Wolf, Willow, Witch (The Gideon Testaments Book 2), page 5
Haven met inside a retail space reserved for pop-up markets and seasonal Spirit Halloween stores. Fold-out chairs were arranged in curved rows on either side of a makeshift aisle. The dingy carpet had a nineties vibe reminiscent of old mall culture and Macy’s blowout sales, and the harsh overhead lights turned the room clinical and grim. A fine layer of dust covered empty shelves, a janky podium, and outdated speakers. Tehlor loved watching people push Versace sunglasses to the top of their heads, adjust their high-end streetwear, and simultaneously scan the area for unsavory critters. It was like watching dolphins fuck in front of children at the aquarium. No one knew how to explain it, or what to say, if they should say anything at all, but everyone pretended to be comfortable.
“Tehlor, hi!” Amy’s voice echoed. A few eyes flicked toward Tehlor, inspecting the newcomer while Amy greeted her with a grin and laid her hand on Tehlor’s upper arm. “I’m glad you made it.”
Gunnhild squirmed in her coat pocket. Tehlor held her palm over the button. Stay in there. “I’m happy to be here. Thank you again for the invitation.”
“He will seek out his sheep,” she said, nodding. Her gaze drifted sideways. Surprise leaped to her face. “Oh, I didn’t know you were bringing your husband. Hi, I’m Amy.” She extended her hand to Lincoln as he came to stand beside Tehlor, holding a paper cup filled with steaming coffee. “Welcome to Haven.”
Heat blistered in Tehlor’s cheeks. She went rigid. Pulled her slack jaw shut and kept her eyes pinned to Amy. Don’t crack. She forced a smile, laughing to cover a flare of panic, and licked her lips, searching for something to say.
A slow, coy smile tugged at Lincoln’s mouth. He shook Amy’s hand and then dropped his arm, slipping his fingers across Tehlor’s wrist, driving them between her knuckles, linking their hands. “Tehlor told me there was a new church in town. We’ve been looking for a place to worship for a while now, but you know how it is. Everything’s superficial these days.”
Amy smiled confidently. Her brunette hair was tied back in a smooth, tight pony, and she’d traded her puffy coat for an oversized turtleneck. At the sound of a polite cough, she turned and met Rose’s stern glare.
Tehlor didn’t know what to do with Lincoln’s hand. She remembered hours ago—his throat bared, snipping thread with her pocketknife, stitches sliding free, a relieved sound blooming behind his teeth—and after that—picking through racks at a thrift store, scouring for button-downs and fitted pants—and watching him descend the staircase in her townhouse, dressed in an eggshell sweater, hard-edged and deceptively welcoming.
“Amy, I see you’ve found a couple of acolytes,” Rose said. Her wheat-colored curls fell around her shoulders. She plucked at the sleeves of her ankle-length dress, adjusting the cool, blue fabric. “Have you two ever been to a worship service?”
Before Tehlor could answer, Lincoln squeezed her hand and said, “Many times. I was raised Catholic and Tehlor grew up Southern Baptist. Like I told Amy, we’re hoping to find something real.”
Rose nodded. Her sharp eyes transferred from Lincoln to Tehlor. “God provides,” she said. Her voice matched her garment, cold and controlled. “Enjoy the service. We’ll catch up after.”
Tehlor softened, tempering her smile. Her palm went hot in Lincoln’s hold. “For sure.”
Amy’s tight expression relaxed once Rose disappeared through a backdoor. She tipped toward Tehlor and whispered, “Don’t mind Rose. Her husband, Pastor Phillip, leads the worship team. She’s a bit chilly, I know, but she’ll warm up.”
“Understood,” Tehlor said. She looked around the room, taking in the growing crowd and rising chatter. “What denomination is Haven?”
“Oh, we’re Catholic at our core, but we try to be as accessible as possible. Most people who worship at Haven call themselves Christian, spiritual, enlightened—the works,” Amy said. She gestured to two empty chairs in the center of the room. “I’ll be sitting up front with the worship team, okay? Clear your mind, relax, and have fun. This is a joyful space.” She patted Tehlor’s shoulder and strode across the room, joining the seasoned members near the podium.
