It is the dead of night. Along the road into town, a lone figure stalks. The figure is wrapped tightly in a thick, travelworn duster, with a wide-brimmed fedora pulled down over the eyes. The moon hangs low in the sky, just a few days past full, and it fills the town square below with silver light and long sharp shadows. One shadow, the tall, lean shadow of the mysterious stranger, glides purposefully to the center of the square and stops as the stranger pauses to retrieve something from an inner pocket. Moonlight glints off a bandolier loaded with silver-tipped crossbow rounds and a small silver revolver briefly visible under the coat. After consulting a small piece of paper procured from one pocket, the traveler heads down the boulevard, finally stopping before a local tavern. For a moment the night darkens as a shadow flies across the moon. The figure pauses, and under the brim of the fedora, a lip curls. This mission may prove to be more urgent than anticipated. The tavern door opens, and the stranger steps out of the cold silver light of the night and into the incandescent warm glow inside. The Witchhunter has arrived in town.

The bell above the door tinkled as the stranger stepped into the Book and Bell. Removing the dark brown fedora casting its shadow down across her face, she shook out her mane of long silver hair. The room grew quiet for a moment as the patrons of the tavern took in the latest arrival. They surreptitiously watched her make her way to the bar and take a seat, each of them sizing her up in their own way. The ruffian in the corner itching for a fight recognized a tough old broad when he saw one; her frame, while slender, was also wiry and well-muscled, and the surety with which she carried herself spoke to her command over her body. He quickly changed his mind, however, when he briefly met her gaze. It was like looking down the barrel of a gun, all cold steel and imminent violence. “Would never hit a woman anyway,” he muttered into his beer.

The town crackpot tried to look as nonchalant as possible. Don't attract any undue attention, Johnny boy. Nice and casual now... He took in the mysterious stranger, eyes skittering over her, drinking her in, combing her for clues. So, they've finally caught up with me. But which they? The FBI? CIA? MIB? No, no, they dress their agents up nicer than that, suits, y'know, not leather dusters that have obviously seen hard wear. Besides, she's barely looked my way. She wasn't here for him then, which meant his precautions must be working. He rubbed his evil eye amulet with one thumb (to protect against curses) while with the other he checked on the foil lining his cap (to protect against mind control rays). Sure, it's a little old school, but they're obviously working; when that hailstorm flattened his neighbors' crops, his flower beds were untouched, weren't they? He'd never been audited like his boss had just been (even though he always claimed his cats as dependents) and the flu that swept through town the last few seasons always seemed to miss him. He leaned back in his chair, forgetting to be subtle as he sized her up.

The drunk sitting at the end of the bar downed the last of her beer. Ignoring the tension in the room, she laid a hand on the stranger's shoulder.

“Hey friend. Buy a gal a beer?”

The stranger shrugged off her hand, but gave a wry smile and flashed two fingers to the bartender. As she pulled out her money, her duster opened just enough to reveal a leather cord around her neck, and hanging from it...

Was that a cross the stranger was wearing? The church lady sitting with her friends sat up in her seat, trying to surreptitiously get a better look. Whatever the shape was, it certainly wasn't a dainty gold one like the ones popular in their barely denominational Christian church; it was made of iron or some other black metal, it was easily the length of her hand, and it had a stern, commanding air to it. Almost looks like it's for performing an... no, of course not, the church lady thought with a shake of her head, this isn't a cheap horror movie.

The town busybody followed her friend's gaze. She took one quick look, turned back to the group, and waved her fingers at them. No ring. She didn't know who the woman was or how long she'd be in town, but...

“I know Jane, I noticed her too! Looks like the right age for Farmer Preston, no?”

“Oh stop it Rachel,” Jane laughed, “you don't know a thing about her!”

“It's just he's been so sad since his wife passed, and now with his eldest having trouble getting pregnant–”

At this the women clucked their tongues and shook their heads. “Poor dear,” said one, clutching the cross she wore at her neck.

“–he needs some fun in his life right now,” finished Rachel.

“Maybe we should invite her to service, Jane, get to know her a little,” one of the women remarked.

Rachel rolled her eyes at that. “You evangelicals are always trying to convert the rest of us to your ways. Lily here's only been in town, what, one month? and you snapped her right up.” She took a sip. “Wait, are you evangelicals? I can never keep protestants straight.”

Lily glanced at Jane, looking unsure. “Sure,” said Jane, before Lily continued.

“Anyway I'm just being neighborly! I want to make her feel welcome, whoever she is.”

Jane patted her hand, still chuckling. “I know you do, dear.”

“Speaking of being neighborly, ladies,” the fourth woman chimed in, “I was thinking of checking in on the Preston girl, maybe bringing them some food while she's recovering. What do you think of that?”

“You know Miriam, I was just thinking we should do something for them, after the year they've had. The whole family, really! All these storms we've had this year are so bad for the crops, Tom was telling me.”

“You'd almost think someone had it in for them.”

The women turned. “Oh. Hello, Johnny.”

He tipped the brim of his hat to them (without removing it from his head, of course, that's how they getcha.)

“What was that crinkling noise? Sounds like alum–”

“Lily, no, mm-mm,” Miriam interjected, making a chopping gesture at her neck.

“Now Johnny, what could you possibly mean by that,” said Rachel.

Johnny pulled a chair up to their table while Miriam muttered “Oh don't get him started.”

“I'm glad you asked, ladies, 'cuz it seems like I'm the only one concerned about this.” As usual, he thought. “I think we got a witch in our town.”

Johnny, happy to have found an audience, had completely forgotten about the stranger and sat with his back to her. Had he been watching, he might have noticed her tense for a moment, and her breathing slow. He had just caught her attention.

“Don't be ridiculous, John, there's no such thing as witches,” Jane said derisively.

“Johnny,” he corrected, “and I don't know how else you can explain everything that's been goin' on around here, I really don't.”

“Well. I mean,” said Miriam, laying a hand gently on his, “sometimes bad things happen to good people, Johnny, there isn't an explanation.”

“All due respect, ma'am.”

