Page 1 of Bound By Fury

EARNEST, NC. 1926

TWELVE NOOSES SWING IN THE damp mountain air.

Great oak branches bow beneath the hold of fraying taupe. The snap of fracturing wood moans below the howling wind, the ropes pulled taut against the weight of twelve bodies—limp and swelling quickly. Each face covered by a black sack. Stark-white paint the color of starlight crudely splattered in warning.

She stands in the center of it all. Wind whips through her coiled hair, the strands catching on the fissures in her downturned lips. A furious glint shines in her mist-choked eyes. Her hands rest on a barely swollen belly. Around her the ashes of a once-sacred ground lash against her legs like shards of glass.

Charred and splintered maple and birch. The heat-bent remnants of the bell. The hollow, mangled belfry.

Of course, it all started long ago, far before any of them can remember. But she saw it clear as day. How history has a way of coming back around.

Tonight, twelve witches have met an unfortunate fate.

Above them the sky is a reverent void. The stars shine, their knowing glint illuminating the gruesome scene.

The stench of sulfur and the slither of shadows precede the men in swirls like ribbons that curl across the ground like writhing snakes. Each man is cloaked in the deep red of spilled blood as one by one they wrap their hands around a strand of rope and pull at the still-warm bodies, lowering them to the ground with a solid thump.

Deep down in the depths of the mountain, something stirs. A beast in waiting. Slumbering with a grumble that shakes the ground beneath her feet. She’d like to think the men can’t see it on her face. The satisfaction. The hunger for retribution. She’d like to think she isn’t snarling at them like she is, her lips pulled back, her teeth bared, her jaw clenched so tight, she fears she’ll crack a bone.

In the distance the cliff plummets, and for a moment the woman thinks of running to it. Of flinging herself over the edge, of welcoming the unending bliss of eternal darkness. But she can’t. Not when she’s carrying this blessing inside her.

When it is well and truly done and the bodies are piled for cremation, she drops to her knees, the pads of her fingers brushing the base of her throat.

She’s nauseatingly empty. The effects of this night far more significant than she’d imagined.

Tears stain her chest as she digs her nails into the soil and makes promise after promise.

Twelve promises for revenge.

Twelve promises for a miracle.

Twelve promises for the prophecy come to lay claim, sealing all their fates.

PART ONE DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME

ONE

ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

DAWSON’S MINI-MART IS A hole-in-the-wall convenience store crammed between a once-shuttered, four-screen movie theater and Gary’s Guns ’N’ Pawn. The sidewalks lining downtown Earnest are made of time-darkened clay bricks, and are hemmed by flowering dogwoods with blossoms like spun cotton and crape myrtles that bloom bright pink in the summertime.

By late August even the breeze carrying down from the Appalachian peaks is warmer than what’s comfortable, and though it’s overcast, the humidity still coats like a second skin. It thickens the air until you’re choking on it. Until your flesh feels like it might as well just go ahead and slough off, it’d be more comfortable to be all bones anyhow.

I long for turning leaves and the sharp scent of winter’s approach. I’ve never had the autumn winds and pumpkins along Main Street, the festival lights strung up in rainbow colors, or the snow piled in drifts along the backroads. At least, not here in Earnest, where I belong. Though now that I might finally get it, I never imagined it would happen like this.

Bells chime against the shop door as I slam through it, eyeing the sun-faded posters plastered across it like tinted window cling. I stall on the one in the middle, less worn than the rest. The photo is obscured by the Sharpie mustache some shithead kid drew, but the black block letters printed along the bottom echo the flyers outside—one duct-taped to the lamppost on the corner, another tucked beneath the wipers of the broken down beater out front.

They’re spread like whirligig seeds all over this town.

MISSING.

The word sits in my belly like lead, and the back of my hand swipes across the sweat beading my upper lip as I make a beeline for the packaged desserts aisle.

While I scan the shelves, my fingers find my phone again. I glance down at the black screen, tap it, sigh. No notifications.

I need snacks for my solo, matinee viewing of Jacob Elordi’s newest movie, but I can’t stop thinking about what my mother said before I left the house this morning.

I found this in your pocket while doing the laundry. You should wear it. It’s what she wanted.