The Bitterwine Oath Page 4

  “Are you sure?”

  She dismissed my protest with a wave of her slender hand. “The festival staff needs all the help they can get. We’re expecting a record number of visitors this year.”

  “That whole dark tourism thing is really taking off,” I grumbled. “But won’t that leave you high and dry with Avery?” Kate’s husband held a demanding corporate job, she worked full-time at the chamber of commerce, and Avery’s preschool program had already let out for the summer.

  “I was talking to Emmy Langford at the potluck last Sunday, and it turns out she’s looking for her first summer job,” Kate said. “I thought she could take two of your days each week. She doesn’t have her license yet, but Levi can drive her to and from our house. Grandma Maggie would be thrilled to hear you’re freed up to help with the festival.”

  “That works for me,” I said. “It’ll be nice to add more to my résumé than ‘facilitated microwaving of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.’”

  Kate laughed. “Perfect. I’ll let Emmy know that you’re—Levi Langford!” she cried, turning several heads in addition to his. “I don’t believe my eyes!”

  Levi sidled over, endearingly bashful. Kate’s grandma and Levi’s late grandma were cousins, both granddaughters of Lillian Pickard. In a small town like ours, people didn’t try to keep track of the math beyond third cousins and simply “claimed kin.” Levi greeted Kate first and lifted Avery up in a forklift maneuver that earned a yelp of delight from her and accentuated his forearms. Then he turned to me. “Hey! Congratulations, Nat.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. I expected something cleverer to follow that, but I drew a blank.

  Bless Kate, a perfect stranger to awkward silences. “Tell me you’ll stop by Grandma Maggie’s soon,” she said to Levi. “She’s pleased as punch that you’re back in town. Are you doing lawns this summer?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Levi answered.

  “Good. She says you’re the only one who keeps the cuttings out of her garden beds.”

  “Tell her I’ll swing by this week,” Levi said.

  Kate winked at him and took Avery’s hand. “See you at the party, Nat,” she said, and left us alone.

  Once again, divine intervention saved me from floundering. Grayson Scott sprinted over in a blur of golden-tan, gangly limbs and blond hair to wrap Levi in a bear hug. “What’s up, Natty Light?” he asked me.

  “You’d think the mastermind behind the creepy talismans in my yard would have thought of a better nickname by now.”

  “Talismans?” Grayson repeated the word like he was trying out a new SAT vocabulary term. Even allowing for sarcasm, mastermind might have been a stretch.

  Bryce Hayward joined us, his thick-framed glasses fogged from the humidity. “What talismans?” he asked, removing the lenses to clean them on his tie.

  I folded my arms. “Nice prank. Y’all are lucky my parents didn’t find them first.”

  Grayson and Bryce shared a look, more confused than conspiratorial. “We haven’t done anything yet,” Bryce said. He replaced his glasses and regarded me with keen, serious brown eyes.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “No, really,” he insisted. “We were thinking of getting you back during the lake trip.”

  Grayson whacked Bryce’s shoulder. “Dude! Now they know to expect it.”

  “Sorry,” Bryce said, digging his phone out of his pocket. “But I found something creepy, too. Or my cat found it.” He showed me his screen and swiped through pictures of a translucent sachet filled with herbs and tied with twine. A dainty metal charm depicting the Malachian mark dangled from the knot. “I don’t know where he got it. Milo is an indoor cat.”

  “So that was somewhere in your house,” I concluded.

  Bryce frowned. “It’s creepier when you say it out loud. My mom wanted to tell the police, but I convinced her not to. Now I’m wondering if you and I both should.”

  Levi stuffed his hands in his pockets, sighed restlessly, and mumbled something about saying hi to a former teacher before leaving us. That boy was weird about goodbyes.

  “Are you still freaking out about that thing Milo found?” Vanessa Wallace appeared, hooked an arm around Bryce’s waist, and flashed a teasing smile up at her boyfriend. Just clearing five feet, she had to tilt her head back at nearly a right angle to look up at him.

