“Like Le Culte de la Lune,” I interrupt.
“Exactly. In some of these, a circle topped by horns represents Lucifer and all the dark beings under his dominion.”
“Wait, those aren’t crescent moons?”
“Nope. They’re curved horns, like the kind in old drawings of Satan. Adapted from goats and rams, apparently.”
“So our symbolisa mark of evil?”
“No, see, here’s the thing.Oursymbol has horns on top but also on the bottom, facing down, and according to this, symbols facing down take on their opposite meaning.”
I scrunch my nose. “Which means…”
Nissa’s voice is practically jubilant. “Which means this symbol isn’t supposed tocall forthevil. It’s supposed to get rid of it. Negate dark spirits, strip the Devil of power. It’s an apotropaic mark.”
“A what?”
“Apotropaic mark. They’re found in every religion and culture the world over. Symbols people use to protect against bad spirits. You’ll see them painted above houses, worn on necklaces, in grave sites, dating as far back as we can trace.”
I blink at her. “So the symbol in the swamp, the one the whole town thinks is a mark of witchcraft meant to beckon the Low Man…is actually meant to protect us?”
“Exactly,” she gushes, turning the page. “It was found on trees, right? All of them facing town. Just like this picture of a protection circle. Look.”
There on the page is a scene I recognize: a black-and-white photo of a clearing. In the center is a small fire, and around that, a circle of white stones, each painted with our two-horned symbol.
“Is that a Le Culte de la Lune ritual?”
Nissa peers at the caption, then shrugs. “The book doesn’t say which group it belongs to. Sorry. It just says ‘protection circle found in the Southeastern United States.’”
It’s our symbol from the swamp painted on the rocks, but otherwise so close to the scene I witnessed in Ever’s backyard years ago that it can’t be a coincidence. But he swore he wasn’t responsible for the symbolsin the swamp. Why would he lie about it, especially if he was only protecting the town?
Nissa slams the book shut. “Isn’t this exciting? I’ll tell you what. They’ll probably give us honorary deputy badges. I’m gonna call my friend at LSU, see if she’s got any more books like this.” She pauses, her expression thoughtful. “And I guess it’s time to tell the sheriff we’ve got a pagan vandal in our midst.”
“But not one who’s trying to hurt us,” I murmur.
“No,” she agrees. “Not at all.”
That’s exactly what Everett said to me all those years ago.
34
JUNE, NINETEENYEARS OLD
The woods hummed with butterflies fluttering to wildflowers newly in bloom—tall, airy cleomes, perfect teacup marigolds, bright, spiky stalks of bee balm swaying in the sun—the very picture of summer beauty, and still my heart was cold as I followed Everett in. Staring at his back as we hiked to the mysterious thing he wanted to show me, all I could see was his face last night. That terrible mask of blood.
He was standing at the edge of my parents’ lawn when I woke up this morning, as if he sensed he had to start over, win me back from the beginning. His tall frame and solemn face were the first things I saw when I peered out my window, exhausted from a night without sleep. I’d crept out of the house to meet him despite the potent mix of fear and embarrassment that still lingered because my curiosity was stronger. How would he possibly explain?
He’d studied me in silence for a long time before finally asking if I’d let him show me something. That’s all he offered. Once again, it was curiosity that tipped the scales to bring me here, traipsing behind him through the morning mist into a corner of the woods where I’d never been before.
“This is it,” Ever said, stopping to face a large, gnarled tree. “What I wanted to show you.”
I stepped wordlessly around him. Not only was the tree thick and tall, but its weathered bark and knotted branches made it look old and wizened, like one of those ancient trees Old Man Jonas swore had stood in our forest for over a thousand years, bearing witness to a millennium of men. I felt an immediate reverence.
Smooth white stones were set around the tree in a small circle, decorated with the same five-spiraled symbol as last night. And carved into the tree was an alcove, a hollowed-out space with a thin ledge that must’ve been a beast to chisel. The ledge held two white candles, wax mostly melted. In the center of the alcove was a carved portrait of a woman. She had long hair, gentle eyes, and a small, knowing smile. At the base of the tree, wildflowers had been laid carefully between the roots. They were limp and browning, obviously put there some time ago, but I could still see some of the vivid blue of the swamp lilies.
“My shrine to Célestine Duncan,” said Ever wistfully.
I stepped inside the circle of stones and ran my fingers over the roughly hewn lines of her face. “Célestine,” I whispered. So that was his mother’s name. A butterfly flapped close enough to brush my hair. The scent of flowers was so pungent here that I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, filling my lungs. Then I turned back to Ever. “I don’t understand.”
