The spirit recoiled with a furious roar.
“Destroy the candle!” Abigail screamed.
Her cry jolted Colvin from his momentary shock. He leaped into action, raising his heavy leather boot and stomping down on the jack-o’-lantern. It exploded outward under the impact, shards of pumpkin flying from under his heel. The light of the enchanted candle was snuffed instantly.
Abigail scrambled back on her elbows as the spectral figure towering over her suddenly began to come apart. The dead man’s ghostly figure lost its shape and dissolved into coils of black mist. The reaction spread upward, as if Hawes was being consumed by an invisible flame and transformed into a roiling cloud of black smoke. Hawes’ spirit let out one last, furious howl before his spectral face disintegrated. The black cloud then seemed to ignite from within, breaking into thousands of swirling particles that glowed a hellish orange in the darkness. Like smoldering sparks blown from a fire, the fragments soared into the air, swirling in a dazzling vortex of twinkling light before vanishing into the night.
Abigail staggered to her feet. Colvin was at her side, shouting something she was too dazed to comprehend. Through the crimson haze of blood and pain she could hear Keenan’s shrieks coming from somewhere in the midst of the slithering cloud of mist.
Her familiars were killing him.
Abigail shoved Colvin aside and lurched toward Hawes’ rotting head. “By the blood of your conjurer and master!” she cried. “I banish you back beyond the Veil!”
There was an unearthly roar as the mist broke into four separate tendrils that shot toward her in a fury. Abigail fell to one knee and held her breath as, one by one, each coiling spear of mist dove into the bloody skull. When the last of the familiars had vanished through the portal, Abigail kicked the head over, spilling the blood and sealing the gate.
It was over.
There was no time for relief. Josiah was already dashing to where Keenan lay sprawled in the underbrush. Colvin caught Abigail in his arms and steadied her as they went after him.
Keenan’s ruined body was a nightmarish patchwork of lacerated gore. His torso had been torn asunder, the flesh ripped away to reveal living organs. Four jagged slashes had been flayed deep into his face from the right side of his hairline to his mouth. Portions of white bone were visible through the gouts of blood welling to the surface. The pulpy bulb of his right eye bulged from its ruined socket. His left eye was wide and blank as if already given over to death. His jaw moved but no sound came from his mouth. He was still alive but fading fast, his breath becoming more faint and shallow with every passing second.
Josiah was kneeling beside the dying man when Abigail shoved past him and dropped to her knees. “Why did you do it, Keenan?” she hissed, heedless of the severity of her own wounds. Blood dripped from her face and mingled with Keenan’s as she peered intently into his vacant eye. “Tell me!”
“Leave him be!” Colvin exclaimed, laying a firm hand on her shoulder.
Abigail ignored him, brushing away his hand and shoving him back when he tried to return it. Some thing had driven Keenan to break the circle. She had seen it in his eyes before he had turned and fled. She had to get him to talk before it was too late.
“Keenan!” she insisted, her blood-rimmed eyes blazing intently. “You looked at me for help! Why did you break the circle? What drove you to run for the forest?”
A sickening gurgle rolled up from Keenan’s throat as blood invaded his windpipe. His jaw worked, again and again, mouthing words no one could hear. He swallowed, choked, found enough air to fill a whisper. Abigail pressed her ear to his lips.
“O’Brennan... said... save yourself...”
A bubble of blood welled from his mouth and slid back down across his cheek. His hand found Abigail’s and crushed it in a death-grip while his left eye flew to an impossible size, straining from his skull. The dreadful moment lasted only seconds before his last breath went out of him with a wet rattle.
Abigail let Keenan’s limp hand fall from her own and she dragged herself to her feet. Her head swam unexpectedly and the ground seemed to tilt beneath her. There was a buoyancy in her legs, as if her knees were about to buckle.
