Chapter 9

Mayweather

A cloud sweeps across the sun, plunging the land ahead into darkness. 

For a moment, I lose track of the land. Of myself. Shadows swamp my vision, twisting the familiar sweep of earth and brush into an unfamiliar mire. My heels skid across the dirt. The darkness presses on me, almost as if it’s trying to push me down into that dark, back into the grave. 

My heart thuds. My limbs grow heavy. Moving forward is like pushing myself deeper into a thickening cloud of dread, as if one more step will be a step back into that pit. I know it’s a lie—I know—but I can’t stop the sensation from swamping me.

I stumble to a stop. 

It’s hard to breathe. Harder still to regain my bearings. 

Time shifts like the ground beneath my feet and I feel the world slipping through my fingers. Goddess, help me, I can’t let myself be drawn into this limbo. The sense of weightless, timeless existence is a trap—the world isn’t gone, only muffled. Even without my powers I know as much. Just as I know that, even though I can’t hear Myrna anymore, that she’s out there—and she needs me. 

I have to fight this—only I don’t know how. 

I have no lightning to call to my veins. No power to shove from my palms, pushing back the dark. I don’t even have a sprig of sage in my pocket. All I have is the knowledge gained from countless battles with the servants of evil. 

Give up, the darkness whispers softly in my ear. You can’t fight this. You can’t win. This is where the dead lie, and you are one of us. Your team is gone. Your lover is gone. Your fight is gone. Lie down and rest with the rest of the dead. 

I hate how tempting that is.

“No.” I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms. “Myrna needs me. My family needs me.”

Your family is dead, the darkness taunts. Just like you.

“The family I knew is dead,” I retort. “But their line persists. And so do I.”

Closing my eyes, I force myself to tune out the flood of black, and the static silence that wraps around it. Past that, the smells of the homestead still exist: sage and thyme and wild ginger. Those scents are real—not the darkness. I force myself to take one step—then another. The shadows waver. With the third step, they crumble, revealing the gardens at the back of the homestead. Goddess preserve me, I’ve barely gone further than the porch. I cannot even tell how long that shadow held me in its clutches.

A faint cry penetrates the vanishing gloom. “Mayweather…” 

Myrna.

While I fought the shadows, she’s been alone in the dark.

I have to hurry—the longer she’s trapped inside whatever this is, the worse it will be for her. Ignoring the gently winding path, I bolt straight for the sharp fall of earth on the northern border of the property. I don’t slow down as I approach the edge—I don’t dare. I’ve already wasted too much time, fumbling like a lost babe inside that shadow. When I was little, my sisters and I would dare each other to jump down the hill, trusting the tree branches, long hillside grasses and our own feet to catch us. 

Then it was a game—one made fun with our young magic. 

Now, it’s much more deadly. And necessary.

Sucking in a breath, I leap full body off the edge. Throwing my arms wide, I pray the earth will still catch my fall. That my feet remember the curve of the rock, and how to bend my knees to slide down the slope rather than tumble headfirst. My skirts billow. The wind rushes up from beneath me. And, for a heady moment, I remember what it feels like to call the air and fly in its embrace.

My breath catches with the sheer glory of it. Could it be my powers are finally—

My stomach drops—along with the rest of me. 

Cotton snaps around me as I plummet down the hillside. Gods, it’s farther down than I remember. When my bare feet strike earth I lean into the impact, and the force of it still knocks the air from my lungs. Biting my lip, I struggle to hold myself upright. I fling my arm back, using it to guide me. Rocks bite into my palm and my controlled descent wobbles into an unsteady slide. 

I hit a divot of leaves and twigs.

My knees buckle and I lose balance. The ground vanishes as my skirts flip up and I tumble the final distance. “Oof.” I grunt as I hit the forest floor. Even a layer of needles, moss and sagebrush can’t shield me from the blow. Or the cold. Pain lances up my side as I push myself onto my knees. 

Breath puffs white before my face.

Wincing at the burn in my palms, I shove myself to my feet. The soles of my feet throb, stinging from the trip down as well as the unnatural cold. I try to get my bearings, but I’ve fallen into another well of darkness. It swirls around me like black smoke from a forest fire, distorting the land. I can barely make out the shape of the trees beside me, and any traces of the path vanishes. 

But perhaps there is hope in this? 

If the shadow persists, then the creature might not yet have reached its prey. There’s no reason it would expend this much energy simply for show. Goddess, let that be true, I pray. Let me not be too late. 

“Myrna!” I shout into the miasma. “Myrna, where are you?”

“Mayweather!” The answering cry is muffled, but louder here than it was above. “It’s hunting me!”

I know it is.

Worse, I know what it wants. 

Heart pounding, I grab a handful of leaves from the sagebrush and plunge into the gloom in the direction of the call. “Myrna, I’m coming! Hold on. Don’t do anything it says! Make no promises and trust not its lies.”

The harsh snap of breaking branches sounds ahead. 

“Mayweather!” Myrna cries. “Help me!”

Another cry follows—and this one does not belong to my kin. It echoes off the trees like the hunting scream of a cougar. The sound is thick with the thrill of the chase, sick with a lust for death.

