Page 4 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Thank you, she prayed.For the devout receive and blessed are the fruitful.
“Am I undead?” Lincoln asked.
“Sort of. Everything should start working again soon. Heart, bowels, circulation.” Her self-control evaporated and she lifted her finger, tapping the tip of his snout. He snapped his teeth. Her pinky skimmed his jaw as she jerked away.
“And the organs I’m missing?”
“Give it time, they’ll regrow.”
Lincoln’s disbelief was palpable. He held the cleaver in one hand while the other fiddled restlessly. Blood soaked his upper half, causing his clothes to stick to him, but strangely enough, it was his expression that gave him away, ebbing from anger into fear. His eyes lost their hard luster, and his ears shifted downward. He looked lost, almost. Stranded in a place he couldn’t seem to leave. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling and made for the staircase, stepping over the headless carcass on his way.
“I need a shower,” he said, tossing the statement nonchalantly over his shoulder. He jutted his chin at the massacre spanning the basement. “Clean that shit up.”
Arguing would get her nowhere. She nodded, offering a coy smile. “Where does Bishop keep the bleach?”
The morning stayed dark, sheltered by mountainous terrain and a fresh dusting of snow.
Tehlor scrubbed the basement, soaked the floor with bleach, righted the wire shelf, then returned the headless dog to the pet mortuary, wrapping the body in the blanket she’d found it with. Her wool coat concealed her bloodied clothes, but red still flecked the blonde wisps that’d escaped her bun, and her knuckles were chapped from harsh chemicals. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she crossed the parking lot and slipped into her old Ram truck, pondering what came next.
She’d done it. She’d reached into the underworld and yanked a soul from the edge of an impossible cliff. She’d asked a god for an audience and received one. She’d found a guard and had no idea what to do with him now that she had him.
“Take him home, I guess,” she murmured to Gunnhild who lay on the dashboard, watching tall trees rush by in a blur. “I mean, what else am I supposed to do?”
Gunnhild stayed silent, as she always did.
Like most witches who weren’twoo-woo, spiritual advisor, love and lightbullshitters, Tehlor had been alone for most of her adult life. She didn’t follow famous tarot readers on Instagram or tune in for witchy live streams on TikTok. She practiced on her own, put in hours at Moon Strike Nursery to pay her bills, and sniffed out opportunities to harvest power whenever she could. Sometimes she snipped fingers from cold bodies stashed at low-security morgues or attended full moon bonfires to suck spare energy out of white women who called themselves shamans. She trapped ghouls and ghosts in jars. Fucked occult fanboys and Satanic girlies, harnessing something small and vital and animal made with someone else.
For years, her life had been defined by parlor tricks and thievery. But not anymore. She’d raised the dead. She’d pleased the gods. Tehlor had done something monumental. She was a Völva, truly, finally.
And now she didn’t know what the fuck to do with Lincoln.
Tehlor turned on the heater and hit the gas, cruising through the snowy streets toward Bishop’s house. She gripped the steering wheel hard. With a viable power source at her side, she could attempt summoning spells and longevity rituals. Unfasten the energy inside another person and take it for herself. Extend her life. Remake herself in the image of the seers of old.
Those who never died. Those who communed with the gods, and the Valkyrie, and the Ljosalfar.
She exhaled a shaky breath. Excitement curled tightly at the base of her spine.
The sun inched over distant peaks as Tehlor unlocked the front door and walked inside, greeted by the sound of violent retching. She leaned her hip against the banister at the bottom of the staircase, listening to Lincoln catch his breath upstairs.
“You’re purging embalming fluid,” she hollered. “Congratulations, you’re officially alive.”
“This is fucking awful.” His soupy voice carried from the second floor. He sniffled, coughed, dry-heaved.
“Anything left in the tank?”
“Go to hell.”
She picked at her thumbnail. “Look, I can leave you here and go to my apartment, or you can come with me. But I’ll need access to your blood to make the cloaking spell.”
“You didn’t keep any?”
“Freshblood,” she clarified and rolled her eyes. “I have a shift at the nursery today, too, so figure it out, in like…” She checked her phone. “Ten minutes.”
Something rustled. Footsteps came and went, the toilet flushed, and a door whined open. When Lincoln appeared, he scratched behind his ear, dressed in his dirty burial pants, and a tight long-sleeved shirt. He descended the staircase carrying a camo duffel and cast a suspicious glance around the foyer.
“I’ll need clothes. Bishop tossed most of my shit.” He sniffed the air, dropping his gaze to Tehlor. “But they kept some books—” He jostled the bag. “—and my coat, at least.” He traded the duffel from one hand to the other and shrugged on the knee-length garment. High-collared and fixed with polished buttons, the charcoal coat accentuated his inhuman features, turning him avant-garde and beautiful.
Interesting, she thought, and tugged at the thick lapel,how caterpillars become butterflies.
