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“No, Mom, it’s not your fault. How can any of this be your fault?” Clara says.
“How young?” I ask, feeling my muscles tighten. I want to stand, to move around, but I force myself to stay seated. I don’t want to loom over them, already feeling like a giant in this room.
“They took your sister too?” Cordelia asks before Celeste can answer.
I look at Cordelia. She’s got to be around Bec’s age, maybe younger, but my sister is a frail thing next to this girl.
I nod once, not wanting to go into the how, but, of course, that seems to be Barrett’s cue.
“How? How did they get to them in your house? It’s a fortress, isn’t it?” He’s on his feet again and again, his wife is trying to hold him back. “Or is that only to keep my daughter in?”
I get up too, walk right up to the man. “Listen here,” I start, but before I can say more, Aurora is beside me.
“They won’t hurt your sister,” she says, tugging at my arm, clearly wanting to defuse the situation.
I turn to her. She’s an inch taller than Willow, and her hair is a little shorter. I remember the night of the Choosing ceremony and feel shame at how I’d come into this house to inspect the sisters, to look for the mark of the crescent moon on their bodies.
She steps backward, maybe surprised herself that she is touching me. “I mean, if that’s what you’re afraid of. She’s not a witch.”
“I don’t want these Disciples to hurt any of them,” I say. I push my hand into my pocket and am reminded of the violence the Tithe calls for—as if I need reminding.
Willow’s hair had been scattered on the altar. Did Salomé cut it off her? Or did she trade it for that book? Did she make Willow hand over a lock of her own hair? And after she got it, did she leave Willow’s door unlocked?
No. She wouldn’t have done that. She doesn’t want Willow free. She wants her dead.
Emmanuel walks in, but before I turn to him, I catch Celeste’s gaze intent on me. Those blue eyes are so much like Willow’s, as if she can see everything—as if she can see right through me.
“The old man has a grandson in the area,” Emmanuel says, reentering the room as he tucks his phone into his pocket. “Frederik Noyes.”
“Frederik? The Prophet?” Clara asks.
I turn to catch her glancing at Celeste. They know this man. And Clara is afraid of him.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“He’s the leader of the Disciples,” Celeste says. “Calls himself the Prophet. More like the Butcher. He’s a descendent of one of the ministers who was present during the original trials in Salem long before they hanged Elizabeth.”
“I have two addresses,” Emmanuel says.
“Give them to me,” Barrett says.
Emmanuel looks to me before he reads them aloud.
“They have to be at Hill’s End. The other address has been taken over by the homeless,” Barrett says.
“How do you know?” Emmanuel asks.
“My investigators learned of the existence of that one half a year ago. I keep tabs on it.”
“You’re sure?”
Barrett nods. “Let’s go.” He steps toward the hall, but I grab his arm to stop him.
“My brother and I will go. You’ll stay here.”
“Like hell I will.”
“You’re going to leave your family unprotected? They’ve already walked right up to your front door. What’s to stop them coming in? Besides, Emmanuel and I will be faster alone.”
Barrett opens his mouth but before he can speak, Celeste does. “They’re right,” she says. “They’ll be faster without you.” I wonder how much she knows about our family. More than I would probably like.
I turn to go but Barrett stops me. “Bring my daughters back. Bring them back or—”
“I plan to,” I say, not giving him a chance to finish.
4
WILLOW
“Willow.”
I groan, trying to open my eyes, but they are too heavy. My entire body feels weighed down, and it isn’t until I hear the panic in Raven’s voice as she repeats my name that I remember why.
It all comes back in jarring fragments. Caleb. The Disciples. The van.
“Willow, please wake up.” Raven sobs. “I need to know you’re okay.”
The agony in her voice forces everything into focus, but I’m still sluggish, and my brain is having a hard time catching up. It takes me several attempts before my eyelids open, only to be stung by the light inside the room.
“Willow.” Raven breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, my god. Are you okay?”
I force a nod, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth from being so dry. It makes me wonder how long I’ve been out. As I heave myself upright to take in my surroundings, I realize all three of us are in what appears to be a small, spartan cabin. There aren’t many furnishings apart from a threadbare sofa, a rickety old bed frame, a sunken mattress, and a kitchenette with a hot plate and a few plastic dishes that have seen better days.