He began to rattle off his list, counting them on his fingers as he went:

“If you talk to the farmers, none of ‘em have had much luck with their crops this year, that's the baroness of land–”

“He means barrenness, I think,” said Lily, while Rachel interjected, “Yes Johnny, Tom Preston was telling me, but global warming–”

“–and any crops they did grow got flattened in the hailstorms, we've never had hail before in all the years I've lived here. That's violent action of winds and hailstorms.” Another finger went up. “And everyone's been getting sick for months, witches can cause plague–”

“Really, Johnny, it's flu season, I–”

“Johnny.” Miriam squeezed his hand a little. “Where are you getting this? Where is this coming from?”

“Right from the horse's mouth, ma'am. Well, a buddy of mine. His blog. He's a researcher into the occult, he's read a bunch of books, and he posted a list of warning signs to watch out for witches. There's seven, we have four, which is enough to be concerned, I think.”

“I only counted three,” Lily piped up, “what was the fourth one?”

“Oh, well witches can cause impotence, right, and trouble with childbirth, so the Preston girl's mis...carr...”

He'd never said it out loud before. Somehow it sounded different, sillier. The Prestons were real people, and they were going through something hard. He knew Beth Preston, graduated from high school with her younger sister. And his audience had turned on him. Lily sighed and clutched at her cross again, Rachel muttered “Now Johnny,” and shook her head, and Miriam sat back in her seat, arms crossed and lips pursed. But the strongest reaction came from Jane. She slammed her palms into the tabletop and stood, eyes blazing.

“That's quite enough,” she hissed. “It's bad enough that we're even entertaining this nonsense.” She leaned in close to Johnny's face, punctuating each word with a jab of her finger. “Witches... aren't... real.”

The bell rang again as Jane left in a huff, barely stopping to greet the woman holding the door for her. “Hello to you too, Jane,” she muttered. She waved to Jane's friends (“Well, hi there Minnie! You just missed Jane!”) and made her way back to the bar.

“Friends of yours?” the stranger asked.

“Acquaintances. I play the organ for their churches.” She gave a small smile, subtle and warm. “It's good to see you again, Mina.”

The stranger returned her smile and rose from her seat. Minnie held out her arms, and she acquiesced to the hug.

“So you're Minnie now, are you? No more Mel?”

She shrugged. “It's what they call me here, I don't hate it. But for an old friend, I'll always be Mel.”

“Mmm, old friends, are we?”

She chuckled. “We must be. Who else could get away with calling you Mina?”

“Precious few. Even fewer as time's gone by.” Wilhelmina downed her drink. “Ready to get out of here?”

“So this Johnny guy, is he...?”

“Oh, no. He's always going on about this or that conspiracy. Last month he was a flat earther until Gio took him up in his plane, showed him the horizon. He's a sweet kid, I think, just...”

“Hm.” Wilhelmina pondered this for a moment.

They were at one of Mel's churches, in a balcony at the back of the nave. She was behind the organ console, warming up for the wedding she was playing for that evening. Wilhelmina was watching the wedding staff scurry around setting up.

“He's not wrong, you know.”

“Well of course not, that's why you're here,” Mel scoffed.

“Not about that.” She leaned forward, hitching up her sleeves as if getting ready to work. “The poor growing season, that's nothing. Probably is global warming. The hailstorm, now that was... her.” She waved her hand.

“You think so? I did wonder.” Mel interrupted. “The week or so before the storm I noticed my eggs and milk started spoiling faster, that's an old school sign.”

Wilhelmina nodded. “I saw her the night I arrived. She was flying, right across the moon. She's powerful. Good thing I got here when I did. But that's not what I'm talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

Wilhelmina continued, her face grim. “Plague could be a sign, if you actually had one. But I suspect it's just been the usual, flu and things? Nothing supernatural there.”

Mel nodded, not wanting to interrupt again. Wil never talked this much at once and Mel didn't want to throw her off her stride.

“And the fertility problems? A miscarriage? That doesn't sound like a lone witch at all. It sounds like–”

Mel gasped as the realization hit her.

“You don't mean...”

Wilhelmina leaned back, crossing her arms. “A whole nest of 'em. What do they call themselves, a coven? More like a rat's nest.” She sneered in disgust and spat.

“Mina, we're guests here.” Mel said it emptily, without any power behind her admonition. She was visibly shaken.

“Sorry,” said Wilhelmina, wiping her mouth. “You got an infestation here. And I think I know where they're meeting. And when.”

“Oh Mina, please tell me you're not planning something rash,” Mel said, alarmed. “Come back later, with backup. Remember your mission, Mina, there's someone here who needs you.”

“If I'm right, Mel, she's wrapped up in all this. Two birds with one stone. Plus, right now I have the element of surprise.” She reached over to take Mel's shaking hand in her steady one.

“Don't worry about me, Melpomene. I can handle myself. Trust me?”

Mel smiled, but her eyes were brimming with worry. “With my life, Wilhelmina. Not always with your own.“ She took her hand back, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant.

“All right, well, if I can't talk you out of this, how can I help? Make this easier?”

Wilhelmina looked at her from the corner of her eye, a sheepish look growing on her face.

“Oh god,” sighed Mel, “it's soon isn't it? When? Tonight?”

Wilhelmina nodded. “Close, too. Is here somewhere in here I can hide, camp out?”

“IN here? They're using the church?”

Wilhelmina shrugged, palms up, as if to say I think so.

“All right. Here.” Mel slid a panel back on the side of the organ console, revealing an open space in the guts of the instrument more than big enough to hide the witchhunter.

“After the guests clear out you can hunker down in here. Just, Mina, please be careful–”

“I will, I told you–”

“No, I mean...” she laid her hand tenderly on the keyboard. “This is a gorgeous organ, it's my favorite in town. Do what you must, but please try to spare this thing.”

Wilhelmina laughed sheepishly. “I'll try Mel. Thank you.”

Mel tried to put her friend's upcoming duties out of her mind. After all, she had her own job to do. The wedding guests had all filtered in, and finally the priest made his appearance. He strode out onto the dais and took his place behind the pulpit. Then he looked up at Mel, raising his hand to her.