  “I’m not freaking out,” Bryce said. “We’re only talking about it because Nat found talismans with the mark at her house.”

  Vanessa’s sable-black curls bounced as she shook her head. “You’re so gullible.” She gestured at me. “The track girls did it.”

  I snorted. “I don’t have this good of a poker face.”

  Vanessa shrugged. Like Levi and me, she was a descendant of one of the four original Pagans of the Pines—the great-great-granddaughter of Dorothy Hawkins. But it was different for her. Dorothy Hawkins had moved on with her life. She worked as a maid for the few local families willing to accept her help, married a quiet man, and distanced herself from Malachi. Johanna Mead had relocated and reportedly changed her name. Lillian had continued to live comfortably, pouring herself into her social life and community service, only jeopardizing her recovered reputation when she decided to spill everything onto the page.

  Malachi, on the other hand, remained a puzzle. And for some reason, people looked to my family to solve her.

  Judging by the carving on my grandmother’s floor, maybe they weren’t too far off the mark.

  The mark. Vanessa was a talented artist, a well-known prodigy in San Solano. With such a careful hand, she could easily have engraved those perfectly identical talismans. But for what reason? She wasn’t interested in our petty prank wars. She had her own crew. She was friendly and easygoing, but we all knew she only hung out with the track team because of Bryce.

  “Come on, we’re supposed to eat lunch with my fam,” Vanessa said, tugging Bryce along. Judging by her blasé expression, she wasn’t concerned about the cult fever.

  “So, it really wasn’t you?” I asked Bryce and Grayson.

  “I swear.” Bryce said as Vanessa herded him away.

  “Swear to God,” Grayson added.

  I didn’t want to be convinced. I didn’t want to see a kaleidoscope of dark possibilities or think about my family being in danger.

  But I couldn’t help it. I believed them.

  FIVE

  Most of my graduation party guests were family friends from the Methodist church we attended. Judging by the cards and gifts amassing on the coffee table, the group was feeling generous.

  Lindsey wouldn’t be able to escape her cousins, but the twins arrived just in time for fajitas. Abbie stealthily swapped her virgin margarita for a real one when my mom wasn’t looking.

  Kate also came as promised, though Avery was teetering on the verge of her regularly scheduled meltdown. She would only tolerate her glasses for a few hours at a time, but the discomfort of her astigmatism and farsightedness made it frustrating for her and everyone within earshot.

  Kate pulled me aside before she had to take Avery home. “I’ve got something for you from Grandma Maggie.” She dug around in her massive purse and produced a book-sized parcel wrapped in postal paper and tied with red ribbon. “She said to open it when you’re alone.”

  Avery’s whimpers intensified to wails of misery. Kate rushed to leave before she went volcanic.

  When the guests were gone, I retreated to my room, comforted by the warm lull of an eventful Saturday winding down: plates clinking as Mom arranged them in the dishwasher and the soothing rumble of voices floating from the back porch, where Dad and Sheriff Jason shot the breeze.

  I slipped off my cork heels and exchanged my ivory lace dress for jean shorts and a San Solano Wolves tee. The brown parcel from Kate reposed in sunlight on my desk. I had just untied the wine-red ribbon when I heard my dad say, “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “The explanation is that people are goddamn freaks, Kurt,” the sheriff repl
ied. “I’ve seen a lot in my years of service, and this doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

  I dropped the package on my bed and hurried barefoot through the living room toward the back porch. The screen door groaned as I joined them, inhaling the sharp scent of citronella torches. “What doesn’t surprise you?” I asked.

  Jason resituated to look up at me, ice cubes clinking like wind chimes in his tea glass. “Hey there, Nancy Drew.” He was sitting in a rocking chair in his typical civilian clothes: jeans, a tucked-in polo shirt that hugged his belly, sunglasses parked on top of his salt-and-pepper head. My dad was giving Maverick a good scratch behind the ears. The sun caught the silver in his blond hair, and his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, making him look his age.

