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Cold air settled on Martha's skin like the first frost on flower petals clinging to life. The winter came early, and so did their death. It felt to Martha like she was the flower caught unprepared, frozen, and lifeless in her most vulnerable state. The sky had gone from late afternoon to the haunting dim light of dusk. She was kneeling as before, but her hands hovered around the temples of a head that was no longer there. Martha's fingers fluttered to the ground and were swallowed by the fog. Martha felt the grass tickle her palms, but it was somehow wrong. All was silent, dead. There was no wind, no creatures chirping or rustling in the leaves. The scent of sulfur burned her nostrils. The strangers who'd surrounded her were nowhere to be found, only rows upon rows of quiet graves.
Witches were attuned to the world around them. One with the unceasing thrum that pulsed beneath their feet and through each blade of grass. It was gone now, silenced and locked away. Without it, Martha felt like her life force had been severed. She was only a fraction of the woman she was. Martha's magic would be of little help in this realm if she had no connection to the power of Diana. Martha lifted her chin to search for the moon, for some reassurance that she wasn't alone. If there was a moon, she couldn't find it. Clenching her jaw, Martha pushed herself up to stand.
She needed to be quick, find Max, figure out how to wake her up, and go home. Psychic spells were not something to trifle with. The mind was a fragile thing, and by leaving her physical body and opening herself up to another mind she left her own exposed. A bundle of nerves clenched in Martha's chest. A salt circle would be feeble protection if this creature decided she was a better target than Max.
"Lucas! Lucas, help!" Martha's head snapped to the right. "Please, help! Dustin!" Three rows away, a girl wailed into the still night. Her voice echoed off cold headstones and pierced the silent night like a dagger through satin.
"Max!" Martha recognized her instantly. She wore the same blue sweatshirt and disheveled auburn hair tied back in a low ponytail. Martha fought back the urge to run to Max by baring her palms in a show of innocence. Max took half a step back, her eyes scanning Martha's body language for any sign of threats.
"Who are you?" Max called to her. Martha began to close the distance, passing the first row of the dead with agonizingly careful footfalls. At any sudden move, Max would bolt, and Martha's chance would be stamped to dust.