She began to play. The bride had asked to walk down the aisle to some pop song from her favorite vampire romance movie. Mel preferred the solemnity of the classics, a little Wagner or Mendelssohn or Pachelbel, but hey, it wasn't her day. The groom took his place on the dais beside the priest, and the procession began. First came the mother of the bride, walked down the aisle by a teenager Mel assumed was her youngest son. The woman was sobbing, her slight frame shaking as she was sat in the front row. Then the wedding party, two by two, groomsman paired with bridesmaid. The young women were radiant, looking almost giddy with excitement, being seen in their gorgeous gowns, paraded through the church on the arms of the groomsmen. For their part, the young men looked uncomfortable in their rented tuxes, self-conscious about the fit of their suits, the eyes on them, their proximity to pretty girls and matrimony. Finally, the maid of honor and best man; at least they looked like they had a handle on things, Mel thought. It was the advice she always gave newly betrothed couples: choose your most responsible friends to be your bests and of-honors; you'll want a level head and organized mind at your side to help you execute your special day. Or at least that's the advice she would give, if anyone ever asked her.

The flower girl started down the aisle just as Mel began to transition to Pachelbel's Canon in D (finally). As the familiar strains of the song began to echo through the hall, everyone turned to the back of the church to witness the bride's entrance.

She stepped through the door on her father's arm. She was just a child, Mel thought, barely out of her teens. Standing next to her father made her look even younger. He towered over her, making her look tiny and waifish in comparison. Where her bridesmaids looked excited, the bride seemed nervous. Mel could detect the faintest tremble in her bouquet; her hands were shaking. Makes sense, thought Mel, they're not being given away. Their lives are not being split in two, broken into a before and after. The girl was on a precipice, in a liminal space between maiden and bride, pitching headlong into the rest of her life.

As they progressed down the aisle, Mel saw the girl catch her groom's eye. He gave her a soft, sweet, encouraging smile, and Mel saw the bride's spine straighten, her step become surer. Mel let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding in. The kid's gonna be all right, then, seems like she managed to find a half decent one.

Wilhelmina, meanwhile, was watching the other faces on the dais. The bridesmaids looked bored, desperately trying to keep from fidgeting. The groomsmen were losing that battle, fiddling with their cufflinks or surreptitiously adjusting their ties. The maid of honor looked on calmly, surveying a job well done, and the best man was looking misty-eyed at the bride drawing ever closer to his friend. But her eyes paused on the priest, catching a look that had flashed across his face. As the bride approached, he watched her with an expectant hunger, a spider sitting in its web spying a tasty mayfly flitting closer. It was only for an instant; the animal glint in his eye was quickly snuffed out and replaced by his usual paternal, avuncular manner. But Wilhelmina had seen what was behind his mask.

Mel played the final notes as the bride reached the altar. The last strains of the music echoed away into an expectant pause. The girl looked up at the men towering above her: her father beside her, her husband-to-be before her, and the priest standing above them all.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” The priest's voice boomed out across the congregation.

“I do,” her father answered, “her mother and I.”

“Very well.” Her father kissed her forehead and took his place beside her mother, who collapsed against him, still silently weeping.

“We are gathered here today, before these witnesses, and before God, to join this man and this woman in that most blessèd union, that of marriage.” He looked down at the couple sternly. “This is not a covenant to be entered into lightly, but reverently and soberly. Since the beginning, when the Lord made for Adam a partner and companion, He has intended one man and one woman to be cleaved together forever; as Jesus said, ‘What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.' That means no takebacksies, son, she's it.”

The groom smiled at the joke, a quick, sharp smile that was really more of a wince. Mel wondered who had chosen this priest.

“In these uncertain times,” he continued, gripping his podium, “when traditions are under attack in this country, when the roles a man and a woman are expected to fill become confused, the very idea of what makes a man or a woman seems to be slipping away, it is more imperative than ever that we as Christians set an example of what a stable, healthy marriage looks like.”

He sauntered around to the front of his podium and laid one hand on the groom's shoulder.

“‘For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is head of the church.’ Your job, son, is going to be to care for your wife, protect her, lead her as you both walk with Christ. Love her as He loved the church. He gave Himself up for the church, so be prepared to sacrifice yourself for her.”

He turned to the bride, taking her hand in his.

“And you, little lady. Submit to your husband as you submit to the Lord. He will provide for you, and so must you provide for his needs. Put your faith in him to lead you just as you've put your faith,” he pointed skywards, “in Him.” He leaned forward, kissing her forehead. The bride blinked and tried not to squirm.

He stepped back, standing once more between the couple. “Now remember, Eve was not created out of Adam's head, to rule over him. She wasn't created out of his feet either, to be walked all over. No, she was made of his rib, to be by his side; from near his heart, to be beloved; from under his arm, to be protected by him.” He looked down at them, his smile dripping with syrupy sweetness, but underneath it Mel caught a sardonic edge. Wil saw the predator stirring, eyeing the bride-to-be hungrily.

“Now. Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to honor, to have and to hold, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

“And you, dear. Do you take this man, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honor and obey? Til death do you part?”

Was it Mel's imagination, or did she hesitate? After hearing the terms laid out so clearly, was she having second thoughts about pledging to obey, to submit?

“I do.”

“Wonderful,” he smiled, “then by the power vested in me I now pronounce you man and wife! Don't just stand there, sonny, kiss your bride!” The church erupted into cheers. Mel jumped at the sudden rush of noise, then remembered that that was her cue. She began playing the recessional (the traditional Mendelssohn Wedding March) and the newlyweds ran down the aisle to start their new life together. As the rest of the church watched them go, Wilhelmina kept her eyes fixed squarely on the priest.

