Wolves Among Us(29)

“When will you do it?” she asked. Stefan strained forward to be sure he heard the words right.

“Soon.”

“Please,” she pleaded, thrusting her arm through the bars, trying to catch hold of Bastion. He stepped out of her reach.

“Please,” she called. “Haven’t I done everything you asked?”

Stefan ducked back and walked into the dormitory. Gray clouds hung low in the sky above him.

He needed to tend to his wound. He needed time to think.



Mia’s voice grew hoarse from praying out loud for hours through her tears. Her head kept dropping down, startling her back awake, shamed she could sleep when her daughter’s life depended on her prayers. If Alma died, it would be her fault.

I am a wretch, she thought. What Bastion preaches about women’s weakness is so true. Why did they leave me here alone with Alma dying? Didn’t they see I would fail?

“I can’t do it, Lord,” she whispered. “If miracles come by force of prayer, and great persistence, then I cannot have one. I am not strong enough to force You to do anything for me. Either heal or let us both die.”

Mia went back to the first bead on her rosary and took a deep breath. She had to keep trying until Alma awoke whole and healed or they died sitting here. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pain in her throat. She pushed the words out, no longer hearing or meaning them. She just wanted God’s attention, and if this worked, she would say her rosary until she dropped dead of exhaustion.

“By morning we will know,” she whispered to Alma. “We will know who this God is that we have prayed to all this time.”

The sun began its rise off to the east. She saw its light peeking in under her door, and dazzling pink rays streaking in through the shutters. Today’s sunrise would be glorious, but Mia and Alma would not see it.

A different light, made of thick gold, pooled under the door, pouring in across the floor. The heavy gold light rose into a shimmering veil all around them, wrapping around Alma and Mia. Lost in this golden mist, Mia’s head fell forward, and she snapped it back up. “I must not sleep.”

“Sleep,” a voice whispered. It could have been a voice in her head. Her whole body ached, so tired she couldn’t tell if she was already dreaming. Or if she was already dying, departing this life with Alma in her arms, this strange peace swaddling them and carrying them together to God.

Hot tears rolled down her face as unseen hands slid under Alma’s body, lifting her. Mia slipped back into the veil as she heard the whisper again.

“She is my child too.”



Mia dreamed of a river. She had been sleeping on its banks under a tree covered in fresh green leaves the size of her palm. The spring sun shone all around. A man stood beyond the tree. She shielded her eyes from the light coming from him. She could see only his outline and the bottom edge of his robes.

“Why can I not see your face?” she asked.

He walked to her, but the light became too strong, forcing Mia to look away. He extended a hand.

“This is what you fear,” he said.

She reached for his hand, but saw it clearly, broken and bleeding, a horrid open wound torn through it, flesh splayed out in all directions. It stank. Mia remembered the stench of her first fall into darkness, that fearsome well, reeking of burning wood and oil, inks and ashes. Looking into His dark, deep wound, she saw all the horrors of her life, driven into this one man.

He laid her hand on top of the wound and turned His hand over to show her. His hand became whole. The well she feared lived in this wound, those dark secrets that destroyed flesh and life. But when she put her hand in His, she no longer saw the wound sin made. She saw healing, the hope of miracles. His wounds could bring healing, but she had to put her hand into His first.

She heard His laugh, and then woke from the dream.



Bjorn’s mouth pressed against Mia’s cheek, whiskers scratching her skin.

“Good news.” He was laughing. “Wake up.”

Mia yawned and tried to lift her eyelids. She didn’t want to return to this life.

“Alma,” she cried, sitting up as the night’s full memory came back to her.

Bjorn laughed again, trying to catch her with one arm. In his other arm he cradled Alma to his chest. Alma popped her fingers into her mouth, staring at Mia.

“Alma?” Mia whispered, reaching out to stroke her hair. Alma smiled and reached for Mia. Tears came to Mia. “Her cheeks are pink. I’ve never seen them pink. Alma, can you breathe? Show Mama. Take a deep breath.”

Alma giggled and hid her face in Mia’s shift. She had been healed. She looked fresh and rested, whole. Mia looked at her own hands, trying to remember the dream.

“I did not do this,” she said to Bjorn. “I tried to, but I did not have enough strength.”

She realized how it all looked. “I am sorry, husband. I did not mean to sleep.” How had Alma been healed? Mia had slept; she’d had no part in it.

“Everything will be better now, Mia,” Bjorn said.

“How long have you been here?” Mia asked. “Did you see what happened? Do you think God did this? Is this a miracle?”

“While you were here with Alma, we found the witch that cursed us. Bastion knew her to be a witch at once. She refused the first hour to confess, but Bastion knew well a book, one called the Malleus Maleficarum, a book that describes how witches may be brought to the truth and to repentance. He is a marvelous man, Mia. He has set us free.”