Wolf, Willow, Witch (The Gideon Testaments Book 2), page 12
Chosen vessel. She tried to smile and took the coffee Amy handed her.
“Vikings believed in sacrifices, right? It’s Old Testament stuff,” Amy said, nonchalantly, and shrugged. “What we’re doing here, the souls we’re saving tonight, it’s all by his design.” She pointed at the top of the gazebo. “Those who are chosen will answer the call. They’ll be fruitful—we’ll be fruitful—and the Lord will keep us.”
“The Lord will keep us,” Tehlor said, forcing confidence into her voice.
Amy De’voreaux knew her sister was carrying the Breath of Judas. She knew Haven planned to kill her, she knew Rose and Phillip were leading the church down a violent, unsustainable path. Yet she believed, nonetheless. Death, murder, miracles. Amy subscribed to anything and everything blessed by the people who’d shamed her into compliance. For a brief, insignificant moment, Tehlor thought about starting her own cult.
It’d be easy, wouldn’t it?
Candles dripped wax onto packed snow and Tehlor sipped the too-hot coffee, pushing the earthy flavor around in her mouth. She listened as Amy described the beginning of her day, talking in great detail about how long it’d taken to haul the materials into the preserve, prattling on about the setup—it took, like forever and oh my gosh, I was dying for Starbies and I can’t wait to be reborn—but when she said those last two words, be reborn, Tehlor heard die. Hel’s voice, hushed and rigid, coasted her left ear. Die, like a promise. Die, like it was something she should’ve known all along.
“What?” Tehlor asked.
“Be reborn,” Amy repeated, flicking her hand toward the baptism trough. She bumped her shoulder against Tehlor’s and lifted a brow. “We’ll be miracles, you and me.”
Fenrir, Tehlor silently prayed, shackle my heart, turn my spine to steel.
The music faded. Pastor Phillip took the microphone and stepped up onto the makeshift stage. People clapped and cheered, whistled and hooted. Tehlor scanned the space, glancing around shoulders and between attendees. Lincoln stood with Daniel and a few other men to the left of the stage. He seemed tense, almost. On alert. She glanced at wild-eyed, smiling faces, hands clasped tightly in predetermined prayer, and searched for inconsistencies, nervousness, caution. But everyone appeared at the ready, happy to be directed, grateful for the opportunity to stand in Phillip’s presence. She startled when her eyes landed on Rose Whitman, standing opposite Lincoln on the other side of the small stage, staring back at her. Rose lifted her pointy chin. Her blonde hair was fastened into a tidy donut-bun, slick and perfect, and her unassuming off-white sweater-dress hugged the slight dent where her abdomen dove inward. She was the iconic Pastor’s Wife. Beautifully polished, thin and unassuming, poised and venomous.
As Phillip spoke, Rose stepped forward, making her way through the crowd. She took mindful, easy steps, tracking Tehlor like a puma. Her steady gaze never wavered. Not when she set her hand on a shoulder, squeezing past, and not when she skirted her palm along someone’s bicep, granting them a casual touch. Tehlor adjusted the strap on her purse, holding it tighter to her side.
Rose halted in front of Tehlor and said, “You made it.”
“We did, yeah. This is beautiful.” She opened her palm, signaling to the connected gazebos. Phillip preached about devotion, integrity, and commitment. Tehlor didn’t know whether to break away from his wife and focus on the sermon or keep her attention on Rose. “Thank you again for including us.”
“Are you ready to be reborn?” Rose tipped her head, letting her gaze fall to Tehlor’s boots. She gave her a thoughtful once-over.
“I am, yeah. Of course.”
“Good.” Rose smiled. She reached into the small clutch roped over her shoulder and withdrew a small, green cutting. “Did you know some people consider this to be the most fertile tree on the planet? Depictions of Eden show it everywhere, growing tall and wide, providing shade for animals.”
Tehlor focused on Rose, but Phillip’s voice echoed. Tonight, we face death! Tonight, we give ourselves to our almighty God! To he who made us in his image! Beside her, Amy cupped her hand around her mouth and whooped.
Rose slid the branch into Tehlor’s hot palm and continued. “Because if you planted that little thing, it’d grow roots and climb. Become entirely new. Even if its mother died, it would live.”
