Wolf, Willow, Witch (The Gideon Testaments Book 2), page 9
Lincoln appeared at her side before she realized he’d entered the room. He placed his hand on her lower back, palm secure on her tailbone. It was a risky gesture, touching her intentionally, intimately. She hadn’t seen other couples show affection. Handholding, yes. Some mild embraces, sure. But partners didn’t tug at each other like Lincoln tugged at her, hauling her close to his side. He wrapped his hand around her hip and splayed his fingers over the soft pout below her navel, scratching playfully.
“Have you eaten already?” Lincoln asked. “I can fix you somethin’.”
The question burned through the room. She glanced around, unsure if she should jump into her role as a good-to-do-wife or let the attention fester.
“Oh, Lincoln, I can get you a plate, dear,” Amy said, batting at the air. “Here, let me—”
“That’s all right, Amy. I can get it,” he said, cutting her off.
Amy paused mid-reach. Her hand hovered over the stacked plates before she brought it to her chest, clutching her wrist awkwardly.
Lincoln stepped around Tehlor, grabbed a plate, and went to work assembling food. “Mac ‘n cheese, babe?”
Tehlor nodded. “Sure.”
The silence ballooned. Tehlor kept her chin lifted, smiling first at Amy, then at Rose.
“We take pride in serving our husbands,” Rose said, lightly, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to say. She rubbed Pastor Phillip’s back. Awkward, Tehlor thought. “It must be a treat to be doted on, Tehlor.”
Tehlor opened her mouth to speak, but Lincoln was too quick.
“Husbands, love your wives as Christ so loved the church,” he said, pinning Rose with a thoughtful stare. “Ephesians, right?”
Rose inhaled sharply. “I believe so.”
“Let each of you love his wife as himself.” Lincoln handed Tehlor a plate, two-toned eyes skimming her face. “We’re equal in everything except creation. In our relationship, only she can do that,” he tapped her chin with his thumb and winked. “But don’t worry, Rose, she dotes on me, too.”
The tension remained. Women glanced at their men while their men looked at Phillip, waiting for confrontation, acceptance, or a subject change. Tehlor forked a green bean into her mouth and stayed close to Lincoln. She met Amy’s eyes on a flighty pass and tried to send a mental signal, to channel calm and security. But Amy immediately looked at the ground and Tehlor thought for sure they’d blown their cover.
“To Lincoln and Tehlor,” Pastor Phillip said, lifting his whiskey glass. “New to our flock, but already channeling Christ-like behavior. Guys, take notes. Protect, provide, and spread the good word. That’s our duty.”
Tehlor exhaled, relieved. She beamed at Phillip and Rose. “We’re blessed to be here.”
Lincoln lifted his glass. “To Haven,” he said.
The room repeated, “To Haven.”
Risk assessment, complete.
Tehlor wanted to look at Lincoln, but she knew better than to meet his eyes. If she looked at him, the congregation might sense her relief. Might catch onto the diabolical magic sparking between them. She ate gingerly. Smiled and nodded at passing conversation. Someone talked about flower arrangements for a wedding. Another person chatted about a new car. She took the chance to glance at pockets and wrists, ankles and hands, assessing each person for weapons, charms, and scars. Who is capable? Daniel’s knuckles were chewed up. He’d fought before, punched walls or people. Who is carrying? Thankfully, she didn’t see a holster or dented waistbands, but given Haven’s origin and the reason for the internal split, she assumed they were armed.
“Here, honey, let me take this.” Amy appeared like a wraith and snuck her slender hand beneath the strap on Tehlor’s purse.
Tehlor jolted, slapping her free hand over the bag. “No, it’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she assured, nodding toward a short, wooden cabinet against the wall next to the open doorway, crowned with a pile of mini-backpacks and neutral purses. “I’ll put it with the others.”
Lincoln patted her hip. “Go ahead.”
Don’t move, she internally chanted, thinking of the rat hidden in her bag. Don’t you dare move.
Amy placed Tehlor’s purse on the table and swatted her hands together, striding back to Tehlor’s side.
“Lincoln, did you get a chance to connect with Daniel? I’m sure you two would get along,” Amy said.
Lincoln nodded. “I did. It’s good to meet someone else who served.”
“Oh, he’s army?” Tehlor asked.
