Chapter 8
MERCY
Three Turns Past
Smoke lingers in the air, but I move amongst the shadows, dodging limbs and bramble, searching for the tree in Silas' memory.
There is every possibility they found her sometime in the night, but with dawn rapidly approaching, I have to hold out hope.
I listen intently, ears honed for anything to help point me—a snap of twigs, harsh breaths. A cry.
Anything.
The forest stretches deeper, the brush thick and familiar, when an owl calls.
My head snaps to the tawny bird, big, yellow eyes trained on the belly of a sprawling tree, swollen fat and bulging from the split of lightning.
My eyes narrow, searching, and crouched in the crook of the bark, the youngling shakes, cheeks streaked with tears, breath shallow.
Just a child, to this world, no more than twenty and three.
Her eyes, green and rimmed red with smoke and fear grow impossibly larger as they find mine, the power of me seeking and twining with her own.
Kindred to Kindred. A sob breaks past her lips as I lean in, grip beneath her arms and pull her body free.
Her ankle is twisted unnaturally, flesh engorged still and I frown.
Hours have passed since Silas tucked her here, the injury should have healed, but the lack of progression tells me she has no training in how to heal herself.
"Come," I whisper, working to maintain calm when urgency would be more prudent, but she is terrified, and it forces my own pain down, focusing on the care of my charge.
Silas marked her for me with his death. I slide and arm beneath her injured shoulder, one she holds at an awkward angle, the bone protruding beneath the skin.
"This will hurt," I warn, bracing a hand on the crook of her shoulder.
She bites down on her cracked lower lip, drawing blood from a split when I reset the bones, but keeps her calm impressively even as pain shoots through her body.
"We must find a place to shelter for the dawn, they will be searching," I instruct, and she nods, staggering forward on an uneven limp.
With her arm over my shoulder, I brace her, and we move, half-walking, half dragging as she bites back a whimper each time her injured foot touches the earth.
"What is your name, sister?" I ask, half for distraction, and partly because I wish to know.
"Molly," she pants, the words costing her.
Silence falls as we push past tangled oaks and nettles, and I begin to worry how much strength she has left in her.
My eyes search the trees, praying to Eir for the shelter of a cave or even a copse of trees for shelter, when I see it.
Off the path, a cottage sags beneath the weight of neglect, leaves and branches caving in a thatched roof, moss climbing stone in reclamation.
"Blessings," I cry in relief. Molly sobs, eyes leaking and we change course, moving toward the abandoned and forgotten dwelling, both of us knowing we must get inside those four walls as quickly as possible.
Leaves cover the cobbled floor, but the door shuts and we both sink down to the hearth, tangled together as the weight of our situation claws at us.
Her grip does not relent as she clings to me, and I curl her body against mine, shushing her cries.
There is much to do, and no time to do it, but I hold her anyway.
She falls apart, allowing herself to feel comfort for what may be the first time in her young life and I know now, she is my child to protect.
Sin Eaters are unable to bear offspring, but there is a reason she was put in our path.
We are possibly the last of our Kindred, and without Silas, there is no other home for me to return.
***
"Your offering is lost," Silas says, noting the shift in Goody Prentiss' path. I shake my head, step closer to him.
"She goes where she is meant to. We will join her soon," I assure, swiping my thumb over a smattering of blood dripping from his collar bone. "The power is woven within you. The Cast should allow your full transformation now, I feel the weight of it." I frown.
"All will be well," he replies, for the sake of my comfort, tempering the flames escaping the recesses of his eyes, nose and mouth until only embers glow orange and red in the depths.
"Let us try," I insist, bringing my hands to cup the underside of the gourd.
The flesh is softer now, the heat still present but dulled to my touch.
Silas' breath catches, broad body shuddering as I caress the leathery material.
I close my eyes as his hands fall to my hips, grounding our bodies, his grip protective and fierce at once.
I find the stream of power that thrums between us, anchoring my Cast, running my thoughts over it, feeling the strength of our connection.
Patiently, I wait, inhaling his exhales, imploring clarity.
My fingers move of their own volition, tracing the indented lines up to the edge of the opening that serves as his mouth.
He exhales, long and slow now, and I press deeper, the pads of my fingers sinking into the softness of the gourd.