Tehlor thumbed at the oval leaves. She thought the branch was wax at first, something bought in the home décor section at Hobby Lobby. But it was wilting, weak, and real.
“But other people think the willow is a bad omen. That it teaches the value of consequence,” Rose said, folding her hand over Tehlor’s, coaxing her fingers to curl around the willow cutting.
Phillip kept shouting. Evil will not triumph tonight! The deceivers will turn thine own eyes toward heaven and be judged! Rejoice!
Rose scraped her pink-painted fingernail across Tehlor’s tattooed knuckles. “I think it’s both, don’t you? Life is nothing but a consequence until we make right with God. This—” She squeezed Tehlor’s fist. “—is nothing but a stem until you plant it.”
Tehlor pushed down the primal urge to call her magic to the surface. Anxiety pressed on her sternum. Her pulse ran rabbit-fast, and she could barely commit to a half-formed smile.
Since the first moment Rose Whitman had entered Moonstrike Nursery, Tehlor had sensed that something was inherently off. A grainy, malignant, disruptive energy was finely stitched into her very being, and Tehlor knew now that what she’d confused for standard rich-bitch, Bible-banging behavior was actually a well-oiled engine, gathering power, pushing her toward an empire.
People like Rose Whitman were the subjects of high-caliber profiles in popular magazines. They ran for office, had offshore accounts, and played a mean game of poker. They influenced, leeched, and ruined.
I underestimated you.
“Amen,” Tehlor said and forced her faulty smile into a pretty grin. Magic buzzed in her wrists, elbows, ankles, deep in the pit of her, but she straightened her back and tucked the little willow behind her ear, then leaned in and kissed Rose on the cheek. “You’re a willow, Rose. You provide shelter.”
“And consequences,” she said, low and private. She set her hand on the center of Tehlor’s back and steered her toward the trough. “C’mon, acolyte. It’s time for the baptisms.”
Tehlor glanced over her shoulder, searching for familiarity.
Lincoln met her eyes, stoic and brave. His mouth made the shape of a single, terrifying command—don’t run.
Chapter eleven
“Baptism is a blessing,” Phillip said.
The Haven congregation stood at attention, crowded around the shock tank. Among them, newcomers fidgeted nervously, giddy and itching for the miracle Pastor Phillip promised.
For days, Tehlor had researched revivals. She’d spent hours scouring YouTube, searching for video evidence and explanations. She’d watched long-winded documentaries on Hillsong, Peoples Temple, and the Branch Davidians, but she’d expected more. More expansion, more visionaries, more fresh blood. Surely Haven wanted to grow, right? She stared at the weird, steel trough branded with a fitness logo on its side. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Spread the good word; convert the nonbelievers—whatever. But this peculiar, strangled intimacy made her wonder about intent. Deliverables and sustainability.
A miracle was only defined by the people who witnessed it. The lack of new faces, the lack of children, frightened her.
“As most of you know, we came into possession of something monumentally important. A piece of our history gathered at a time of great deceit and protected under the guise of community well-being.” Phillip nodded, opening his arm toward the parked cars lining the treeline.
Lincoln squeezed through the small crowd and placed his hand on Tehlor’s tailbone.
“This is it,” he whispered, masking the information with a kiss to her temple. “I have a feeling I know what they’re planning.”
“Well, now would be a good time to spill the fuckin’ tea,” she hissed.
“You were right.”
“Obviously. About which part?”
Lincoln hushed her and nodded in the direction Phillip pointed.
The string lights dimmed and vanished. Shadows stretched and flickered. Half-melted pillar candles gilded the snowy ground, and the preserve became an outdoor cathedral, silent except for the crunchy footsteps growing nearer. No one spoke. No one moved. The energy soured, turning the air like a day-old corpse. Tehlor leaned against Lincoln and clutched her purse.
You. Chills scaled her arms. Tehlor watched the pair come into view. Amy led a girl—nineteen, maybe twenty—by the elbow. Sophia. She was swathed in white, like a bride, wearing a long-sleeved dress with a high, high neckline. Her snow boots were cheap and tattered, clearly second-hand, and a head of beautiful, waist-length curls fell around her. Brunette, same as her sister. They shared a small nose and thin mouth.