“Well, wifey, there’s definitely something weird going on with the blonde,” Lincoln murmured. He leaned down, placing a chaste kiss on Tehlor’s cheek. Breath coasted her ear. “If we want in on this revival bullshit, you’ll have to ditch the bad-bitch persona. You get that, right?”
“Clearly, my devoted husband is the priesthood holder in our house,” Tehlor said, saccharine and sarcastic. “I’ll take your lead.”
“That’s a Mormon thing.” Laughter chirped in his throat. “Play nice with church Barbie, all right?”
She made an indignant noise, like a snort but shorter, and ignored the rising temperature in her face. Don’t look at him. But when Lincoln straightened, she granted him a quick glance as he pointed toward the seats with their conjoined hands. They sat. Tehlor unlaced their fingers and reached into her coat pocket. Gunnhild sniffed her knuckles, a comforting flutter on Tehlor’s skin, and stayed still as the sermon began.
The worship band played, and everyone stood, singing along. Tehlor didn’t know the words, but she smiled pleasantly, attempting to look natural while everyone around her held their palms skyward, swaying and humming.
When the lights dimmed and a projector flashed on the wall behind the podium, she realized just how out of place the Haven congregation must’ve felt in the hovel they’d rented for their Gideon expansion. The video featured an auditorium filled with churchgoers. A worship band played under neon lights on a platformed stage, and the camera panned from the microphone to a sea of smiling faces.
Okay, so, Haven is a legit batshit megachurch. Tehlor swallowed to wet her throat. She wasn’t scared, but she knew what came with sizable territory. Lawsuits, liability, logistics. Haven’s website had been intimidating, sure. Being in a room full of devoted attendees? Worse.
When the music ended, the band stepped aside, clearing a path to the podium, and the guitarist leaned close to the microphone.
“We’re blessed to be here tonight. Without further ado, Pastor Phillip.”
Lincoln placed his hand on the small of Tehlor’s back.
“Sit,” he whispered. His fingertips skated her spine.
Tehlor couldn’t parse the feeling. Vivid heat. Like a needle had wedged itself beneath her belly button. She wanted to snap at him. Stop touching me. Wanted to drive a nail through the tender part of her heart that held fast to the false promise of companionship. She couldn’t stand how a touch like that, all showmanship, all theater, still managed to disarm her. Especially when it came from Lincoln Stone, who’d used her, manipulated her, and was probably more powerful than her.
She’d always been the upheaval—someone’s dreaded Tower card—and this dynamic was entirely new. What a fucked-up thing, realizing she enjoyed the prospect of being overwhelmed. Destroyed, even.
Pastor Phillip grinned as he grasped the microphone and stepped behind the podium. He was young. Mid-forties, maybe. He wore an expensive sweater and designer denim. Sleek glasses perched on the tip of his dainty nose. He looped his finger around the chain attached to his gold crucifix and nodded as he surveyed the room. Each movement was practiced. Every smile, every shift, every breath. All an act.
“Haven,” he said, breathing relief into the word, “I can’t believe we’re here. I mean, I guess I can. It’s his plan, after all.”
Someone whooped.
“But seriously, let’s be real for a second.” Phillip gestured to the occupied seats and gave a curt nod. “We knew we’d make it here, didn’t we? Some folks back in Austin didn’t see the road for what it was, but we did. The path—his path—led us to this town, in this state, at this time. And who are we to question that?”
Someone else cheered. Applause rang out. A woman called, “Amen!”
“Amen,” Phillip said, agreeing. He leaned on the podium, laughing under his breath. “You know, a portion of our flock didn’t think Gideon was a feasible mission, but no one in this room questioned. We knew Haven needed to expand. We knew God was directing us toward the mountains, toward freedom, toward resurgence. Like the Israelites, we made our way through turmoil and deceit and disbelief, and look around—seriously, look at this place. Is it what we’re used to? No. But are the faithful always comfy? Of course not. God’s love is huge,” he rasped, beating his chest with his palm. “And we are those who listen, those who challenge, those who know.”
People exclaimed. Amy clapped. Lincoln hummed, an inquisitive noise.
Cult, Tehlor thought. Crazy fuckin’ cult. She glanced at Lincoln. He tipped his head, as if to say, I know, and focused on the pastor.
