Page 16 of Of Faith and Fangs

Moll broke the silence. “There’s always a price,” she said. “Tonight, you paid less than most.”

She turned and left, her shadow trailing behind her like a second self.

I stood there until the others had gone, the vial of ashes burning in my palm. The Bible in my other hand felt heavier than any weapon, heavier than the heart in the bottle.

At the far edge of the cemetery, Mr. Brown waited. He didn’t speak, just took my arm and guided me toward his house, where Edwin was waiting.

I did not look back. There was nothing left to see.

I followed Mr. Brown back to his house, the bottle of ashes cradled in my hands. The moon had gone behind clouds. I wanted to pray, but for the first time, I didn’t know how. Would God even hear our prayers, given what we’d done?

Mr. Brown did not speak, not until the front door was shut and bolted behind us. The house was unlit, the only warmth the embers in the parlor stove. He slumped into a chair, his face slack. I hovered by the door, not sure if I was meant to stay.

After a long time, he said, “She was so small when she was born.” His voice was thick with something old—regret, maybe, or shame. “I held her in one hand, like a bird.” He stared at the floor. “Now she’s—“ He could not finish.

I wanted to say it would be all right, but even I didn’t believe it. So I said nothing, just listened to the slow breakdown of a man who’d lost everything worth keeping.

He looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red. “Do you believe it’ll work?” he asked. “What the witch said.”

I didn’t know how to answer. “I don’t know what I believe.”

He nodded, then stood, steadying himself against the table. “Edwin’s upstairs. Please, hurry.”

When I entered Edwin’s room he looked worse than I expected. His eyes were ringed with purple, his hair matted to his head.

George steered him into a chair, then turned to me. “How do we do this?”

I set the bottle on the table, hands trembling. “She said to mix it with something. Water, or milk.”

He fetched a chipped mug and filled it from the pitcher. I poured in the ashes, watched them settle at the bottom. The water turned cloudy, then grey, then red at the edges. I pushed it across the table.

Edwin looked at his father from across the room. George nodded.

He drank it down in two gulps, the liquid streaking the sides of the cup like dirty snowmelt. He coughed, wiped his mouth, and looked at me.

“Will it hurt?” he whispered.

I shook my head, though I knew it was a lie.

He folded into himself, shivering. George kept his distance, afraid to contract the illness.

The change, when it came, was nothing like the stories. No lightning, no screams. Edwin’s breathing slowed, then steadied. The bruises faded a little, the color coming back to his lips. He looked up, eyes unfocused, and smiled a thin, tired smile.

“Thank you,” he said. I almost believed he meant it.

Mr. Brown looked at me as if I’d performed a miracle. But I knew better. I’d seen the way Moll’s eyes lingered on the ashes, the twitch of her mouth when the heart caught fire. This wasn’t a cure. It was a trade.

As I stood to leave, Mr. Brown caught my arm. “Will you stay?” he asked. “Just for tonight. In case he needs help. I still cannot get too close, and it breaks my heart to see him in pain.”

I nodded. I sat on the edge of the parlor sofa. I watched the window, waiting for the thing I’d seen at the sanatorium. But the night passed in silence.

In the early hours, I slipped out. I walked past Mercy’s grave, the dirt already frozen over. I whispered a prayer—for her and for all of us.

Chapter 7

The following day drifted by in such a dense haze that it was like trying to breathe through wool. I went through the motions: rising, washing, setting the table for breakfast. I heard my father’s voice in every room, always pitched just above the hum of my own thoughts. He was gentle at first—he must have expected me to be fragile. I would have resented it, if I could muster any feeling at all.

I hadn’t had anything to eat since the previous night, but I didn’t feel hungry. I didn’t have the stomach for food. My hands shook, but only when I held them still. If I kept moving, they seemed almost normal. I swept the floors, though they were already clean. I washed a window that I’d only washed a week before. I folded and unfolded the same shirt until the seams began to fray. Whenever I looked up, I caught my reflection in the glass. Each time I was surprised to see myself intact, not cracked down the middle like the porcelain dolls we’d buried with Mama.

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