Amy’s smile tightened. “Marines. He was honorably discharged a few months after we met.” She gestured to the sliding glass door that led to the snowy backyard. “I brought s’more supplies, by the way. Figured somethin’ sweet might be nice after dinner.” Her attention switched to Daniel, standing next to Phillip and Rose. “Dan, can you get the fire going?”
Intentional subject change. Tehlor snuck a glance at Lincoln. He inclined his head, acknowledging her silent note.
Daniel—tall, broad, and swathed in plaid and denim—finished his drink and made for the backdoor. Amy’s and Daniel’s obvious differences from the rest of Haven didn’t go unnoticed. Tehlor hadn’t seen it at first, but the closer she looked, the more she understood. Amy, who followed Rose like a puppy, wore a cheap, off-brand jumpsuit and knock-off Birkenstocks. Unlike the expensive attire and spotless Timberland hikers the rest of the men wore, Daniel dressed in Walmart jeans and old military boots.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Rose’s strategic puppeteering and privileged control over her bestie filled Tehlor with rage. She might’ve been a thief. She certainly knew how to manipulate a situation, hotwire an old car, and knock someone out with an herb combo. But Tehlor didn’t steal from the poor. Her moral compass worked that much, at least.
“Good idea, Mrs. De’voreaux,” Phillip said, loudly enough to prompt the rest of the group to finish their meals and step outside.
Eat, Tehlor thought, glancing between Rose, Amy, Candice, Meredith, and whomever the rest of them were. But the women hardly touched their food. Barely nibbled a corncob or munched an orange slice. She thought of dancing. How sustenance had been an exercise in self-control. She spooned more macaroni into her mouth and chewed, forcing herself to imagine a great feast, pitchers of ale, roasted meat surrounded by vegetables—Valhalla.
What a thing, Tehlor thought, remembering the weight of a dumbbell in her hand, how it’d lightened as she swung it, to love a God to the point of starvation.
“Can I steal your wifey, Lincoln?” Amy asked, snapping Tehlor back into the present.
Lincoln smirked. He leaned down, pecking Tehlor on the lips. Her marrow burned. “Sure. See you around, wifey.”
Tehlor hummed, swiping her tongue across her bottom lip, chasing the whiskey on his mouth. “Yeah, all right, hubby. See you in a bit.”
“Aren’t you two ah-dorable,” Amy whined. She took Tehlor by the elbow and guided her down the hall to the coatrack adjacent to the front door. Once they were out of sight, Amy’s expression relaxed, falling into a mock cringe. “Sometimes it gets a little stuffy. Not, like, bad, you know, but kind of suffocating,” she confessed, shoving her arms through a puffy coat. She waited for Tehlor to button her wool jacket before she grabbed her elbow again, steering her toward the door. “I’m glad you’re here, though. So glad.”
Something heavy hit the floor on the second story, booming through the ceiling. It wasn’t loud, but it stole her attention. Like a bowling ball, or a sack of soil, or a body. Tehlor glanced over her shoulder and stumbled onto the porch, pulled by Amy.
“Did you hear that?” Tehlor asked.
“Oh, yeah. It’s just my sister,” she said, dismissively. She batted at the air and reached past Tehlor, grasping the handle. “She’s resting upstairs. Not a big party person, you know?”
“Yeah…” She watched the hallway disappear, cut away by the door swinging shut. Who the hell are you hiding? “Me neither, honestly.”
Chapter nine
Tehlor folded her arms across her chest, shielding herself from a chilly snap of wind. She felt aggressively naked without Gunnhild, like, ridiculously, alarmingly nude. She didn’t go anywhere without that damn rat. Whether she was shopping at the grocery store, fingering through clothes at a boutique, or sipping a cocktail at a dive bar, Gunnhild was always there, perched on her shoulder, snuggled in her pocket, or tucked carefully inside a purse.
Eight years ago, when Tehlor had bound her spirit to Gunnhild’s, offering a year of her predetermined life to Vör, goddess of wisdom, in exchange for an eternal companion, she hadn’t realized just how important that little rodent would become. But Gunnhild wasn’t just a sacrificial tool or a rare pet-store find. They belonged to each other entirely. When Tehlor died, Gunnhild died, too. Soul for soul. Magic for magic. Being separated from her chipped away at Tehlor’s finely crafted church-lady persona, leaving her fidgety and nervous.
