Page 2 of Grave Expectations

The truth was that no one believed the women were witches. They were afraid of the wrath of the reverend and the church, of the spreading nonsense from Salem, of the death of Giles Corey.

Alaric supposed if he told him the truth now, that all he’d done was “coerce” and “curse” the members to speak the truth, that it would not save him. So he just laughed and tried to sit upright, his ribs screaming as he tried to straighten.

“As you say, Reverend. I assume you have proof?” Alaric knew he did not.

“You are no man of the cloth,” the reverend said. “This is your trial before God. You impersonated a holy man to free witches. Your soul belongs to the devil.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Alaric.

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “So you will hang me unless I tell you where innocent women are? So you will, what? Try them once more for a crime they’ve been cleared of?”

“Tell me where your witches have disappeared to!” the reverend roared. “Tell me, help me bring them to justice, and I will clear you of your crimes against the cloth.”

“No,” Alaric said. “I will not help you kill innocent people.”

“They are not innocent!”

“Neither are you. You use fear to keep your flock in check; you want to be known as the Witch Killer. You do not do this for some god, you do it for yourself. And I would rather hang than tell you anything,” Alaric said.

The reverend purpled, his eyes bugging as he looked down at Alaric. “Then know this,” he spat. “You may die, but your soul will remain to watch. You will watch as we find your witches, as we hold them all accountable for their crimes. Your body may burn upon the pyre, but your soul will remain. And you will spend eternity staring at the ashes of the very people you tried—and failed—to protect.”

What would the reverend think if he knew he had just worked magic? Magic did not care whether you believed in it.

Alaric smirked up at the reverend, because he knew he would fail. He knew the women and men were safe, that his insolence bought them more time to escape. That while the reverend chased Alaric, the coven settled into Pumpkin Hollow and erased all evidence of their existence.

They dragged Alaric to the gallows, beaten and bloodied, still wearing his stolen frock.

The rope snapped tight.

And still, Alaric Blackwood watched.

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY - PUMPKIN HOLLOW

Rosalin Graves collected the dead and dying flowers from the base of Alaric Blackwood’s grave. “You know,” she said to the grave and statue that sat above it, “if you were still alive, you’d have so many fanfics written about you.” She paused, looking up at his serious face. Every statue of him in town was the same—mouth turned down in a slight frown, strong jaw.

A total babe, three hundred years dead, frozen at thirty-two to frown disapprovingly down at the town he died protecting.

“How does one explain fanfic to someone from the 1600s?” she mused. An errant breeze tugged at her black dress and tore a few petals from the dead flowers in her arms. Times like this made her think perhaps the spirit of the founder still hung around, hidden from her and every other necromancer that came before her.

Nah—Roz had some powerful necromancers in her family. Great Aunt Franny lived to almost one hundred. If he was here, they would have spoken to him. She supposed being hung, quartered, and burned, with your ashes spread all over the mountains made it hard to reach you in the afterlife.

It’s why Roz didn’t mind sitting on the grave when she knit or read books, because there was no one buried there. Just a statue, a marker for the infamous Alaric.

“Marigold could use these flowers more than you,” she told the statue, lifting the wilted items. “She’s the owner of the tea house. I don’t know the ethics of taking flowers from a grave for tea, but given how powerful grave dirt is, I’m sure she’ll like it. Anyway, see ya later.”

She waved and let out a low whistle. The black mass at the base of the statue stirred, opening one eye to regard Roz.

“C’mon, Albie, we’ve errands to run,” she scolded the dog. He sighed the deep sigh that only a pampered pet could make before unfurling his long limbs and stretching. He made a good show of it, then shook off the dirt that clung to his hairless body before trotting to her side. She stroked the small tuft of hair on the top of his head affectionally before setting off toward the town.

Roz turned down the Main Street of Pumpkin Hollow, adjusting the scarf around her neck. The trees lining the street had just finished turning from green to the reds, oranges and browns of fall. This was Roz’s favorite time of the year. She knew it was awfully stereotypical for a necromancer, but hey, Roz didn’t mind being a basic witch.

Her first stop was the tea house, where she left the flowers with the barista. The barista took them gingerly, pinching the stems between two fingers.

“Thanks,” she said, careful to avoid touching Roz as she took them.

“Let Marigold know I can bring more by, if she has use for them. If she wants to talk face to face, we can do that too. I’m free next week,” Roz said. The barista nodded, still holding the flowers before her like one might hold something radioactive.

“No pets inside, service animals only,” the barista added. Albie looked up at Roz as though he understood, blinking at her expectantly.