Chapter 4

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Mayweather

A violent red burns along the horizon. 

Watching it, dread seeps into my bones. 

As if to emphasize the sensation, the earth gives a single kick beneath my bare feet. 

Swallowing hard, I study the thin bands of color.  Barely a razor’s edge of tone against the midnight-filled sky—and already more than enough. The boldest hue nestles in the deepest basins between the peaks, coiling like a snake within a gulley. Just above it, narrow strips of orange and white act as a barrier, as if trying to protect the blue of night from the deadly red. But already the red is winning. 

Crimson strands bleed upward, piercing the veil between amber and blue, before vanishing into a midnight sky. The deep blue is still riddled with stars, but it’s only a matter of time before the red swallows everything whole. 

A shiver runs through my body, rattling my teeth,

A portent—a powerful one. 

I suck in a sharp breath. 

Gods, I cannot face what this means—I cannot do what needs to be done. The earth can’t ask this of me, not now. Not so soon after I pulled myself from the grave. 

My knees tremble as I turn to face the house.

The wooden cluster of jagged edges and spires beckons me forward, as a cat might a mouse. The house is nothing like the cabin I’d shared with my sisters, yet it’s somehow at home on my land. I take one step. Then another. But I can’t manage any further. It’s as if my legs have become lead, as if the short distance to the porch has become a vast canyon. Perhaps because that’s how I feel—a world apart from everything inside. 

I don’t understand this time, this place. 

Montana Territory has become a state. The United States has a president calling himself king and the population has grown to numbers that boggle the mind. Worse still, something called the internet has gathered immense knowledge and yet inflicts misery and misinformation upon all. I have no idea how. Myrna tried to explain it and ended up talking about something called social media—I had to beg her to stop. 

It was already too much. 

And now this?

I can’t bear it. 

Lungs tight, ears screaming, I bend over, palms braced on my knees. Breath rushes out of me and my body jerks, as if the earth is driving a stone fist into my gut. Oh, Gods, how I want to be wrong. How I want the warning in my bones to be nothing more than a mix of the chill breeze from the north and grief for the life I’ve lost.

But it’s not the first time I’ve felt such a warning. 

Death has returned to the hills of Devil’s Reach.

And the earth looks to me to save her. Again.

“Damn you!” Turning from the house, I stumble forward and fling a stone at the horizon. “This is cruel!”

Breathing hard, I glare at that thin, angry red band of light. Goddess save me, I’m not sure I have the strength to face those horrors again, to stand between the town and certain destruction. I already fought for this town—I already died for this town. “If there’s any justice left in the world,” I plead, “you will not ask this of me.”

In response, the earth bumps against my heels.

Too bad, the dirt seems to say. 

My hands curl into fists. “Damn you…”

I choke back the rest of my curses. Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I want to rail at the sky—I deserve to curse and shout and deny any claim to duty. But I know it will do nothing. Probably less than nothing. I know this, just as I know the kin I discovered last night spoke true: the darkness has returned.

I simply want them to be wrong. 

Surely my death meant something? The curse should have ended with my life—the nightmare should be over.

“Why isn’t it over?” I whisper. “This can be happening again.”

This should be impossible. Neither my head nor my heart understand it. No part of me can make sense of this.

I bury my face in my hands, as if blocking the sight of the horizon can hide me. 

The signs are real—but so too is the brutal reality of my resurrection: I’m no longer the Storm Witch. I no longer have the force of the winds at my fingertips. No. I’ve risen a faded shell. A memory—or perhaps a ghost. Oh, my knees feel solid enough where they meet the earth. My body is substantial enough for my borrowed nightdress to twist around my torso. My nose exists enough to draw in the soft spice of tarragon, to smell dew mixed with damp earth. But if you scratch beneath the surface? I’m nothing but a hollow shell. 

“Goddess, save me.” I crumple to the ground. “I’m not what I was.”

My chest shudders as silent tears stream down my cheeks. 

This place, this scent, should soothe me—it always soothed me. Except for now. I have never before sat in this garden as the dead. And now, the smells, both familiar and foreign, twine like a noose around my neck. 

“I cannot do this,” I whisper. “I don’t even know how I would try.”

