Chapter 11

Mayweather

The revenant is one of the Midnight Marshalls. 

I can’t get my head around it. I can’t understand how one of the men I’d rode with, fought with, could consign themselves to the darkness so thoroughly. A revenant. Goddess, help me. What does it mean? Can I still believe they planned to pull me out of the ground—or is this proof I’ve been a fool?

I wish I knew. 

And I’m terrified to find out.

Say hello to Henry.

I hunch my shoulders against the sharp morning breeze—and the chill remembering the revenant’s voice sends down my spine. Its voice had been a shuddering death rattle. Its words were a cruel jab that taunted me through the night, ringing in my head as I lay on the porch, and then later, as I stood in the doorway and watched my young kin get on the wagon-sized yellow conveyance for school. The words taunt me now, as my boots crunch against the loose rocks on the side of the road. 

I tug my borrowed jacket tighter around my body and try to walk faster. 

As I move, the wind tugs at my skirt—not the full skirt I’d used yesterday, that needs both cleaning and mending after my leap off the cliffside. This one reaches my ankles—a relief—and doesn’t involve the frightening cling of Myra’s offered denim. Yet it lacks the volume I’m used to. My legs feel exposed, even though both Margaret and Myrna assured me it’s entirely modest.

A single layer of cotton is modest now? 

I huff and kick a rock.

With each step, I’m reminded that my boots are also borrowed, as the heels rub and the leather reluctantly considers bending around my ankles. I’m grateful for everything I’ve been offered—everything my family has given me. I am. But nothing sits right. The skirt pulls and tugs, and wraps around my knees at the wrong moment. The shirt tries to twist around my middle. The jacket keeps trying to fall open. Though it’s probably more me than the clothing—I can’t stop fiddling with the garments. Wishing they were my clothes. Wishing I’m back in the life I’ve known and that the world made some sort of sense.

I adjust my hat with a jerky movement.

Rolling my shoulders, I shove my hands into the skirt’s pockets, the lone saving grace of the brown piece. I probably owe the jacket an apology. I’m not truly mad at the clothes—I’m grateful my kin are able and willing to offer me such pieces. I’m simply….frustrated. Worried. And worse. 

It shames me to acknowledge the fear in my heart. 

I knew how to fight creatures with the Midnight Marshalls guarding my back. But fighting a Marshall alone? Without my powers? Earth save me, I have no idea where to even start.

A vehicle roars past and I veer further away from the pavement.

It’s been so long since I did anything other than ride, that I have a poor sense of the journey before me. The trip feels endless when one has to walk. And I miss my horse like I would an arm.

It should be simple, but nothing in this time is easy.  

I suck in a deep breath and push on. What else can I do?

Another vehicle charges past. I fight the urge to veer further, then stumble in surprise as it slows and pulls to the side of the road ahead of me. What is this new development? Am I about to be told off for walking wrong?

The door opens and a familiar figure leans out. 

I quicken my step and approach the truck. “Doc?”

“Good morning.” He smiles at me. “Can I give you a ride, Mayweather?”

“A ride? Um…” I try to quickly assess his condition. His skin has returned to its normal shade, a rich walnut hue, and no black smudges mark his eyes or nails. I let out a small sigh of relief. 

What I did yesterday has held. 

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’s been a while since anyone checked my health—how delightful. I’m doing just fine now, thanks to you. In fact, I’d like to talk to you about that, if you’re willing to ride with me into town?”

“Okay.” I exercise my new skill of opening truck doors. “Thank you.”

“Happy to assist.” He pulls back onto the road and glances at me. “It’s a rather long walk from your place into the town center, you know. I expect Margaret would let you borrow her truck.”

I snort. “Unlikely. I don’t know how to drive.”

He chuckles. “Right. I forgot that part.”

I don’t know if that reply means he believes me, or if he’s simply decided to humor me. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. The ride will greatly shorten my journey and I’m grateful. I try to settle into the comfortable seat and enjoy the easier, much shorter trip. Or at least try to figure out what I’ll do once in town. 

Instead of relaxing, I shift position. Adjust my skirt. Fidget with the seatbelt. 

