Chapter Thirty-Four
I didn’t know where they buried Robert, and I had no intention of finding out. The less I knew, the better. No one even mentioned calling the police. When June asked what would happen if someone found the grave, Nick’s reply was a curt "They won’t."
I clung to the hope that he was right.
Dawn had already broken by the time we left the clearing. Our procession was a grim sight: bloodstained, dirt-smeared, and silent. Bone-deep weariness numbed our senses, leaving only a dull resolve to press on.
Mitch took his knife back, wiped it clean, and tossed it into the river as we crossed the bridge.
We agreed not to ditch all the weapons in one place, so we kept the guns.
Even though we hadn’t killed anyone with them, there were still bullets scattered about. We didn’t want to risk leaving a trail.
We dropped off the rental car and crammed into the van, which Nick and Mitch had fixed up, the donut tire a temporary fix for the flat.
Mitch was driving, and I tried to get comfortable in the back, but leaning against the seat was impossible.
I kept twisting and turning, every part of my battered body aching.
Luckily, I didn’t need stitches, or at least it didn’t seem that way.
Nick and June took turns tending to me. It felt nice to be cared for, although I’d have much preferred not to be injured at all.
I was glad to leave Black Water as soon as we could, but we had one more stop to make.
Mitchell argued with Nick that we didn’t owe Mathilda anything, since she hadn’t directly helped us and had almost gotten me killed, even if it wasn’t intentional. To my surprise, Nick stood firm, and Mitchell reluctantly conceded.
The siblings stayed in the idling car, keeping a watchful eye on the square. It looked deserted, as though everyone had gone into hiding.
Nick wanted me to wait in the car, too, but I refused. I wanted to look the witch in the eye. I wanted her to see what she’d put us through.
"Please don’t attack her. At least not right away." Nick squeezed my hand, grounding me, making sure I could hold back.
I gave a complicit nod. A crushing heaviness and bruises kept me in check; otherwise, I might’ve gone for her throat and made her feel the terror she’d let me suffer. But holding my tongue was one thing. Hiding my expression was another. I didn’t have the energy to fake a neutral face.
Mathilda had been waiting—I could tell. The moment the doorbell chimed, she emerged from the back of her store. Her stilettos and perfume were back, robin-red lipstick on her mouth, every curl flawless and in place.
The witch’s eerily calm, almost cheerful countenance made me seethe. It was like nothing had happened. She knew everything, and yet she’d chosen to stay on the sidelines, sending us off to die for her own hidden motives.
She raised a perfectly arched brow, her mouth curling into a subtle, knowing smile. Somehow, she already knew it was over.
"Where’s the other half of your cheerful quartet?" she asked.
"Here. For all your troubles. Now, we’re even.
" Nick ignored her question, skipping the small talk, and handed her a folded piece of paper with the symbol he’d copied from my back.
The hand-drawn replica wasn’t perfect, but it closely resembled the original—and the one seared into my skin—minus the lacerations.
She took it, scanned the page, and looked at us with a flicker of disappointment.
"That’s it? Ain’t exactly what I was hoping for."
Nick gave a slight, firm shake of his head. "It’s what you get. And it’s already quite a lot."
"So, you found it?" she asked, folding her arms, her tone flat and unsurprised. "Where’s it at?"
"It’s safe," Nick replied. "And it’s staying that way. No harm will come from it."
"Books don’t cause harm," Mathilda said, eyes narrowing. "People do."
And that was the only thing I could agree with her on. Whether their deity was real or not, it didn’t matter. People were the ones who orchestrated violence.
"Tell us why they were doing it. Why did they need the ritual? And what did they need the grimoire for?" Nick asked.
"They need a ritual to get what they’re after. And that grimoire—my guess is, it’s ‘cause it ain’t quite right," Mathilda gave me a rueful smile, "and they need the book to tweak it some more. Or to do something else."
"And he wouldn’t let you in on the game? Is that why you wanted him gone? Is that why you want the grimoire now?" I asked, remembering Robert’s words, how women couldn’t be trusted with magic.
The irony of it. Taking witchcraft away from women.
Mathilda’s arms tightened around her body. "I wanted it stopped, period. No amount of money or power’s worth killin’ people for. And what makes you think you’re entitled to that grimoire? You think you can handle it better than me?"
The last words were addressed to Nick.
"Yes," he said in a way that left no room for argument.