The earth wants the storm witch who went into the grave, not the flimsy shade who emerged. And goddess knows, I’ve tried to find her. I lay in the garden all night, surrounded by plants and moonlight and searched for the power that has always been as close to me as breathing. After the worst battles, when I’d pushed my body and abilities beyond the limit, this was how I healed. It never failed me. Except for now.

I waited all night for my powers to return. 

Only, they didn’t.

There was no flood of power restoring my senses. Hells, there wasn’t even a trickle. I’m drier than a creek in August. There isn’t enough energy in my fingers to light a candle with a snap. Never in my entire life have I felt so weak. So disconnected. I don’t know how to face what’s coming without that power cupping my heart. 

Bending forward until my forehead rests against the cool earth, I whisper, “Why would you call me back, only to deny me my essence? How can I protect them without my powers? I cannot—” 

My voice shatters. 

What emerges from me is a guttural cry. A broken, stumbling dirge for the life I’d lost, for the people I’d loved—for those who’d left me. My body roils with the force of it. I claw at the ground, struggling to find purchase. Gods, it’s too much. I can’t breathe—and I can’t stop. I try to cover my mouth, but my hands are trapped in the earth. The wail it pours out of me, a torrent of fear and loss.

My sisters are dead.

My love betrayed me. 

Even my power has forsaken me. 

Gasping, lying exhausted on the ground, I plead for mercy, “How can I protect my kin—this place—when I cannot even protect myself? I am not your champion,” I whisper, “pick someone else. Find another.”

A faint rumble sounds beneath me, and the earth’s answer is clear: No.

Pointless to beg to be released from my duty. Futile. 

Fate has very little patience. 

Normally, I respect her wisdom. But here? Now? I cannot help but think she’s made a terrible mistake. “How can I do this?” I ask. “I don’t understand this time, this place. I don’t have my powers. My team is gone. Hells, I don’t have my horse…” 

Gods, my horse. 

A fresh wave of grief strikes. 

How have I not thought of her yet? My beautiful, wild-hearted Nuttah—the dun-coated mustang Henry caught and trained for me. It might be insane to hope one of my betrayers kept her, but the alternative? I cannot bear to contemplate that. Nuttah was supposed to have been left for me in the cave, and that loyal beast would have waited until her heart gave out… unless the only other person who could ride her forced her to leave.

Hands curled into fists, I shove my face and neck off the ground, just far enough to glare down at the earth. “Tell me Henry did for Nuttah what he could not do for me,” I beg the earth. “Please. Tell me that she lived.”

This time, there is nothing but the rustle of long grass in the breeze.

I smack a fist into the earth. “Answer me, damn you!”

A faint heartbeat thrums beneath me.

The sound is annoyingly soothing, as if seeking to tell me that all will be well. That there is a plan and that I need only trust it. Letting out a breath, I glare at the dirt between my fingers. “Blind faith is currently not a comfort.” 

Another beat knocks gently against my palms.

I hate that it steadies my insides. 

“Speak, damn you.” I slap a palm into the dirt. “Tell me your plan!”

There’s no reply—nor am I expecting one.

And I need to stop arguing with a dirt trail. The earth never apologises and fate never admits mistakes. 

I force myself to my feet and try to steady my breathing, Reaching out to the clusters of plants beside the path, I run my fingertips over a bright yellow cluster of yarrow. Or devil’s nettle, as some call it. Foolish superstition. Yarrow protects and guides, it doesn’t curse. It’s not the fault of the plant that I feel cursed.

It’s simply because I am. 

I wish I could close my eyes. Just turn away from the horizon and stay in the garden. Soon the bees would buzz through those leaves in search of pollen, and butterflies would play among the flowers. They’ll live.

How I wish I could join them. 

As I stand here, barefoot in the rough grass of the homestead, drinking in the almost reverent silence of the predawn, it would be all too easy to pretend the horizon lies. To shift my gaze away from that burning red light and simply be. 

But I’ve never been one to turn away from trouble. 

The heartbeat sounds again beneath my feet. 

“Yes. I know.” I sigh. “You have made your point—I will honor my vows.” I made promises when I accepted my gifts—a solemn promise to protect this place, to defend the people who live here and to stand as a sentinel against the darkness. 

The price of power, lost or not, must be paid. 