She must have dozed off in the cramped space inside the organ, because she awoke suddenly with a crick in her neck and stiffness in her limbs. She eased open the door to her hidey hole and cautiously peered out. She was alone on the balcony, but not in the church. She could hear a low murmur and a rustling of clothes, punctuated by the occasional moan. The space was dark, lit by a weak, flickering orange glow. They must be lighting their candles, she thought. Carefully she crept to the lip of the balcony. The church was certainly not full, not even as full as it was earlier that evening for the wedding ceremony. Wilhelmina estimated twenty, twenty-five people in the pews below. The ones that were still dressed were wearing dark robes, but in a variety of styles and cuts. In fact, one woman wasn't even wearing robes, just a dark trench coat. As Wilhelmina watched, the woman opened her coat, revealing her naked body underneath, and another congregant bent over her. Wilhelmina heard a soft sucking noise, and the woman tossed her head back in pleasure. Other folks had their robes hitched up, still others were sitting back watching. They were all wearing masks, as diverse and varied as their robes, though most of them were animal masks. Apart from the orgy, three masked figures were busy setting up the space. The crucifix on the wall behind them had already been turned upside down, the figure of Jesus affixed to it blindfolded. Two of the figures (a sleek black rat mask and a gunmetal elephant) were moving the podium aside, revealing a scorch mark on the carpet beneath it. The third figure (a white dove, or was it a swan?) finished lighting the candles and began chalking a shape around it. Wilhelmina stepped back out of the line of sight and began stretching out her limbs, loosening up and shaking out her stiffness. The crick in her neck was not going away. She tested her range of motion, noting with a grimace where the pain stopped her. Well, she thought ruefully, hopefully no one attacks me from the left tonight. She remembered a time when she could wake up from a catnap ready to go. Ah, well. There was a commotion from an adjoining hall, then another robed figure stepped through a side door. “We got her. Y'all ready?” The voice was familiar, but Wilhelmina couldn't place it immediately. She put it out of her head; it probably wasn't important, certainly not at this moment. He took his place at one of the points of the chalked pentagram. He was obviously important; his mask (a golden spider) was one of the higher-end ones in the room, and his robes looked tailored to him. While everyone else's were dark, his were white and trimmed with gold. The other figures took their places at the other four points. The candle flames danced and guttered as the celebrants began to sway and chant. Wilhelmina rolled her eyes. Latin. Why is it always Latin with these people? Not even good Latin. The orgy quieted down as the ritual began. The atmosphere in the church changed. The air grew colder and unforgiving. The darkness seemed deeper, especially in corners and crannies, where it felt like there were... things, lurking just outside your field of vision. The dancing shadows cast from the flickering candles began to move, gathering on the dais in the center of the pentagram. Suddenly, there was a gasp from the congregation. “He is here!” Deep within the stygian darkness on the dais, two glowing red embers leered out at them. At the parishioner's cry, a gout of flame leapt from the center of the pentagram, accompanied by a crashing, rending groan. The five celebrants were now swaying and chanting over a yawning chasm belching smoke and glowing an infernal crimson. The chanting tapered out to a low droning hum. The spider-masked figure raised both arms above his head. “Ave Satanus!” His voice boomed out over the congregation. “Ave Satanus,” The congregation answered. “We are gathered here tonight, friends, in the baleful gaze of our fell lord, and before these wicked witnesses–” there were cheers and hooting at this “–to dedicate unto him a virgin sacrifice, to join this innocent young woman to the Beast of the Pit in a–” He broke off suddenly, looking about him. “Where is the girl? Where the FUCK is the girl?” At that moment the doors burst open. “Sorry sir, she's putting up a bit of a fight.” Two burly men in masks (a boar and eagle) marched down the aisle, carrying between them... “Ahh, there she is. The star of tonight's festivities,” the man in the spider mask said. She was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her hands were bound behind her back, and she had rags tied tightly around her eyes and mouth. She was indeed putting up a fight, kicking and screaming through her gag, wriggling against the strong arms of her captors. They dragged her down the aisle and forced her to her knees before the yawning chasm. Wilhelmina grabbed her crossbow and began to load it. Attagirl, she thought, don't make it easy for ‘em. Just hang tight. “In the beginning, Eve was made for Adam; but Satan whispered in her ear, tempted her, and took her as his own. Just as the first woman was made his, so too shall this one be, cleaved to him in a profane union.” Wilhelmina levelled her crossbow at him. “Just as the Nazarene is the head of His church, so Satan is the head of this one. He protects us, shields us, provides for us, shares with us his infernal power. In return... well, let's just say we give the Devil his due.” He sauntered around to the front of the pit where the girl was kneeling. He ripped off her blindfold and held her chin in one hand, forcing her face up to look at him. Wilhelmina's grip tightened on her crossbow. C'mon, you piece of shit, move. Gimme a clear shot. “What a tasty morsel you are,” he leered at the girl, almost salivating. “He is going to eat you right up.” He leaned in and stage whispered into her ear, “I'm going to enjoy defiling you for him, little girl.” He winked at the congregation, who responded with hoots and deep throaty laughter. He turned his back to them, facing the pit, and raised his arms once more. “O Prince of Darkness, Angel of the Abyss, Purveyor of Perfidy, do you take this sacrifice, this innocent maid to defile and pervert, to use and devour, to add to your terrible beauty and power?” There came an answering roar from the pit, a horrible, soul-rending noise, an expression of a hunger no mortal has known save for a few accursed souls, and even they only approximate its darkness. It was a cry wrenched deep from the depths of an insatiable need, better left unspoken. “The Master is pleased!” The congregation hooted and howled again. The man in the spider mask turned, a smile darkening his face. “As for you my dear, you don't get a choi–” Wilhelmina took her shot. A crossbow bolt erupted from his chest. Beneath his mask, his mouth became a small o of surprise as he toppled backwards into the pit. There was a moment of