Colvin lent her his arm and she clutched at him for a moment before drawing away, ashamed of her momentary weakness. A dreadful numbness crawled into her chest, threatening to paralyze her. She fought to keep it down. Colvin was saying something about her wounds but his voice didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. How could Keenan have been made to break the circle? He was warded against possession, protected by the charm she had given him. No spirit had ever been able to overcome it. He couldn’t have been possessed. Unless...
Unless it wasn’t a spirit.
Abigail staggered as an awful realization finally fell upon her. Whatever evil was plaguing the village wasn’t a ghost.
It was something much, much worse.
Chapter 29
They were waiting for her when she returned to the village. Heath MacIntyre was in the lead, marching at the forefront of a half-dozen men to intercept Abigail as she and her two companions emerged from the forest onto Main Street.
Colvin knew they meant trouble the instant he laid eyes on them.
“Where are the others?” Heath demanded as he drew to a halt near the chapel, deliberately blocking Colvin’s way. “O’Brennan and Keenan?”
Colvin gave him an irritated frown. “Mind who you’re talking to, MacIntyre. You’re in no position to be making demands of me.”
“I asked ye’ a question, Colvin,” Heath insisted belligerently. “Where are the others?”
“Mister Colvin,” Colvin growled. His dark eyes narrowed to a hard point. “I’m still in charge around here and I can still send you packing should you happen to forget it.” He glared at Heath, all the while wondering if he had just made an empty threat. What would he do if the big man refused to leave?
Something had changed in Heath. Colvin didn’t like the look in his eyes. There was something dangerous there, something new and troublesome. Colvin took stock of the men who stood with the big man. They had it too: a hard and angry fervor. How many others in town now had that same look? It was exactly as Colvin had feared. Instead of blowing over, the storm of superstition and mistrust had only intensified while he and Abigail were gone. Where was Duncan Emmons? Father Carnes? What had they been doing in his absence?
Colvin knew he had better tread lightly. He ran a hand over his beard, swallowed, and chose his next words carefully. “O’Brennan was mauled by a bear our first night out. We buried him before we reached North Camp.”
The revelation drew angry murmurs from Heath’s followers.
Heath scowled and shook his shaggy head, fixing Colvin with a stern glare. “And Keenan?”
“Wounded trying to save O’Brennan. He succumbed to his injuries and died at North Camp.” The lie rolled easily from Colvin’s tongue. He had been rehearsing it for hours.
The descent from the mountain had been swift at Abigail’s insistence. Along the way, they had resolved that it would be wise not to speak of what had taken place at North Camp. The villagers were already frightened enough. The surviving trio had lingered at the camp only long enough for Abigail to clean her wounds and dress them with a poultice of dried flowers and herbs she had produced from her pack. Its effectiveness was nothing short of miraculous. In the time that had passed since they had left the terrible scene of the ritual behind, they hadn’t rested and barely ate, stopping only so that Abigail could brew a foul-smelling tea that she sipped from a tin cup as they traveled. She remained withdrawn and said very little, insisting only that she meet with Father Carnes without delay but refusing to elaborate when pressed for an explanation.
“Two more of our men dead,” Heath grumbled.
Colvin exhaled wearily. “Move aside, Heath. We’ve traveled long and without rest and we’ve still much to attend to.”
Heath didn’t budge. Instead, he stabbed a finger at Abigail. “This is her doing.”
>
The other men grumbled their approval. Colvin heard the danger in their tone. His veins flooded with adrenaline as he put himself between them and Abigail. “Walk away, Heath.”
“We’ve come to do what should’ve been done the moment she arrived here,” Heath growled. “The woman’s a witch. Where she goes, damnation follows.”
“I said walk away,” Colvin insisted. “I’m warning you.”
“Warning me?” Heath sneered. “The only warning I’ll heed is the Lord’s own. He’s angry at this town, at this cradle of sin that you’ve been responsible for!”
Colvin’s hand curled into a fist as Heath made a move to push past him. Timber let out a menacing growl and crouched low, his ears flat back against his head. For the moment, the other men seemed content to stand by, crowding closer to see what would happen next. Colvin put himself in Heath’s way but kept his fist from swinging. If he struck first, he would likely provoke the other men as well. His one hope of maintaining leadership over the village was to remain calm and in control. Let Heath be the irrational one.