It’s foolish. I know it’s foolish. But I can’t stop. I don’t have a real plan or direction, just the overwhelming need to do something other than stay in that house and worry. As if I keep moving, I’ll eventually figure out what to do next—which apparently cannot include waiting outside Myrna’s school in case the revenant shows its face. 

Even if it should. 

I huff at the road. 

“Tough morning?” Doc asks. “You strike me as someone who’s worrying about something.”

I send him a rueful smile. “I suppose I am.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“That’s very kind of you, but no. I’d best not,” I say softly. 

What’s the point of talking about my fears for Myrna? For all his gentle ways and thanks for my help, I doubt he’s ready to hear about revenants. Or how concerned I am for my kin. How Myrna has gone to school and how I am desperately scared I can’t protect her from what’s coming. 

He’ll probably understand my concerns even less than Margaret. 

Goddess save me, I do not understand my kin. 

She knows what we face. She understands the truth of the threat. But yet she is utterly unwilling to take basic precautions.

 “No, Myrna’s not staying home,” she announced earlier this morning. “And no, you’re not going with her. That will land you in prison a third time—we can’t afford that. It’s important that Myrna keeps up with her classes. That she maintains as much of her normal routine as possible. Besides, you sent her with enough crystals and herbs in her backpack to ward off a host of undead.”

“It’s not enough,” I insisted. 

That wasn’t entirely true—after yesterday’s display, it should take the revenant days to regain the power it expended. 

But still. I worry.

Margaret, apparently, does not. 

“The less time Myrna spends around magic, the safer she’ll be.” My elder kin headed for the stairs. “The McCreedy  family has a long, desperate history of dabbling in powers better left alone. And not once—not once—has it worked out well for us.” Her knuckles turn white on the bannister and her breath escapes in a sharp rush. “Dammit, Mayweather, you’re here. That girl spent so long buried inside family stories that she yanked you back from the grave! And now you’re telling me that creature is coming for her. The best we can do is keep her as far away from the dark as possible.”

Before I could protest that our family’s magic was not the problem, Margaret had stomped upstairs to work. 

“Curse it all, Margaret,” I hiss. “This is not the way.”

“I’m trying hard not to ask,” the doc says. “But I’ll confess my curiosity is piqued.”

“Oh!” My eyes widen. “I did not mean to say that aloud.” 

“I gathered as much.” His tone is wry. “I’m also compelled to note that Margaret McCreedy is many things, and simple is not one of them.” He chuckles. “And no one gets under our skin faster than family.”

“You’re telling me.” I sigh.

“Is that why you were walking into town?” he asks. “A fight with Margaret?”

“I… partly.” I fix my gaze out the window. “It’s complicated.”

“It often is.” He doesn’t push the matter.

It’s probably for the best. I should remain silent, except I can’t seem to stop myself from saying, “Doc, I might ask for help if I understood the problem. But I don’t. Or, I don’t understand Margaret.”

“Ah.” There’s a wealth of knowing in the single syllable. 

“Why must it all be so difficult?” I motion at the road ahead in pure frustration. “Can no one listen to reason? Myrna has gone to school—I did not approve. However, when it was discussed, I was outvoted. Outvoted! It’s nonsense. But apparently this is a thing that happens in this age, even if one of the three people in the room has far more knowledge of the threat at hand than the rest.”

The doc coughs. “Ah, yes. I am well acquainted with this particular challenge.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Your time leaves a great deal to be desired.”

“It sure can,” he agrees. 

Is he mocking me? 

I glance warily at him, and find nothing but sympathy in his gaze. 

His lips curve. “Oh, I’m not judging. Simply commiserating. I’m a doctor in a time when everyone and their brother thinks that, because they have the internet, they know better than I do. Someone can actively be bleeding from a round of buckshot to the ass and they’ll still swear it’s their appendix till they’re blue in the face.”

I glance at him. “How do you deal with it?”

“I remind myself that they’re trying to do what they think is best. Which is sometimes challenging, and the reason I might have to pour myself two fingers of whiskey when I get home.” He sends me a quick look. “And no, I’m not prescribing whiskey as the solution to Margaret—though I understand the temptation. I’m just saying it can be hard, when we have to work with people who can’t understand us.”