  “A couple of deer were found decapitated in the woods, their meat already eaten raw,” Jason explained. “No hunter would take the heads and leave good meat to scavengers. But wild animals don’t decapitate others.”

  “So who—or what—does that leave?” I asked.

  “Look, a meth epidemic is wreaking havoc in the Piney Woods,” Jason said, sounding exhausted. “The Dixons called me last week because a lady with sores on her face was shuffling around the hardware store asking where she could find a meat hook. My leading theory is that meth makes people do weird and terrible things. I’m less concerned with who did it than with who people will think did it.”

  “The cult,” I supplied.

  Jason nodded. “You’ve probably heard there were animal slayings before the copycat massacre in ’71. If there are dots to connect to the Malachians, people will connect them. Everyone’s a little bored, if you ask me.”

  I pursed my lips and debated telling them about the talismans. “What if it’s not just boredom?” I asked after a moment.

  I described the stones and my initial suspicions. Jason looked ready to kick some teenage boy ass until I explained that the best prank the guys had ever played amounted to a jump scare. And then I told them about the sachet Bryce found in his house.

  “Is there anything you and Bryce have in common?” Jason asked. “Any reason why someone would target the two of you?”

  “No. But Bryce is dating Vanessa Wallace, who’s related to Dorothy Hawkins.…” I said this like a question.

  “Are you suggesting someone might be targeting the descendants of Malachi’s little crew?” Jason asked.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I mean, it was Bryce’s house, not Vanessa’s.”

  Jason pursed his lips. I could tell it was too late to retract the implication.

  “I know it sounds off the wall,” Dad said, “but do you think someone could be trying to draw more tourists?”

  Jason made an authoritative “simmer down” gesture. “I’d bet this is just someone trying to get a rise out of people. But even pranksters can be dangerous.” He looked at me. “You should be careful, and tell me if you see or hear anything else.”

  I nodded, hedging out thoughts of the symbol carved beneath the bed. It wasn’t as if Grandma Kerry could have anything to do with what was happening now. “Dad, should we put the dogs in the run so they stay out of the woods?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  I whistled and led Maverick to the enclosure. Ranger came sprinting after him. I used the garden hose to refill the water trough, latched the gate, and went back to my room to open the gift that Kate had delivered.

  Inside the brown paper was a leather journal, old, soft, and webbed with creases. Miss Maggie knew I was a history buff who loved artifacts with stories to tell.

  But when I carefully lifted the cover, I found a blank first page. In fact, most of the pages were blank. I flipped through and found an undated entry in flowery handwriting: a recipe to create a “Tincture for Dreamless Sleep,” and on the next page, “Eyebright Collyrium to Open the Sight.”

  Other than drawings of plants with corresponding descriptions, I found a handful of scattered entries, each stranger than the last. One gave instructions for setting bones. Another detailed the fine points of antique revolver maintenance. Another bore the heading “Strengthening Your Spirit Shield,” with no further text. Was that meant to be some sort of outdated abstinence lecture?

  Maybe this journal was a San Solano women’s almanac of helpful tips and recipes. Perhaps someone had forgotten to pass it on to the next person, nipping what would have been an intriguing tradition—far more intriguing than Grandma Kerry’s community cookbooks featuring eight different kinds of Jell-O salad—in the bud.

  Hoping for an explanatory note from Miss Maggie, I turned the wrapping upside down and shook it. Nothing. I tried calling Kate to no avail. Finally, I scratched my chin, baffled, and paged through the journal one last time.

  I found a new entry, this one dated. It was entitled, “Protection Sachet (Revised for Strengthening Purposes).”

  My nerves hummed as I read the strikingly familiar handwriting, the chicken scratch of a farm girl with more important tasks than learning to write pretty.

  Grandma Kerry had authored this entry.

  Hellebore

  Larkspur

  Fennel seeds

  Obsidian

  Use thin white cloth and tie with twine. If charm unavailable, add Solomon’s seal in same proportion as protection amulet.

  Bless herbs, cleanse stone. Must be charged under a waxing moon.

  The word magic wasn’t visible anywhere, but the rustling page practically whispered it aloud.

