Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Emery
Ice bites into my knees as I hit the ground.
Pain spins, sharp and blinding. Frost crunches under my palms as I catch myself. Breath rips out of me in short, burning bursts. Electricity skitters over my skin.
The world tilts back into focus slowly. I blink against the disorienting swirl of fog, my breath coming in shallow puffs that hang in the icy air.
I already know where I am. The cemetery.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I lift my head. The Weeping Widow looms above me, her bronze skirts dusted with snow. Melting water tracks along the grooves beneath her eyes, darkening the metal like fresh tears. Her gaze forever fixed on the Sterling family plot.
A weight settles somewhere behind me. Patiently waiting.
The Rider?
Terror sizzles through me.
Afraid to turn around, I keep my attention on the Weeping Widow. She’s the key to this, not him. I feel it down to my soul.
The mark on my arm pulses, warm beneath my sleeve. More attentive than frantic.
Maybe I haven’t been delivered to my execution after all.
I push myself upright slowly, my joints loudly protesting each movement. My velvet dress is damp at the hem, my tights ripped and clinging to my knees.
But I’m still alive. Terrified and confused, but breathing.
I turn, studying my surroundings. Fog curls at the edges of the cemetery but doesn’t cross some invisible boundary. The Rider remains a certain distance away, his ghostly horse stamping his feet, its massive hooves thudding softly against the earth.
My breath fogs in front of me as I turn away from the Rider and step closer to the statue. I follow her line of sight to where generations of Sterlings have been buried.
What about it?
Fear sharpens my brain. The oldest graves in that lot.
The three young wives of Silas Sterling.
One after the other. The death certificates I’d pulled listed causes of death like “puerperal exhaustion,” “childbed fever,” “hemorrhage.” Their headstones only had simple dates and scant info.
No identity besides “wife of.” As if they were interchangeable.
In my research I’d discovered four marriage certificates for ol’ Silas Sterling, though.
The mark at my wrist flares once, brighter now. As if compelled, I drift closer to the statue.
Whisper your love’s name to the Widow and she’ll tell you your greatest fear…
Nope. Not doing that.
Instead, I lean closer to the statue and lower my voice. “What did they take from you?”
The Widow has no answer, of course.
But the air around me shifts all the same.
Images slide through my mind. This time they’re not quick fragments triggered by pleasure. Papers. Signatures. Tears. A door slamming shut. A town turning away.
“You were never a widow. That’s a story they made up later, isn’t it?” I swallow, pulse racing. “You were the first wife?” I murmur. “You were erased somehow. Forgotten.”
The mark on my arm warms again.
“You weren’t sick. Or they would’ve just buried you with everyone else.” I frown as fragments of the answer fall within my reach. “You were inconvenient in some way?”
The mark warms again, ripples as if it’s exploring and expanding.
The answer explodes inside me. “You couldn’t have children and he replaced you with a younger woman who could?”
The mark warms again, then steadies.
“You weren’t just replaced, though, were you? You were cast out?” My throat tightens with borrowed fury. Back then, she might not have been able to own property. She’d have nowhere to go. “They let it happen. You lost everything. And no one stopped it.”
Another tug propels me toward the statue, but I resist, standing my ground.
“No,” I say gently. “I’m not here to whisper in your ear. Besides, I already know my greatest fears.”
Wind whips around me.
She whispers words I can’t understand but her grief and fury shoot straight through my bones.
“My biggest fear isn’t dying alone,” I say. “It’s living with regret.”
More water pours down the statue’s cheeks.
“I see you,” I say. “Your life mattered. I won’t let you be forgotten.”
Leather creaks behind me. The horse releases a low uneasy whine. Not exactly threatening but not comforting either.
I turn.
The Rider’s body tilts, as if he’s listening to our conversation and waiting for me to continue.
Up close, the Rider isn’t monstrous. He’s contained. A force trapped in repetition. Doing the Widow’s bidding?
The women he took weren’t “brides” and they weren’t “saved.” Were they taken because the Widow believed it was kinder than letting them suffer her fate?
He’s not a monster or a savior. He’s an answer to someone else’s pain, repeated until it lost all meaning.
The horse’s dark, empty eyes stare into the night.
“You’re an instrument?” I ask, the realization shaking loose.
The Rider shifts, his horse stamping again, more adamant this time. The fog tightens for a heartbeat, squeezing like a fist, then loosens, unraveling at the edges. The script isn’t being followed. The Rider doesn’t know how to proceed.
Is this what breaks the loop—recognizing the injustice?
Choosing a path for others is the sin.
“What they did to you was unforgivable,” I whisper. “But you didn’t only curse the Sterlings. You turned your rage into revenge on the whole town. You chose who paid.”
