frost-encrusted stubble of the cornfield. A tendril of late, autumn-spiced wind fluffed her long, copper-colored hair, splaying the ends across the lifeless form of the bunny. She shuddered, whipping the blood-soaked tresses away with a toss of her head, sending a tiny spatter of red droplets against the hollow mailbox—black tears on moonlit aluminum.

She wasn’t sure why she stopped at the mailbox at all. Her shift at the family-owned orchard ended late on Thursdays. She was aching, tired, and sweaty. She’d spent the evening loading pumpkins in a wagon for the weekend sale, and helping to bottle the last of the fresh cider from the grading shed.

Halloween may be over but there were plenty of people around who still kept cold cellars to store apples, potatoes, turnips, and other vegetables. Besides, Thanksgiving was just around the corner. Bindart’s Farm and Orchard would be open until after the New Year.

If she ever saw the New Year—she looked at the bloody rabbit again.

What had her family done to deserve this? And—forget them—what about the poor rabbit? The skin on the back of Cricket’s neck itched and she imagined that somewhere in those darkened woods beside the lane, someone was watching her. In defiance, she pulled the rabbit free of the mailbox and whipped it into the woods.

“I’m not afraid of you!” she shouted. “You think you’re tough, don’t you, killing a defenseless little bunny! You’re scum; that’s what you are! Scum!” Her heart pounded and it was all she could do to keep her entire upper body from visibly shaking at the rage and fear screaming inside her.

There was a crash in the bushes. Cricket’s eyes widened. From the exact place she had thrown the dead rabbit, a live one appeared, bursting from the thicket and tearing across the field, heading full force toward the face of the moon.