“We’re here. We made it. And in our possession, in our faithful hands, we have something unfathomable. Something only the strong can carry,” Phillip said. His light eyes were flighty, landing here and there. He scrubbed a hand over his fair chin. “God is good,” he said. The room responded, repeating him in a deep chant. “And with the help of the Holy Spirit, we’ll honor him. Right?”
The room erupted. Tehlor folded her palm over Gunnhild, clutching her gently but firmly. The rat nibbled at the skin stretched between her thumb and index finger, attempting to chase away anxiety.
Pastor Phillip laughed again and held his arms open, “Right?”
The air was electric. Tehlor glimpsed the stirring of something chaotic, a palpable energy spiraling around the Haven congregation.
These weren’t people who’d come to expand.
They weren’t missionaries on the path to enlightenment.
As she smiled and clapped, studying body language, expressions, and excitement, she remembered the way starved ballerinas with fractured ankles and busted knees would claw at each other for status and opportunity. Like those dancers, the Haven loyalists had been charged and molded. Recreated to want. To hunger. To believe in the impossible.
Radical hope was a drug like no other. Tehlor knew that better than anyone. And it led to hysteria more often than not.
These are the outliers. She leaned closer to Lincoln, setting her shoulder against his. These are the extremists.
“I know,” he muttered.
“This weekend, we host our very own revival right here in this snowy, beautiful town. We heal,” Phillip said, chewing on the last word. “We mend. We let the spirit move through us, and we don’t question.” Another laugh. Another burst of applause and cheers. “We’re messengers, aren’t we? We’re warriors. And we’re here to make ready his house, spread his message. God bless, everyone—seriously, thank you—God bless.”
Everyone stood. Tehlor did the same, standing close to Lincoln as the churchgoers clasped hands, hugged, and pawed at damp cheeks. Pussies. Tehlor wanted to cackle. She wanted to kick over a chair and yell, are you fuckin’ stupid, are you kidding me, you actually believe this bullshit? But she met Amy’s excited gaze and nodded instead.
“The pastor is the ringleader,” Lincoln said, feigning a smile as he leaned toward Tehlor. His mouth hovered above her ear. “He’s got the keys to the kingdom. I’ll introduce myself; you go make good with Barbie.”
“Go sit with the other wives and be quiet? Is that what—”
“Welcome to church life, witch-bitch.” He nudged her with his elbow and offered a teasing smile before making his way down the aisle toward the podium.
The room hummed with conversation. People gathered in groups or refilled their coffee cups and made small talk. Tehlor overheard someone mention the drive from Texas. Passed a group whispering about the miracles they’d witness at the revival. Smiled politely when someone waved to her. The Norse hawk tattooed on her throat itched. She wanted to hold the charm strung around her neck, a rendition of Mjölnir hidden beneath her blouse, but she kept her hands folded at her waistline and offered a patient smile as Amy turned toward her.
“Did you enjoy the service?” Amy asked. Her enthusiasm was difficult to match.
Still, Tehlor nodded and offered a fake gasp. “You’re blessed with an incredible pastor. Is he always so—”
“Moving? Yes, absolutely. The Lord gifted him with charisma.”
“Indeed,” Tehlor said, pressing the word through a tight smile. She caught movement to her left.
Rose Whitman appeared. She shot Tehlor a cordial smile and gave Amy a hug, sliding glances toward Phillip, Lincoln, and a few other men huddled near the podium. She held a practiced guise Tehlor was well-acquainted with—the pyramid-scheme persona most white women flaunted in Facebook Groups, except much, much more dangerous. Rose wasn’t selling leggings or essential oils. She was peddling faith. Whatever she said, lie or not, would be swallowed like a prescription.
“Thank you for allowing us to share space with you tonight,” Tehlor said to Rose.
She loosened her arms and made a valiant attempt at frailty. She’d been trained to hold her chin high, pull her shoulder blades together, and exude poise. But she hadn’t danced in a classical setting for long enough to sag a bit, slackening like a muscle unused to movement.
Rose tipped her head. Her eyes flashed from Tehlor’s boots to her face. “You’re welcome. How’s your heart?”
She let the question rest, considering her answer. Full would be too easy a lie to uncover. Hopeful, too cheesy. A sliver of the truth surfaced, and she said, “Open, I think.” She nodded as if she’d decided on something. “Yeah, tender, too. Willing isn’t exactly the right word, but it’s how I feel. I hope the expansion in Gideon goes well…” She sighed and made a show of gazing at Lincoln. “Haven could be good for us.”