“Get outta me way,” Heath snarled. His face was going red around his thick goatee and a vein bulged and pumped like a cord in his neck. He rammed a shoulder into Colvin’s.
Timber’s growls turned into a loud, angry bark but Colvin grabbed the scruff of the dog’s neck and clamped down hard.
Heath’s eyes burned as he rose up and drew back a fist.
Just then, there was a loud click and the big man froze. Heath’s eyes whipped around to the pistol Josiah had pressed to the side of his skull.
“You godless bastard!” Heath snarled. “Get that iron off me!”
Josiah kept the pistol aimed and ready. His black eyes were hard, his face an unreadable mask.
There were outraged exclamations from the other men but they remained rooted where they stood. All knew better than to challenge the inscrutable Native. Colvin could almost hear the pulsing tattoo of their collective heartbeats.
The standoff seemed stretch on forever, everyone holding their breaths, waiting for the hammer to fall, the pistol to go off...
“Heath MacIntyre!” Father Carnes bellowed as he stormed from the chapel. “You men! All of you! That’s enough, I say!”
No one moved.
All eyes remained on Heath as if looking to him for a signal. Colvin prayed he would back off. A long, bated moment passed until the big man finally yielded. Colvin tried not to let his relief show as Heath threw Carnes a scathing glance and eased back, quivering with rage.
Josiah kept the pistol level with Heath’s head as the lumberjack turned to the men gathered behind him. Heath’s gray eyes swept over each of them, his face red and twisted in disgust. “The Almighty demands expiation! We must make atonement! We must rid ourselves of this witch!”
“Who are you to presume to know the will of God, Heath MacIntyre?” Carnes thundered. “Who are you to pretend to His divine wisdom? ’Tis not for a mere wretch such as you to decree who shall live and who shall die! None but the Lord himself shall be our judge!”
The hush that followed was the sort that follows on the heels of a thunderclap. Colvin had never witnessed such a forcible display of authority from the young priest. Carnes’ chest was swollen underneath his cassock. His right hand clenched and released unconsciously, the knuckles going white. His pale green eyes blazed intensely and the furious indignation in his voice imbued him with an impressive sense of power.
Even Heath seemed taken aback. He glared at Carnes, momentarily confounded, before finally turning away. “You’ll rot in hell, witch,” he sneered over his shoulder at Abigail. “And I’ll be the one to see ye’ on yer way.”
The other men fell in behind him as he stalked off, muttering and casting sidelong glances at Abigail as they went.
Colvin gave Carnes an uneasy nod and watched them go. A cold dread had settled into his gut. The situation in the village was much more severe than he had thought. Heath’s menacing provocations weren’t over; they were only beginning. Banishing him from the village now would do no good; MacIntyre already had too many followers. Carnes might have managed to buy Abigail some time before the men came back for her, but the unrest would only escalate with every moment she remained among them.
It was then that Colvin realized he had another problem to contend with as well. What would happen once the rest of the villagers discovered what had become of the men at North Camp? It wouldn’t be long before someone noticed that the timber had stopped coming downstream. They would think there was a logjam and Colvin would be forced to send someone to investigate. He guessed it would only be another day or two until it finally happened, maybe less. What would he tell them then?
And what would happen if yet another villager was to commit suicide?
Colvin tried to push the thoughts from his mind. He stole a glance at Abigail. She was a frightful sight. The slashes across her face were red and swollen and one eye was entirely bloodshot. Her bright blond hair was dull and matted and the clothes he had lent her were tattered and bloodstained. Colvin marveled at the strength that had allowed her to persevere this far.
And yet, throughout the altercation with Heath’s small mob, Abigail had remained as cool and silent as a winter woods. Her scarred face was gray and drawn with exhaustion but her cold, blue eyes gleamed dangerously. The look on her face gave Colvin a chill and he decided he didn’t want to know how she intended to defend herself if Heath tried to make good on his threats. When the time came, better that he be the one to do it for her.