silence. The congregation sat, stunned, as the celebrants stared in shock at the place their leader had been moments before. One of the girl's chaperones (boar mask, Wilhelmina noted) whipped his head around, scanning the darkened upper balcony, trying to determine where the bolt had come from. Wilhelmina ducked out of sight, hastily reloading her crossbow. The silence was broken by another soul shattering roar, this one a bellow of rage. At this, there were cries of shock and fear. Wilhelmina heard Boar mask yell something to the celebrants that was lost in the din. When she popped her head back up, crossbow at the ready, she saw Boar mask pointing up at her balcony. The remaining celebrants, grouped together on the far side of the chasm, intoned something in Latin and raised their arms. The chasm before them belched a pillar of flame that coalesced into a fireball and launched itself at the balcony. The fireball roared across the chapel, completely eating the crossbow bolt Wilhelmina had loosed at Boar mask. It passed just over her, the accompanying blast of hot, sulfur stinking air blowing her fedora clean off her head. The hellfire fireball splashed against the roof of the chapel, backlighting her and turning her into an angular silhouette as she leapt off the balcony into the throng below. She landed heavily, the shock travelling up her shins and into her knees. She took a moment to catch her breath. It seemed like the members of the congregation had finally come to their senses and decided to get the hell out of dodge. The chapel doors had been closed and barred with a thick wooden beam, and a few of the congregants were trying to lift it out of its slot. Wilhelmina drew a knife out of an inner pocket and let it fly. It buried itself in the door, hilt deep, right above the beam, effectively locking the exit. That'll buy me some time to fry these bigger fish, Wilhelmina thought. Speaking of... Boar mask had been watching her, sizing her up. He had secretly hoped something would go wrong and he'd have an opportunity to really hurt someone. Her flight from the balcony had piqued his interest, and now here she stood, turning to face him. She certainly looked like a worthy opponent. Before he could start down the aisle, the other celebrants intoned again in Latin and sent another fireball screaming towards her. This time, Wilhelmina was ready for it. She brandished her wrought iron cross in her left hand, using it to swat the hellfire attack aside. It ricocheted off her cross and rebounded back on the celebrants standing behind the pit, knocking them over and scattering them like bowling pins. Boar mask laughed in anticipation of a good fight. “So, you came prepared, bearing the gifts of the Christ boy and his Jealous God,” he sneered. “Don't you know that his power here before the Pit is only as strong as your faith, woman? Are you ready to put it to the test? How strong is your faith?” Wilhelmina shrugged. “Whatever. I don't really do banter. Let's get this over with.” Boar mask roared and charged at her down the aisle. As he passed the girl, still kneeling before the pit and seemingly forgotten in the confusion, he knocked into her and jostled her. The brief contact seemed to jolt her out of her glassy-eyed stupor, relighting the fight in her eyes. Her other chaperone was still on her, but he was engrossed in the battle raging between his comrade and the intruder. She began to wriggle against her bonds, trying to free her hands at least. To his frustration, Boar mask was finding Wilhelmina to be a much more difficult fight than he'd expected. He'd wanted challenging, yes, but he hadn't even been able to touch her yet. It seemed like she knew before he did when he would swing his fists and where he would step. She was dancing circles around him, literally, and she hadn't so much as taken a swing at him. C'mon, he growled to himself, she's just an old woman! In spite of herself, Wilhelmina was impressed. Yes, he was clumsy, and he telegraphed his moves ages in advance. But he'd obviously had some combat training, and half-decent training at that. He had potential with the right teacher; too bad he'd literally sold his soul to the Devil. Some of Wilhelmina's allies believed in rehabilitation (Mel, for one) but Wilhelmina had neither the patience nor the inclination. He chose his side, she thought as she sidestepped him again. She'd finally maneuvered him where she wanted him, putting herself between him and the girl, and placing him slightly to her left. In one fluid motion, she delivered a blow right to Boar mask's solar plexus, doubling him over, spun to face the girl's other chaperone (Eagle mask), whipped out another knife and plunged it into his neck. Then she knelt to check on the girl. “You alright?” she asked, gently pulling down her gag. “Gimme your hands, I can cut the ropes. Quickly now.” The girl held up her hands, already free of her ropes, and gave a shaky smile. “Excellent,” said Wilhelmina, awkwardly returning the girl's smile. “Think you can sit tight while I take care of a couple things?” Before the girl could answer, Wilhelmina sensed movement over her right shoulder. Boar mask, apparently having recovered from her attack, was back for more. As he lunged at her, she drove her shoulder up, catching him in his midriff. His momentum carried him over her body and she slammed him into the floor. She knelt again, this time on his neck. Raising her eyebrows as if to ask a question, she gave the girl a thumbs up. The girl nodded. Wilhelmina retrieved her knife from Eagle mask's neck and dispatched Boar mask, ignoring the indignation that raged in his eyes as he died. She turned to the congregation clawing at the massive chapel doors. The ones who weren't out of their minds with panic were struggling to pull her knife out of the door, to no avail. She wished she had a more serious weapon, but she hadn't been expecting to find trouble at this scale on this trip. She fought her way through the throng, dancing and weaving through the press of bodies. She did not escape completely unscathed; at one point, she had a tall middle-aged woman in a cheap domino mask by the throat with her left hand while she was slashing at her pewmate with the knife in her other, when someone ran at her, coming up behind her from the left. She turned her head, forgetting for a moment about the crick in her neck, and was met by an explosion of pain. It gave her assailant the opening to club her with something, hard, hard enough to split the skin on her cheek. She dispatched him quickly, embarrassed to have let her guard down. Soon enough she had the last congregant cornered, her knife slicked with blood and pressed to his throat. “Please,” he whined, “I didn't know. This was my first meeting. I didn't know what they were doing here please don't kill me–” Wilhelmina spat. “If you made it this far, you earned their trust. You earned your place here. Don't tell