Page 3 of The Thirteenth Count

Fern pulled the familiar flint and tinder from her pocket; her father held the kindling. All it took was one spark to start the reaction.

Crackling embers raced along the Deadwood’s Oathblight. It twisted and turned, incinerating everything in its path. The tattered cotton that could hardly be considered clothing was nothing more than ash. He burned, but no smoke rose. No stench of death. Only the simmering scent of black blood and forbidden magic.

Fern couldn’t look away. Gruesome and disgusting, yes—but also strangely beautiful.

As the embers dwindled, the body lay charred in the crude hollow Denton scraped from the earth—barely deep enough to be called a grave, its edges ragged from bare-handed digging. Then there was a whoosh, and suddenly stark white roots snaked up the Deadwoods legs, forming a tree trunk across his torso. Skeletal branches crawled up his arms, wrapping around his face and neck, consuming the charcoal flesh in a stunning display.

Her father knelt, hands hovering over the Deadwood.

Fern bowed her head.

“Mother take him,” he said, voice somber. “Mother guide him. Mother return him whence he came.”

A gust of wind blew, and the trees tinkled like pieces of glass attached to strings as her father sliced his palm, dripping blood onto the body. Then, all was still, and the Deadwood disintegrated into nothing.

The two took a moment of silence, paying their respects, before they began the arduous task of filling the grave with bare hands.

And just as her father placed the grave marker, the bells tolled.

Fern and her father both turned toward Whittle’s Rest. She leaned in, straining to hear the count.

One.

Two.

Three.

She glanced at her father, watching his hands wring together.

Seven.

Eight.

“Father, we should⁠—”

Nine.

He held up a shaking hand, cutting her off. “Shush, child.”

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Silence.

Her father paled.

“It’s too soon,” Fern whispered, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach.

He cleared his throat and brushed his hands against his trousers. “We must make haste.”

But Fern stood there, frozen.

For the Highbloods had made an announcement.

Tomorrow would be the thirteenth Count.

Fern and her father dragged themselves across the grove’s manicured courtyard toward their gate. Delicate iron vines wrapped around the bars before meeting in the center where they clasped together, forming a circle that was crowned with a swelling iron bud. When one followed its path, it revealed the complete life cycle of a leaf—growth, fullness, decay, and renewal. The Mother’s crest. A sign that this home belonged to a Keeper.