Don’t do anything stupid, she thought, mentally beaming the command to her familiar.
Amy sighed. Her breath plumed in the air. She relaxed, tilting her head from side to side.
“We can go through the side door,” Amy said, gesturing loosely toward the fence around the back half of the property. She tipped her pretty face toward the moon, partially hidden by a cloudy night sky. “Do you ever think God gives us the chance to change our past?”
Tehlor’s attention sharpened. “Our God is a forgiving God, isn’t he?”
“New Testament, yeah. Old Testament? Not so much.” Amy slid a sleek, black vape out of her pocket. Her smile thinned. “Don’t tell, okay? Rose doesn’t like us to vices.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I don’t know, I just… I think this expansion is such a blessing, you know? We’re bringing in new members, hosting a revival, spreading the message…”
“But,” Tehlor prompted.
Amy sucked her vape and blew candy-scented vapor at her feet. “But I’m scared,” she confessed, bewildered. She furrowed her brow and laughed under her breath, and it was the first time Tehlor recognized her as real. “It’s stupid, right? To be afraid of what comes after this?”
“It’s human,” she said, shrugging. “Put your faith in Rose and Phillip. The Lord speaks through them.”
“I know,” she said, harsh and low, then again, sweeter, “I know.”
Ah, Tehlor quietly pondered, taking in Amy De’voreaux, Haven misfit, you’re the lost little lamb, aren’t you?
“It was nice to meet your husband. Plannin’ to grow the family anytime soon?” Tehlor tested.
Amy stiffened, but her smile didn’t falter. “Children require intent,” she said, sucking on her vape again. “I don’t know if I’ll be the mother Haven needs, but I’d like kids, I think. Motherhood is… It’s daunting. I mean, with Ashleigh…” She paused, granting Tehlor a careful, cautious look.
“I won’t say anything,” she assured, showing her palms in mock-surrender. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Amy heaved a sigh, shifting her boot back and forth, crunching snow. “But Phillip is our rock. He’s our direct link to God and we should be happy to… to provide for him, for our church, and for the Lord. Ashleigh couldn’t handle the pressure, I guess.”
Tehlor steeled her expression. Dread pooled in her gut. “Provide what?”
“Expansion,” Amy said as if Tehlor should’ve known. She furrowed her brow. “Abundance.”
Jesus Christ. She swallowed and gave a curt nod, forcing a smile. It made sense and it didn’t. She remembered how Phillip had touched her in the foyer, so simply, so easily. Remembered how Rose had commanded the women in the kitchen. Of course. She held out her hand, asking for the vape. Amy passed it to her with a sly grin. You’re cattle, she thought, disgusted. Breeding stock.
“Thanks,” she said and handed the vape back to Amy.
“I’m glad we met, Tehlor. I know Haven can be a lot—I can be a lot—but it’s nice to have a friend.”
“You have plenty of friends. I’m glad we met, too, though. I needed to get out of the house.”
A small, hopeless laugh lurched from Amy’s mouth, sudden and then smothered. “Well, c’mon, let’s go make some s’mores,” she chirped, stepping back into who she’d been in the kitchen, at the metaphysical shop. Lively and sweet, faithful and unwavering. The Haven good girl.
Tehlor followed her around the side of the house and through the gate, closing it behind her. Firelight licked snowy patio furniture and danced on the frost spread across the yard. Shadows stretched away from ankles, jilting with each step and casual movement. Rose clutched a refilled wine glass, swathed in a wool coat with polished buttons, and Phillip laughed as he speared a marshmallow, nodding at something one of the other men said. Lincoln stood with Daniel. Their conversation appeared tense. Or maybe emotional. Tehlor watched the pair out of the corner of her eye, tracking Lincoln’s solemn nod and Daniel’s heavy sigh. Definitely emotional. Lincoln swatted Daniel on the back—men—and said something that made Daniel pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Looks like our husbands get along,” Amy said, nudging Tehlor with her elbow. “C’mon, let’s have a treat—hey, hey! Oh, those look dee-licious. Jackie, can you hand me one?”