She went quiet, studying him, as if deciding whether to push back or let it go. Then she waved her hand dismissively, as if saying, To hell with you. If you get yourself killed because of it, it won’t be my fault.
She turned to me, her gaze lingering on my battered face. "You look like death, girl."
"Thanks to you," I shot back, no longer bothering to hide my resentment.
The witch chuckled, low and throaty. "You best be grateful. If it wasn’t for me, this’d still be draggin’ on, and you’d be in a whole lot worse shape."
"Why? Can you tell us anything at all?"
Mathilda folded her arms tightly. "That’s all I know. They figured out how to summon the deity, tradin’ favors for lives. And that’s all I’m tellin’ you. Leave it be."
"Do we need to worry about the rest of the coven?" Nick asked.
She shook her head. "They’re probably hidin’, shakin’ in their boots. I’ll handle them if they ever work up the nerve to show their faces."
I wondered what it was about Robert she couldn’t handle when she wasn’t afraid of six men. Either way, I didn’t care. If they came for her, that was her problem. What mattered was that they didn’t come for us.
"What about Robert’s clients?"
Mathilda chewed her lip. "Don’t know who they are. And best you be careful, too. Don’t go digging too deep."
I interjected, "You almost got me killed. Now you’re telling us to be careful?"
"How was I supposed to know they’d take aim at you? And I figured your beau here would’ve had your back. I’m a psychic, not a mind reader."
"But you knew!" I spat. "You knew it was Robert this entire time. You’ve been screwing us over."
Mathilda’s laughter rang through the room, a light, tinkling sound, as she turned away to rummage through her shelves. "Trust me, sugar, I ain’t been lyin’ to nobody. If anythin’, I’ve been the only one tellin’ it like it is around here."
She approached me slowly, her presence wrapping around me like a net. Despite being much shorter, she radiated a power that unsettled me up close. I couldn’t look away from her, hypnotized. Her fingers grazed the bruise on my cheek.
"I’ve been lookin’ out for y’all since the day I knew you were in town," she murmured softly and gave Nick a smile. "And hey, all’s well that ends well, right? Even if some secrets are best left unspoken."
Nick, tense throughout the conversation, gently pulled me away from her.
She stepped back and reached for a shelf behind her, then presented me with a small pouch. "Here. Take this. It’ll help you heal."
I eyed her warily, trying to figure out what her game was this time, but she seemed genuine.
"Just some herbs from my patch for your tea," she said.
I instinctively reached for the pouch, only for Nick to catch my wrist.
Mathilda tossed the pouch onto the table. "Suit yourselves. Just tryin’ to help."
"Let’s get out of here," Nick said, and I followed him, my anger draining, leaving me limp and hollow.
The witch called after us with a sarcastic, "Don’t be strangers," just as the doorbell chimed and the door clicked shut behind us.
Finally, we were done with her.
The early morning sun spilled a pale, cold light over the landscape as we rolled out of Black Water.
The town felt changed somehow—less put together, as if a strange weight had been lifted, leaving behind a fragile emptiness.
It was now just like any other neglected small American town, weathered and worn.
On the church steps, the Reverend swept in slow, deliberate strokes.
He caught sight of our car but quickly looked away.
We hadn’t stopped to properly clean up; just changed out of the bloodied clothes to avoid drawing attention, but we had meticulously wiped down the weapons before hitting the main road. We dumped them into a local river, where they sank slowly into the murky depths.
Once we passed the sign that read ‘You are now leaving Black Water,’ I exhaled, trying to expel some of the tension from my chest. We were still a reasonable distance from the highway, crawling along a narrow, empty back road where it would’ve been far too easy for someone to intercept us.
I kept glancing behind us, checking for any sign of pursuit.
Nothing. Just the hollow stretch of asphalt.
Mitch drove with June beside him in the passenger seat, staring silently out the window. Nick sat next to me, eyes closed, breathing steadily.
"Why did Robert say you couldn’t use it?" June asked, snapping out of her reverie and turning to us.
"Hm?" Nick opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light.
"The book. Why did he think you couldn’t use it?"
"No idea. He was crazy. Just wanted the grimoire back."
That answer seemed to satisfy June, and she settled back into her seat. But only moments later, she turned to face us again.
"We never learned why he killed your mom."
Nick let out a frustrated breath. "It’s not like we can ask now." His eyes fluttered closed.