Chapter 2

Jails are strangely comforting things.

My cell is not the same as the single locked room in the Devil’s Reach I’d known, where the post office and the law brokered a tentative peace in their shared space. Yet the small wooden box of a room with metal bars across the window and another set of bars across the opening feels the same as that temporary cage. A solitary place, where people who’d misbehaved are sent to think about what they’d done.

I sure am doing a lot of thinking.

Though I suspect it’s not the type the sheriff intends.

My thoughts are a jumble of the life I’d known, with fragments of this new world spinning on the surface like oil upon water. I had expected to return to that life—to live it—instead, I’m here. Sitting on the cell’s simple wooden bench, which is built into the wall beneath the window, I know that if I tilt my head upward, I’ll find the broad face of the moon past the lines of steel.

But I don’t look up.

For once, the soft glow of the moon offers no comfort.

I need to plan—I need to understand—but my insides are in knots. My heart hurts and my head aches with it. There are too many things in my mind to sift through it all, yet at the same time, nowhere near enough.

Twenty-twenty-five.

Can it be possible?

Hands clasped tight in my lap, I face forward, waiting for the sheriff to return. The man who shares two names with my beloved and too many features. But he isn’t my John. I want to blame it on the curse, to claim this is nothing more than a cruel illusion.

Yet the longer I wait, the more I fear it is real.

That this place is real—and that I am the one who doesn’t belong.

Untangling my fingers, I grip the edge of the bench, using the connection to ground me to the earth. I force myself to breathe deeply, counting off the moments before I exhale, waiting for my body to fall into the practiced rhythm. Slowly, my heartbeat steadies. I don’t want to push past the fear blinding me, I don’t want to discover what’s behind the curtain. But I do it. And as the panic subsides, I’m able to painstakingly review every moment since I pulled myself from the ground.

The earth had been cold, hard.

The landscape’s subtle new angles.

The packed rock trail for the strange, horseless carriages.

And the town—my town—which still bears the name Devil’s Reach and yet there is almost nothing else I recognize. Can I have been dead for over a century? Left in the earth by my love and those I held most dear?

I hate that it explains so much.

It shouldn’t. It should be pure lunacy. But it’s not.

Now that I’ve managed to calm down, I can acknowledge the truth of my encounter in the town: it had been my fear warping what I saw, not the people gathered. Even in my depleted state, I’d have sensed demons if I’d been surrounded. None of those people sent ice into my veins or caused the frisson down my spine.

None except Henry.

Though whether that was but a fear-induced memory or something worse, I still can’t say. I wish I could. Surely if Henry were still here, he’d have come for me? He’d always joked about being ready to break the witch out of jail. And how could he still be alive over a century later? No. It must have been a shadow of the past, a shade summoned by my panicked search for the ones I’d known.

Anything else…

No. Henry wouldn’t do that. Though Henry wouldn’t have left me in the ground—

The sound of approaching footsteps is a blessing, cutting off my thoughts before they can dive into darker places. I stiffen, returning my hands to their clasped position in my lap before the sheriff appears in view.

I set my teeth at the sight of him.

How dare he look so much like my John?

“Well, now.” He ambles over to my cage. There’s some kind of bundle under his arm and a steaming mug in his right hand. The vessel sports bright red words that declare “Get off my lawn” and has the image of an angry old man glaring at the world.

How fitting, as my lawn has been taken.

Irritated at relating to a mug, I sniff dismissively.

He gives me a look and props a shoulder against the bars. “I have to say, you’re the calmest person I’ve ever had coming down from a high in this cell. After some consideration, I’ve decided you can be trusted with a beverage.”

He offers me the mug through the bars.

The urge to kick it and send the contents into his face wars with my growing need for something, anything, that’s warm. The chill in my bones wins. Rising from my seat, I take the mug. Grudgingly. Cupping it with both hands, I return to my perch. I don’t want to appreciate this false John, but it does smell good.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome,” he replies with false cheer. “Now that you’ve got some coffee and located your manners, I do believe it’s time for us to move forward.” He smiles, yet it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I need a name. Your real name.”

My real name?

The nerve.

I lower my brows and counter his question with one of my own. “Your family founded this town, I take it?”

“Indeed they did. The Goodnights were one of the founding members of Devil’s Reach.” His lips quirk and he inclines his head. “As you know, given you were shouting for me—or my illustrious predecessor—in the middle of town square.”

