Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

He grins as he looks on Mercy.

“Ah, but I’ll have me one final fight before the end.” He pats the rifle in his lap. “Won’t we, love?”

He laughs himself into a grievous fit, one leaving his face purple by the end.

“Will you have some water?” I ask.

“Bah,” he says. “Give me whiskey, will ye? Let it burn its way through me.”

I oblige and watch him drink it down. He spits half of it back out in another consumptive episode. Wincing, he rubs the phlegm remains from his beard. “I fear the banshee draws near.”

“If you hear her song,” I say, “tell her I would keep you a little longer still.”

Bishop grins as he pats my hand. “And I’ll demand that wailin’ wench take only me.”

I chuckle at that, happy to share my time with him, sick though he may be.

“Get some sleep,” I tell him. “I will take the watch.”

“I’ll not have that,” he says. “Who’s to say ye won’t wake me when the fighting begins?”

“I will wake you,” I say. “And be glad for your aim.”

He winks at me as I rise and carry my chair to sit by Mercy’s side, not desiring her company, only ensuring I can cut her throat if our defenses fail.

I take my seat next to the window. My gaze focuses through the small openings left me by the boards across the windows. Though there be little to see but dark and wilderness, I remind myself any manner of scout may be just beyond the tree line, skulking nearer as I should do if making an attack.

“I hate cabins,” says Mercy, looking around Bishop’s home. “The smell and dark of them. We should have kept outside. At least there we could run, if need be. Here we are trapped.”

I snort. “You would have me go outside that your witches could shoot me dead and rescue you?”

“No,” she says. “Only so Two Ravens will not burn us alive. There be one escape in here. Only through the door, now that you’ve boarded the windows. No doubt Two Ravens and his braves will wait there to greet us with their blades.” Mercy sighs. “At least we should die of the smoke before the flames reach us.”

“You need not worry about flames or smoke,” I say.

Mercy grins at my meaning. “Good. If the time comes, see your dagger to my throat quickly. I have witnessed and heard others burned. Their screams still haunt me, aye, but more so their smell. Once you’ve known the stench of burning flesh, you never forget it. There be many a time I thought to cut off my nose and learn if it would rid me of the memory.”

“You should have,” I say.

“Perhaps. But then what man would have me?”

“I find it hard to know men would have you now,” I say.

“Oh, but they do.” She chuckles. “Travel to whatever lands you will, girl. If there be men there, you will find one who would have you, noseless or no. Indeed, some of our people in the colonies tell stories of native men who would enjoy a noseless woman. They who believe natives are the Devil’s minions, that is.”

Mercy snorts as she rests her head back against the cabin wall.

“But they understand little beyond their borders,” she says. “How could they know the Devil walks among them every day in different forms?”

“What do you mean?”

“Men,” she says. “Of all colors, shapes, and sizes. They are the Devil’s true minions, and they think of us as their prey.” Mercy looks to me. “You asked me of Cotton Mather, and why I should follow him?”

“Aye.”

“He sent an angel to me. Your father, Dr. Campbell.”

“My father—”

“Oh, damn it, girl, think what you will of him. It seems you and I did not know the same man.” Mercy says. “Let others say his true purpose were greed, or gain, for both are right. But Dr. Campbell were also the one to give we prey our claws. Aye, teeth to bite the hands that fed us if only we accepted their loathsome offers and starved us when we did not.”

“Yet Putnam wrote you lied against women also,” I say.

“Aye. You would think our lot in life should bond we women together. Instead we allow men to divide us,” says Mercy, her voice rigid and cold. “The women in Salem despised me, shamed me for doing what I must to stay alive. But they never knew suffering like we servant girls. Aye, and those goodly women looked the other way when their husbands came for us in the night.”

“Perhaps they deserved death,” I say. “But if so, you should have killed them outright rather than lie.”

“Sometimes lies are all you have, girl,” says Mercy. “You will do well to learn that when we go to Boston. Truths come easy in the wilderness. The savages know nothing of lies and manipulation…but they are learning our ways. Look you no further than Two Ravens if you would know my words true.”

I grit my teeth at her words. “You spoke of men looking on you as an animal, yet you speak the same of the natives. Near all of these people are good at heart.”

“Let you admire their goodness, if you will, but know that will be the end of them.” Mercy exhales. “Not in my lifetime, perhaps, nor even yours, but some day our kind will take these lands from them.”

“I am not your kind.”