The Haven parishioners clustered in small, obvious alliances. Women huddled together, coupled or as a trio, and men stood apart from them, talking amongst themselves. Tehlor continued collecting information, tidbits she could exploit later. One of Phillip’s friends walked with a well-masked limp. The redhead who’d asked about her tattoo traded nervous glances with a man who wasn’t her husband. Rose watched like a wolf surveying sheep, standing near the small bonfire.
The second Tehlor relaxed enough to step into the bonfire’s warmth and properly case the house, she noticed movement through the slider. It was quick. A sudden flash, but a blur far too familiar to disregard. Don’t you fuckin’ do it. She kept her face forward but slid her eyes toward the glass door that led to the kitchen. Gunnhild, who had jostled Tehlor’s purse from atop the table, rounded the corner and scampered into the hall. Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph.
Amy stepped up next to her, holding a sleeve of graham crackers. “Tehlor, do you want—”
“Where’s the powder room?” Tehlor interrupted. She flashed a tight grin. “Sorry. Yes, I do want one, but I have to pee first.”
“Oh, it’s down the hall on the left. I can show—”
“No, no,” she blabbed, flapping her hands. “Make your s’more. I’ll be right back.”
Tehlor ignored Lincoln’s curious look and darted inside, carefully navigating the kitchen tile on her snow-slicked heels. She kicked her purse aside as she entered the hall, frantically searching for a fleshy tail and listening for the pitter-patter of paws.
“Gunnhild,” she hissed, whispering. “Gunnhild, what the fuck?”
A squeak sounded from the staircase.
Tehlor slipped. Her ankle folded and she caught herself on the wall, reaching for one shoe and then the other. She abandoned her wet heels and pulled up her dress, seething as she climbed the staircase. At the top, she spotted Gunnhild hopping down the narrow hall.
“Where the hell are you going?” She snuck a glance over her shoulder before barreling down the hall after her familiar. “Hey, Gunnnild, stop—Gunnhild!”
The rat halted in front of a plain, eggshell-colored door in the center of the hall, flanked by an empty bedroom and positioned across from a bathroom with a spotless vanity. Tehlor mumbled as she strode forward—you little shit and come here and you’re gonna get us kicked out and what are you even doing and you’re like a drunk girl at a bar—but paused mid-crouch. Her open hand hovered above Gunnhild, who sniffed at the bottom of the door, and her heart seized.
There was something about fear, something animal and grounding, that never failed to impress her. No one liked being afraid, but she appreciated it. How adrenaline shot through her like an upturned bottle, spilling in her stomach. How she couldn’t speak, or move, or do much of anything when it first arrived. How fear took her by the neck and said look.
Two skinny, battered fingers slid beneath the door and curled, showing bloodied cuticles and bitten nails. Gunnhild sniffed the bony digits. The person—thing—on the other side of the door stretched its fingers outward, reaching.
Hauntings didn’t show themselves outright. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons cloaked their energy behind innate humanness. Anger, joy, reverence, pain. Spiritual entities used the animalistic patterns at the forefront of unsuspecting minds to cut through corporeal spaces without being noticed.
But this is no haunting, she thought and took a small step backward. The air thinned and crackled. Her lungs ached, but she refused to gasp, rejecting the instinct to panic.
The person behind the door spoke, their voice overlayed like a warped recorder. Many people, many things. “I can smell you.”
Tehlor snatched Gunnhild up from the floor and cradled her close to her chest.
“You know not what you do.” Lilting, scratchy tones. Like a dove, like a woman, man, bear, toddler. “Pray with me, child of the Æsir.”
“Who are you?” Tehlor asked, taking another step backward.
Clammy, invisible hands slid around her biceps, halting her in place. A chapped mouth scraped her cheek. Tehlor’s lungs tightened. Sour blood, like roadkill in summer, perfumed the air. She reached for the magic churning inside her and thought light, thought burn, thought get away, go, run. Her heart raced. Fear choked her.
Whatever had manifested in the Haven house was not power, but something worse. The unmaking of it. Whatever surrounded her, whatever pressed itself to the backside of that door, was absent the stability of an earth-bound vessel. It was sticky, and brutal, and wrong.
“Come with me to the garden,” the disembodied voice, mingling with noises she couldn’t parse—wails, chitters, cries—whispered against her ear.
She thrashed, stumbling sideways, swatting at the air.
