Outcast (Moonlight Wolves Book 4) by Jasmine B. Waters (20)

Book 1: Origins

Chapter One

It may not seem like the truth, but once, long ago – I was a girl. I was a normal child. While I always struggled with my beliefs, I tried my best to remain steadfast and hold strong to my family’s beliefs. My parents were on the fringe of the godly. My father had narrowly escaped death back home, in England, after which my family fled to the New World, seeking salvation and divine inspiration.

The New World was a frightening place. Where we had once lived in a grand home with wooden floors and glass panes in our windows, we now had nothing but a small shack with a muddy floor covered in rushes. My father remained convinced that this was best. “Excessive hedonism turns one away from the Lord,” he always said. “Ligeia, it is your duty to make sure that your heart remains steady and true.”

My mother was more concerned with breeding. She had lost three babes in the New World, and I felt as though nothing could ease her grief. Despite my father’s attempt at comfort, Mother remained isolated and cold. When she fell pregnant once more, her devotion to the Lord and Savior seemingly increased tenfold overnight.

At twelve years old, I was now expected to care for my younger brothers and sisters as my mother’s confinement became imminent. The burden of cooking, cleaning, and childrearing fell on my shoulders. Godly children were always expected to be self-sufficient, and my parents had very high expectations of me.

For the longest time, my biggest regret was not living up to the hopes and expectations of my family. But now…well, it’s unfair to make assumptions.

I’ll just have to let you decide for yourself.

--

Ipswich, Massachusetts – 1681

“Ligeia!” William Arrowsmith stood at the base of the stairs, bellowing loudly. A thunder of footsteps sounded above as William’s four children raced down the stairs, giggling and squealing.

“What cheer, Father?” Ligeia asked, sobering instantly. Her long, dark hair was bound in a knot at the back of her head, and her blue eyes flickered with intelligence.

William frowned. He was a man in early middle age, the dark hair on his head shot through with white and grey.

“Daughter,” he said sternly. “Prithee, tell me, have you finished your lessons for the day?”

Ligeia shook her head. “No, Father,” she said. She turned to her younger sisters. “Drusilla and Abigail have been fighting. It makes my head ache!”

William glared. “Daughter, you will soon be a woman,” he said. “You must learn to shoulder the responsibilities of a family.”

Ligeia hung her head. “Yes, Father,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”

“Do not apologize to me,” William said sharply.

Ligeia nodded. She turned to Abigail. “Sister, take the others outside,” she said softly. “I must pray with Mother.”

At age twelve, Ligeia was a serious young girl on the cusp of womanhood. She’d inherited her mother’s slender figure and her father’s intensity.

Ten-year-old Abigail was as different from Ligeia as night from day. She cocked her head to the side and licked her lower lip, looking impudent.
“Heed my words,” Ligeia said sternly. “Do not disobey me!”

Abigail rolled her eyes before taking the three remaining siblings by the hand and guiding them outside. Left alone with her father, Ligeia once again looked him in the eye.

“Father, tell me,” she said softly, “how is Mother today?”

“Pray for the soul of the babe,” William barked. “I have a meeting with the minister. He is coming to visit. Ligeia, prepare some libations.”

Ligeia nodded. She crossed the dirt floor of the small, wooden home, pausing as she walked past her parents’ chamber to gaze inside at her mother. Constance Arrowsmith’s belly was swollen huge with child, and she lay on a bed of straw, whimpering. Her face was bloodless and pale.

Ligeia knew it was wrong to disobey her father. Still, she couldn’t help but sneak inside the chamber and kneel at her mother’s side.

“Mother,” Ligeia whispered. She put a hand to her mother’s forehead; it came away warm and sticky with perspiration. “Is your time coming close?”

“It shouldn’t be more than another fortnight,” Constance said. Her features screwed tightly in pain. “I am getting older, that is all, child.”

Feeling helpless, Ligeia stroked her mother’s sweaty hair. The roots were dark with oil as Ligeia brushed the hair away from her forehead.

“Father has yet another meeting with Minister Boggust,” Ligeia whispered.

“Hush, child,” Constance said. She whimpered again. “Your father’s affairs are not for you to dwell upon.”

“It’s the third time he’s come to the house,” Ligeia said. She leaned back on her haunches, wondering what her father could possibly be doing with the minister. Minister Boggust was an intimidating man – elderly and stern, with closely-cropped white hair and bright grey eyes. Ligeia always felt as if the minister could peer directly into her soul. She was perpetually waiting for the day the minister would point a finger at her chest and call her evil.