“It is. It’s so hard.” The admission rushes out of me. “Margaret. Your Sheriff. Everything in blasted this time.”

He nods. “There’s a lot about our current age that makes life harder.”

“It’s treacherous, like I’m attempting to traverse a deadly ridge while blindfolded and carrying a tray of precious china cups.”  I draw in a much needed breath, but the words don’t stop. They can’t. It’s like a river that’s broken through a dam. “How do you live like this? With all these glowing screens demanding your time and the strange denim that clings to your legs… It—it feels impossible to navigate. I cannot even blame Margaret for her scorn. What is she supposed to do with me? I cannot drive. I don’t have my horse. My powers are gone. I’m reduced to being a burden to my kin—”

I gulp in a breath.

“That is a hard serving,” he says softly. “Especially for someone like you.”

“Someone like me.” I scoff. “A person so out of her depth she needs help to get to town.” My throat is raw and my eyes are burning. “I’m a burden,” I whisper. “I’ve never been a burden before, and I hate it.”

“I understand feeling like that.” He studies the road ahead for a moment, then adds gently, “But I don’t believe you’re a burden.”

“What else can you call a powerless witch?” I ask, tone sharper than I’d intended.

He gives a thoughtful hum. “Mayweather, of all the people I’ve ever met, you’re one of the last I’d call powerless.”

“I have knowledge and skill,” I say. “But that is not the same as power.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he says. 

“Don’t patronize me,” I snap.

“Well, now, I might have been inclined to humor you yesterday morning. But today?” He taps his fingers on the wheel, as if pondering his next words. “I thought about it all night, and I still can’t explain what happened to me in that interview room at the station. Rather, I know exactly what happened. Which is hard for me—I’m a man of science. I’ve spent my entire life believing in observable data, and now I’m presented with data that challenges everything I held true.”

“Oh, Doc, I…” Guilt swamps me. “I’m sorry.”

I desperately want him to believe me, to have someone to talk to. But he’s not a Midnight Marshall. He doesn’t truly know what I am or what we face. Learning the truth could destroy the best parts of him—I’ve seen too many good people break beneath the weight of unwanted knowledge to be casual with such a thing. 

“I…I should not have snapped at you,” I say quietly. “Of course my story is preposterous. I can’t possibly be a witch from the 1880s. Your Sheriff has been very clear that I’m a liar and you shouldn’t—

“Enough of that.” The doc waves off my tale. “I believe you. And I am grateful, Mayweather.”

I gape at him. “What?”

“I went home last night,” he says. “I greeted my dogs, made dinner, and then I shared a beer with my best friend of thirty years on my porch. And I know, even if I can’t quite explain how, that none of that would have happened if you hadn’t saved me.”

I study him. “You… you truly believe me?”

“Observable data, Mayweather.” He gives a soft chuckle. “I never imagined I’d employ that training to support the claims of the Reach’s most infamous witch, but here we are. I felt myself changing in that interrogation room—I felt my thoughts fading and my very core belief being corrupted with hate. A hate that wasn’t mine. It was as if I’d been plunged directly into a warped state of dementia. Then I felt you push it back. You saved me—at no small cost to yourself. So, I am left with two options: consigning my own experience to hysteria, or accepting there is more in the world than I thought.”

He shrugs. “As a man of science, I find the second easier to accept.”

I blink at him in absolute shock. “Huh.”

He grins. “Surprising, I know. Though, perhaps not entirely if you consider I’ve spent my life treating residents of our fair town for everything from the common cold to extracting four plastic dinosaurs from a man’s rectum. I’ve had a couple who believe they turn into raccoons on a full moon, and a kid who would only sleep in the attic when it storms. It gets weird in the Reach, especially on a full moon. How much stranger is your return?”

I have no response to this. 

Gratitude and shock tangle around my tongue.

It never occurred to me that such gentle acceptance could exist in the world. 

