The Witch of Tin Mountain(67)

“She was awake? Where’s Caro?”

“I sent her to fetch the doctor.”

I nod. Ebba’s done the right thing. “I don’t know how fast he’ll get here, what with the fire down at the Ray place. A lantern fell over in Bellflower’s revival tent. Whole place went up. Aunt Val was there. I think she made it out all right, though.” I hope. I hadn’t seen her in the ruckus that followed.

Ebba paces back and forth, muttering to herself, her frail arms crossed over her waist. She’s got something on her mind. Abby’s busy in the kitchen, clanging around. Now’s just as good a time as any to let a certain elephant come barreling into the room.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in your boots, Eb,” I say. “Got somethin’ gnawing on you?” I lower my voice. “Maybe now’s the time to tell me what else you know before the whole town burns down?”

Ebba whirls on me, her turquoise eyes bright. “You have the gifts of a wise one. A true witch. But they are untested. You don’t know how dangerous those ways can be, lilla flicka. I was worried about this.”

“If I don’t figure out how to stop this curse, I’m afraid that demon preacher ain’t gonna be satisfied until Tin Mountain is a pile of cinders and me and Granny are burnin’ right along with it. So, if you know anything that can help us, I need you to tell me before it’s too late.”

Ebba shakes her head. “It is too late. It’s already started.” She jabs a finger at my forehead. “You were there when that fire started, yes? Think, Gracie. Think. This is what he wants. To trap you. Just like he trapped Deirdre. Just like he trapped Anneliese and all the witches before her. He’s a trickster. A seducer.” She jabs her finger at my forehead again. “You’re not strong enough to unmake old mistakes. Only Deirdre can unmake what she promised. And it will likely kill her.”

Anger flashes through me. Even though Ebba means well, even though she just wants to protect Granny, I’d love to throttle her right now. “Ebba,” I say slowly, gentling my tone, “Granny can’t do a single thing right now to help. I need you to help me. Think of the past. You say she made a mistake. Tell me what she did.”

“I promised her. I promised her with my own blood.” Ebba shows me her palm. A pale scar crosses it. “I told her I would never tell anyone. That includes you, Gracelynn. Especially you!” She turns and stomps outside, the screen door slamming behind her.

Looks like I’ll have to figure things out on my own.

I leave Granny and climb into the loft. I relight the oil lamp and put my hands on the grimoire’s cover, then close my eyes and pull in deep breaths, focusing my thoughts and intentions. “Help me, Anneliese,” I whisper. “Show me what to do.”

The book seems to hum under my fingers. Heat trails up my arm. I blow a puff of air from my lips and open the book to the page with the spell for undoing a curse. The script begins to shift from dull brown to a brilliant crimson red, the lamplight glistening on it. I realize it’s not ink at all. It’s blood.

A vision slams into my head: Anneliese sitting at a table, the grimoire open in front of her. She dips her quill in a saucer of blood and scrawls across the page. She looks up from her writing, her blue eyes blazing into mine. Her lips never move, but I can hear her bell-like voice in my head. Look above the blood moon and see what is written there, Gracelynn. Before it is too late.

And then, the vision is gone, leaving me breathless, with another splitting headache and a slow trickle of blood streaming from my nose. I wipe it away and look at my scarlet-streaked fingers.

Blood moon.

Outside the window, there’s no moon in the sky—it’s full dark with only the flicker of distant flames glowing against the horizon.

Maybe Anneliese means the blood moon in the book. There’s a drawing of a moon after one of her journal entries.

I hurriedly scan the pages until I come to the section Anneliese wrote shortly before her death. Beneath the words, the illustrated crescent moon glows a lurid red. I read the entries again, quickly, eyes darting over the words, hoping to parse some meaning, but my mind is so addled that none of it makes sense. I try different combinations of words and letters. The closest I come to finding anything coherent is when I combine the fancy first letters of each entry on the page to spell M-E-Z-R-O-T-H—which has absolutely no meaning to me. It’s just nonsense.

My eyelids droop with exhaustion, but I don’t want to sleep, just in case the fire spreads and comes up the mountain. I need to stay awake, at least until Caro comes home. I close the grimoire and climb down the ladder. Ebba must be over her snit. She kneels at Granny’s side, holding her hand. I hear her singing softly in Swedish. If Granny dies, it’s gonna hurt Ebba as much as it’ll hurt me. The two of them are like sisters.

I find Abby out on the front porch, sitting in the swing. She cradles a cup of coffee in her hands, and she slowly rocks back and forth, tipping her feet from heel to toe. I sit down next to her, and she sighs, leaning her head on my shoulder. The thought-reading power seems to have gone, and I’m thankful for that. Out over the ridge, the fire still burns bright against the indigo-violet sky. It’s eerie, because up here on the mountain, it’s quiet, peaceful. Even the mockingbirds are singing.

“Think they’ll put it out by morning?”

“I hope,” Abby says. “I’m worried about it coming up the mountain if the wind shifts.”