The Witch of Tin Mountain(66)

Deirdre’s guilt once more pricked her conscience. Esme thought better of her than she deserved.

“It’s going to be all right. Just calm yourself and we’ll find a way through this. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

But she had. And then she’d trusted Gentry—put her fate in the hands of a liar and a demon. She could almost feel the noose tightening around her neck, choking the life from her. And what would come after? Surely hell awaited a murderer—especially one who had just sold her fate to a devil. Deirdre longed to run, to hide. But where could she go where Gentry wouldn’t find her?

“Esme . . . I need to tell you—”

Just then, hasty footsteps echoed on the stairs. Likely the coroner. Panicked, Deirdre shut the grimoire and put it aside. Miss Munro and Constance emerged from the stairwell, a man dressed in black following them. His round face was reddened by his climb up the stairs. He seemed quite agitated. “As I’ve said, Miss Munro, I do not have a lay pastor named Gentry in my parish, and I did not send anyone else. I’ve no idea who’s in that room, but he is not from St. Michael’s.” He stalked down the hall, Miss Munro and Constance bustling behind him. Esme and Deirdre rose as one to follow.

As they neared the death-shrouded room, Deirdre’s ears began to ring distantly. “Esme, what does the pastor in Phoebe’s room look like?”

“He’s tall, young. Good looking. He was very charming and gracious to me.” Esme gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”

Miss Munro opened the door to Phoebe’s room and gave an astonished gasp. “Oh, my heavens.”

Had Phoebe expired? Deirdre worked her way forward until she could see inside, expecting the worst. The ringing in her ears became a scream. She thought she might faint.

There Phoebe sat, reclining against the headboard, a Bible propped on her lap with the bloom of life in her cheeks. “I’ve just had the strangest dream,” she said, stretching as if she’d woken from a long Sunday nap. “I dreamt that I died, but an angel came and kissed me and brought me back to life.”





TWENTY-FIVE

GRACELYNN





1931




I run from the flaming tent into the night, careening with the rest of the townspeople in a panicked, tangled herd. Sparks spiral upward, embers popping as they consume what’s left of the tent. People bat at their flaming hems and hats. The acrid scent of burning oilcloth and singed hair assaults my nostrils.

“Where’s Harlan?” Al Northrup stumbles toward me like a drunk. His beady eyes are red and swollen. He grasps me by the shoulders and shakes me. “Goddammit, girl, I asked you a question. You seen my boy?”

“Not since he tried to choke the life out of me.”

“Goddammit,” he swears again, pulling off his hat to swat out a stray ember on the dry grass. The fire is spreading—snaking away from the tent’s tattered remains and winding through the alfalfa in flickering rivers. The wind picks up and fans the flames. A nearby blackberry thicket starts to burn.

“Somebody get the fire brigade!” Northrup yells, and then stumbles off, baying Harlan’s name. A pack of three men tumble into a farm truck and fly off toward town, sending up a spray of gravel and dust.

I should run, but my feet are rooted to the spot, as if I’m in a trance. I’ve never seen a brush fire before. It’s oddly beautiful. Hypnotic and horrifying at the same time. The flames almost seem alive. Hungry. I lift my hand and the flames climb higher.

Did I do this?

“Gracie!” I shake off my sense of wonder and turn to see Abby coming toward me, tears running down her soot-covered face. I didn’t even know she’d been in the crowd. She grabs me by the arm and starts pulling on me. I can’t hear her thoughts, but her frantic eyes tell me all I need to know. “We got to get out of here. Fire’s spreadin’ fast.”

Sure enough, a hard puff of wind comes and the fire surges forward. An ember lands in one of Hosea’s peach trees, and a loud pop sounds as the branches ignite. Heat sears the air, and a low roar starts to build around us.

“Come on, Gracie!” Abby cries, fear stitched over her face. “Do you want to die?”

In the distance, the fire brigade’s sirens sound. Their reedy, high-pitched whine brings me back to my wits. We take off and head up the mountain. When we get to Granny’s cabin, I look east, where the sky has turned a noxious shade of orange. The campfire scent of burning timber is everywhere.

Ebba meets us at the door, her eyes wide. “Gracie! Come! Deirdre is having fits again—seizures.”

I push past her and go through the cabin to the back porch. Granny’s wrists and ankles are tied to the daybed with scraps of fabric, her back arching as she spasms. Her eyes are open, fixed on something in the distance. A low moan comes from her mouth. I cross the room and kneel at her side, stroking her hair back from her forehead. I don’t know what to do. But at my touch, she calms, her chest rising in gasping breaths and then steadying. The seizure abates, the tremors cease. Granny’s eyes roll back and then close once more.

“She woke for a bit. Spoke to me.” Ebba works her jaw in agitation. “Something about the curse. I gave her some broth and water, then the fits started. I had to tie her down so she wouldn’t hurt herself.”