I glance out the window, believing I witness movement near the tree line. A deer moves past a moment later. I release the breath I held and feel my body relax as Mercy continues, almost as if she did not know I paid her little mind.

“No, their kind only now learns the benefits of lying, babes fumbling with a new toy.” She scoffs. “But our people are well practiced in the art, and none more than Cotton. He molds this New World to his whims and our people have never felt their strings pulled.”

I look on her with disdain. “How do you know your strings are not pulled now?”

“I warrant he does move me,” Mercy says. “And it may be Cotton sent me out to have my strings cut. But if so, it were a better life he gave me than the one I had before. People will speak my name long after I am gone because of him. Your father assured us of that.”

“I hope they remember you plain,” I say. “A lying whore who would betray anyone should the need suit her.”

“Perhaps they will,” she says. “It matters little to me. I will yet be remembered. Who will know the name Rebecca Kelly? Hmm? None. Cotton will have you and your family wiped from the histories.”

“I do not wish to be remembered.”

“Liar,” says Mercy. “Everyone desires to be remembered by those who follow after, even if painted in a wrongful light. I were but an orphaned girl given to servitude. Who should have thought I would help craft a new nation?”

I laugh at her claim. “You have supped on your Devil’s powder too often, if you believe that.”

“No,” she says. “I never felt the need to see spirits, or learn who my husband should be in the Venus glass, like some of my Salem sisters. I sought only truth and were shown it through the plans of your father and Cotton.”

She clucks her tongue. “You laugh at my claims and my wont for a legacy. But one day you shall think back on this night, Rebecca Kelly, and even if all other people from this day till the end of time think of me only as a lying whore, you will know I were the only one to speak truth.”

“When I think of you, it will be twofold—the first as my sister’s murderer.” I seethe even as I speak the words. “The other of the day I take your life in repayment. Now keep your tongue quiet. I will hear no more from you, lie or otherwise.”

She licks her lips. “May I say but one more thing?”

My nostrils flare at her questions. A part of me would tell her no, and slap her that she might understand I spoke truth to her. Still, my curious nature would know what final words she has for me.

“Speak it now,” I say. “And be quick with it.”

“You wrestle with the truth of my words,” says Mercy. “A goodly sign if ever I saw one.”

“You speak riddles, witch.”

“No. Only truth,” says Mercy. “This world is not the one you knew before, but you are adapting, Rebecca. If you survive this night, it may be you learn that which I did when I were near your age.”

“And what is that?”

“You can shape it.” Mercy grins. “For better or worse.”

All night I keep watch through the small crack. My gaze never wavers, even as Mercy snores.

Bishop, too, sleeps, his breath raspy and deep like a bear’s grumbling.

I rub my eyes, slap myself awake. I lean closer to the window, peering out, and note the night no longer holds its darkest sway, it giving way to hints of purple dawning in the east. Even in dark, a white carpet of ice tinges the grass blades.

Though the hearth fire has long since burned out, I give thanks at least the cabin logs shelter me with some of its former warmth.

I yawn upon leaning back, wonder if Mercy lied about Two Ravens to bide herself time. The sound of wood slapping wood wakes me quick.

A rifle barks, its sound hailing from Andrew and Mary’s position.

“Away with ye, ye bleedin’ harpies.” Bishop shouts behind me. He rises and his bearskin cover falls to the floor. Madness clouds his eyes as he brings his rifle to the ready, searching for the sound’s origin.

I grab up my own rifle, knocking over my chair as I run to the northwestern window for a better view.

“What was that, lass?” Bishop asks. “Do they come?”

“I know not.”

I squint out the window crack, and see Andrew stumble off the trade cabin porch, falling flat on his face.

“Oh no…” I say.

“George,” Andrew cries as he fumbles to find his feet. “George, I’m sorry.”

“Who’s that then?” Bishop asks.

“Andrew…” I say, as he wobbles in the middle of the yard, planting his rifle and using it to steady himself. “He’s drunk.”

“George…” Andrew yells again. “Come out here and talk to me!”

I lean closer to the window when Andrew near falls over again, catching himself at the last.

“Andrew! Get back to your post.”

“George.” Andrew covers his face with his hands. “George, no. No, I must speak with you now.”

“We’ll speak later,” George thunders. “Get back to the cabin.”

I pray to the ancestors that Andrew listens. My prayer goes unheeded.

“You don’t understand,” Andrew slurs as he drops to the ground. “It’s all my fault, George…Everything.”

“Andrew—”

“No! It’s all my fault.” Andrew puts his face in the earth, rocks back and forth.

