“I have witnesses. I call the reporter, Mrs. Everhart, and the baker, Mrs. Lamont, to speak to the truth of my statement.”
Etsi stood and told the story of the night Amandine had been brought into town, telling it as if she had been the witness. She told about finding Amandine and setting her free. About riding out to the ranch. His forever woman was a wonderful storyteller.
“The two men tried to get away,” Etsi said. “You saw them. They abused the body of a woman. Where I come from that means either a neutering or a hanging.”
Ayatas did not think the men would neuter the rapists. But one did pull out a length of rope and start braiding.
Satisfied, Etsi motioned for Ayatas to follow, and they left the saloon.
That night, under the stars, Etsi read him the story called “Savior of the Doves.” It was wonderful. And then she fell into his arms on their layered bedrolls and they loved together beneath the nearly full moon, as they always had, as they always would. If he could keep his Everhart woman safe.
Death and the Fashionista
First published inThe Death of All Things, an anthology (2017). This story takes place just after Molly found her death magics, in the Yellowrock timeline.
The sun was setting when I slipped out of the house and over to the pile of boulders jutting on the crest of the hill. Sitting on the boulders gave me a clear view of the skyline in every direction, of the mountains that arched high and the valley that fell low, bright with the lights of Asheville. Of the moon rising and the few early stars glittering, of the last of the sunset in the west, a scarlet reminder of the day.
If I turned my head, I could see inside my home, the lights glimmering through the windows, my children at the table with their father. The TV’s muted laugh track sounded, stagnant and repetitive.
I ran my hands through the herbs planted around the boulders in the rock garden, releasing the scent of rosemary, basil, thyme, and chives, and pulled my ratty house sweater close against the autumn chill. Night birds called. Something crashed in the underbrush. But I was paying attention to one thing only—the forest I had killed.
I stared at the bare trees, bark sloughing off, revealing the pale wood beneath, limbs broken and pointing at the sky. Pointing at me as if in judgment. The accusation of death. Everything alive there had given itself to the pull of my new and unwanted death magics; the cursed gift had destroyed every blade of grass, every tree, vine, bird, lizard, snake, deer, squirrel. Everything.
With my native earth magics I had blessed and nursed that woods for years, bringing the trees from saplings to full grown and healthy, and then I had killed it all in a slow attrition of leaking death. Since that time I had managed to encourage a honeysuckle vine to grow there. One vine. A few blades of scrub grass. Nothing else.
I came out here often to remind myself of the dangers of my cursed magics. To remember that if I didn’t tamp down my curse-gift, strangle it, I might kill something more precious than the woods. If I let go, I might kill my husband. My children.
The power was seductive, forbidden. With it I would curse and kill, withering the land and bringing death to the ones I loved.
I massaged my belly and the baby who resided there, a magic user of undisputed power but unidentified future abilities, and I shivered. Night in the heights of the Appalachian Mountains was cold. Or maybe fear made me tremble. That was always possible. Death and fear rode the same horse and, for witches, pregnancy came with the likelihood of peril and sorrow.
As if in answer to my thoughts, the baby kicked. At the same instant, I heard the clop of hooves, two horses, iron shoes on the asphalt road. I opened aseeingworking. The outer ward was still active, still in place, a pale reddish ring of protection around the house and grounds. A stronger one surrounded just the house. Double wards were difficult to maintain, but with Big Evan’s and my magic combined, not impossible.
The back door opened and Angie poked out her head. “Mama!” she whispered, the word magically amplified by her will and desire. “Company’s coming.”
At her side, EJ, her little brother, stuck out his head. “Com’pee com’n.”
They couldn’t have heard the horses’ hooves, not with the TV on, but Angie was a dangerously strong witch. The clopping grew louder. Closer. I climbed to the ground. “Who?”
“Don’t know his name,” Angie said. “But the lady is Sally.”
“Sauwee,” EJ repeated.
“My angel says she’s a ‘piece a work.’ What’s a piece a work? And he says, ‘Death is the Truth and the Lie. And Death can be cheated.’ My angel’s confusing, Mama.”
Confusing. Yeah. And the warning made about as much sense as anything else ever said to my daughter by a supposedly celestial being—which was no sense at all. I clenched my sweater tighter across my chest and rounded belly. “That’s it?”
Angie tilted her head. “Yep. Cheating’s wrong, right, Mama?”
“Right. Take EJ back inside. Tell Daddy what you told me.” Angie tookher brother’s hand and closed the door. I walked around the house to the front, to the darkness at the edge of the driveway, and the sound of horse hooves, getting closer. Cue scary music, I thought.
The outer ward dinged smartly and juddered as horses turned into the drive and stopped.
The security lights came on, illuminating a man on a... a yellow horse. A heavy warhorse in daffodil yellow, its coat gleaming, its feathers, mane, and tail a brilliant white. The man atop the gelding wore black: a leather jacket and pants, Western boots, black saddle, while his flowing hair matched the horse’s white mane. The man was gorgeous and color coordinated, like something out of an airbrushed Ralph Lauren ad.
Beside the yellow horse was a blood bay mare, a woman on the mare’s back, her clothing matching the red horse: scarlet moto jacket, leather pants, boots that came to midthigh, matching riding gloves, and lipstick. Her scarlet hair was piled high in an eighties style. She carried a red leather handbag slung over the Western saddle horn, the kind of pricey handbag my sisters loved. Sally and the man were improbable, ill matched, and doing a poor job of aping human. When paranormals came calling, it meant trouble.
Something gleamed on the sole of the man’s boot, darkly glowing, reflecting the silver moon. A taint of hellfire and brimstone. The man had been walking where he shouldn’t. These two were far more dangerous than they looked.
