The Witch of Tin Mountain(90)

“Over a week. Where did you go, Deirdre?”

“The past, mostly. Spirit walking. Remembering what I’ve done. But it’s time now, Ebba. Time for me to set things right and give Anneliese her reckoning and cast that demon out for good.” Deirdre stood, steadying herself against the bed frame. “He said he’d come back to reap what he’d sown. And he has.” Deirdre shook her head. “I’ve been watching from the spirit realm. Tried to intervene, at the church. I bought Gracie some time, but we have to hurry.”

Ebba sprang up and rushed to her side. “You are too weak, Deirdre. You must rest first. Eat.”

“Dammit, I’m a mountain girl, Ebba. I’ve never been weak. Now get me my grimoire.”



Deirdre knelt on the ground, the heavy, wet wind lashing her hair. All her regrets crowded around her—her grief over giving up Ophelia, her selfishness, how easily she’d fallen into that demon’s cunning hands.

Even if it took every last breath, every last drop of her blood to make things right, she would.

For Gracie.

Deirdre opened the grimoire. The flaming tree stretched across its pages. She gently ran her hands over it. Heat bloomed beneath her fingertips.

“I’m sorry, Anneliese. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough. I’m sorry I disappointed you. But I need you to help me now. I need you to show me what to do so that this spell won’t be in vain and I might undo the mistakes I’ve made, for once and for all.”

Anneliese’s voice rang out, bell-like and pure inside Deirdre’s head.

Willing blood, Deirdre. Willing blood. Be strong. Invite me in and I will do the rest.

Deirdre nodded. “I understand.” She prayed to the old gods and the new, and called upon her ancestors for strength, women whose names she knew only from the grimoire. Their voices became a chorus in her head, drawing power from the earth and the air. The clouds above churned and heaved, like a womb ready to give birth.

Deirdre kissed the knife’s blade and raised it high.

And then she bled.





THIRTY-FOUR

GRACELYNN





1931




It’s my twentieth birthday. I just now realized it. In my mind, I replay everything I might have done differently over the past twenty years, if I had the chance. I might have spoken up sooner, in that courtroom. Might have never come to Tin Mountain. Might have left on a train to San Francisco long before my daddy died. Might have never been born at all.

Surely that would be better than dying like this.

Al Northrup steers me to the scaffold. The townsfolk are gathered there, faces colored by the eerie, greenish light of the impending storm. Al grasps a handful of my hair and hauls me up the steps.

“I didn’t kill your son,” I say through clenched teeth. “Bellflower did.”

“Shut up,” he mutters. “You’d say anything to save your skin.”

Thunder crackles. Old Liberty stands in the distance, lit up by lightning. Its beam is dark for the first time in almost a hundred years. I glimpse Abby in the crowd, her face streaked with tears. She tries to fight her way to the scaffold, but the men hold her back, jeering.

I whisper I love you as my heart begins to skitter out of control.

I’m going to die and there’s so much I didn’t get to do. So much I never got to see and feel.

A cold, piercing rain starts up, stirring the dust and bringing a hot metallic smell like cordite. The townsfolk cheer and start to dance. The long drought is over. Praise the Lord.

On the other side of the square, I see Bellflower. The crowd parts for him, a look of reverent awe on their faces as he climbs the steps and comes close, his breath like sulfur. He ties my hands with a hank of rope. My broken wrist yelps in pain. “You foolish girl,” he rasps. “I tried to make things easy. I would have protected you from them. Taken you gently. Easily. Now the simpletons will have their show.”

He turns to the crowd. “Good people of Tin Mountain, see how the heavens open and smile upon you! And this is but the beginning. This act of justice will purge the evils of witchcraft from Tin Mountain forever and bring prosperity to the land once more.”

The crowd cheers. Then they start chanting. At first, I can’t make out the words. Then they get clearer, louder: “Hang the witch!” A rotten egg lands at my feet, foul and stinking. More sour food and offal hits me. The rain turns to hail, pelting my face with ice, and the sky roils above me. Al Northrup brings the noose down over my head and steps away.

It’s just me and Bellflower. He turns to me and smiles.

“Do you have any last words, Miss Doherty?” he intones. “A confession will bring rest to your soul. I can offer you forgiveness. Peace.”

“I don’t want your kind of peace.”

“Very well.” He tightens the noose under my chin. Panic claws up from my belly. I try to slow my breathing, try to concentrate and call up any power I might have left, but it’s like trying to scrape up hard dirt with my fingers. My palms are slick with sweat. A whimper escapes my lips.

“Don’t worry. It’s not a long enough drop to break your pretty neck,” Bellflower whispers in my ear. “Only long enough to steal your breath until I’ve claimed you. You will be my greatest miracle yet. A resurrection.”