My lips tighten.

So. John survived me—and had children with another.

The thought is a swift stab to my heart. I want to demand answers, to force this false John to explain how such a thing could happen, but the words can’t push through the lump in my throat.

“I must say,” the sheriff continues, “it’s unusual for our witch enthusiasts to take the moniker of the town’s infamous nemesis. Normally, your type wants to don the mantle of the venerable Mehitable McCreedy and nobly sacrifice yourself to save our sweet little town from the devil himself.”

“Mehitable?” I hiss my sister’s name. “Venerable?”

His brows lift. “Guess you’re a fan of burn it down.”

What? I gape at him. “Burn… burn it down? Why would you say that?”

His brows lift. “Because you’ve taken on the moniker of Mayweather McCreedy, the witch who—local legends claim—tried to plunge our dear town into the depths of hell. Hence the fire and burning it all down.” He speaks slowly, as if attempting to communicate with a particularly dim child. “Which begs the question—why are there no cinders on your otherwise impeccable costume?”

Cinders?

Too shocked to speak, I simply stare at him.

He sighs. “You’re truly the best Mayweather we’ve seen in a long time. Possibly ever. But with all due respect to cosplay and the art of historical reenactment, it’s time to drop the act and tell me your real name.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

My spine straightens so fast I hear it crackle.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do not give me any crap about currently identifying as your cosplay character. I need a name. You need to give me a real name. Then you can drink that coffee and I can process your release.”

Henry would tell me to lie—but Henry was always a deft hand with a tall tale. As for me? I’d never quite mastered the art.

“I…” I force myself to meet Sheriff Jack’s gaze. “I don’t have another name to give you.”

His lips thin. “You maintain your legal name is Mayweather McCreedy?”

I lift my chin. “Yes. I do.”

Anger I don’t understand flickers in his gaze.

“Are you aware that this will force me to call that family in the middle of the night, probably waking them up.” His voice has dropped, the collegial tone replaced by a steely growl. “Only to make them tell me that, no, obviously there is no living relation named Mayweather. And if I do that?”

He leans close to the bars, his eyes cold.

“If you’re going to force me to harass those poor people—to remind them that they’ve no other living kin—then I’m going to throw the damn book at you,” he says. “I’ll charge you with everything from creating a public nuisance to seditious acts of witchcraft and…I don’t know, historical indecency or something equally inane. The point is, I will throw enough at you that a judge won't even consider your case until Monday, which means you’ll be sitting your ass in this cell for two whole days. So you’d best be real certain.”

His tone is hard and there's a deadly gleam in his eyes.

Exactly like my John’s before a shootout.

My heart lurches at the sight.

John. How could you leave me?

“Well?” Jack snaps. “What’s it going to be?”

I swallow back a ball of grief. “There’s nothing…” My voice is smaller than I want. “I’ve no other name to give you.”

“Fine.” His mouth is a flat line. “Get comfy.”

I barely register him leaving. It feels as if the bench is vibrating beneath me, as if the currents of my personal atmosphere have reversed, turning a once calm day into a raging maelstrom. A tornado that, if I was given the choice, I would offer myself willingly—a fate easier and faster than my current situation.

But no storm comes to steal me from the pain.

I press my shoulders into the hard wall behind me and stare at my hands.

There is dirt beneath my nails and in the grooves of my knuckles. Marks of the grave—of too long spent in the earth. A brutal, grimy marker that my friends and loved ones had left me behind. I will never come to terms with that betrayal, though I’ve now accepted it is so. But the town?

How have I become the monster in the town I died to save?

A tremor shakes my bones.

That had been our great plan: end the curse on a technicality and cut off the flow of magic before the last of the five beacons burned bright and the Devil’s Reach closed around the town in a fiery fist.

Then I’d had the power to stop the flood. But now?

I flex my hands, searching for the power that normally rests beneath my fingertips. I will it to rise, to send sparks of lightning dancing through the bars of my cage. Yet nothing comes, and the bars remain unaffected.

I draw in a shaky breath.

Why has my power not returned?

Admittedly, this is the first time I’ve died—and after so many years in the ground, who knew how long it would take me to recharge. Still. Something feels… lacking. Wrong. As if it’s missing, rather than empty.

What if—

“You have got to be kidding me?” Jack’s voice carries shock and no small amount of displeasure. “I thought you didn’t…”

I tense, straining to hear what comes next.

