The Witching Elm (A Memento Mori Witch Novel, Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  “She’s awake!” someone shouted. Her body was now visible, and she glanced down to see that someone had taken her necklace. A guard pulled her up by her shoulders and dragged her to her feet. She stood on the stony edge of the Lilitu Fountain. As her eyes focused, she saw Eden by her side, a black noose around her gaunt neck. The corpse of Celia’s cousin swayed by her side. When Fiona looked up, she saw the flat, gray body of the gallows monster. One of its three heads brayed above her.

  Before them, a crowd of people gathered in the muddy puddles, staring at her in sodden clothes. She scanned the skies for the arrival of a death’s-head moth. Lightning seared the somber sky, but she saw no insects. Someone jerked her head backward, and she felt the weight of the noose as the executioner tightened it around her neck. The rough rope scratched her skin and her body began to shake. Her legs gave way, and hands pulled her up again so that she was standing.

  Nearby, a guard read out a list of crimes for which she and Eden were condemned: “High Treason, Unsanctioned Use of Magic, Confusion of the King’s Guards, Improper Use of the Sewers, Conspiracy to Aid the King’s Enemies, Misuse of a Sword…” She searched the crowd, but only strangers’ faces stared back at her, and the guard said the words “condemned to hang.” If she could only speak, she could tell them that the Champion very much wanted her to live.

  Her legs buckling under her, she glanced to the skies again. No moths. She gazed out at the grim crowd. No one jeered, or threw rotten vegetables, or seemed pleased to be there. She looked at Eden, who stared down at the platform. She couldn’t see Tobias anywhere.

  She closed her eyes. She knew what would happen. The gallows monster would jerk away, dragging them off the fountain, and their legs would dangle in midair as they choked to death. Their bodies would be showcased from one part of the city to another as a warning, though when Jack—when Rawhed saw them, the guards would not be rewarded. In desperation, she tried to chant the words of the transformation spell, but the gag prevented her.

  She scrunched her eyes shut when she felt something sharp against her face. A crow had landed on her shoulder. Tobias was tugging off the gag with his beak. She was stunned for a moment, gasping for breath, but a shout from a guard jolted her to attention. He’d given the order for the Tricephalus to move. Her whole body trembled as she rushed through the transformation spell.

  Her bones compressed, muscles cramped together, and wings erupted from her thin black arms. In her familiar form, she lifted out of the noose and circled into the air just as the gallows monster propelled itself away from the fountain.

  Tobias was on Eden’s shoulder below, and he’d yanked off her gag, too. But it was too late. Her legs twitched in the air.

  * * *

  Thomas’s hands clamped around a Harvester’s head from behind, snapping it to the right with a crack. The man crumpled to the wet cobblestones of Lullaby Square. A part of him felt a thrill at his power, but revulsion also snaked through him. With King Philip powering his limbs, he snuffed out one life after another. But the Harvesters had died before, right? They should never have come back. They are the invaders.

  Tatter forces swarmed in the alleys around him, joined by remnants of the King’s guards, all clashing with an onslaught of Harvesters in the storm. How many men and women had been imbued with the spirits’ strength? There must be a thousand of them at least, each one glowing with a pale light and moving with the grace of a lion.

  He glanced toward the towering fortress. In front of the gates, a young girl’s body swung from the gallows beside Celia’s cousin. The gallows-beast’s heads reared back and shrieked, and its legs trampled those below it in the chaos.

  Nearby, someone shouted orders. They were to cut down the bodies and light the beast on fire. They were to burn the Harvesters’ elm and the wooden gates of the fortress, and drag the invaders out into the street. They were to find the monster Rawhed and hang him in the square to end it all.

  * * *

  In their human forms again, Tobias and Fiona crawled through the Darkling Tunnel. He wiped a muddy hand across his eyes. Fiona kept talking to him, but he wasn’t sure what she was saying. He wished she would stop. She was crying, maybe. When was the last time he’d cried? Father had told him he’d wept when his mother and sister died, but he couldn’t remember anything about that. Was there something with a basket? A wicker cart on wheels, when they were sick. His father had tried to push his mother and sister to Sortellian, and their heads had knocked together—blue lips and pale faces.

  His breath was shaky as he exhaled. He didn’t want to think about that, about the gray skin and lolling heads. He clutched the locket around his neck, pressing his fingers into it. Fiona wouldn’t stop crying, all these sobbing noises—sobbing and choking. What did it feel like to choke to death?

  When they came to the end of the Darkling Tunnel, Bess wasn’t there anymore.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to have happened. Oswald and Eden should have come with him to Boston in December, all those months ago in the storm. It should have been the three of them together.

  When he’d seen her at the prison, Eden had looked so sick, her throat and hands ashen. Even before she was hanged, there’d been a deathly shadow on her neck—the plague? Was that why he’d saved Fiona instead of her? Maybe she wasn’t Eden anymore. The haunted eyes, her mouth pressed into a grim line.

  He looked at his feet as he walked up the stairs. At least he’d managed to save Fiona. He wiped his eyes again with his sleeve. They were full of mud. It was everywhere.

  As they climbed out of the stairwell, he was vaguely aware that Mather Academy had burned. Over blackened and dripping wood, they stumbled toward the courtyard. Outside under the sooty sky, he walked toward the Common. Even in Boston the storm god lashed them with rain. He touched the locket at his neck—Eden’s hair. His hand shook as he held it up to his face, inspecting the glass and the blond hair within.

  Fiona put her hand on his arm as he started toward King’s Chapel. He turned, tracing his hands over the place where the noose had been around her neck, feeling its warmth. He shook her hand off his arm and continued to the cemetery. Fiona stayed behind near the elm.

