Grave Expectations (Pumpkin Hollow #9)

Prologue

If the witches lived through the night, it would be because Alaric Blackwood died first.

Alaric’s robes were drenched in blood, most of it not his. Copper coated his tongue. He spat a red glob at the reverend’s boots and smiled when it landed.

The real reverend. Not like Alaric, who had only stolen the robes and learned to speak as though the world owed him respect.

The reverend stumbled back and away from the bloody spit. His henchmen, two brainless cogs he hired to “watch” the witches, dealt Alaric twin kicks to his already aching ribs.

“Careful boys. If you kill me before I’m hanged, the reverend will lose his spectacle,” Alaric said between gasps for air. The cogs stepped back, their furtive gazes turned toward the reverend.

“It is no spectacle, it is a reminder,” he said, aghast. “A reminder that the devil does hide within us all, and we must need take pains to keep him at bay.”

“By killing innocent women,” Alaric said. “Tell me, Reverend, what verse and book do you find those words?”

“Exodus 22:18,” the reverend sneered. “As for your crimes, Revelation 2:2 or Peter 2:1, or perhaps Matthew 7:15,” he went on. “Though I’m sure you know none of those passages.”

Alaric didn’t. He found the book droll, and the services endless, and the reverend rambling. But he knew of Exodus and that verse, because it was repeated over and over again as they rounded up women.

The disease started in Salem, though it spread quickly. Suddenly, every town had a witch problem. Every church wanted their spectacle, every frightened man wanted someone to burn.

It was a stroke of genius (at least, Alaric thought) when Alaric posed as their town reverend. He thought it would keep the inquisition at bay. And it did—for a time. Until one of the coven members was caught in the chaos in a nearby market town and taken into custody.

When Geneva was taken, pretending was no longer enough.

Alaric preached before juries, argued before magistrates, and lied through his teeth about the holiness of his flock.

All he had to do was free Geneva and return home.

The coven was already preparing a concealment spell—one more rescue, and the whole thing would end.

But when Alaric saw the prison cells with people crammed inside like livestock, he realized he could not simply take Geneva and leave.

They were innocent.

And wasn’t that what mattered, after all? Harm ye none.

So Alaric went deeper into the church, picked through their lies, turned their evidence to mush before the pulpit. He didn’t always need to use magic to do so, but when it suited him—well, Alaric knew skilled witches.

He should have known there was a breaking point, but there was something so good about watching their lies fall apart.

He should have quit while he was ahead, content with the knowledge that several women were safe from the church and their ridiculous inquest. But he kept going, he kept pushing, and this is where it led him.

Members of the church flooded their coven, armed with torches and pitchforks.

They set fire to the homes, to the fields, to everything they could.

It did not matter that the coven was empty, that they’d already been evacuated to the new location.

They wanted destruction, they wanted to prove their superiority.

The henchmen laughed and danced on the ashes, their hands thrust to the sky in triumph.

But the reverend? He was not satisfied. He wanted bodies; he wanted his prisons full and his pulpits fuller.

He wanted fear and piety and power. When he returned without a prisoner, his rage expanded and compounded until it broke.

He took it out on his congregation, on his henchmen, on the remaining women who sat within their prisons awaiting their sham trials.

Alaric could have stayed in Pumpkin Hollow. They were protected behind their magical wards, safe from the spreading plague of Puritanism. Their coven was self-sustaining, they didn’t need to leave.

But those women’s faces haunted Alaric—which is exactly what the reverend was betting on. He was ready for Alaric, and now he offered Alaric an ultimatum.

“Give me the witches,” he breathed, kneeling before Alaric’s bent body, “and you will live.”

“What witches?” Alaric gritted out.

“The ones you’ve stolen from me!” the reverend yelled.

“They weren’t witches, they were cleared,” Alaric said. “Found innocent in your very church.”

“Coerced!” the reverend protested. “Cursed by you and your witches.”

Alaric laughed. The reverend wasn’t entirely wrong, there was some magic involved in the trial.

Alaric and his coven brewed truth tea to give the jury members, as well as cast spells of truth and protection over the church.

No matter how the questions were framed, no matter how the reverend tried to steer his jury, they met a wall of resistance.

Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.

The truth was that no one believed the women were witches. They were afraid of the wrath of the reverend and the church, of the spreading nonsense from Salem, of the death of Giles Corey.

Alaric supposed if he told him the truth now, that all he’d done was “coerce” and “curse” the members to speak the truth, that it would not save him. So he just laughed and tried to sit upright, his ribs screaming as he tried to straighten.

“As you say, Reverend. I assume you have proof?” Alaric knew he did not.

“You are no man of the cloth,” the reverend said. “This is your trial before God. You impersonated a holy man to free witches. Your soul belongs to the devil.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Alaric.

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “So you will hang me unless I tell you where innocent women are? So you will, what? Try them once more for a crime they’ve been cleared of?”

“Tell me where your witches have disappeared to!” the reverend roared. “Tell me, help me bring them to justice, and I will clear you of your crimes against the cloth.”

“No,” Alaric said. “I will not help you kill innocent people.”

“They are not innocent!”

“Neither are you. You use fear to keep your flock in check; you want to be known as the Witch Killer. You do not do this for some god, you do it for yourself. And I would rather hang than tell you anything,” Alaric said.

The reverend purpled, his eyes bugging as he looked down at Alaric.

“Then know this,” he spat. “You may die, but your soul will remain to watch. You will watch as we find your witches, as we hold them all accountable for their crimes. Your body may burn upon the pyre, but your soul will remain. And you will spend eternity staring at the ashes of the very people you tried—and failed—to protect.”

What would the reverend think if he knew he had just worked magic? Magic did not care whether you believed in it.

Alaric smirked up at the reverend, because he knew he would fail. He knew the women and men were safe, that his insolence bought them more time to escape. That while the reverend chased Alaric, the coven settled into Pumpkin Hollow and erased all evidence of their existence.

They dragged Alaric to the gallows, beaten and bloodied, still wearing his stolen frock.

The rope snapped tight.

And still, Alaric Blackwood watched.