Pushing my shoulders back, I watch the sky as the bleeding-edge of dawn expands, blood-red tendrils of dawn clawing across the night sky. The bright band of color remains narrow, yet its aura makes the jagged points of the mountain peaks look like the teeth of a massive beast about to bite the sky. 

Teeth and claws.

Blood has been spilled on the rocks this night. 

“A horseman approaches,” I whisper under my breath. 

For a moment, the beat beneath the soles of my feet increases. 

“And time grows short,” I add, speaking the words into the breeze. “Very well.”

I turn and consider the house. My kin had built upon what I’d begun, and transformed my modest cabin into a tumbling masterpiece of peaked roofs and intricate trim. Painted in hues of purple and black, it seems to dare anyone around to tangle with its witches. The three story structure is surrounded by a wide porch, and speared through by a turret the likes of which I’ve not seen outside of Boston. 

It’s massive and strange.

And it speaks to me in a way my log cabin never did. 

Still trying to slow my breathing, I make my way inside. Margaret and Myrna offered me clothing and tried to give me a room last night, but I couldn’t face staying indoors. So they left the items in a small room off the kitchen—one that leads directly to the garden. I enter that space now and survey what’s been placed on a chair.  None of the things are mine, yet my kin stressed that I can borrow whatever I need.

It rankles to be the subject of charity. 

I want my things, damn it. 

But those are gone, or destroyed from too long in the ground. The duster might be saved, but it will take time—and Margaret will have to pay for the service. I appreciate the kindness, almost as much as it rankles to need it. I always pay my own way—I earn my keep. To be so reduced now…

Of course, without kindness I’d be buck naked. 

Rocking back on my heels, I stare at the items. 

At least Myrna and Margaret are my kin and they did call me back from the grave. I can accept kindness from family, right? Pride wars with sense, and sense eventually wins. I have woken in strange times, I have to adapt. Besides, my gown is in tatters and I can hardly study the scene of a grisly death in a nightgown. 

Or, I suppose I can. But I’d much prefer not to.

And I need boots if I’m going to make my way into the hills. 

Now, to pick something. Feeling completely at sea, I cast another wary glance at the clothing Myrna has laid out for me. 

My young kin claims these articles are “essentials.” I can’t quite fathom how such pieces have become expected fashion. Yet they are here, and they largely resemble what Margaret and Myra wore when they collected me from jail. Still. I remain suspicious of the dungarees that she calls jeans. 

Oh, gods. I blow out my cheeks and pick up the shirt. 

This item is less daunting. It’s checkered white and pink cotton, and even if it's cut a little close to the body, it's familiar enough for comfort. But first—the undergarments. They are…small. Yet far more comfortable than stays or corsets. Huh. It appears some parts of women’s dress have improved since my time.

Right. Onward.

A shirt and underwear isn’t enough. 

I pick up the offered jeans and wince. They are rather snug and made of an odd, stretchy weave. I give a leg a tug and frown at how the fabric adapts to the motion. What matter of cotton is this? Myrna claims they are superior to dresses, and she’s probably right. But I can’t quite make myself put them on. I drop them back onto the chair and step back, like one might from an angry rattler. 

I have to face death—I’ll deal with the denim later. 

Instead of the jeans, I’ll don the blue cotton skirt Myrna calls “historical cosplay”. Right now, this skirt is the best thing in my possession, even if it lacks the correct number of petticoats. It feels right. More so when I get to add a wide-brimmed hat. And, most important of all, a pair of worn cowboy boots.

It would be nice to have my gun, even better to have my horse. But for the first time since rising from the grave, I feel almost human. 

How fitting that I now have to deal with the dead. 

The earth beats beneath my feet as I walk. 

Even if I didn’t already sense the location of the death, the portents spread across the landscape paint a clear map. A series of breezes nudge me from behind, bending leaves and long grasses in the direction I’m meant to travel. On the ground, fallen sticks are uncommonly aligned, pointing in unison to where blood pools on the horizon. And all the while, the heartbeat of the earth taps against my heels. 

I’m going to the rough hewn cap of Battle Rise.

And I’ll need to be ready when I reach the scene.

My gut tightens with worry. I pull a low branch from an aspen that angles toward the rise. Then I snag a sprig from a sagebrush. Simple tools, and no less effective. Aspen acts as a shield, and sage prevents harm. While I prefer to have my crystals, salts and wands for this work, these will do—or so I hope. 