me you didn't know what kind of people your friends were.” Her knife flashed and his body slumped to the floor. Wilhelmina didn't take any joy in what she did, but she did get a certain satisfaction from it. It was a messy job, and nobody wanted to do it, but it was a necessary service. Like pest control. She wiped the blood off of her knife, and off of her face. Then, once the last of the adrenaline had left her system, she turned to check on the girl. She was standing between the motionless forms of her chaperones, Eagle mask's blood pooling at her feet, watching Wilhelmina with wide, staring eyes. As Wilhelmina met her gaze the girl flinched a little and shrank back, instinctively putting a pew between her and the Witchhunter. Wilhelmina didn't blame her; she'd been through a lot tonight. She shaped her lips into (what she hoped was) a comforting smile. “It's okay, you're safe now. What's your na–” She suddenly raised her hand, cocking her head. The girl began to answer, but Wilhelmina shushed her. She had heard something... Wilhelmina moved up the aisle. As she passed her, the girl shrank back even more. That suited Wilhelmina just fine; it put her squarely between the girl she was here to rescue and whatever it was in the pit that was making that scrabbling, huffing noise. Her eyes locked onto a slight movement at the head of the aisle. An arm reached over the lip of the pit, an arm clad in what was left of a gold trimmed sleeve. His robes were scorched and in tatters, exposing the garb underneath. As he hauled himself upright, his mask slipped off his face, and Wilhelmina finally placed his familiar voice. He must not have had time between the wedding he'd officiated earlier, kidnapping the girl, and rushing back here to perform the ritual to change out of his priest's robes. He had begun to change during his brief time in the pit; there was definitely something wrong with him now. His skin was taut and lumpy, as if there was something growing below the surface, trying to get out. He had sprouted wiry black hairs all over his face and arms. His fingers were longer and ended in sharp, wicked-looking points. And when he grinned at her, she could see something moving behind his lips. “Fuck I feel good,” he purred. When he spoke, his voice was underlain by a buzzing bass that emanated from the pit. “I have to thank you, little lady.” He grabbed the crossbow shaft still protruding from his chest and, with a sickening squelch, ripped it from his chest. He threw it over his shoulder, down into the fires below. “I can feel him, his power coursing through me,” he said, raising his arms. The light from the pit flared as the flames surged higher. Wilhelmina, her eyes fixed on the priest-thing in front of her, slipped one hand into her coat. “I can have anything I want. Anyone I want. The world is mine to remake in my image. I can eliminate all the nasty, unclean perverts and abominations from the earth. All the weak, the inferior people, gone. Only the strong and the pure will remain. And I will rule them. Once I've cleaned up this world. Starting with you.” He opened his mouth and let loose a terrible roar. It was no longer a human mouth; the teeth had become rows of trembling needles lining his throat, and two twitching chelicerae protruded from the inside of his cheeks, tipped with fangs dripping with venom. Wilhelmina's hand whipped out of her duster and a fist-sized glass vial arcked through the air. It hit him in the head and bounced off. He was laughing derisively as it landed at his feet, shattering and sending a spray of water up at him, dousing him. Where the water touched his skin, angry festering welts immediately sprang up. He screamed in pain. “What the fuck??? Is that holy water?” Wilhelmina was on the move before the grenade even landed. She tackled him to the ground, pinning his arms to his sides with her legs. He roared again, blind with pain, and the pit belched more sulfurous hellfire. Wielding her cross as a cudgel, she beat the writhing priest, raising cross-shaped welts on his cheeks. She pressed it into his face, ignoring his wails, the stink of charring flesh, and the bellows coming from the pit, matching the gouts of flame roaring around her. There was one final scream of rage and frustration that shook the rafters, and with a clap the pit sealed itself. Wilhelmina pulled her cross out of the ruined mass of flesh that had been the priest-thing's face, wiping the gore off on what was left of his robes. The body twitched and spasmed as the last of the infernal influence seeped away. Wilhelmina stood. There was no time for niceties now. The church was well and truly burning. The chasm leading down to hell had sealed up but the hellfire remained, burning in the balcony, the rafters, the pews. There was no time to dig her knife out of the front door, and she wasn't confident she was going to be able to navigate through the warren of rooms in the depths of the burning building in time. But there was another option. She went to the girl, gently taking her by the shoulder. “What's your name, hon?” “I-it's Corie,” she said, eyes wide, still in a state of shock. “Okay Corie, I'm Wil. We have to get out of here. I saw that storm you raised, that was very impressive–” Corie's face crumpled. “I didn't – I didn't mean to hurt anyone,” she sobbed. “I didn't know what I was doing, it got away from me! I'm sorry.” Oh gods, Wilhelmina thought, she's terrified of me. “I know honey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Do you think you could raise some wind and rain again for me?” A burning beam crashed to the ground, and it seemed to jar Corie to her senses. She wiped her eyes and hesitantly nodded. “I can try.” “You gotta do better than try, Corie. It's up to you now hon. You got this.” Corie closed her eyes and stretched out her hands. She reached deep down into herself, into the place she went to when the world was too much, when she felt helpless and angry. Wilhelmina watched anxiously as Corie's eyes twitched under her eyelids. Usually she would never ask a fledgling witch to raise a storm under these conditions, but Corie was radiating power. All she needed was a little encouragement. Wilhelmina hoped. Sure enough, the wind outside began to pick up. Fat globs of rain began to smack against the stained-glass window above the altar. Wilhelmina felt her arm hair begin to prickle as static electricity built up around her and Corie. Ah, Mel, she thought, sorry about your organ. The building shook again, this time wracked with rain from without. Suddenly, the window exploded inwards as a lightning bolt arcked through, striking Corie. Wilhelmina threw herself to the side, but Corie basked in it, welcoming the jolt of raw energy. She felt powerful. No one was ever going to push her around again, make her feel small and helpless. Not when she could do this. Rain poured in through the broken window, sizzling on the open flames.