None of the Midnight Marshalls—not even my John—had an easy time accepting my abilities. Ward had crossed himself every time I spoke for a fortnight. Jesse had slept with his guns on. While John hadn’t slept at all. He’d kept watch every night for that first hunt. Of all of them, Henry had been the most accepting of the strange. His wariness had stemmed from the concern I was a fraud leading them into a trap. I didn’t blame him; his people had been lied to by a lot of white people. 

And now…

Say hello to Henry.

The words taunt me. Torment me. 

If the revenant is a Midnight Marshall, does that change everything I think I know about my enemy—

I jerk out of my thoughts as the truck pulls to a stop by a quaint building. It’s a two storey building, painted a cheerful daisy yellow. A wooden sign hanging over the wrap-around porch declares we’ve arrived at “The Devil’s Reach Clinic.”

“I guess we’re here,” I say quietly.

“We are.” The doc turns off the car, and faces me. “I understand that you feel powerless right now. I don’t want to disregard that. But I also need you to hear me: to a man in my profession, knowledge is the greatest power. I don’t know what we face—you do. I need your knowledge to treat whatever is happening in my town. Will you help me?”

I open my mouth, expecting to agree, and am surprised when I find myself saying, “I…I don’t know how.”

To my horror, my lip wobbles. 

“Ah, forgive me,” he says. “This is not a conversation for the cab of a truck.”

He comes around and opens my door, offering me a hand out as a gentleman might a lady from a carriage. I let him take mine, and step out into the chill wind. He gently takes my arm and leads me up the two steps to the wide veranda. It’s been so long since anyone took care of me that I don’t know what to do with myself. 

Blinking back tears, I follow him into the clinic.

The inside smells of lemon cleaner and bees wax, the blend instantly soothing to my senses. Oh, this is a good place. One that matches the kindness of its owner. There are no hard edges, everything is soft and inviting, from padded seats covered in a blue-green plaid to the shaggy rug in the middle of the room. A row of brightly colored mugs sit on a sideboard painted a happy blue. 

“Take a seat. I’ll make us some tea.” He leads me to a chair, and I sink into it. A moment later, a cotton handkerchief appears in view. “Why don’t you hold onto this, Dear. Just in case you need it.” 

“Oh—okay.” I accept the square with trembling hands. 

Goddess. How is it that I feel more lost now than I did after crawling out of that grave? 

My throat tightens, and I swallow back a cry. I cup my hands over my mouth and struggle to draw in a controlled breath.

I barely protected Myrna from the revenant yesterday. I didn’t even have a chance to stop what happened to her friend on the rocks. That poor boy. What was done to him should never happen, especially not to one so young. And the evil that was born from that death? How on earth am I supposed to fight one of the Midnight Marshals?

This revenant knows me in a way none of the other creatures I’ve faced has, and that sends a chill through my bones. 

Say hello to Henry.

Why did it say that? Why? 

My hands curl into helpless fists. 

Does some part of the man I’d known linger in the creature he’s become, trying to help even while bound to serve the darkness? Is there something buried with Henry that will help me set the creature’s spirit free? Or does the revenant simply seek to torture me with the knowledge of how my friend died? 

I wish I knew. 

Or, rather, I don’t. But I fear I have to learn.

Before I lost years to the earth, I had two great constants: John Goodnight and Henry Mooncrow. I loved them both, in very different ways. John offered the promise of a future I’d never imagined possible, while Henry’s steadfast friendship kept me grounded. Now, they’re both gone. 

Mostly. 

John lingers in his descendant. Jack’s every word and stern glance is a reminder that John’s life continued while mine ended. As for Henry, I cannot forget the voice that spoke to me on my first night—

“Here you go.” The doc presses a warm mug into my hands. The pottery is warm and sports a cheerful pattern of ladybugs and flowers. “I find hard things are always a little easier over a warm cup of tea.”

I suck in a breath. “Thank…thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He sits beside me and takes a sip from his own mug. We stay that way, holding our mugs in companionable silence for a few minutes, then he says gently, “You don’t have to talk to me, Mayweather. You don’t owe me anything. But I’ve been the Reach’s doctor long enough that I like to think I know when a client needs medicine, and when they need a shoulder to cry on. You, my dear, need the latter.”

My eyes burn again. 

I irritably swipe at them. 

