Page 14 of Of Faith and Fangs
No one moved. The only sound was the pop and hiss of candle fat.
She began with a wordless look at each face in the crowd, as if tallying which would see tomorrow’s dawn and which might not. When her eyes met mine, I saw not contempt but calculation—an abacus behind cataract-clouded irises, every bead tallying debts and curses owed.
Someone in the crowd—the butcher, or maybe the schoolmaster—spat on the stone and said, “What’s this old witch got to teach us? It violates everything the Order stands for to ally ourselves with her!”
Moll smiled, showing teeth uneven as a graveyard.
“We have no choice.” Mr. Brown’s words were hushed. “I beg you all, for the sake of my son. It’s the only way to end this nightmare.”
“You’ll dig her up,” Moll said. “Tonight, before the full moon drops. You’ll find her corpse as fresh as the day she died, or fresher.” She didn’t blink. “You’ll cut out the heart, burn it to ash, and feed the ashes to the boy. I must be there to ensure all is done properly. The ashes will cure the infection.”
“That’s madness,” someone barked from the back. “You’ve lost your mind, George. Or worse, you’re bewitched.”
Mr. Brown didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his head, looked at the crowd, and said, “Again, I beg you, for Edwin’s sake. The marks on his neck. He’s dying. Faster every day. I will not allow the devil that took my daughter to take my son as well.”
The crowd seethed, then splintered into debate—some for, some against, all of them loud.
Through the chaos, Moll’s voice knifed out: “There is no second chance. At sunrise, it’s too late. If you want to save the boy, you dig her up now. Or you can wait and see the horror unfold.”
A voice, high and thin, called from the edge: “And if you’re lying to us? What then?”
Moll shrugged. “Then you’ve wasted a cold night and a bit of sweat. But if I’m right—“ She looked at George. “You’ll thank me, or at least let me be.”
“What is your price?!” the man with the high voice snapped.
“Again, only that your Order leaves me and my coven be. We will not harm you or anyone in this town.”
George fell to his knees. It was not a graceful motion; his legs gave out, and he caught himself on his palms. “Please,” he said. “I’ve already lost my wife and daughter. I cannot lose my son too.”
I’d never seen a grown man break like that. It was not theatrical. It was genuine, as if his spirit had broken.
Moll stepped forward, and for a heartbeat I thought she might gloat. Instead, she put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Do it quick. Do it before you lose your nerve.”
The debate died, the men exhausted even by their own uproar.
Moll turned back to the mob. “You think me a witch, and maybe I am. But what Miss Brown has become is an abomination to both our kinds. Tonight, you’ll see that even enemies can have a common cause. For once, let the enemy of your enemy be your friend.”
No one cheered. No one offered thanks. The men simply gathered their coats and their shovels, and the sound of boots on stone was the only response.
Chapter 6
We left the church in a convoy of silence, the moon glaring down on us in judgment. My father joined us, though I’d never seen him look so distraught. What we were doing—it violated everything I’d ever heard him preach, everything he’d taught me.
The cemetery waited, silent as a closed book, the ground already riven with frost. The men fanned out, their lanterns winking on one by one as they approached the new grave.
I trailed at the rear, Moll at my side. She reeked of tallow and wild herbs and something else.
“She was your friend?” Moll asked, not unkindly.
“Not really,” I said, voice brittle. “I barely knew her.”
“No matter,” said Moll. “You’ll be her friend tonight. Though I must warn you, it will feel the opposite.”
We watched as the men got to work. No one spoke, clearly disgusted to do a witch’s bidding. The mound gave way quicker than I’d thought; the ground was softer, maybe. If Mercy truly had been rising from her grave, it made sense.
The coffin came up with a groan. The lid was forced, and the lantern light pooled on Mercy Brown’s face, smooth and alive as if she’d only fallen asleep.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Even in death, she was beautiful.
