young, who had damaged one of their innocents.
“In these modern times, we have laws and jails,” Shard LeFel said to the people gathered by torchlight and lamplight outside the church. “But there is an older law, an older reckoning, that bids us to tend to our own. To protect our own. And to punish those who are wicked and vile even—no, especially—when they are among us.”
A murmur rose up from the crowd.
“I would not presume to tell you good people what it is you must do. This is your town, your laws, your home. But justice must be done.”
There was a pause. LeFel watched, calmly waiting to see who would strike the tinder he’d so carefully prepared, and set it ablaze.
“Burn her!” It came from the back of the crowd. From Mrs. Dunken’s boy Henry. And his cry was picked up, carried by each voice, until it became a chant.
“Burn her!” the crowd cried. “Burn the witch!”
LeFel tugged at the lace at his cuff and then rested the tip of his jewel-encrusted cane upon the ground. Mr. Shunt sidled up beside him, silent as death’s gaze.
“The wick is caught,” LeFel said to the Strange while watching the sheriff and Henry Dunken make out their plans of surrounding the witch’s cottage, and calling her out to stand trial.
“We’ll approach her and give her the chance to turn herself in,” Sheriff Wilke said. “I want you all to understand we’re not going to raise a gallows tonight. There will be a trial. Justice will be served.”
“But if she resists,” Henry said above the rise of voices, “we’ll burn her out. I won’t stand idly by while she does her devil’s magic. Nor shall she harm another man, woman, or child of this town!”
“And now,” LeFel said quietly, “we shall watch the fire I’ve set in these mortals do that which even you failed me in, Mr. Shunt.”
Mr. Shunt said nothing. He folded his bony fingers together, each one clacking against the other, metal upon metal, bone on bone, as if wishing for a neck to break between them. “Yes, Lord LeFel,” he murmured.
The townsfolk assembled in the street, men gathering horses and wagons, guns, and torches while the women all rushed off with Mrs. Gregor to tend and fuss over her and the Strange Elbert.
Shard LeFel stood in the shadows, mostly forgotten, as he intended. He would let them ride forth and smoke the witch out. And he would be waiting, near enough that he could snatch her out of their hands. He would take her. And kill her for his own purposes—her and the wolf and the real little boy—to turn the tumbler and locks and open the door to his land.
And if the townsfolk turned their rage on him . . . well, he would simply let Mr. Shunt take care of that.
Cedar Hunt ignored the weeping pain of the wound in his side, ignored his hungry belly, ignored the night that called him toward the rail, called him to find Strange, any Strange, to kill.
He ran despite the limp it caused him, toward the witch’s house, toward the wallow of trees in front of her property. There, he would find the dying scent of his brother. There he would find the scent of the Strange who had taken him, who may have killed him. There he would track the Strange who was going to fall beneath his fang and claw.
The wind brought him the scent of fire and wood and oil burning. He heard the rise of voices, felt the rumble of wagon wheels and horses coming from the town behind him. He stopped on a ridge that looked over the town. Orange and yellow globs of light marched down Hallelujah’s main street. Torches. Heading out toward the witch’s house. Heading out toward the stand of trees.
The beast in him twisted his hold.
Cedar pushed against the urge. Why would the people of Hallelujah be out in the night, burning torches, riding through the darkness? Were they headed to the trees? Were they looking for the same Strange as he?
Muddled by the wolf’s need to hunt Strange, Cedar could not think through why the town was rising in the night. But he knew they would destroy his brother’s trail if they tromped through the forest before he got there.
Cedar started down the ridge, and ran, faster than the men, faster than the horses, faster than the torches of Hallelujah, to catch the scent of his brother’s murderer.
Mae Lindson had waited the full day for Cedar Hunt to keep his word. But now it was well into night, and clear he wasn’t coming back to her.
Just a short while ago, while she was outside pumping water, her mule, Prudence, had plodded up and stopped at the corral gate, wanting to be let in for water and food. Bundled on the saddle were Jeb’s clothes and a spare set that must belong to Mr. Hunt. Strangely, his canteen, goggles, and guns were also with the supplies. Or perhaps not strangely. Now that the moon was on the rise, she guessed his curse would be in bloom, and he was traveling the night as a wolf, not a man.
Which left the finding of Mr. Shunt and the killing of him in her hands alone.
“Do as you please, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said as she tended Prudence, removing her saddle, and brushing her down. “I have a killer to find.” Mae finished caring for the mule, keeping the Madders’ shotgun in one hand, the Colt tucked in her belt, and an eye out for anything stirring in the shadows.
The night was full of natural noises—animals and insects skittering about in the underbrush. A restless wind tugged from the northwest, and for a brief moment, she thought she smelled smoke on the breeze, but otherwise the night was quiet.
Mae resaddled the mule and took Cedar Hunt’s clothes and gear off the saddle. She had left her supplies for hunting Mr. Shunt back in her house, though she had already banked the fire and locked the cupboards tight. While it wasn’t a common thing to head out on a hunt in the middle of the night, she knew her time was nearly up. The pull of the coven’s voices stabbed at her like claws in her lungs, insistent now. She would have to be heading east, likely by tomorrow. If not, she’d fall too ill to make the return.
But before she left this pocket of the West, she would see Jeb’s killer dead at her feet.
Mae patted Prudence’s side. “Won’t be a minute more, girl. I’ll gather my things.”
She strode back to the house, the moonlight doing some good to light her path. She would use the Madders’ gun to kill Shunt, full charge. The other times she’d used it against him, it hadn’t been ready. Which would mean she’d have to charge the gun before she spotted her target.
She paused at her back door. A chill pricked her skin, even through her heavy coat.
Not a breath of Mr. Shunt. Not a shift of a shadow, nor a glint of his coal-lit eyes. He was not here, but something in the night made her uneasy. Even Prudence snorted.
Mae tipped her head, listening, waiting for a hint of what was tickling at the back of her spine. But the night was silent.
Mae pulled together everything she could take with her without hitching the wagon. A satchel of food, herbs, clothes. She did not want to leave her spinning wheel behind and hoped once she had killed Shunt, she could return for it before heading east.
She buckled and tied the satchels closed and slung them over her shoulder. With one last look at her home, she hefted the shotgun and headed toward the door. Time to head off to the rail and see if that dandy Mr. Shard LeFel had his man Mr. Shunt nearby.
But before she could open the door, a sound drifted through the night—voices, horses, carts. It sounded like the entire town of Hallelujah was taking to the road, striking out into the night.
She risked a glance out her front shutter.
Torches, dozens, maybe near a hundred, came marching through the forest and the field, burning holes in the darkness. Horses, carts, and wagons rattled across the rocky field headed straight for her home, headed straight for her. And the huffing chug of an engine behind the mob filled the air with steam and heat.
Fear plucked her pulse. The wooden whimsies lining the room rattled and trembled even though her house was still as a tomb.
“Mrs. Jeb Lindson,” a man’s voice yelled out. She knew that voice. It was Sheriff Wilke. “You’re to come out of your house and stand trial for the harm you’ve done to the boy Elbert Gregor, and for the witchcraft you have practiced here in the town of Hallelujah.”
Mae pressed her gloved fingertips against her lips. Through the crack in her shutter she could see all the men
