Page 11 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Amy rolled her teeth across her bottom lip, laughing in her throat. “Haven is giving birth to Christ’s true army. We’re going to prosecute the last piece of the man who betrayed our lord and savior.” Another squeeze. Fingernails slipped across the back of Tehlor’s hand. “I’m so glad we met, Tehlor. So,soglad.”
Hel’s voice echoed from a memory.Be glad.And a vicious chill coursed down Tehlor’s spine.
The snow thickened and froze, turning the roads slippery overnight.
Tehlor held a glass half-filled with cheap cabernet and paced in her living room. Books littered the couch, opened to pages she’d flagged with color-coded tags. Lime-green for any mention of the Breath of Judas, teal for references of past ownership—San Crisogono, Notre Dame, the fucking Vatican—and pink for passages linked to revivals. She stopped mid-step to flip a page, scanned the information, and then continued stomping.
The Breath of Judas wasn’t some bullshit, powerless antiquity. It was a myth in most treasure-hunter circles. A thing people feared and revered—an access point for necromantic magic.
“Look, if the rich lil’ weirdo is telling the truth then we have to go to church-babe Bible study or whatever,” Tehlor said, flapping her free hand at her side.
Gunnhild perched on the back of the couch, cleaning her ears and snout.
“Because if Havendoeshave the Breath of Judas, and they’re planning on destroying it, then they’re really stupid or really dangerous. So, we probably shouldn’t go alone, right?” She turned toward Gunnhild and drained the glass, exhaling through chalky, bottom-shelf aftertaste. She jutted her hip and exhaled loudly, feeling unfairly judged by her silent familiar. “If I were him, I’d want in on something like this.”
But Tehlor knew the truth. Lincoln had power she couldn’t access. Power he’d perfected, lost, grappled for, and found again. She might’ve been the one to facilitate his third whole-ass descent into madness, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take advantage of his sorcery. Technically, she had a right to it. She tapped her finger against the glass and hummed, considering. If she tried to track him down in the open, he’d likely sense her. If she went to Bishop’s house unannounced, he could very well make good on his promise.
She tapped her foot. Glanced at her phone. Flicked the home screen back and forth. Paused.
Bingo. She grinned, impish and hopeful.An olive branch.
Tehlor opened a delivery app, found the cheapest, greasiest breakfast spot in Gideon, and placed an order for the next morning.
The delivery driver arrived at the house on Staghorn Way at eight o’clock. Tehlor had slept a few hours, dressed in a sweater, tweed pants, and a wool coat, and parked across the street, watching. She waited for the driver to set the bag on the welcome mat, ring the doorbell, and descend the porch steps before she got out of her truck and crossed the street. Nerves lit in her stomach. She wrung her hands and took comfort in Gunnhild’s warm body in the crook of her neck, hidden by her hair.
The door cracked open.
Tehlor lifted her palms in surrender. “Truce.”
A moment passed, the span of two heartbeats, before Lincoln stepped into the light. He wore a crewneck sweatshirt, Target brand jeans, and thick socks, but the normal attire didn’t change his two-toned eyes or the richness of his shadow. Darkness thickened like paste, hollowing his handsome bone structure, chasing away the assurance of his humanity. He passed asalmost, asmaybe, but anyone with a lick of intuition would sense the chaos nesting in him.
He pushed the paper bag with his toe. “What’s this?”
“Breakfast,” she said, swallowing hard. “Pancakes, hashbrowns, bacon. Nothin’ fancy. Can I come in?”
Lincoln picked up the bag and tilted his head, leveling her with an expectant glare.
She rolled her eyes. “Please.”
He stepped into the house and held the door with his shoulder. “What’re you doing here?”
Tehlor strode past him into the foyer. She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck, and scraped her fingers through her hair, taming unruly locks. There wasn’t much to say besides the truth. She knew that. But the truth was a heavy, unsure thing for two people who didn’t trust each other. She hung her scarf and coat in the hall closet, and made her way to the kitchen, fiddling listlessly with the kettle at the sink.
His footsteps brought a memory to the forefront of her mind.Come near me again and I’ll gut you like a pig.His seething voice; his breath on her ear. He set the bag on the table and took out each container. Like that, in Bishop’s big, lonely house, Lincoln seemed misplaced, as if someone had left a child at the wrong home after a playdate. He took plates from the cupboard and gathered silverware from a drawer.
“There’s a crazy megachurch in town spreading the gospel,” she said.
Lincoln snorted.
“Apparently, they have the Breath of Judas.”
A fork clattered on the floor followed by a butter knife. Lincoln stood taut as a statue. He cut his eyes across her, scanning her for signs of a lie. Carefully, he unfastened his necklace and slid the labradorite pendant into his pocket. She’d never seen a cloaking spell come and go so effortlessly. Reality winked, bending until it tore, and came back together more monstrously. He shook out his wolfish head and retrieved the fallen silverware.
“And?” he asked.
She placed the kettle on the stove and lit the burner. “And I want it.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