  What would they do with Eden’s broken body? She’d always wanted to be buried near Athanor Pond, but it was supposed to happen when she was old. A crowd in the Common shouted nearby, and the noise rung in his ears. He was alone as he approached the iron gates of the cemetery. It was where he’d come on his first day, when he’d met Fiona, when he thought he was still waiting for Eden. If he hadn’t met Fiona, would Eden still be alive? Maybe he would have gone back for her sooner.

  Lightning ignited the sky over Beacon Hill. His chest heaved, and rain kept getting in his eyes, streaming down his face. He pulled open the gate to King’s Chapel and stumbled forward, finally crumpling to the ground beneath an oak. He pulled off the locket. She’d given it to him at the festival of the Bird King.

  With all the rain, the ground was soft now. Good for a burial. He clawed into the mud with his fingers, flinging clumps away until there was a hole six inches deep. This would have to do. He shoved the locket into its grave, smearing the dirt over it. His hand shook as he mashed it into the mud. He leaned back against the oak and exhaled another unsteady breath.

  After his mother had died, his father had lain in bed for weeks. Mr. Anequs had brought over soup and bread. What was it that had lured his father out of the tangles of yellowed bed sheets and into the Ragmen? Tobias clenched his fists and took a trembling breath over the fresh little grave. Maybe he understood, finally. Maybe it was rage that had drawn him into the streets of Maremount again.

  Epilogue

  From his position atop one of the Trimountaine Hills, Thomas had an almost unobstructed view of Maremount. He sat on the steps of a crumbling temple, its cracked and ivory-encased columns carved with symbols of serpents and stags. The sun rose before him, and its rays slowly lit the crowded streets below. Smoke rose from many of the buildin
gs, and in a few places fires still smoldered. Bodies lay in the streets, but the storm that had heralded the arrival of the spirits had washed away most of the blood.

  That morning, the wife of a Ragman had provided a foul-smelling poultice for a burn on his shoulders. Peeking under the bandages, he saw that it looked much better now.

  Had he really snapped someone’s neck and driven a sword through a man’s heart? He leaned back onto the stone steps, and grit pressed into his hands. He sat up and brushed it off. But they needed to die. They shouldn’t have been here in the first place.

  Rawhed’s army had been routed in the early morning hours. With only a few Harvesters left, the monster had fled Maremount before they could hang him. No one knew where he was. After their victory, the spirit had departed Thomas’s body as quickly as he had arrived.

  Thomas searched the narrow streets for signs of Fiona and Tobias, but Fiona’s wild hair was nowhere to be seen.

  As he scanned the city, a tall man with black hair walked toward him across the cobblestone road. There was something familiar in his dark eyes.

  “Are you Thomas Malcolm?”

  He raised his eyebrows, exhaling. He’d become quite the curiosity among the Ragmen. “That’s me.”

  “Thank you for helping us. I was there yesterday, in Lilitu Square.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” He really just wanted to sleep.

  “I’m William Corvin. I was told you’re a friend of my son, Tobias.”

  He rose. “Tobias? I came here with him, but I haven’t been able to find him since we were separated.”

  “The ravens tell me he returned to Boston through the Darkling Tunnel. He was with a friend—a girl.”

  Thomas exhaled. “Good. I was worried about them. Do you know what happened to Celia? I mean, Lady Celestine?”

  “Reunited with her father, for now.” He wiped his hand across his brow. “I wanted to follow after Tobias, but the tunnel is gone. When Rawhed escaped, he sealed it after him. I’m afraid you might be stuck here until we can find a philosopher’s guide with the right spell.”

  Thomas’s body ached. He hadn’t slept in several days, and he saw trails whenever he turned his head. His fatigue dulled his reaction to the news. “So I’m stuck here.”

  “For now.”

  He closed his eyes and felt the cobblestones beneath his feet, the sun on his face, and the breeze against his skin. He might not be home, but at least he knew he was somewhere.

  Stay in Touch

  Readers who sign up to our mailing list will be able to buy the next book in our series (A Witch’s Feast) for only $0.99. We’ll send you an email as soon as it’s released, and you’ll have a 24 hour window when the book goes live to purchase the discounted book.

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  Yours,

  Christine and Nick

  About the Authors

  C.N. Crawford is not one person but two. Christine (C) grew up in the historic town of Lexington, and has a lifelong interest in New England folklore—with a particular fondness for creepy old cemeteries. Nick (N) spent his childhood reading fantasy and science fiction further north during Vermont’s long winters. Together they work to incorporate real historical events and figures into contemporary urban fantasy novels.

  @cn_crawford

  cncrawfordauthor

  www.cncrawford.com

  cncrawfordauthor@gmail.com

  Sources

  We relied on a number of sources when writing this book including the Pokanoket Tribe’s website; Legends and Lore of the North Shore by Peter Muise along with his blog; The Name of War: King Philip's War and the Origins of American Identity by Jill Lepore; Peter Levine, Ph.D. and his interpretation of At the Indian Killer’s Grave; Boston Common: A Diary of Notable Events; A History of the Town of Bellingham, Massachusetts; and the Footnotes Since the Wilderness blog.

  Acknowledgments

  We thank our wonderful editor John Hart; our cover designer Carlos Quevedo; and our beta readers: Callie, Eliot, Jess, Joeleen, Meagan, Michelle. We also thank David, Geoff, James, Leslie, Peggy, Robert, Stephanie, and Will for their comments and edits, and Robin for her amazing writing advice. Thanks to Karl and Martin for their design input; Heath, Lindsay, and Audra for their marketing suggestions, the writing groups Den of Quills, The Dragon’s Rocketship, and Author’s Corner for their inspiration and moral support. We thank FrankandCarySTOCK for the crow-wing stock image. Lastly we thank Sean, our first ARC reviewer found through an online reading group.

  To Corinne Crawford and all feisty women.