  I trembled as I traced the date of the entry: June 1970.

  Bewildered, I turned back until I reached the beginning. The first page had been utterly blank a moment ago. But new words had appeared, as though they had been written with invisible ink that revealed itself in the light:

  By the powers of earth, bone, and blood, proceed we Wardens to our noble work.

  I snapped the journal shut only to find the Malachian mark stamped on the front cover, the ominous design pressed deep into the leather.

  Muffling a panicked squeal, I flung the gift across my bed. It landed on my pillow with a thud that sounded too heavy for its size.

  Setting aside the possibility that I was hallucinating, what was Miss Maggie playing at? Was this a veiled threat to expose my late grandmother as an occultist, a follower of Malachi?

  Or did this suggest that Miss Maggie was one, too? Lindsey had said that if the cult still existed, they would try to recruit me.

  Was this an invitation?

  Another, more cynical possibility dawned on me. Dad had speculated that someone might be trying to boost town tourism. Maggie was the chair of the Heritage Festival Committee, and Kate worked at the chamber of commerce. I’d be hard-pressed to find two people more interested in increasing tourism. Was it a coincidence that Maggie had given me this gift the day after someone had placed talismans in my yard?

  I chomped on my lower lip. I could tell Sheriff Jason about the journal full of invisible ink. I should tell him. But pointing fingers at town luminary Maggie Arthur and her granddaughter would mean risking self-sabotage. As the septuagenarian queen of food drives and ladies’ luncheons, Miss Maggie had earned her own historical plaque in the town square. And if not for the babysitting job with Kate, I’d be refilling bins at Country Catfish Buffet. I could kiss any glowing recommendation letters goodbye.

  That was before even considering Grandma Kerry’s involvement. What if an investigation of the journal led to the discovery of the mark on her floor?

  I couldn’t merge my memories of Grandma Kerry blessing our meals and bandaging my scraped knees with the idea of her involvement in the occult. I knew she would never have hurt anyone. That the authors behind this journal saw themselves as “wardens” and made magical protection charms didn’t comfort me one bit, and it wouldn’t shield Grandma Kerry from posthumous scrutiny.

  My grandmother’s involvement, however she was involved, made this complicated. Dragging her memory through the mud without clarifying a few things first w
ould be disrespectful, I decided. I would wait until I had talked to Kate and Miss Maggie to make any moves.

  I tucked the journal safely in my desk drawer.

  EXCERPT:

  PAGANS OF THE PINES: THE UNTOLD STORY OF MALACHI RIVERS

  Lillian Pickard, 1968

  I have done my best to corroborate my experience and Malachi’s claims with public and church records, as well as interviews with others who knew the Rivers family. Yet it came as no shock that most witnesses of Malachi’s strange works tended to demur or avoid me entirely. They fear loss of status, or perhaps the decades have obfuscated their memories, leading them to doubt what they once knew to be true.

  I suffer from no such fear or doubt, and neither does Joseph Wooster.

  Wooster was a congregant of Calvary Baptist from 1913 to 1916. In March of 1916, twenty-year-old Wooster cornered eleven-year-old Malachi in the food cellar of the parish house. When he touched her, he was immediately stricken with paralysis of the arm. She claimed that he had lifted her dress, while he claimed he had merely touched her shoulder, attempting to pray over her.

  He emerged and declared to the congregation that Malachi must have the Devil inside her. Reverend Rivers, however, believed that obsession with miracles and demons led to exuberance and exhibitionism, and was skeptical of Wooster’s accusation. But neither did he believe his daughter’s claim of molestation. Wooster left the church in protest. Malachi had no such freedom.

  The church burned down seven days later, consumed by a cooking stove fire that leaped unexpectedly out of control in the parish house while the Rivers family spent their evening together.

  When I managed to contact Wooster for an interview, he had not changed his fifty-year-old story, and in fact viewed the murders that occurred in 1921 as activity of the same dark spirits he had hoped to pray out of Malachi.

  He never recovered the use of his arm.