“Haven will be good for you,” Rose said.
Ah, yeah, there it is. Tehlor painted on a grateful smile. Pride. That’s her language. She’d stroked Rose’s ego just enough to earn an invitation back. Or something like an invitation. Assurance, maybe.
“I see your husband’s found the boy’s club.” Rose sighed, trading a Starbucks cup from one hand to the other. Her attention stayed on Lincoln and Phillip, surrounded by other men, but she continued speaking. “I’ll be hosting a cookout the night before the revival next week. You should stop by.”
“Oh, yes,” Amy exclaimed, grinning. “I’m making a keto casserole.”
Tehlor almost said I and stopped herself. “We’d love that, thank you. Is there anything I can bring?”
“Whatever you’d like,” Rose said. Another test. She offered a lukewarm smile. “I’ll let Phillip know. He’ll send your husband our address.”
“Perfect,” she said.
Lincoln's gaze snapped to her. He smiled, nodding along to something someone said. His sly eyes hooked around her ribs. Pulled. Cinched everything a little tighter. She wanted to extinguish the fire he lit. Wanted to walk into the ocean and let the waves pummel her, then crawl back onto shore renewed and restored, unchanged and unbothered.
But the spark he'd carried back from hell continued to grow, and Tehlor Nilsen burned.
Chapter six
“Whiskey sour,” Tehlor said. She hoisted onto a stool at a dive bar on the outskirts of Gideon. It was a small, ugly place that shared a parking lot with a roadside inn and a strip club. No one from Haven would be caught dead in the vicinity. When the bartender asked if she had a liquor preference, she shook her head. “Well is fine, thank you. What do you want?”
Lincoln took the seat beside her. “Whatever IPA you’ve got.”
“You’re in Colorado,” Tehlor deadpanned.
The bartender nodded solemnly. “Yeah, we have five on tap. Any favorites?”
“Surprise me,” Lincoln said. He eyed Tehlor down his straight nose, assessing her in a swift pass from forehead to chin. “What’s next?”
She waited for the bartender to leave their drinks and cruise to the other end of the bar before she sighed and said, “The stupid barbeque, I guess.”
“Don’t you think you should replenish before an outing like that?”
The hair on the back of her neck stood. In all fairness, she should’ve anticipated his ability to perceive her stunning lack of umph. She hadn’t fought back when he’d choked her in the bathroom. She hadn’t shown any sort of power besides the ritual she’d performed in Bishop’s basement, and truthfully, that was more a bargain than a spell, anyway. She sipped her drink and pushed the liquor around in her mouth, coating her gums. A part of her wanted to lie. But the rest of her—the braver, reckless bits—slithered toward the surface, curving her lips into a smile.
“What makes you think I need to?” Tehlor asked. She dipped her finger into her drink and sucked the digit clean.
“You don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d take shit lyin’ down. Call me a liar, but I think we both know bringing me back took a lot out of you.”
Her expression hardened. She snorted, lifting a brow as she drained the rest of her cocktail.
“You’re not wrong,” she rasped, breathing through the whiskey-burn. “Godhood is transactional. If I give something, my deities will return the favor. Hel gave you back, so.” She shrugged. “I could manage a few spells, but nothing fuckin’ useful.” She really, seriously wanted to stuff her own fist in her mouth. But Lincoln had worn her blood and felt her pain. Even if telling him the truth made her want to puke, enduring her honesty was part of the deal. “I could try to make a blood offering.”
Lincoln ran his bottom lip across the edge of his glass, collecting a bit of foam. He was alarmingly attentive. The longer he looked at her, gingerly sipping his beer, elbow propped on the cracked wood, the more inhuman he became. Hellfire still blazed in his mismatched eyes. When his throat flexed around a swallow, Tehlor glanced away from his neck and stared at his hand, then tore her eyes away from that too, and turned toward the shelf behind the bar, reading the labels on each bottle.
Most men bored her. Most men didn’t practice demonic sorcery, though. Not seriously, at least. She’d slept with a few who claimed to know power—alt-goth he-bitches who looked the part—but she’d never met a guy whose bite was actually worse than his bark, and she hated how quickly she turned into a pathetic simp after finding one.