There is a pregnant pause, then he says, “Yeah, yeah. I heard you. Come down to the station and collect your family.”

Oh my, he is not happy.

I’m all too familiar with that sharp edge of frustration in an otherwise genial tone. When I’d gone into the ground, that deep male voice had been my favorite sound, one that meant safety. Love. But that voice had left me behind. And now, all hearing it does is drive the knife further between my ribs and—

I sit forward.

Family?

No. That’s impossible.

Mercy is gone and Mehitable is dead—or so I pray. There’s no one here who can claim relation with me—so this must be a trick. Reflexively, needing to prepare myself, I reach for power. My breath catches when I find none. Whoever is coming to falsely claim me has a plan, and I have no way to protect myself.

I struggle for calm—nothing can be gained by panicking in advance—yet I cannot find it. I’m on my feet, pacing the confines of my cell and cursing the bars for their mundane strength. It could be hours before this pretender arrives. I don’t know how I’ll bear it. What will I say? How can I convince anyone in this time that I don’t belong to some liar?

Assuming they arrive—perhaps the trick is on Jack and I’m nothing but collateral damage?

I freeze as I hear voices entering the station.

That was quick.

Too quick?

Gods, I wish I knew. I make myself return to the bench and attempt to appear calm, as I listen to the approaching footsteps. Two sets, I believe. Neither with the distinctive ring of boots or the clink of spurs.

A pair of women appear behind the bars. One an older matron, with graying hair and her arm around her younger companion. The matron is closer to me, half shielding the girl. There’s something familiar about her, something in the soft gray of her eyes and the angle of her chin, but I can’t quite place it.

Then the young lady steps free.

I gasp.

Gods. This girl looks just like Mercy—they both do, I realize. Mercy. My youngest sister. The one I’d thought long gone. Yet before me is the proof she lived on, as both these women have the same dark brown hair and heart-shaped face, with eyes the hue of morning mist. The matron’s hair is threaded with white and silver, yet the brown is there. I can’t imagine how this is possible—yet it must be so.

“Well, there she is,” Jack says, appearing in view.

I quickly cover my open mouth.

He gestures at me. “Margaret and Myrna McCreedy, this here woman claims to be Mayweather McCreedy. I appreciate you both coming down to the station, but there’s no need for any further kindness. You can confirm this woman is no kin of yours and I can take care of the paperwork from there.”

I brace myself for the next blow.

Resemblance or not, there’s no way this pair will recognize me—my sister is long passed and I’ve learned how harshly the town treated my memory. The pair would be mad to claim me. They must have come merely to see who claimed a relation.

“Thank you, Sheriff.” The matron’s gaze is fixed on mine. “But there’s no need for paperwork.”

“That’s right,” the girl quips, “that’s my Aunty Mayweather.”

What? I don’t know who is more shocked, me or Jack.

“You’re claiming this woman is your kin?” He stares at them and points at me. “This woman, dressed in a dirt-covered gown? Who was shouting about demons in the town square? Forgive me, but you both have enough trouble on your—”

“It’s no trouble,” the matron says quietly. “Kin stands by kin.”

“Aunty…” The girl swallows. “Aunty Mayweather has had a hard time.”

More than they knew—unless, somehow, they knew I’d come from the grave?

“I’d understood you both had no more kin,” Jack says. “Are you entirely certain?”

At their confirmation, his expression sours further. He’s clearly displeased, but apparently he can’t argue with them—or refuse to allow them to take me home. The three of them disappear from view and I hear talk of signing a release form. Jack cautions them again, and they hold firm.

When I see him again, he’s unlocking my cell.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he growls under his breath, “but I will not abide you taking advantage of either of those ladies. They’ve been through enough.” He swings the door open and glares at me. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

I say nothing—what is there to say?

Without another word, he leads me outside.

How very strange. If the marshals doubted your story, they’d never release you until they were satisfied. Yet here I am, being watched by a frowning sheriff as I walk out the door with two women who’ve never met me before in their lives.

Yet they claim kinship.

They must know, as I do, where they come from.

Once I’m loaded into the back of their horseless carriage and the construct roars away from the station, I expect to be inundated with questions. Instead, the pair are silent. The matron grips the wheel as if holding onto the reins of a runaway carriage, while the younger one twists her fingers in her lap.

