Page 41 of The Devil Knows Her Name

When I went down the driveway, there was a police car parked on the other side of the road, and Broder was staring at me through the window. I fought the urge to smile.

Good, I thought. If you’re here, you’re not poking around my gate trying to get in.

I ignored him, opening the back of the truck and working the carrier into the track that held it steady. As I closed the doors and went around to the driver’s side, I heard his window roll down, and I braced myself.

“What you got there, Tess?”

“Just a crow.”

“Ah. Dirty birds.”

“Yeah, I guess. Pretty stinky, pretty messy.”

“Gotta be taxing. You ever get tired of it?”

“Of cleaning up bird shit? Sure. But it’s part of the job.”

“Guess it’s probably better than dealing with the really dangerous animals.”

“Not really a consideration for me, Chief. The last dangerous animal I had to deal with was that bear stuck in the Walmart dumpster, and that was three years ago.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been talking to a couple of the board members, and they’re not sure they agree with your assessment.”

The village board was the closest thing I had to direct supervision as an animal control officer. They were all in their eighties, and even without the influence of my magic, they probably would’ve struggled to remember my existence, but they wrote the checks. I sent them hard copies of my annual reports and showed up to the occasional meeting, but for the most part, I stayed out of their way and they stayed out of mine.

I turned to face him, and met his gaze with my own hard stare. “Let me guess—you told them that fawn, who weighs less than the mayor’s dog, viciously attacked you and you barely made it out alive, and now she’s coming to eat them all in their beds.”

His face, already barely holding its mask of politeness, creased into irritation. His arm shifted with the motion of shouldering open the door. I grabbed hold of the magic—with so little to work with, there could be no more soft, smothering blankets, no gentle, silken ropes—and yanked it around his will like a garrote.

Broder made a surprised noise, as if he’d felt the sensation physically, and sagged back into his seat. A beat of silence passed as sweat rolled down his temple. He rolled up his window without another word and drove off, but that gave me no comfort. I didn’t have the strength to influence him for more than a few minutes at a time, and certainly not at a distance; he would keep trying to undermine me until he had the fawn’s head.

The momentary sense of calm purpose I’d felt after catching the crow had disappeared, and I found my hands shaking as I got into the car. The exchange had thrown into clear relief that I was risking my job for the sake of the fawn. The board had no control over my wildlife rehabilitation license—that was the purview of the state’s Department of Environmental Conservation—but I didn’t doubt Broder would start trying to pull strings there too. Was it worth it? Every logical notion said no, that it was better to sacrifice one for the good of the many. I would have never argued that point in the past, but I found myself fighting it now. Broder didn’t really believe the fawn was dangerous, because he didn’t know about the bandages on Sarah’s fingers or the teeth marks in my own hand; all he had to go on was his own ripped sleeve and unmarred skin. He wanted me to capitulate for the sake of it.

Too bad, I thought grimly. I’m not going to.

Chapter

13

Broder’s words ate at me, but what ate at me more was the complete lack of change at the parsonage. I could still sense the presence of the bag if I was close enough, and I started driving by every day, checking it was still there, waiting to see the fruits of my work. It was a stupid thing to do—Zeke or Rachel would probably notice my truck, especially if Evelyn was right and there were already rumors swirling about me and their son.

But I couldn’t stop myself. I worried at it like a hangnail, desperate for some sign that the pastor could be driven out. There was no way to tell what form the hex bag’s influence would take—hallucinations or nightmares or sickness, maybe all three, or maybe something else entirely—but the longer they stayed, the worse it would get. Every day, I told myself I would see a moving truck, or that Georgie would call and tell me Zeke was calling it quits already, and every day, the unchanged parsonage mocked me.

I had to know if it was working, if it would work. And there was only one way to find out.

Belladonna was not a plant to take lightly. I gave it the southwest corner of the meadow at the edge of the forest; it didn’t keep well as a pet. Even from yards away, I could see the berries glinting like black jewels in the sun. Truly, they seemed purpose-built to lure in humans, with the tempting glisten of their skin and the sweet burst of juice inside.

The sanctuary itself was equally sirenic that day—from the house, the autumn sun had appeared as soft amber daubs playing over the gently waving grass of the meadow, but now that I was here, the light was brassy and harsh. There was still no sign of the storm I called up, and the dry meadow bristled with razor grass and thistle. The maple trees that formed the edge of the forest were the red of old blood, and the thought made me pause and glance behind me automatically for the fawn.

She wasn’t there, of course. I’d left her in her stall, although looking now I saw that she had come out into the run to watch me, a little smear of copper against the weathered boards of the barn.

I turned away, straightening my shoulders and trying to clear my head. I had been too lax with the hex bag, and I had paid for it. Belladonna was even less forgiving of mistakes.

When I came to the bushes, I set down my basket and my shears momentarily to murmur a few words of gratitude. I’d gotten out of the habit of these little rituals, but now that most of my magic had been torn out by the roots, I was seeking it everywhere, drawing on every source I could.

The stand of belladonna had become thuggish and overbearing since last I paid it any mind, and I didn’t hesitate to cut whole boughs rather than taking only the berries. The green wood and the leaves were powerful as well, and I needed all the power I could get. I took them back to the house, hurrying to escape the unwelcoming rasp of the meadow grass.

I put the boughs in water, careful to avoid the sap that oozed from the cut ends. From their vase, they seemed to mock the lavender and cornflower and other gentler plants that hung drying from the kitchen beams. I couldn’t resist the urge to stroke my thumb over one of the berries, just to feel the gloss of its skin.