Page 14 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Gunnhild squirmed in her coat pocket. Tehlor held her palm over the button.Stay in there. “I’m happy to be here. Thank you again for the invitation.”
“He will seek out his sheep,” she said, nodding. Her gaze drifted sideways. Surprise leaped to her face. “Oh, I didn’t know you were bringing your husband. Hi, I’m Amy.” She extended her hand to Lincoln as he came to stand beside Tehlor, holding a paper cup filled with steaming coffee. “Welcome to Haven.”
Heat blistered in Tehlor’s cheeks. She went rigid. Pulled her slack jaw shut and kept her eyes pinned to Amy.Don’t crack.She forced a smile, laughing to cover a flare of panic, and licked her lips, searching for something to say.
A slow, coy smile tugged at Lincoln’s mouth. He shook Amy’s hand and then dropped his arm, slipping his fingers across Tehlor’s wrist, driving them between her knuckles, linking their hands. “Tehlor told me there was a new church in town. We’ve been looking for a place to worship for a while now, but you know how it is. Everything’s superficial these days.”
Amy smiled confidently. Her brunette hair was tied back in a smooth, tight pony, and she’d traded her puffy coat for an oversized turtleneck. At the sound of a polite cough, she turned and met Rose’s stern glare.
Tehlor didn’t know what to do with Lincoln’s hand. She remembered hours ago—his throat bared, snipping thread with her pocketknife, stitches sliding free, a relieved sound blooming behind his teeth—and after that—picking through racks at a thrift store, scouring for button-downs and fitted pants—and watching him descend the staircase in her townhouse, dressed in an eggshell sweater, hard-edged and deceptively welcoming.
“Amy, I see you’ve found a couple of acolytes,” Rose said. Her wheat-colored curls fell around her shoulders. She plucked at the sleeves of her ankle-length dress, adjusting the cool, blue fabric. “Have you two ever been to a worship service?”
Before Tehlor could answer, Lincoln squeezed her hand and said, “Many times. I was raised Catholic and Tehlor grew up Southern Baptist. Like I told Amy, we’re hoping to find something real.”
Rose nodded. Her sharp eyes transferred from Lincoln to Tehlor. “God provides,” she said. Her voice matched her garment, cold and controlled. “Enjoy the service. We’ll catch up after.”
Tehlor softened, tempering her smile. Her palm went hot in Lincoln’s hold. “For sure.”
Amy’s tight expression relaxed once Rose disappeared through a backdoor. She tipped toward Tehlor and whispered, “Don’t mind Rose. Her husband, Pastor Phillip, leads the worship team. She’s a bit chilly, I know, but she’ll warm up.”
“Understood,” Tehlor said. She looked around the room, taking in the growing crowd and rising chatter. “What denomination is Haven?”
“Oh, we’re Catholic at our core, but we try to be as accessible as possible. Most people who worship at Haven call themselves Christian, spiritual, enlightened—the works,” Amy said. She gestured to two empty chairs in the center of the room. “I’ll be sitting up front with the worship team, okay? Clear your mind, relax, and have fun. This is a joyful space.” She patted Tehlor’s shoulder and strode across the room, joining the seasoned members near the podium.
“Well, wifey, there’s definitely something weird going on with the blonde,” Lincoln murmured. He leaned down, placing a chaste kiss on Tehlor’s cheek. Breath coasted her ear. “If we want in on this revival bullshit, you’ll have to ditch the bad-bitch persona. You get that, right?”
“Clearly, my devoted husband is the priesthood holder in our house,” Tehlor said, saccharine and sarcastic. “I’ll take your lead.”
“That’s a Mormon thing.” Laughter chirped in his throat. “Play nice with church Barbie, all right?”
She made an indignant noise, like a snort but shorter, and ignored the rising temperature in her face.Don’t look at him.But when Lincoln straightened, she granted him a quick glance as he pointed toward the seats with their conjoined hands. They sat. Tehlor unlaced their fingers and reached into her coat pocket. Gunnhild sniffed her knuckles, a comforting flutter on Tehlor’s skin, and stayed still as the sermon began.
The worship band played, and everyone stood, singing along. Tehlor didn’t know the words, but she smiled pleasantly, attempting to look natural while everyone around her held their palms skyward, swaying and humming.
When the lights dimmed and a projector flashed on the wall behind the podium, she realized just how out of place the Haven congregation must’ve felt in the hovel they’d rented for their Gideon expansion. The video featured an auditorium filled with churchgoers. A worship band played under neon lights on a platformed stage, and the camera panned from the microphone to a sea of smiling faces.
Okay, so, Haven is a legit batshit megachurch. Tehlor swallowed to wet her throat. She wasn’t scared, but she knew what came with sizable territory. Lawsuits, liability, logistics. Haven’s website had been intimidating, sure. Being in a room full of devoted attendees? Worse.
When the music ended, the band stepped aside, clearing a path to the podium, and the guitarist leaned close to the microphone.
“We’re blessed to be here tonight. Without further ado, Pastor Phillip.”
Lincoln placed his hand on the small of Tehlor’s back.
“Sit,” he whispered. His fingertips skated her spine.
Tehlor couldn’t parse the feeling. Vivid heat. Like a needle had wedged itself beneath her belly button. She wanted to snap at him.Stop touching me. Wanted to drive a nail through the tender part of her heart that held fast to the false promise of companionship. She couldn’t stand how a touch like that, all showmanship, all theater, still managed to disarm her. Especially when it came from Lincoln Stone, who’d used her, manipulated her, and was probably more powerful than her.
She’d always been the upheaval—someone’s dreaded Tower card—and this dynamic was entirely new. What a fucked-up thing, realizing she enjoyed the prospect of being overwhelmed. Destroyed, even.
Pastor Phillip grinned as he grasped the microphone and stepped behind the podium. He was young. Mid-forties, maybe. He wore an expensive sweater and designer denim. Sleek glasses perched on the tip of his dainty nose. He looped his finger around the chain attached to his gold crucifix and nodded as he surveyed the room. Each movement was practiced. Every smile, every shift, every breath. All an act.
“Haven,” he said, breathing relief into the word, “I can’t believe we’re here. I mean, I guess I can. It’s his plan, after all.”
Someone whooped.
“But seriously, let’s be real for a second.” Phillip gestured to the occupied seats and gave a curt nod. “We knew we’d make it here, didn’t we? Some folks back in Austin didn’t see the road for what it was, but we did. The path—hispath—led us to this town, in this state, at this time. And who are we to question that?”