It gives way, and my eyes fly open, a piece of mushed pumpkin squished in my hand, his smile torn but Silas does not waiver.
I sink my fingers back in, pushing, expecting the heat of fire, but there is nothing but warmth to meet me.
I meet the resistance of something stronger, far more tangible and Silas groans as my fingers touch skin.
My hands waste no more time, clawing and tearing away at the gourd.
I pay no attention to the chunks of orange, mottled pumpkinflesh falling like bounders, littering the ground around us because every piece reveals more and more of him.
My Bonded.
Green eyes pierce mine as his lashes flutter open, and Gods, I thank them on a cry as his smile grows wide, blinding, handsome as it ever was.
His grip turns bruising as he hauls me closer, and I tangle my hands in the damp strands of his hair, deep browns lightened under the glow of the moon.
He presses his forehead against mine, a relieved laugh tumbling from his lips, but I need to feel them, need to taste and know he is restored.
I arch on the tips of my toes, hungry for his lips and he obliges, hand moving to fist my hair while the other pins me against his bloodied chest and at last, we are one.
Our tongues tangle, licking and tasting, teeth scraping skin as he angles my head higher, seeking more of me, dying for it.
The kiss turns heated, relief crumbling under the ache of lost time, of starvation, but from the altar, a bird caws, sharp and chiding.
Reluctantly, Silas' kiss relents, his hold gentling to allow me space to breathe.
We turn as one to another shrill cry and see the milky eyed raven, perched in judgement over the Ash wood.
Silas presses a kiss to my temple, earning us another impatient coo.
"Alright, we are going," he concedes, hands up as he steps from my space enough to let me breathe.
The taste of clove and spice lingers on my tongue, bits of smashed pumpkin lodged between my fingernails, and I cannot keep the smile from my face, even as we are reminded to make haste.
"Are you ready for your next offering, Witchling?
" he asks, presenting his big palm to me.
My blood cools at the reminder of Goody Prentiss, of why it was necessary to put her on the list.
"I am." I take his offered hand, a smile lifting the corner of my lips as it engulfs mine, twine our fingers together.
My feet stop at the Ash wood, the raven watching with all-seeing eyes as I plunge my fingers into the icy water and retrieve the stone wrapped in her hair.
I grasp it between my fingers, curl it against my palm and we walk into the darkness, the weave leading to where I know she awaits.
"A woman," Silas notes, his question unspoken.
I nod, as the cost of this eats at me, batters against the rage, but justice of a sin this heavy demands my intercession, no matter the vessel that sin resides in.
He makes no more comment as he haunts my footsteps like a shadow, stops on instinct at the edge of a clearing and I break from him, steeling my resolve.
Ruth Anne Prentiss stands in the same space her child burned three turns ago, barefooted, in a modest, flowing nightgown.
She stares at the white pine staked there, at the fresh bundles of kindling, long hair loose, tossing in the wind, a once great beauty ravaged by the passage of time.
The strands are graying roots turned to black, her eyes unseeing and glossy as she stares, attention fixed on the pyre, stone faced and proud.
Silas waits in the shadows, and I turn the bezoar over in my hand, dampening the Cast. She blinks rapidly, confused as she comes to.
Hands banding around her middle, she scans her surroundings.
"Blessed Eve, Goody Prentiss," I offer softly. Her gaze snaps to mine where I linger, confused and frightened, but embarrassment tints her pale cheeks pink as she flushes.
"Oh, Goody Hawthorne!" she exhales, hand flying to her temple as I turn the stone over in my hand, the damp strands scratching between my palm and the bezoar. "I—apologies. I-I must have wandered in my restlessness," she rambles on, tripping over her words as humiliation keeps her color.
"Not sleeping well as of late?" I inquire, titling my head curiously as though I do not already know the answer. She swallows, uncomfortable.
"Just concerned over the stresses of running a household," her hand gestures to the big house just up the hill, clear in our sights now. "I am sure you understand, mayhaps more, considering the unfortunate ailments of Selectman Hawthorne." I suppress the urge to laugh.
"Actually, between us wives, I found his coalescing to bring about peace and quiet in the home, if you take my meaning," I wink. She bristles.