Читать книгу A Desolate Hour - Mae Clair - Страница 7

October 10, 1777

Point Pleasant area

Dusk.

It came early with autumn, the high grass browning sluggishly, the woods ripe with the odor of decay. Pockets of mist coiled awake prelude to the coming night. In the distance, the last ruddy rays of the sun were swallowed by the horizon.

Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Obadiah Preech’s boots as he threaded his way through the trees oblivious to the bats flitting overhead. Fort Randolph fell away a good mile behind him. He’d waved a greeting to the sentries when he’d passed through the gates, ignoring their warnings about how quickly night fell. After carrying a musket in Lord Dunmore’s War, he had no fear of the physical realm. Only of what lurked within the woods.

His heartbeat quickened and his palms grew damp with sweat.

He would kill the demon, but not tonight. Tonight was for weaving incantations to empower the dagger, a blade destined to spill the blood of the Indian chief, Cornstalk. The redskins had summoned the creature through the use of foul magic, thus by black witchery would the abomination die. Willa’s death would be avenged.

Locating a clear patch of ground, Obadiah used a branch to sketch a crude pentagram on the forest floor. The soil was soft, moist from recent rains, and turned easily beneath the crooked stick. Two earthworms wriggled through the upturned sod, dark as coffin loam.

A favorable sign when the forest blessed his work.

He plucked them free, then hunkered to gather leaves and twigs for kindling. When he had enough, he lit a small blaze in the center of the pentagram. A kettle went over the flames. Old and pitted, it had seen better days but would suffice for the task at hand.

Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, Obadiah strained to listen. An owl hooted in the distance and a small animal scurried through the underbrush. Safe from prying eyes, he breathed easier.

It wasn’t discovery he feared so much as failure. Practitioners of the dark arts were shunned, but he would risk that and more to slaughter the demon responsible for his wife’s death.

Turning back to the cauldron, he dragged a hand across his forehead. The air was sticky and close, unusual for fall. Squatting, he added a handful of herbs to the bubbling kettle. Most of the plants were used in healing, but moldy mushrooms and rotting seeds altered the properties of the brew from light to dark. Grimacing, he dug a bloody mass from the rucksack at his waist. The heart was still warm; the carcass of the stray dog he’d lured with a piece of boiled pork attracting flies and scavengers half a mile behind.

He chanted as the old woman had taught him, spitting sounds that made his skin crawl. Flushed and dripping with sweat, he lowered the heart into the pot.

A twig snapped.

Obadiah spun.

Jonathan Marsh stood frozen behind him. A young man, barely twenty-two, he’d been gone several days, scouting for signs of Indian unrest to the north. With a single glance, he took in the crudely etched pentagram and the witch’s pot. Blood drained from his face and his eyes widened with horror.

“Obadiah. What have you done?”

He’d heard. Surely he’d heard the incantation.

Obadiah’s heart skipped a beat.

Jonathan took a faltering step forward. “For the love of Heaven, what evil have you summoned?”

Obadiah gripped the knife clipped to his belt. He would kill tonight after all.