Kate pulled me aside before she had to take Avery home. “I’ve got something for you from Grandma Maggie.” She dug around in her massive purse and produced a book-sized parcel wrapped in postal paper and tied with red ribbon. “She said to open it when you’re alone.”
Avery’s whimpers intensified to wails of misery. Kate rushed to leave before she went volcanic.
When the guests were gone, I retreated to my room, comforted by the warm lull of an eventful Saturday winding down: plates clinking as Mom arranged them in the dishwasher and the soothing rumble of voices floating from the back porch, where Dad and Sheriff Jason shot the breeze.
I slipped off my cork heels and exchanged my ivory lace dress for jean shorts and a San Solano Wolves tee. The brown parcel from Kate reposed in sunlight on my desk. I had just untied the wine-red ribbon when I heard my dad say, “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“The explanation is that people are goddamn freaks, Kurt,” the sheriff replied. “I’ve seen a lot in my years of service, and this doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
I dropped the package on my bed and hurried barefoot through the living room toward the back porch. The screen door groaned as I joined them, inhaling the sharp scent of citronella torches. “What doesn’t surprise you?” I asked.
Jason resituated to look up at me, ice cubes clinking like wind chimes in his tea glass. “Hey there, Nancy Drew.” He was sitting in a rocking chair in his typical civilian clothes: jeans, a tucked-in polo shirt that hugged his belly, sunglasses parked on top of his salt-and-pepper head. My dad was giving Maverick a good scratch behind the ears. The sun caught the silver in his blond hair, and his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, making him look his age.
“A couple of deer were found decapitated in the woods, their meat already eaten raw,” Jason explained. “No hunter would take the heads and leave good meat to scavengers. But wild animals don’t decapitate others.”
“So who—or what—does that leave?” I asked.
“Look, a meth epidemic is wreaking havoc in the Piney Woods,” Jason said, sounding exhausted. “The Dixons called me last week because a lady with sores on her face was shuffling around the hardware store asking where she could find a meat hook. My leading theory is that meth makes people do weird and terrible things. I’m less concerned with who did it than with who people will think did it.”
“The cult,” I supplied.
Jason nodded. “You’ve probably heard there were animal slayings before the copycat massacre in ’71. If there are dots to connect to the Malachians, people will connect them. Everyone’s a little bored, if you ask me.”
I pursed my lips and debated telling them about the talismans. “What if it’s not just boredom?” I asked after a moment.
I described the stones and my initial suspicions. Jason looked ready to kick some teenage boy ass until I explained that the best prank the guys had ever played amounted to a jump scare. And then I told them about the sachet Bryce found in his house.
“Is there anything you and Bryce have in common?” Jason asked. “Any reason why someone would target the two of you?”
“No. But Bryce is dating Vanessa Wallace, who’s related to Dorothy Hawkins.…” I said this like a question.
“Are you suggesting someone might be targeting the descendants of Malachi’s little crew?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I mean, it was Bryce’s house, not Vanessa’s.”
Jason pursed his lips. I could tell it was too late to retract the implication.
“I know it sounds off the wall,” Dad said, “but do you think someone could be trying to draw more tourists?”
Jason made an authoritative “simmer down” gesture. “I’d bet this is just someone trying to get a rise out of people. But even pranksters can be dangerous.” He looked at me. “You should be careful, and tell me if you see or hear anything else.”
I nodded, hedging out thoughts of the symbol carved beneath the bed. It wasn’t as if Grandma Kerry could have anything to do with what was happening now. “Dad, should we put the dogs in the run so they stay out of the woods?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
I whistled and led Maverick to the enclosure. Ranger came sprinting after him. I used the garden hose to refill the water trough, latched the gate, and went back to my room to open the gift that Kate had delivered.
Inside the brown paper was a leather journal, old, soft, and webbed with creases. Miss Maggie knew I was a history buff who loved artifacts with stories to tell.
But when I carefully lifted the cover, I found a blank first page. In fact, most of the pages were blank. I flipped through and found an undated entry in flowery handwriting: a recipe to create a “Tincture for Dreamless Sleep,” and on the next page, “Eyebright Collyrium to Open the Sight.”
Other than drawings of plants with corresponding descriptions, I found a handful of scattered entries, each stranger than the last. One gave instructions for setting bones. Another detailed the fine points of antique revolver maintenance. Another bore the heading “Strengthening Your Spirit Shield,” with no further text. Was that meant to be some sort of outdated abstinence lecture?
Maybe this journal was a San Solano women’s almanac of helpful tips and recipes. Perhaps someone had forgotten to pass it on to the next person, nipping what would have been an intriguing tradition—far more intriguing than Grandma Kerry’s community cookbooks featuring eight different kinds of Jell-O salad—in the bud.
Hoping for an explanatory note from Miss Maggie, I turned the wrapping upside down and shook it. Nothing. I tried calling Kate to no avail. Finally, I scratched my chin, baffled, and paged through the journal one last time.
I found a new entry, this one dated. It was entitled, “Protection Sachet (Revised for Strengthening Purposes).”
My nerves hummed as I read the strikingly familiar handwriting, the chicken scratch of a farm girl with more important tasks than learning to write pretty.
Grandma Kerry had authored this entry.
Hellebore
Larkspur
Fennel seeds
Obsidian
Use thin white cloth and tie with twine. If charm unavailable, add Solomon’s seal in same proportion as protection amulet.
Bless herbs, cleanse stone. Must be charged under a waxing moon.
The word magic wasn’t visible anywhere, but the rustling page practically whispered it aloud.
I trembled as I traced the date of the entry: June 1970.
Bewildered, I turned back until I reached the beginning. The first page had been utterly blank a moment ago. But new words had appeared, as though they had been written with invisible ink that revealed itself in the light:
By the powers of earth, bone, and blood, proceed we Wardens to our noble work.
I snapped the journal shut only to find the Malachian mark stamped on the front cover, the ominous design pressed deep into the leather.
Muffling a panicked squeal, I flung the gift across my bed. It landed on my pillow with a thud that sounded too heavy for its size.
Setting aside the possibility that I was hallucinating, what was Miss Maggie playing at? Was this a veiled threat to expose my late grandmother as an occultist, a follower of Malachi?