I don’t know if I’m grateful for the silence or unnerved by it.

Both, I suppose.

I stare out the window at the night-shrouded countryside, straining to pick out familiar landmarks as we rumble through the town and into the dark beyond. Like the others, this carriage casts two bright lights in front of it, enough for me to make out a narrow, winding road, one that changes from the black surface to more familiar gravel.

We roll to a stop and, for a moment, I consider hiding in the conveyance until the light of morning.

But I can’t—pride demands I exit and face whatever is next.

My heart pounds as I slowly extract myself and step tentatively onto the crushed rock drive. I try to steady my breathing, but the air seems to catch on the jagged edges in my chest. Pressing a fist to my middle, I look to the pair of them.

They nod and walk past me.

Toward a house on a rise.

Recognition strikes with the quick, searing force of lightning on a clear day. I staggered sideways and catch myself against a rickety fence. This is the homestead—my family’s homestead. The house is different, but the land remains the same. As my eyes adjust to the moonlight, I can see it clearly. The distinctive roll of hill perched atop a hard vein of black rock. The view of the valley and its five peaks beyond. My family’s land, a place of immense solace and untold horrors.

Home.

I had lived here with my sisters, and then alone. Had I returned to living in my time, I’d have left this place to move in with John upon our marriage. But that would never happen, and somehow I’d returned to the one home I’d known.

I draw in a deep breath, tasting the moss and wild ginger.

The scent draws my gaze to the base of the hill—where I’d buried my family’s most terrible secrets beside Mercy’s firstborn.

Where I’d planned to bury Mehitable.

Heat burns the backs of my eyes.

Shame tangles with an odd sense of relief. I gave up on Mercy—I thought the loss of her child had killed any will she had to continue. I’d been wrong. Thank the gods, I’d been wrong. I’ve never been so grateful to have failed a loved one, as clearly Mercy had found the strength to try again. I can’t make amends to the sister I’d left behind. But perhaps I can do something for her descendents.

I lift my chin and force myself to stand tall.

Shoulders braced, I face the house.

Steps tentative, body trembling, I follow the twisting walkway to the house. How can it hurt to find my feet on the same windy track as the one I’d know? For me, I walked this path only yesterday. The familiar curves should be a comfort, not feed the lump in my chest or batter my heart.

Perhaps my body knows the difference in time better than my mind?

My feet want to stumble, my breath catches as I reach the door.

Gritting my teeth, I reach out and grip the handle.

I hesitate.

I have never been one to turn from what is needed, and I’ll be damned if I start now. Sucking in a breath, I twist the handle and step inside. Paintings and hanging clothes blur as I focus on the pair waiting in the entrance. Their arms are linked, and their eyes are shadowed with worry.

What is here must be named.

“You do not know me,” I say, wishing my voice didn’t tremble. “But I see your roots. I know who you come from. You are descended of Mercy McCreedy. But I do not understand why you claimed me?”

The older woman draws the younger closer.

I lick my lips and say again, “Why did you claim me?”

“It was a mistake,” the matron says. “We will see you safely out of town—”

“No, Gran.” The girl steps forward. “It’s my fault. I called you. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t think I had the power or the talent—I’ve barely cast anything, my spells always seem to fail—but I had to try.”

Called me.

“Why?” I whisper.

She rubs her throat. “I was scared. I am scared. The town curses your name, but my mom told me the true story when I was little. She told me that brave Mayweather died to save us from the demons. That she lies in the ground, waiting, and when the town is in desperate need, the weather witch will rise again.”

This girl knows the truth and I am too overwhelmed to speak.

She steps closer. “You’ll protect us.”

I see it now. Her fear. I feel the terror radiating from her.

My gaze shifts between their faces, taking in the strain bracketing the matron’s mouth and the dark smudges beneath both their eyes. I know the look all too well, for it is a marker of those who’ve seen the demons.

I find my voice. “What is happening?”

The matron shakes her head. “Nothing but Myrna’s imagination run amok…”

“No.” Myrna’s lip trembles, yet she continues to stand tall before me. If anything, she straightens further. “Granny says I’m wrong. She says calling you from the grave is unforgivable. But…something is happening here. The boys at school are acting all…wrong. My friend’s missing. His parents say he ran away, but I know that’s not true. I think the demons are back. I think they’re killing people.”

DJ HolmesMarch 24, 2025