“It must be hard, waking up and finding everything you’ve known gone,” he says.

“You have no idea.” I choke the words out. I try to take another sip of tea, but my throat is too thick. “I feel like I lost everything. Only a few days ago—for me—I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Midnight Marshalls. We were planning our final strike against the darkness my sister had called forth, and I was convinced I had a big, bright future ahead of me as John’s wife. Then I went into the ground and…I lost all that. But I didn’t just lose. I never imagined Mercy would survive her loss, yet she did. Margaret and Myrna are proof my sister lived. It is a gift…I should be grateful. I should…But I can’t seem to get past this anger and grief and…and…” 

I press his handkerchief to my eyes as a sob escapes me. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Dear.”

It’s odd how comfortable silence can be with some people. 

I struggle to take another swallow of tea, and finally notice it’s a bright ginger-lemon blend, good for healing and balance. Excellent. I need all the help I can get. “I want to help you—I want to save my kin, save this town. But… but I don’t know how. The creature is so much worse than I imagined. It threatens Myrna. I should be preparing, and yet I can’t even stand up to Margaret’s disapproval.”

“No shame there.” He snorts. “Her disapproval is a force of nature.”

My lips curve into a reluctant smile. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Oh, my dear, you have no idea.” He pats my shoulder. “But that’s for another time. Right now, we’re talking about you.”

“Great,” I grumble.

“No easy task for a person like you, I know. But important all the same.” I don’t need any powers to feel his sincerity. “I would like to help you, Mayweather, as much as I am asking for you to help me.”

The prospect of an ally in this fight threatens to leave me breathless. 

“This kind of battle is not for everyone,” I say softly.

“I gathered that much,” he replies. “I expect I’ll have much to learn.”

“As will I.” I clutch my mug with both hands. “It’s…very complicated.”

“Mayweather, stop worrying about my sensibilities and tell me,” he says, in the sternest voice I’ve heard him use. “My grandmother told a lot of tales, and you can’t live in the Reach without learning pieces of the occult. So tell me. What manner of curse or creature is threatening my town?”

I meet his gaze. “We’re facing a revenant, Doc.”

“Christ.” His breath rushes out in a sharp hiss. “Those stories terrified me as a child. If memory serves, we need to find its name and—”

“It’s so much worse than that,” I tell him. “I learned its name yesterday—when I barely managed to protect Myrna from an attack. I also learned the revenant was one of the Midnight Marshalls.”

“Good God,” the doc whispers. “I don’t need to know much, but I know that’s bad.”

“To say the least.” I shake my head. “I just can’t understand how Jesse Wilks came to be a revenant. He might have been a gambler and a cheat, but he was totally devoted to John and the team. We fought together, bled together. If the darkness claimed him… then it’s stronger now than it’s ever been. And  I don’t know how to fight a revenant in this new time—without my powers or the rest of the Midnight Marshalls at my side. I can’t do it alone. I need a friend to help me study our enemy, but I also need a fighter to guard my back. And your Sheriff is convinced I’m a terrible liar.”

The doc gives a soft hum. “Jack will come around.”

I slant him a glance. 

He chuckles. “Oh, not easily or quickly—the man is as stubborn as they come and he’s got all that family history dragging him down. Still, he’s not stupid. Or weak. A lesser man might buckle under the pressure, but not our Jack Goodnight. He’ll come around.” 

“You have a lot of faith in him,” I say.

“I suppose I do. I’ve known the man since he was in diapers, and I’ve known his father my whole life. Hell, I grew up with his grandfather. As far as I’m concerned, Jack is the best of lot.” Doc takes a thoughtful sip of tea, then meets my gaze. “He’ll come around. And I rather suspect he’ll need your help when he does.”

I snort. “Right now, it feels like he’d rather chew off his own foot than accept my help.” 

He laughs. “That’s our Jack.”

“Your Jack,” I say.

“Give it time, Mayweather,” he says. “Then we’ll see.”

The revenant’s voice echoes in my mind and I grip Doc’s sleeve. “What if we don’t have time?”