“For she will keep the Lord, and the Lord will keep her. For she will carry what others cannot, and by the grace of God, defy death. Holder of old, conduit of deceit—you are the messenger, the lamb, and the light.” Phillip raised his arm high, opening his palm toward the sky. “And the Lord will keep us.”
The congregation spoke as one. “And the Lord will keep us.”
Tehlor swallowed hard. Sophia’s gaunt face held a ferocity she’d only ever seen in herself. Desperation, fear, rage. She stared straight ahead, mouth set tight, brow cinched with concentration, and trembled at Amy’s side. No tears fell from her glassy eyes, but the thick sheen gave her away. Gave them all away.
“She’s terrified,” Tehlor whispered.
Lincoln hummed. “She’s pissed,” he corrected. “Feel that?”
“Yes,” she spat. Of course, she felt it. Roiling, destabilizing magic. Power like a vacuum, suckling at any nearby source, shredding energy, unmaking hope.
Amy held Sophia in a white-knuckled grip. She smiled at Tehlor, though, as if they shared the same excitement, mania, faith. As if Tehlor had subscribed to whatever devotional Amy had mainlined for long enough to… to give up.
“Kimberly,” Phillip said, offering a warm smile to a woman at the front of the gathering. “C’mon, darlin’.”
A woman with a tidy blonde bob walked up to the trough. She placed one foot into the still water, shivered, then followed with the other. She cast a nervous smile around the group and sank down, submerged to her shoulders in the shock tank. Tehlor anticipated chatter, but the Haven congregation stayed entirely quiet. Everyone stared, electrified but completely still, like mannequins in a horror movie. Tehlor gripped Lincoln’s hand.
Phillip stood at the top of the trough and touched the crown of Kimberly’s head. “I hereby baptize you in the name of the Father…” He swept his free hand above her. “And the son, and the Holy Spirit…” Made the sign of the cross. “As Jesus rose, we too shall rise.” Then he shoved Kimberly beneath the water.
Tehlor waited for her to breach. For Phillip to lift his hand and introduce the newest Haven initiate. But Daniel stepped around the back of the shock tank and leaned over, setting his hand on the woman’s chest. Phillip gripped Kimberly’s shoulder and trapped her. Oh. Tehlor held her breath, watching the water shift. At first, Kimberly made tiny, uncomfortable movements. Tapping her fingers. Lifting and lowering her legs. A minute went by. Kimberly gripped the sides of the trough before reaching outward, grappling for someone, anyone. After that, she flailed. Water splashed over the sides of the tank. Phillip held her under, enduring her wild arms, and Daniel braced, dodging desperate kicks.
A muted, waterlogged sound came and went, a shout or plea, before Kimberly went still.
Someone gasped. Another person whispered, “The Lord will keep her.”
Everything inside Tehlor said get the fuck out and run and this is not what we prepared for, but she locked her knees and kept her expression neutral. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t—
Amy manhandled Sophia toward the edge of the trough and grabbed the girl’s wrist, forcing her closer. Sophia growled and tried to yank away, but a brittle hush made her wince. She relented, allowing Amy to guide her open palm into the water.
“The Lord will keep her!” Phillip shouted.
The congregation followed. “The Lord will keep her!”
Black tendrils snaked across Sophia’s eyes, diving into her pupils. In a rush, her wide gaze turned black as night. Her head snapped backward, and her mouth peeled open. The lace collar framing her jaw trembled under the weight of a silent scream, but the sound still ricocheted inside Tehlor’s head. She heard it—Sophia’s guttural howl mingling with a thousand unrecognizable voices—and squeezed her eyes shut. Noises filtered through. Bones, chewed. Wings, beating. Eagles, shrieking. Teeth, gritted. When she cracked her eyes open again, Sophia’s bottom jaw had stretched low enough to hint at breakage. Wind whipped through the gazebos, causing lit wicks to quiver.
Kimberly shot forward, spitting up a lungful of water, and the Haven congregation erupted into applause. Shouting, prayer, and a chorus of hallelujah filled the air. Amy’s broad smile dimpled her face. Phillip grinned triumphantly, hoisting Kimberly out of the trough. The freshly baptized woman steadied herself. She stood, sopping wet, and glared at the ground, hollow-eyed—different. Rose nodded, her smile brutal and cold, and shifted her attention to Tehlor.
“Thought so,” Lincoln breathed out.