It’s closing in on Myrna. 

I suck in a breath and try to move faster, flinging myself through the trees. Goddess, I’m nearly blind in this pit of unnatural night. I can’t even push it back—my meager handful of sage will do nothing in this gloom, not without a candle to burn it or salt to bind it. I run into a thicket of brambles and force myself through. I can’t care that my blood may feed the creature, not when I feel time slipping through my fingers. 

My cursed, powerless fingers. 

What a fool I am, to have rushed out of the house without so much as a handful of salt. Have I not already learned what’s coming? Do I not already know my defenses are reduced to base magics? I need to remember this—I need to keep weapons of salt and ash on my person, instead of acting like the weather witch I’d been. Now I’m fumbling in the darkness, rushing forward without any way to defend my kin.

Another scream cuts through the dark. 

I failed to protect Mercy, I can’t fail Myrna.

“Myrna! Hold on!” Foolish or not, I keep running. 

The cat’s next cry is a mocking chant that leaves me shivering. 

I know it’s not really a cougar. It’s a creature using its voice, possibly wearing its skin. The exact shape will tell me more, but I can’t see enough to make out the details. What I can hear is that it’s too close to ending its hunt. I have to draw its eyes away from my kin. Somehow. What I’d give for the faintest burst of lightning—even a strong gust of wind to push back the dark. Instead, all I have are words. 

I fling my arms wide and yell into the void, “You are not welcome here, demon spawn. This earth rejects you.”

A twisted chuckle emerges from the deep.

Poor Mayweather, it mocks. No more lightning bolts or cracks of thunder.

The creature crows its victory, and its amusement is a sickening swirl of sounds. Part man, part beast. All threaded with unnatural glee. Yet within that mess is something terribly familiar. I can’t put my finger on it—I can’t place it. Perhaps there’s a tone shared by all malignant undead? 

But no, that's not right.

It talks like it knows me—and I fear it does.

Before they died, before they became this thing, I knew this person. 

“You sound pleased.” I force my feet to slow. If it wants to taunt me, I will oblige. If there’s even the slimmest chance I can learn the true name of my enemy, I must take it. For that knowledge would be a weapon I could wield. “Never say you experienced the bite of my powers firsthand?”

Shame on you. This time its laugh is like the crunch of teeth on bone. That play is too obvious, Mayweather.

“Is it now?” I keep moving, slowly and steadily toward where I think I heard Myrna. “And you were someone who enjoyed subtlety? More’s the pity.” I intentionally thread my voice with a mocking disappointment. The more I can keep it off balance, the better chance I have of tricking it into revealing itself.

A malignant wind washes over me. I am beyond pity. Beyond you!

For a moment, the encompassing darkness wavers. 

It appears I struck a nerve. Good. 

“Poor creature.” I scoff. “So many promises, and yet you’re nothing but a servant to whatever raised you.”

Shut up! Something solid strikes my shoulder. 

I lose my footing and stumble into a tree. I clutch my shoulder, relieved to find the skin unbroken. There is no tear in my shirt, no blood. It has not taken from me—this time. And around me, the shadows appear to be thinning.

My distraction is working. If I can just keep it up a little longer, get a little closer to Myrna before it realizes what I’m doing… 

I suck in a breath and pray my voice doesn’t crack. “Death as such a servant is even worse than life as such. Your master holds your very soul. You will never be free, and the powers you draw upon will never be yours.”

You know nothing! Fetid breath flashes hot against my ear. 

“I know you made a deal,” I say softly. “And I know you are bound. If you let me, I will help you.”

Help me? The voice is incredulous. You? 

“Me,” I confirm. “I can break what holds you. I can send you back to the dead.”

Oh, Mayweather. The shadows flicker as the creature unleashes a chilling laugh. I’m not the one that should have stayed dead. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” The darkness is lessening, and I risk increasing my pace. 

You gambled and lost, Mayweather. For a moment, the voice sounds almost wistful.

Something catches in my throat at the sudden threads of humanity. It’s hard to pull apart the man’s voice from the otherworldly echoes, yet I have to try. I have to learn this creature’s name, even if there’s something about its words that makes my eyes burn. I swallow hard. “Is that what happened to you? You gambled and lost?”

It laughs. Always. 

My throat feels thick. “Who… who were you?”

Wouldn’t you like to know, it says and I hear the scrape of claws across stone. Will it hurt you when you learn the truth? Oh, I think it will. I think it will cut you to the very bone—and I will be there, to drink in your heartbreak.

Branches lash at my face

I manage to duck and break into a run once again. 

The ground rumbles beneath me, and this time it’s not the earth guiding my steps. The creature has realized what I’ve done, that I’ve distracted it and caused it to pour more power into holding me than planned.

The darkness is starting to fracture now. 

A beam of sunlight pierces the gloom and I sprint for it. 

Mayweather! Its scream of pure rage tears into the air behind me. 

This time, I don’t stop running. 

I pass through the beam and suddenly I am free of the trees and brambles. I burst into a small glade, footsteps silenced by the soft loam beneath the canopy. Once again the miasma is as thick as soot, and I know I’ve reached the heart of the darkness. This has to be where Myrna is. I want to call out, but I’m terrified it will reach her before I can.