Declan’s voice cuts through the mist, raw and urgent, echoing between the headstones.
“Emery!”
The mark around my wrist burns once, then cools.
Relief hits me so hard my knees buckle. I grab the cold bronze of the Widow’s skirt to steady myself. His call for me comes again, closer this time. He’s running. I can hear it in the uneven rhythm of his voice.
I turn back to the statue, heart hammering.
“It wasn’t just your husband.” The realization settles into place with terrible clarity. “It was everyone who turned their backs on you. You’ve been repeating what they started, waiting to see if things change.”
Wind surges through the cemetery, branches rattling, leaves skittering across frozen ground.
“That’s why you returned,” I murmur. “To make it impossible for this town to pretend what they did to you never happened.”
The Widow doesn’t move. The heaviness in the air shifts, loosening, like a knot worked free.
“I’ll tell your story,” I promise. “The real one.”
I turn again. The Rider straightens in his saddle.
For the first time, he doesn’t seem frightening or all-powerful. I still don’t want to go for another midnight ride with him, but the fear is gone.
“Emery!”
“Here!” I answer.
I glance at the Widow. “He’s a good man. Not every Sterling deserves to be punished for what Silas did.”
Declan bursts through the fog, breath ragged, coat gone, eyes wild as they lock on me. He skids to a stop, chest heaving, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s checking for injuries and plotting to murder anyone who hurt me.
“Emery?” His hoarse voice breaks my name in half. “You’re okay.”
He crosses the distance and pulls me into his arms anyway, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, keeping my face tucked against his chest—shielding me. “You scared the hell out of me.
“You’re here,” he murmurs, rough and disbelieving. “You’re really here.”
Behind us, the Rider remains still. The fog thins until the cemetery’s completely exposed, stripped bare under the cold night sky.
Declan’s arms tighten around me like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers again. His breath is uneven against my temple.
“I’m okay,” I assure him, even though my mind’s still spinning with the pieces of the puzzle I’ve fit together.
He doesn’t let go right away. His hands slide up and down my arms, pausing when his fingers brush my wrist.
His grip stills.
Something hard flickers through his expression—gone as fast as it comes.
I pull back enough to look down at my arm. The skin there is smooth. Pale. Empty. I push my sleeve up higher.
Nothing. No heat. No pulse. No shimmer.
It’s gone.
Declan swallows hard. “Emery?”
Something creaks behind us. We both turn. Declan steps in front of me, reaching back with one arm as if to protect me or keep me still.
The Rider sits tall in the saddle, unmoving but flickering against the edges of the world. He lifts one gloved hand toward the statue. The Widow remains frozen. But the pressure in the air around her is gone.
For a moment, we’re suspended in time—past, present—and consequences.
The horse pivots. Fog curls in on itself, swallowing the horse and Rider whole.
Cold quiet rushes in to fill the void.
I actually did it. I uncovered a supernatural truth. A legend that’s real. But I don’t even care about my investigation anymore.
I wish my mother was still here so I could give her proof of the supernatural and with it, maybe peace.
Declan lets out a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”
I lift my gaze to the Widow. Moonlight touches her face, giving her an almost peaceful glow. “She needed people to know what happened to her,” I whisper.
Declan frowns at the statue, then glances at my wrist. His thumb brushes over my skin as if he’s searching for any trace of the mark.
“You’re free,” he says, relief lifting his voice. “And still here—with me. He didn’t take you.”
“Told you I’m a sturdy girl,” I quip to lighten the mood.
His eyebrows pinch again. The relief in his expression gives way to loss or regret. He releases me and steps back, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it away from his shoulder.
The horse tattoo and chains are gone.
“You’re free too.” The words leave my lips weighted with sadness.
Declan stares at his shoulder, dragging his fingers over bare skin like he expects the ink to reappear. He’s not smiling or celebrating, yet.
“I can’t feel it anymore.” He slowly shakes his head, stunned. His gaze flicks to the trees as if he’s already counting what his freedom didn’t return.
“No chains,” I say gently. “No more mark.”
Something hopeful flickers in his eyes. Possibility. A future that isn’t limited by iron and oaths.
He’s free. To go anywhere. Or do anything he wants.
From his dazed expression, I don’t think it’s sunk in what this freedom actually gives him.
Or what it takes from us.
The Widow still faces the Sterling family plot, silent but not a threat. I promised to tell her story. And I will. Her truth deserves to be told. People should know the true history, so it’s never repeated again.
Declan drags a hand through his hair and blows out a relieved breath. He seems lighter. Not completely healed but no longer trapped.
“What happened?” he asks.
I open my mouth—then close it again. The curse that bound us is gone. Why do I still feel this connection to him?
“We’re free,” I say.
Why does our freedom have to taste like a farewell?