Mel awoke suddenly in the middle of the night with a feeling of unease. She checked the time: 3:17. Well into the witching hour. Not that she'd been sleeping easily to begin with. She sighed and rolled out of bed. Maybe a cup of tea would calm her nerves. She didn't even notice at first when the wind began to pick up. When the rain began to fall, she frowned, trying to remember what had been in the forecast. Then it hit her. The girl. By the time she was outside it was pouring rain, thick grey sheets like curtains impeding her vision. She didn't even bother with an umbrella; the wind would've torn it right out of her hand. It got stronger the closer she got to the church, the rain too, stinging her cheeks where the wind whipped it at her. The night lit up with a brilliant flash and resounding boom. Mel, her anxiety having reached a fever pitch, let out a tiny scream despite herself. She came around the last corner at a full panicked run, then stopped dead in her tracks. She could feel the heat from the blaze from across the street, the abrupt change in temperature from the cold night air stopping her like a wall. For a moment she could only stand frozen, taking in the scene before her. Smoke was billowing out of the building from the cracks under the door. The windows were lit from within, looking like hungry, watchful eyes. Mel heard a sound like breaking glass from around the back of the church, and when she nervously edged around the building to investigate, she found Wil dangling in midair, hanging from the hand of a young girl. “Oh my God,” breathed Mel, “you found her!” Wil twisted in the air, trying to make eye contact. “Hey, Mel. Toldja. This is Corie. Little help?” The rain was still pouring down around them, but to a relieved Mel, it felt less like icy needle pricks and more like a cold shower, brisk and invigorating. In the distance, Mel heard the blare of approaching sirens. “Nice to meet you, Corie. I'm Mel. Now, let's get you both down from there and out of the rain.” Ten minutes later, they were sitting around Mel's kitchen table, hot mugs of steaming tea in hand. Corie, who hadn't said a word since leaving the church, sat wrapped in Mel's thick quilted blanket, staring blankly into her mug. She had begun shivering as soon as they stepped into the warm homey kitchen, so Mel had insisted she take some of their wet clothes to dry and plopping them both down in front of the fire blazing in her old-fashioned fireplace. Now she was fussing over the two of them, trying not to show just how relieved she was that Wil had returned (mostly) unharmed. As she was applying a band aid to Wil's cheek, she tutted, “It's a shame you lost your fedora, you loved that hat.” Wil grunted. Mel turned to Corie. “Now. Are you hurt dear? Any cuts or scrapes?” She looked up at them, her stoic expression barely hiding her fear and confusion. “What are you being so nice to me for?” Despite herself, the girl's voice began to tremble. “Just do it already.” “Do what, dear?” Mel asked. “I saw what you did to those other witches, so if you're going to kill me just DO it!” The wind outside, having calmed in the time they'd been at Mel's, suddenly threw a gust full of cold rain splattering against the windows. Wil scoffed. “Those weren't witches.” Mel was about to scold her – the poor dear was so scared! – but Corie turned to Wil. “What do you mean? I saw them. They summoned the Devil. Everyone knows witches work for the Devil.” Wil shook her head. “They want you to believe that. They want you to be scared of your own power. Witches don't work for the Devil. Witches work for each other. And themselves.” Corie was trembling, her eyes filling with tears. “Well then... who... what... What the hell was all that?” “I'm wondering the same thing,” Mel said. “Did they actually...” Wil leaned back in her chair. “They raised something. Not exactly sure what it was, but it was big. Could've been one of the princes of Hell, maybe the big guy himself. Maybe something bigger...” The color drained out of Mel's face, and she sat with a heavy thump. “So, what,” Corie broke in, “they were, like, Satanists? And that's different than witches?” “Oh no, dear,” said Mel, patting her hand, “I mean, yes, they're different. Satanists are not witches, not most of them anyway. Most of them aren't even magic, they're just folks, nice folks mostly. They don't usually get up to...” “Dark shit,” Wil supplied, and Mel clucked her tongue at her. Wil continued, “They always blame the rest of us for their own shi– sorry Mel, stuff. It's uhh... what's the word...” Mel sighed. “The word you're looking for is projection, Mina, but it's really best not to–” Wil nodded. “That's it, they're projecting.” Corie's curiosity was getting the better of her fear. She was starting to feel that the women really were trying to help her. She was beginning to relax. In an exasperated tone she asked, “Who? Who is projecting?” Wil sat back, her arms crossed. “Christians.” Corie laughed in disbelief. “No seriously,” said Wil. “What you saw in there tonight? That's what comes of repressing too much. It comes out in sick, unhealthy ways.” “My parents are Christian, they never...” Her voice faltered. “No honey, of course not,” Mel jumped in. Wil raised an eyebrow at this, and Mel shot her a warning look. “Most Christians have no idea this is even going on, not consciously anyway.” Corie was quiet for a moment. Then she looked up at them, her eyes brimming with tears again. “I am though, aren't I,” she asked in a flat, quavering voice. “I'm a... witch.” She began to cry, tears sliding quietly down her nose. “Oh honey, don't cry!” Mel exclaimed, handing her a tissue. “Yes, you are a witch. But so am I! So's Wil!” “You're in good company, Corie,” Wil said. “You're actually why I'm here. You see, I'm the Witchhunter.” At this, Corie flinched, and Wil laughed. “Ooh I hate that you call yourself that! She means like a headhunter, not like a hunter hunter.” Wil shrugged. “I'm reclaiming it.” “All right then,” said Wil, turning back to Corie, “usually we'd be having this conversation under... more comfortable circumstances. You have been an unusual case, to say the least. We can skip the big reveal. So you're a witch. And you need to learn how to use your magic, or at least manage it. We can help you with that.” Corie nodded, her demeanor serious. “You can teach me to do more of that?” She gestured to the storm outside, now slowed to a gentle, steady rain. “I'm in. Just give me fifteen minutes to pack a bag.” Mel and Wil exchanged a glance. “Weeeeeeellllll... we'd need to talk to your parents first,” Mel said. “They must be worried sick...” “Before we go carting people off, we try to connect you with a tutor, someone in your community. That'd be Mel, here.” She thumped Mel's shoulder. Mel looked back at her. “I don't know Mina, I mean given the circumstances... and she is way beyond me. A weather witch?” Wil grunted. “We'll see. We still have to talk to her guar