“What’s he doin’ then?” Bishop asks.

I shake my head, my tongue not forming the words as my brother runs to Andrew’s side.

“Get up, Andrew.” George pulls him to his feet.

“G-George, I’m s-sorry.”

“Enough with you.” George flings Andrew back toward the cabin. “I said—”

A rifle barks.

My brother’s shoulder jerks back, spinning him. He falls to earth.

“No!”

My scream matches Andrew’s.

He falls upon George, grabbing my brother under his arms, and trips himself as he attempts to pull George toward the trade cabin.

More shots ring out in quick succession, this time from the northeast—George and Hannah’s cabin.

The whoops and war cries of braves, and the furious screeching of women, ring as one.

“What do ye see, lass?” Bishop asks.

I scarcely know what to say. No sooner does Andrew tug George onto the porch, than I see Mary fleeing. She sprints across the yard as if chased by an evil spirit.

“No…” I stand to the window. “Mary, stop!”

She halts near the middle of the yard, looks my way.

“Stop!” I cry again.

Mary shakes her head. She takes a single look back toward the cabin and my wounded brother. Then she retreats toward the wilderness, abandoning us all.

My mind bids me rise and fling open the door, go to stop her, or else help Andrew with George. I know not what keeps me holding my position, but I am glad of it a moment later when a rifle end pokes through the trade cabin window.

My gut warns George must be alive for the shots from inside come too quick for a lone shooter.

“Rebecca,” Mercy cries. “Free me now and give me a rifle. Let me stand with you!”

I do not deign to give her a reply.

The first of the braves comes into my sights. Not a few follow after, all of them with a witch nearby.

Again, Andrew’s shots ring out, wounding one of the braves but not felling him.

Still the others keep on, and Mercy’s witches too.

“Mercy lied,” I say to Bishop. “Her witches march with the braves.”

“For now,” Mercy says. “What good is a trap if you do not set it well?”

I shake off her words and raise my aim to the window crack.

“There’s more headed for yer brother’s cabin,” says Bishop from the opposite wall.

Fear stabs my heart, my thoughts on Hannah.

“She will be alone now,” I say. “Alone without George to fend them off—”

My words go muted when Bishop fires his rifle. The echo near deafens me and a smoky haze fills the cabin. I cough with the others, wave it from my face, and remind myself to focus.

I take a witch in my sights. My finger quivers on the trigger, preparing to squeeze.

The last witch in the train brings down the brave beside her. She stabs him in the back, her dagger falling and rising while the others in their company continue on.

“Shoot the braves.” I tell Bishop. “Mercy spoke true. Her witches fight with us!”

I take aim at a brave, shoot and watch him stumble to earth.

He does not rise.

I reach for a new rifle, bring its end to the window, and learn I am too late. Braves have reached the trade cabin. Some bear lit torches. One runs along the side, trying to spark the wood. Others heave their torches upon the roof.

Seeing the fire catch, I fell another brave with my shot then reach for the third and final rifle. I take careful aim, resting the rifle end just outside the window.

It is jerked from my grasp in an instant, its butt shoved back at my face.

My reaction to fall backward saves my nose and forehead, though it costs me my position.

A painted brave appear in the window. He peers through the boarded cracks. Whoops a war cry. Then he gasps, his face falling from my sight.

The black hood of a witch briefly appears in its place and then vanishes.

Women scream, though some of their cries have changed. No longer are all victorious or full of rage. Now some sound pained.

“They have learned our trap,” Mercy calls to me. “Free me that I might help! Now, before it is too late.”

The sounds do not quit, and I look to the spent rifles by the window.

A window board is knocked loose and a torch thrown inside, rolling near our Wyandot hostage. He shouts at me in unknown words, though their meaning is plain and well taken.

I run to his side and pluck up the torch, throw it inside the hearth to burn out.

“Bishop,” I say.

“Aye, lass?”

“Hold the cabin.”

“Aye,” he shouts. “That I will. Now do yer grandpappy proud, lass. Fetch me some witches.”

I look on the now open window, pull my tomahawk and Father’s dagger free from my belt. I throw myself against the wall, waiting for the torch thrower to peek inside.

A brave leans in to look a moment later.

I show the tip of Father’s dagger through his eye, running it to the hilt before shoving him off it. I back away from the window then take a deep breath and sprint for it. Diving through the opening, I roll the moment I land upon the cold, slick earth and bring my blades to the ready.

Chaos surrounds me.