It’s too late, Mayweather, it screams at my back. I will have her, just as I will have the others.

“You will not.” I wish my voice isn’t trembling. 

I will, it purrs now. She and the others have already been chosen. 

“You are the dead.” I squint into the gloom. “You choose nothing.”

In this darkest part of the mire, it’s nearly impossible to see more than an arm’s length before me. But there’s enough of an outline to tell me I’m in a small glade, ringed by thin young trees. Thank the goddess. Rings of all kinds  hold power. The earth has not entirely forsaken my kin if it led Myrna to this place. 

Movement catches my eye. 

There, curled into the base of a massive oak, is a small figure. 

Myrna. I lurch forward and grip her arm. As I touch her, I fling out my free hand toward the creature and cry, “Begone, beast. You have no power here. The Earth banishes you. This land is barred to you.”

This time its scream is nearly deafening. 

Beams of light piece the gloom. Fallen leaves and pine needles swirl into the air as the shadows begin to spin. Like old cotton worn too thin, the darkness tears into shreds before my eyes. Then those tattered remains become a flurry of wings. Where once there was nothing but gloom, a murder of black crows churn upward, rising above the trees to form a crescent moon against the blue sky. 

The unmistakable sign of a revenant. 

“May…Mayweather?” Myrna’s voice is thin with panic. “Is… is it gone?”

For now. I suck in a breath and tighten my grip on her. “Did it touch you?”

“No… no.” Her whole body is shaking. She reaches out and wraps her arms around my waist. 

“Are you certain? We have to be certain.” I cannot rely on the word of a frightened child. Gods, I wouldn’t rely on the word of an experienced Marshall after such an encounter. “Shhh. You are safe now,” I murmur as I check her. 

The creature said she had been chosen—does that mean she’s already been marked? 

I carefully search every inch of her exposed skin. I run my hands over her clothing, making sure there are no cuts. I gently peel one arm away from my waist, then the other, making sure I leave no part unchecked. Now that the bold light of day has returned, I must ensure there are no black marks, no signs of infection. 

If the creature has taken her blood, then it will never stop until it’s claimed her soul…

I cannot find any such marks—nor can I convince my heart to climb down from my throat. 

“It didn’t touch me, I swear. But it spoke to me.” Still shaking, Myrna slowly eases away from me and grips my wrist in turn. She stares at me with wide, white-rimmed eyes. “For a moment it had a face. A voice. It said: Tell Mayweather to say hello to Henry.”

“What?” I recoil at the words. “Henry?”

That creature was Henry? 

No. It’s impossible. 

Henry Mooncrow would never have taunted me about my death. He’d never have sold his soul to darkness—he’d never have hunted me or my kin. “No, no. You must be mistaken. It cannot be him.”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “It just said, ‘say hello to Henry.’”

“Say hello to…” Not hello from, but hello too. 

A shuddering gasp escapes me. The creature isn’t Henry…yet it knows him. Is that better or worse? I don’t know. My chest hurts. It feels as if the past has wrapped around my heart like a snake, one that is determined to crush what remains of that organ in its coils. Slowly my gaze lifts from Myrna and sweeps across the glade. There, in the center, a small white rectangle sits atop the mound of loam. And somehow, I know it hadn’t been there when I burst through the trees.

So. I did trick the beast into leaving a vestige behind.

I don’t want to know what that rectangle is. I have to stop myself from racing across the glade to grab it. Myrna won’t let go of me—and I have no desire to let go of her. Together, we rise and I lead us slowly over to the rectangle. The unnatural cold dissipated with the darkness, yet I feel its icy breath on my neck as I look down.

It’s an Ace of Spades.

My stomach tightens as I pick up the playing card. The corners are worn from use, and there’s a whiskey stain on the upper right corner. Tears burn the backs of my eyes and my whole body shakes from the harsh realization in my hand.

I know this card. 

Worse, I know the person who owned it. 

“Aunt Mayweather?” Myrna tugs on my sleeve. “Are you okay?”

I swallow back my grief and rage. I couldn’t stop the creature from terrifying my kin, but I can spare her the knowledge of its true name. At least for a little while. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Let’s get you inside”

“You sure?” She appears deeply unconvinced. “Did it cut you?”

“No. It didn’t cut me.” I wrap an arm around her waist. “Come. Margaret must be worried.”

“Yeah,” Myrna says softly. “She’s always worrying about me.”

“I suppose that is what family does.” Half numb, I lead her gently back to the house and let Margaret fuss over us both once we’re safely inside. We don’t speak of the creature—not tonight—but I already know that Margaret will be ready with salt and rosemary this evening. I know we will both circle the house three times, sprinkling the perimeter with that salt and speaking words of warding. Then she will lie awake in the room beside Myrna’s, while I do the same from the porch below. 

I pray it will be enough to keep my young kin safe. 

And, with that hellish Ace of Spades burning like a cold fire within my pocket, I’m desperately scared that it won’t. Because we’re not facing a regular revenant. No. We are facing one of the Midnight Marshalls.