His hand covers mine. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the Reach’s church-going folk, it’s that there’s a time and place for faith. I have to believe that you’re here for a reason, and that means there’s time.”

I draw in a deep breath and do my best to hold it. “I… I’m trying to believe that. But I didn’t even manage to save Myrna’s friend. I returned too late to do anything more than bear witness to that poor boy’s broken body—”

The door opens. 

A woman enters the clinic. A blue shawl is wrapped haphazardly around her shoulders and her hair is pulled back into a loose, tangled bun. She’s clutching the hand of a young boy, and has the stooped shoulders and worn expression of grief. The little boy at her side is crying, and clutching a stuffed bear to his chest with one arm. 

“Mrs. Weever” The doc gets to his feet. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’m sorry, Doc.” She pushes strands of dark brown hair from her face. “I should have called ahead, but Mikey is running a temperature and—” Her voice breaks. I see her body shudder beneath the weight of emotion, yet she lifts her chin and looks him in the eye. “I was afraid if I called, you’d tell me not to come. No one will talk to me. Please. Tell me the truth: it's Charlie who died on the rise, isn’t it?”

I lurch to my feet. “You’re Charlie’s mother.”

She starts and stares at me with wide eyes. “Who—who are you?”

“This is Mayweather,” the doc says. “Myrna’s… aunt.”

I can’t stop myself from stepping forward and taking her free hand in both of mine. “Mrs. Weever, I am so sorry. The first thing Myrna told me was how much she cared about Charlie, and how worried she was for him—”

The door swings open again. 

A familiar figure in a worn cowboy hat enters. 

Jack. Of course it’s Jack Goodnight. Even though I have done nothing wrong, I find myself freezing as if guilty. 

He takes in the scene with a stony expression. 

Charlie’s mother jerks around to regard him. “Tell me the truth, Sheriff. Is it Charlie?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not your son, Mrs. Weever.”

“Wh…what?” She stares at him in shock.

I do, too. “It’s not?”

“No. It’s not,” he says, sending me a fierce glare before settling his gaze on the trembling mother. “Mrs. Weever, Hannah, you know it’s not. Otherwise, I’d have told you myself last night. I wouldn’t let you learn that kind of news any other way.”

“Oh, thank God.” Her knees buckle and I help her into the chair I've just vacated. 

Ignoring me, Jack tips back his hat and crouches before her. “Hannah, we’re still looking for Charlie. We’ve found no evidence to suggest he’s been harmed.” His voice is shockingly gentle, his eyes kind. “I know it’s hard, but I need you to keep believing that Charlie is just fine. I need you to take care of yourself and Mikey until that happens, okay?”

She gives a shaky nod. “Oh—okay, Sheriff.”

“Good. That’s good.” How does the man have so much warmth in his tone? I can’t understand how the stern, unbending man who tossed me in the cell yesterday also has this kindness in him. “I know the doc will take care of you and Mikey.” He winks at the young boy. “I bet he’ll even find a magic lollipop for Mikey—nothing makes the medicine go down better or work faster than one of Doc’s lollipops.” 

“Now, Sheriff, that’s a trade secret you’re giving away,” the doc says in feigned reproach.

“You’re right. Shame on me, Doc. But I figure Mikey can keep a secret.” He glances up at me and the softness in his expression falls away, replaced with a steely determination. “I’ll trust you to take good care of Mrs. Weever and Mikey, Doc. Meanwhile, I’m going to borrow your other guest. That okay with you, Mayweather?”

The steely edge to his gaze tells me it isn’t a request. 

As does the firm grip that lands on my arm. His quicksilver shift from gentleness to that hard shell is unsettling. This Jack is so much more changeable than the John I’d known, as if the peaks and valleys of his heart are taller. As if the rivers of his soul run deeper than those of his predecessor.

The sensation leaves me shaken.

As if I’m somehow betraying John by seeing these qualities in Jack.

I don’t want to have these thoughts. I don’t want to walk with him, not when my emotions are so raw and my heart is beating too loudly in my chest. I want to pull away and hide in the soft comfort of Doc’s office. 

But I refuse to let this man make me a coward. 

So, I look him straight in the eye and say, “That’s just fine, Sheriff.”