Memories swarm over me as I reach the lower ridge. 

Throat tight with loss, I stumble to a halt.

The last time I’d been here, I stood victorious with my team. We had just battled the third revenant and emerged victorious. John had insisted on taking a photograph to mark the moment—despite my protestations that a body hanging between us wasn’t very celebratory. He’d cracked a joke about hunting parties, and the Midnight Marshalls had laughed. Henry had teased me about being willing to face the devil himself but not a camera, and I’d finally joined the revelry. 

Afterward, John scooped me into his arms and spun me around. He’d promised we had only two more battles before we could put our fight to rest and get married. Build our house and have babies. 

Pain strikes, an arrow to the heart. 

I suck in a sharp breath. Gods, we’d been so happy, so in love.

If I’d had the chance in battle to give my life for John’s, I’d have taken it. And if the Marshalls asked me to lay down my life for theirs? I would have—without hesitation. I believe they knew as much. 

So why lie? Why leave me? 

At the thought, the earth beats harder. 

“Ah.” A breath escapes me. “So that is part of this.”

Another beat—this one nearly strong enough to kick my heels off the ground. 

I suck in between my teeth. To stop whatever darkness is coming, I’ll have to face the truth of what happened to me. Why John and the others betrayed me. As much as I want those answers, I fear them more. But maybe this is the earth’s way of telling me there’s more to the story than I know? That my loved ones didn’t want to leave me, and were forced to make a terrible choice? 

Wishful thinking. 

I believe I’ll indulge myself until proven otherwise. 

Squaring my shoulders, I continue toward Battle Rise. The crown of bleached rock has always been a landmark, and is close enough to the homestead for me to walk. I’m approaching from the back, but I know what I’d see from the front: a rough hill with a roll of pale rock at the top, and a sheer cliff face below. 

I also know what I’ll find—a body. 

Rounding a bend, I stop cold. Blink. The flashing blue and red lights are a surprise. As is the figure of the sheriff. 

A hiss of frustration escapes me. 

Damnation. Jack Goodnight seems intent on torturing me with his mere existence. He’s wearing the same uniform as before, that silver star gleaming on his breast. And he’s in my way—crouching at the feet of the body, his hat tipped back and his hands clasped in obvious contemplation.

Another man in a uniform similar to Jack’s is leaning against a nearby tree. Further down the trail, two more figures stand. I imagine they are meant to stand watch. Yet the soft, futile sound of retching lets me know they lost the contents of their stomachs earlier, and the memory of those contents is still trying to escape.

I can’t blame them—the ritual done here sewed flesh into stone. 

The earth thrums against my feet.

I barely resist the urge to stomp my boot. 

No signs are required, I already know this interaction is about to go poorly. 

It shames me that I’m tempted to retreat, to fall back to the trees and wait until he’s done and the path is clear. But the scent of magic hangs in the air, a heavy, acrid stench. The kind left behind by spells that call the darkness. Just as the body itself announces the pain and misery of its final moments.

The figure is splayed on the bleached curve of rock, its spine arched in death, fingers hooked. Both hands are lifted, as if it died clawing the air, and the mouth gapes wide, death’s scream frozen in place. Even from here, I can see a gaping line running from its belly to its sternum. The flesh is parting, as if pushed apart by something crawling from its chest, and I pray I’m not looking at the body of Myrna’s missing friend.

I wish I can’t see youth of this victim beneath the misery. But I can. 

Just as I can see the twisting sigils drawn around the body. And the thick slashes that point north, south, east and west. All the marks are burnished brown, the color of dried blood, and they writhe at the edges of my vision. The magiclingers. The very air around that body is tainted with the remains of this vicious spell.

My stomach clenches. 

It’s horrific. And something I’ve seen before. 

Only I hadn’t expected to find it here. Now. I thought I’d been called back at the beginning of the problems. But a summoning of this level? That takes time. Power. The trouble is not beginning here—it is growing. 

I have to do what I can to prevent any further harm.

Even if it’s likely to land me back in a cell.

“Sheriff,” I say, stepping forward. “You cannot save this boy, but you can protect your town from what his murder has called forth.” I lift my found weapons. “You must drive this stake of aspen through what remains of the heart, and place this sprig of sage under his tongue. Only then can his body no longer be used as a vessel.”