The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson Read Free Book Online Page A

smile.
    Take it. The words were on the wind, seething through the branches of the trees. Immanuelle’s knees went weak at the sound. It’s yours.
    Her hands trembled as she accepted the woman’s gift. The book was heavy, and strangely warm to the touch, as though blood flowed through its binding. As she grasped it, Immanuelle felt no fear at the presence of the women, no shame at their nakedness. The strangest sensation settled over her. It was a kind of unmooring, as if her soul wasn’t bound to her body anymore.
    A strangled scream split through the forest, breaking her trance.
    Judas.
    Immanuelle snapped to attention and turned back to the trees. She managed to stagger forward a few steps, snatch her knapsack from the ground, and shove the book into its front pocket before she broke into a full run.
    Branches snagged her dress and lashed her cheeks. She couldn’t tell if it was the wind wailing in her ears, or the women calling her back to the clearing. But with every step, every lunge, the forest seemed to swallow her. The brush thickened; the treetops pressed lower; the shadows churned like stirred ink.
    She didn’t care. She ran on.
    Immanuelle’s boot caught the hook of a tree root, and she fell, striking the dirt with a thud . She pushed herself from the ground, gasping for air, and saw a familiar face peering back at her from the shadows: Judas.
    But it wasn’t all of Judas—just his head, severed, bleeding, perched atop a nearby tree stump.
    She shoved a hand to her mouth at the sight of him, biting back a shriek and the bile that clawed up her throat. She began to shake,great shudders that racked her so violently she could barely stay on her feet.
    She started running again, even faster this time, cutting through the thicket and between the pines, desperate to escape. And, by the Father’s grace, she did.
    The trees began to thin, and the shadows retreated, and gradually the woodland gave way to the Bethelan plains, and she could at last see the winding path that would lead her home again. She collapsed there on the edge of the woodland, crawling from the shadows of the trees on her hands and knees as she struggled to catch her breath. She managed to force herself to her feet, weak-kneed and heaving as she limped the rest of the way home to the Glades, staggering down the path as if she had weights chained to her ankles. As she neared the Moore land, she saw Martha, Anna, and Glory walking the high pastures and the dead cornfields, all of them grasping lanterns and calling her name.
    Immanuelle shouted to them and they turned. Glory broke forward first, the hem of her nightgown lashing around her ankles as she sprinted. She caught Immanuelle around the waist in a fierce hug.
    Anna came next, praising the heavens as she raised a hand to Immanuelle’s cheek to run her fingers along the bleeding scratches where the brambles had cut her, her split lip and bruised chin. “What happened?”
    Immanuelle opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. She raised her gaze to Martha, who was standing a few yards back, her lantern lowered, eyes narrowed. Without a word, she dipped her head, motioning the three of them back to the farmhouse. Glory loosened her grip around Immanuelle’s waist and Anna backed away, and the four of them walked across the pastures in utter silence.
    After they entered the house, Anna ushered Glory up the stairs,pausing only to wish the two of them good night. It was only after they disappeared into their respective bedrooms that Martha turned to Immanuelle and spoke: “Follow me.”
    Martha led her through the parlor and into the kitchen, which was dark save for the warm glow of the hearth. She took an iron poker from its hook and stoked the fire. Then she leaned the handle against the side of the hearth, propped up on the bricks so its iron point remained in the thick of the flames. “Did you sell the ram?”
    Immanuelle shook her head.
    “Then where is he?”
    Immanuelle closed