Chapter 30
“What do you know about demons?” Abigail asked from her chair at the vesting table of the chapel’s vestry. A tin cup of black coffee resting on the bare desk before her steamed its bitter aroma into the dampness of the small room.
Father Carnes stood peering at her with his arms folded across his chest and his shoulder leaning against the pine cabinet where his vestments were stored. He looked almost as exhausted as Abigail. His bearded face was haggard and dark rings confined his eyes, divesting them of what little color they held. Abigail could only wonder at the battles he had recently fought on her behalf. Why was he doing it? Why did he trust her?
Carnes had barely spoken as Abigail related the events of her journey to North Camp. His stony silence only seemed to deepen when she told him of her ill-fated conjuring of Jed Hawes’ spirit and of Keenan’s death. His face had gone dark then, but he had thankfully kept his reproaches to himself. Abigail didn’t need to be reminded of her broken promise to refrain from what the priest had called sorcery. She had never intended to honor it anyway.
“Demons?” Carnes repeated, arching an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Ms. Jacobs.”
Abigail took a long sip of her coffee. She was glad for its heat but longed for a good helping of whiskey. Every mile of her trek down the mountain and every sleepless moment weighed on her like heavy chains. Her potions had done wonders to help speed her recovery but her wounds still stung and throbbed whenever she moved. And yet, as much as she wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a strong drink, both would have to wait. If her suspicions were correct, there wasn’t a moment to lose. The entire village was in danger—and if her earlier encounter with Heath MacIntyre was any indication, it was only a matter of time before she was run out of town. Or worse.
“Keenan was driven to break the circle against his will,” Abigail said. “I am certain of it. I saw it in his face before he was drawn to the forest. He was possessed.”
“But not by a spirit,” Carnes interjected.
Abigail sipped her coffee again and shook her head.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I imparted him with a charm of warding. No spirit can take possession of one who bears it.” Abigail paused for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed. “But there are other beings with the ability to possess a man, ones upon which such a charm would have no effect.”
Carnes gave her a dubious look. “Demons? You now
believe a demon possessed Keenan and drove him to suicide?”
“I know how this must sound to you, Mr. Carnes, but please hear me out.” Abigail shifted in her chair. “I have exhausted every other possible explanation for what is happening here in Tahawus. I had hoped against hope to find answers at North Camp, but I have returned empty handed. And yet, something drove Keenan to take his own life. If we rule out the possibility of a spirit, there remains only one other explanation that I can think of.”
“The devil,” Carnes lowered his arms and moved to take the seat across the table from her. “Ms. Jacobs, such notions may well have been fashionable in the Middle Ages, but this is the nineteenth century. There are now some among the clergy—myself included—who believe that Biblical demons are actually metaphors for the personal failings that keep us from embracing the loving glory of God. Despite what devotees such as Heath MacIntyre may hold true, there is a growing belief that hell is not a physical place of fire and damnation, but a spiritual one. It is a personal state of being where man endures the spiritual torment of his separation from God. To think that Keenan was possessed by some demon and driven to take his own life... well, it just doesn’t seem rational.”
“How very enlightened of you,” Abigail remarked with a hint of sarcasm. She nodded to where Carnes’ Bible lay on the corner of the table. “Unfortunately, there are some things in your Good Book that are actually true.”
A silence fell between them and Abigail lowered her gaze to stare into her coffee. Its black surface conjured images of the bloody bowl of Hawes’ skull. She looked away hastily and said, “Perhaps if I were permitted to examine my Book of Shadows, I could—”
“That is out of the question, Ms. Jacobs. You have already proven by your actions that you cannot be trusted to refrain from sorcery. As long as you are a guest in this village, your infernal book will remain safely in my possession.” Carnes indicated a cabinet set against the far wall of the room. Rows of worn books stood neatly arranged behind its locked glass doors.
The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2) Page 16