Tehlor reached into her purse and cupped her shaky hand around Gunnhild.
“Holy mother, you will carry Haven’s light,” Phillip said, wrapping a fresh towel around the shell of the woman he’d drowned moments prior. “The Lord blesses those who are obedient, for the devout find themselves in the presence of miracles!”
Creeping sickness spread through Tehlor, turning her stomach. Mother. Carry. Miracles.
She choked. “He’s… These women are—”
“I know,” Lincoln said.
“You don’t,” she snapped under her breath, shifting her wide eyes to him. He couldn’t. Not really, not entirely, not truly. “You don’t,” she said again, softer, harsher.
Lincoln nodded and squeezed her hand.
The dead can’t say no. Tehlor swallowed hard. Did they really think it would work, though? Did Phillip and Rose actually believe they could sire children with… She stared at Kimberly—at what was left of her—until her stomach roiled again. She switched her attention to the De’voreaux sisters.
Sophia stumbled. Before she could fall, Amy tugged her upright. Blood streamed from Sophia’s nostril and darkened her earlobe. It welled in her nailbeds and pooled in the grooves between her pearly teeth. All magic came with a cost, but whatever slithered around inside Sophia wreaked havoc on her body. It took from her. It stole.
“It’s killing her,” Tehlor said, glancing at Lincoln.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure they know that already,” he said, exhaling a short, sharp breath. “Necromancy sure is a hell of a miracle, though. Who needs a pamphlet when fifty people saw that shit with their own eyes.”
“Think she’s the finale?”
He nodded, plastering on a grin for the crowd. “Most likely.”
“The lady they pulled out of the bucket is a fuckin’ shell, Lincoln—”
“I know.”
“Okay, but—”
“Tehlor Nilsen,” Rose exclaimed, beckoning the pair with an outstretched hand. “Come and be reborn!”
The churchgoers whooped and clapped. Someone touched Tehlor’s arm, stroking her like a cat. Another person whispered a prayer, something about Genesis, and a man swatted Lincoln on the back, congratulating him. When Lincoln stepped forward, she stayed anchored in place. It took another gentle nudge before she finally crept through the crowd.
Everything is fine. Think. Think. She took measured steps, buying time. Don’t freak out. Don’t give yourself away. She searched Kimberly’s reanimated corpse for signs of true life. Stared at her wet, pale skin, and tried to meet her desolate gaze, but there was nothing. The woman’s chest did not move. She did not blink, breathe, or speak. Kimberly was gone and whatever stood next to Daniel, swaying back and forth on unsteady legs, was a lifeless marionette. A corpse can’t carry a fucking child. She saw the hunger in Rose’s eyes, the delirium in Phillip’s grin. Regardless of the truth, plausibility, ethics, right and wrong, and whether the Breath of Judas gave them access to the next generation of Haven soldiers or not, Rose and Philip had established control. In the eyes of their congregation, they were as close to God as someone could get.
Remember to smile. Tehlor took her place at Lincoln’s side. Don’t give in; don’t let them see you afraid. She resisted flinching when Rose took her by the shoulders and slid her hand beneath the strap of her purse, easing it away. Gunnhild, she thought, desperately. She tried to smile, to be approachable, to use her wits, to think on her feet. What now, what next, what do we do, what do we do, what—
“And you, son of Adam, will assist in her baptism,” Phillip said. He dipped his thumb in a bowl of perfumed oil and made the sign of the cross on Lincoln’s forehead. “Anointed one, will you see her through to a life anew?”
Lincoln lifted his brows. He shot Tehlor a careful glance and nodded. “I will.”
“Tehlor,” Phillip prompted, waving toward the shock tank.
Don’t crack. She steadied her uneven breath and took off her coat, draping it over a fold-out chair before she stepped into the cool water. Don’t break. It soaked her to the bone. Her jumpsuit clung to her. How do we get out? She stared at the roof of the gazebo. Watched a breeze rattle the unlit jar-lights. Tell me what to do, she chanted, reaching for magic, for Fenrir, for Hel, for anything, anyone. I am a child of old, she pleaded. Water licked her cheeks. Daughter of Freya, keeper of ancient rites, blood of the betrayed. Hear me. Hear me. I beg of thee. She exhaled and turned, meeting Sophia’s onyx eyes. I beg of thee.