ns. We can't run around abducting young women, y'know.” Corie flopped back in her chair, arms folded. “They'll never let me hang out with a bunch of witches.” “Maybe not dear,” Mel sighed. “All we can do is make sure they know you'll be safest with us. All we can do is give them the choice.” “When they see what you can do,” muttered Wil, “they may not have a choice.”

The sign on the door of the Book and Bell read, “Booked for Private Service”, but the tavern was just as packed as it was any other night. As Miriam made her way back to their table, she waded through a sea of mourning faces misted with the salty spray of tears, weaving around the press of hugging bodies clutching each other like drowning sailors to rocks. “I come bearing booze,” she said, setting down the pitcher of beer she was carrying, as well as glasses for herself and Rachel. “And for you...” She placed the other drink in front of Lily, a fizzy, candy-red concoction. “I know you aren't drinking right now, but my mom would always make these for me when I was feeling down. It's a Shirley Temple, or a Roy Rogers if you prefer cowboys.” “I do like cowboys, thank you Miriam,” said Lily with a sad smile. “It feels weird being here without Jane,” Miriam said quietly, and Lily's eyes welled up. “I just don't understand - what were they all doing there?” asked Rachel. “And so late at night? Lily, she didn't mention...?” She shook her head. “She was on all kinds of church committees, it must have been one of them.” She frowned. “I have no idea what though. Maybe some kind of leadership meeting? There wasn't a whole lot of overlap between all the... everyone who...” She trailed off, fighting back tears. Miriam patted her shoulder, desperately trying to think of a new topic of conversation. Rachel pressed on. “Yes I thought it was a strange group. I thought you might have more insight since you're in the congregation. But what kind of meeting would a husband not take his wife to? You know, what's their name, their little girl just got married?” “The Carlisles, Lucy Carlisle,” supplied Miriam. “Well, Lucy MacArthur now. But I—” “That's right, the poor dear. She had to cancel her honeymoon, so tragic.” Lily nodded, dabbing at her eyes. “We're going to do something for her and her mom. Miriam, maybe you can help me figure out what to make for them?” Miriam hugged the young woman to her. “Oh honey, that's so sweet. Of course I'll help you.” Lily leaned into the hug, resting her head on Miriam's shoulder, until the moment was broken by Rachel's strident call. “Yoohoo! Minnie! Over here!” Miriam turned in her seat to see the organist making her way across the room towards them. “Come sit with us, dear! You're not meeting anyone here, are you?” Inwardly, Miriam cracked a wry smile. So Rachel hadn't forgotten the mysterious stranger they'd seen leaving with Minnie. The older woman never missed an opportunity to stick her nose into their neighbors' business. And say what you will about gossip, but since Rachel always knew exactly what was going on in their little town, Miriam could always show up with a casserole or a helping hand where she was needed most. “Not today, ladies,” Minnie said, sitting across from Miriam. “I just came from the Preston farm. Tom and his daughters volunteered to host one of the services.” “It's so nice of them to open up their home like that,” said Lily, “especially with everything they've been going through.” “It'll be good for them,” Miriam said. “Good to keep busy.” Rachel leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Did you happen to see young Johnny there?” Minnie laughed. “You know I did, Rachel, you of all people. He looked like he was a great help. Beth Preston barely had to lift a finger.” “I don't know what has gotten into that boy,” Rachel said with a knowing smile. “But I'm sure it's nice for them to have an extra hand.” She took a sip of her beer. “Isn't Maggie Preston his age?” This time all three of the other women laughed at her. “You're a regular Dolly Levi, you are,” Minnie said, shaking her head. “If you're saying I'm as gorgeous and talented as Barbra Streisand, I will take that as a compliment, and agree.” They shared a moment of companionable silence before Minnie reached across the table to take Lily's hand. “I am so sorry for your loss. I know you were close to Jane. All three of you.” Miriam gave her a small smile. “Thank you, dear.” “Yes,” said Rachel, “Miriam, Jane and I have been drinking buddies for years. I can't tell you how many stories she let me ramble through. We certainly– I certainly miss her.” She looked down into her glass for a moment, overcome with emotion. Then, hurriedly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “Whatever were you doing at the Prestons' anyway? They have an organ on that farm I don't know about?” Minnie laughed. “No organ, no, but they do have an upright piano. I played a few selections.” She sighed. “Really a shame about the chapel, Lily. It was beautiful. And that organ... my favorite instrument in town.” Lily nodded, squeezing Minnie's hand, and Rachel jumped in, saying, “Yes, but isn't it bizarre, though? Your church, right to the ground, but the buildings to either side, they weren't even touched!” “Apparently the rain helped slow the fire, keep it contained,” Lily said. “At least that's what the fireman said. Thank God for that storm though, right? Came out of nowhere.” Well, thought Mel wryly, not God. “That reminds me, Lily,” Miriam said, laying a hand on the young woman's shoulder, “do you have somewhere to be next weekend? What are you doing for church?” Rachel began to answer for her. “Well I offered to take her to mass with me but she said–” “I told her Catholicism might be a bit too intense for me,” Lily said, laughing. “Besides, the Carters invited a bunch of us to join them at their church next weekend.” Miriam nodded, relieved, then furrowed her brow. “Rachel, why is that name ringing a bell?” “Do they have a daughter, Lily, by any chance?” Rachel asked. “Yes, Corina, I think – Corie. Corie Carter.” “Do you know– oh, the things I have heard, it's just ghastly. I heard she was kidnapped, taken from her home in the dead of night?” Miriam snorted. “Oh right, that was it. Rachel, don't you think we'd all have heard about it, if there was a girl missing?” “I didn't say she was still missing,” Rachel huffed. “If you'd just let me finish–” Miriam raised both hands. Go ahead. “–the latest is that she's been sent away to some kind of boarding school, that's why she's gone. Still, the timing is weird, isn't it? The night of the fire? And it can't be the start of a new semester or quarter or whatever it is they have.” Mel, fully aware of where this conversation was going to go, took a swig of her beer to fortify herself. Lily chuckled, bemused. “Sorry Rachel, I don't know much more than you. As far as I know she's at boarding school. But...” She looked across the table at Minnie, the question she wanted to ask written plainly across her face. For a fraction of a second, the organist grimaced, then she gave a small nod. “Well,” Lily continued, “they were very grateful to Minnie.” “Minnie? This Minnie?” Rachel turned to look at her. “Grateful for what?” “For returning her safe and sound, I guess.” Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but Miriam laid a hand on her arm. Minnie explained. “You know I live pretty close to the church. I was already awake because of the storm, but I got up when I heard the sirens. I poked my head outside to see what the fuss was about, and I saw Corie, wandering around in her nightgown, soaked to the bone. I brought her inside and plunked her down in front of the fire with a hot mug of tea. By the time she stopped shivering and her clothes were dry it must have been five, six in the morning?” Rachel couldn't contain herself any longer. “But what was she doing out so late? Didn't her parents know where she was?” “They did. She had stayed at her coach's house that night.” “Her coach? Not Lisa Hammond?” Minnie nodded. “Oh, I see. How dreadful.” “What am I missing here?” asked Miriam, looking between Rachel and Minnie. “The Hammonds were... they were at that meeting,” Lily said. “She must have woken up all alone and tried to find them,” Rachel said. “Although I can't imagine why they would leave her alone in their house in the middle of the night.” “Anyway,” Minnie continued, “they had just started to panic when we showed up. They'd heard all the commotion and couldn't get ahold of Coach Hammond... at any rate, they were relieved to have Corie back in one piece.” Relieved, yes. Less than thrilled that she turned up with the town's organist and a complete stranger in tow. They took the news in stride, though. Dad didn't believe it at first, dads never do, but after Corie gave them a little demonstration right there in the living room... well, Mel guessed that it explained a thing or two for them, some of their daughter's burgeoning weirdness. Honestly, Mel thought they were relieved, all three of them. Relieved that they weren't alone in this, that Mel and Wil had some answers for them, that the two women seemed to understand. Rachel seemed satisfied, if a little disappointed that she didn't have anything juicier. Mel certainly wasn't going to offer up the really juicy stuff. That would take a bit more explaining than she was prepared to do tonight. I might have to soon, though, she mused as she observed the easy rapport between the three women, watching them talk and laugh over their drinks. Looking around the Book and Bell, the whole place felt more alive than it had in a long time. Not raucous, people were grieving, but... it was like a psychic pall had been lifted. People seemed freer in their expressions, their emotions. Not many had noticed, too wrapped up in their grief, perhaps a stronger grief than they'd anticipated, but Mel had a feeling that the next few weeks in this town would be a rebirth, a reckoning. She was kicking herself that she had missed the numbing, mind-deadening fug that had settled down around her town. She had gotten complacent, caught by the spiritual smog building up by degrees. Well, she wasn't going to let that happen again. She looked around, seeing her community united in their grief, a new life waking in their eyes. This is what mattered. Maybe the only thing that truly did.