The Witch of Tin Mountain(70)

Despite the heat, a chill creeps across my shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“That Northrup boy. Harlan. He meant to ravage you.” Bellflower scowls. “Repugnant. They just found his body, charred almost beyond recognition, but it is him, I assure you. He’ll trouble you—and your lovely Abigail—no more.”

“You started it, didn’t you? The fire.”

“Perhaps.” Bellflower shrugs. “Or perhaps you did. You’re certainly capable of it.” He glances over his shoulder at the fire, which has gone completely still in his eerie thrall, flames shimmering in place. “Fire purifies, cleanses. It’s beautiful.”

“Is that what you told Anneliese before she burned?”

“Anneliese. Anneliese.” He sighs in irritation. “Her name wasn’t Anneliese. That’s just what that ridiculous German boy Friedrich called her.

“Her real name was Betsy. Betsy Sutter. And she was meant for a greater purpose, just like you are—a purpose she denied.”

“You’re talking in circles, Bellflower. I ain’t got the patience for your riddles.”

“How about a story, then? People tell all sorts of stories about the Sutter family, don’t they? The most well-known tale is that Owen Sutter killed his family after he discovered his wife had a lover among the Natives. Ridiculous. Then, there’s the myth he committed incest with his oldest daughter and the guilt destroyed him. Also false.” Gentry’s lips curl into a smile. “Or my personal favorite—that he made a deal with the devil, and it drove him mad. There might be a thread of truth in that one.” He winks.

“Betsy was special from the moment she was born. A true witch, with raw, innate powers. Her blood sang with it. I came to Sutter’s Hollow when I felt the tug of her essence. At first, I was formless and hungry, only a spirit in the ether. I played games with the Sutter girls, ripping their bedclothes off at night, cackling in the wee hours of morning. I haunted them in many forms. A black dog. A maiden dressed in green, swinging from the highest branches of the locust tree. A cantankerous, foul-mouthed old woman with an affinity for Scripture. They nicknamed her Mary.” Bellflower chuckles to himself. “Playing Mary was my favorite game. She was how I knew I had a gift for ministry.”

“Pardon me, but you’re not makin’ a lick of sense.”

“In time! All will be clear in time.” Bellflower paces back and forth in front of me like he does when he’s preaching. “Soon, word of the ‘witch’ haunting Sutter’s Hollow spread. Old Owen was driven mad by the attention. He hated my games. Hated it even more when I came to his wife late at night and made her quiver and moan in ways he never could. He begged me to depart—to leave his family alone. So, I made him an offer. I’d depart, if he’d promise his youngest daughter to me when she came of age.”

“Anneliese.”

“Betsy,” he corrects. “Beautiful blue-eyed Betsy. Owen knew what I could do if he denied me. I played my part. Hung back and watched, quietly. It wasn’t my fault Owen’s madness made him mean. When his killing notions took root and came to fruition, I protected Betsy. Delivered her safely into the hands of young Friedrich Werner, then wandered from town to town out east, toying with the locals, until she was ripe for me. Only, instead of a bodiless spirit, I came back as—”

“Nathaniel Walker.”

“Yes. You’re very clever. Nathaniel was a young, naive pastor that made a deal of his own with me and invited me in.” Bellflower passes a hand over his face, and his dark eyes change to blue as his dirty blond hair shifts to black. “I healed his beloved mother and then took his body for my own. I’ve been inhabiting it ever since.”

“For what purpose? Just to seduce some pretty country girl?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what an incubus is, Gracelynn?”

My mind flickers back to an image in the grimoire, crudely drawn. The creature that looked like a human but seemed a bit . . . off. “A demon who seduces women—especially witches.”

Bellflower gives me a dazzling smile. “You have been studying! I’m so proud. And why do they want to lie with a witch, specifically?”

“To create offspring.”

“Yes. A cambion.”

“What does that have to do with anything? You still haven’t told me what you want with me. Why you keep turning up, like the worst kind of bad penny.”

He’s talking in circles. Confusing me, making my head spin.

“I’m still not following.”

“I wanted Betsy because I wanted progeny from a natural-born witch. First, there was Betsy, who betrayed me. Then Deirdre, who tried to betray me, and failed, poor thing. She never even thought about you.” He sighs wistfully. “Your grandmother was a beauty in her youth. I enjoyed our time together.

“Betsy and Deirdre were both special. In different ways.” Bellflower stalks toward me. “But you . . . you are exceptional. Diluted a bit by your father’s inferior blood, but still remarkable.” He reaches out, his fingers grazing the jagged scar that Shep Doherty laid across my forehead when I was eight years old. “You don’t even know what you’re capable of. But I do. Together, we’ll do great things. Together, we’ll have everything we’ve ever wanted.”