Witches fight braves, some of them ganging up to fell their stronger opponents. Others are singled out and tossed aside to die screeching at the hands of the native braves.

A war cry rises behind me.

I duck at the blade whistling above my head. I stab Father’s dagger backward, raising it up and twisting. Listen to my attacker’s gurgle. Yanking my dagger free, I search the outside the cabin for any more attackers.

Then I see George and Hannah’s house aflame.

I sprint toward it, rolling beneath another brave come to slay me. I trip him up by slicing his ankle, then swing my tomahawk upon his chest to end him.

Again, I find my feet. My mind reels from the noise, not just of battle, but the animals from the barn. Father’s stallion rears and kicks at its wooden confines, as if it too wishes to join our fight.

The barn itself blazes, no doubt catching faster from the straw and hay inside.

Creek Jumper stands just beyond the barn. He surprises me with his quick and easy ways, swinging his own tomahawk as if he were a brave no older than twenty.

Ciquenackqua stands beside him. Though he does not move in the same manner as his elder, the pair move in tandem, wreaking havoc on any who dare cross them.

The popping of burning wood calls my attention back to my brother’s home. The door hangs off its hinges with traces of smoke escaping through the opening.

I think of Hannah, and then rush inside. Dropping to my chest, crawling forward as smoke clouds my nostrils and blinds my eyes.

“Hannah…” I cry. “Hannah, where are you?”

I cannot tell whether she replies, or else I am deaf to all sound.

Heat swarms me, choking the life from my lungs.

I use my hands in swinging arcs, praying I find no purchase as I search the kitchen and move onto the back wall. My forearm grazes flesh and my heart near stops when brushing Hannah’s ankle. I use her leg to guide me up and touch my fingers to her neck.

She has no pulse.

I cough at the smoke filling my lungs. My body begs me leave this hellish place or else surrender to the black spots popping in my vision.

I lean my back against the wall, raise my arms above my head, and feel for the windowsill. I rap my knuckles against it, feel the window barred.

I scoot further down the wall, continuing my search until my fists hit naught but air.

Then I return to Hannah’s body, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her closer to the open window. I steady my feet beneath me and try to lift her.

My body fails me, her weight too heavy for me.

I think of she and George’s tender moment when last I saw them together.

The memory gifts me new strength.

Moving behind Hannah, I push her forward, inching us across the kitchen floor. I risk opening my eyes and wince at the hints of light.

Smoke saps what little strength I have left.

My body warns it will not last much longer. I scream at the pain and shove Hannah forward.

It is enough to reach the door.

I fall outside and off the porch, pulling Hannah’s weight atop me. My chest heaves for fresh air, and that I suck in greedily.

New life flutters in me with each breath drawn, and I will myself to see how my companions fare.

Only a handful of braves yet stand, and those surrounded by witches with bloodied long daggers.

A pair of braves notices Hannah and me upon the ground. Screaming, they rush me.

A rifle barks and the first brave falls.

The death of his ally causes the second brave to pause.

I look to learn my savior.

George stands upon the trade cabin porch, bringing a new rifle to aim even as his shoulder bleeds. He shoots the second brave dead without thought. His gaze slides from me to his wife, and then he runs across the yard, leaping over the dead and dying. He falls beside me and rolls Hannah onto her back.

“Hannah,” he says. “Speak to me, wife.”

He takes hold of her soot-covered face in his grimy hands, raises her to sit with him.

Hannah’s head lolls upon his shoulder, her glazed eyes staring in fearless question into the morning sun.

“
Hannah!
” George cries, his voice breaking like a wounded animal as he clutches her close. He rocks back and forth, sucking air. “No, no, no…Hannah…Oh, Hannah…”

My spirit speaks to me that hers has already left this world. Tears sting my eyes.

The clashing of blades calls me from mourning.

I look to the origin of its sound and there see a lone brave yet standing, felling Mercy’s witches with the war club he stole from Whistling Hare.

Two Ravens slays the last of his attackers. He looks for any more opponents and sneers upon noticing me.

My strength returns quick enough. My knuckles whiten at the grip I form around the hilt of Father’s dagger. I take my tomahawk also, rising to my feet and hurrying to meet Two Ravens in the yard.

Neither of us hesitates in our course as we close on one another.

He swoops the war club wide.

I dive to miss it, following Father’s example to chip away at my opponent with smaller cuts rather than risk a finishing blow as Two Ravens would.

“You killed my brother,” he says upon facing me.