“Ligeia, leave,” Constance said. She sighed and sat up in bed. “Tend to your brothers and sisters. The devil makes use of idle girls,” she added in a warning tone.

Ligeia clambered to her feet and wiped her palms on her homespun apron. “Yes, Mother,” she said. She dipped her head. “Fare thee well.”

Constance was silent as Ligeia closed the wooden door to the bedroom, but Ligeia’s heart was twisted with anxiety all the same. Since the terrifying journey to the New World, Constance had suffered three miscarriages – each more bloody and horrifying than the last. It was enough to make Ligeia swear off the idea of ever having children herself, although she knew it was unavoidable when it would come time for her to wed.

I’m only two and ten years, she thought as she reached into the pantry for a hunk of dark bread. Father and Mother will keep me at home until I’m at least six and ten. Ligeia stood on her tiptoes and felt for the earthenware jug, then filled it with ale from the larder. She set the ale and the bread down on the crudely hewn wooden table, then walked out into the fresh, crisp sunshine of the spring day.

Abigail and Drusilla were seated on the grass, playing with dandelions and weeds. John and Thomas were roughhousing, tumbling around, and shoving one another into the dirt.

Ligeia crossed her arms over her chest. “Thomas! John!”

The boys didn’t stop. Anger surged inside of Ligeia, and she walked over, grabbing her younger brother, Thomas, by the scruff of the neck.

“Father and the minister are having a meeting,” Ligeia hissed. “Do you want us all to look like heathens? Do you?”

Thomas cowered. He shook with fear as Ligeia released him. “No,” he whispered. “I am sorry, sister.”

The sound of a horse trotting up to the small, wooden home made the children fall silent. Ligeia watched as the minister dismounted, then leashed his reins to a fencepost. His grey eyes glittered with anger as he stormed inside the house.

“Prithee, be silent,” Ligeia hissed to her younger siblings.

Abigail glared at Ligeia. “I know what thou are doing,” she said slowly.

Ligeia’s blue eyes blazed with anger. “You also know that I am your elder,” she said, walking closer and staring down at her younger sister.

“It is a sin to eavesdrop,” Abigail said. She bit her lip.

Ignoring her, Ligeia crossed the yard and crept back inside the house. She closed her eyes, creeping along the dirt floor. The rushes crackled under her feet as she moved, but she didn’t turn or slow down.

Snippets of voices from the other room filtered through the dusty air and straight to Ligeia’s ears. She silently crept closer, pressing her ear to the thin wall.

“The sins of the people of Ipswich,” William said heavily. “I fear they are too much to bear. I fear my family will fall to the devil; that the whole town will fall to the devil if we do not act!”

“William, you need not concern yourself with these matters,” Minister Boggust replied. There was a pause, and Ligeia heard the unmistakable sound of chewing. “I advise you to let me and the other godly ministers address this.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but I believe you are not doing everything in your power to seek and destroy the evil among us.”

“William, are you implying that we are idle?”

“I am implying the evil is too great to be handled by a single man.”

Minister Boggust laughed, but the sound sent a shiver down Ligeia’s spine.

“I assure you, William that is not the case.”

“There is evil everywhere!” William hissed loudly. “I see it every morn, every night with the rise of the moon. God is nowhere to be found in this village, Minister.”

Ligeia heard the creak of a wooden chair as Minister Boggust stood.

“William, I will not argue with a man who refuses to listen to God’s truth,” the minister said. “I cannot call on you again, not until you defer to me as the true minister of God’s beliefs.”

Ligeia dashed outside, forgetting to be quiet as she ran. Abigail and Drusilla were still seated on the grass, quietly singing a rhyme. John was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree, his eyes closed against the late-morning sun. And Thomas was nowhere in sight.

“Thomas!” Ligeia yelled. “Thomas!”

Abigail gave her sister a smug look. “If you had not been sinning, sister, you would have seen that he has gone.”

Ligeia slapped her sister across the face, hard enough for Abigail’s head to whip backward.

“Hateful,” Ligeia spat under her breath. She gathered her petticoats in one hand and ran across the yard, screaming her brother’s name. As the panic and fear mounted in her belly, she felt her skin grow cold and chilled. ‘Abigail was right,’ she thought as she ran faster and faster. ‘I have begun to sin, and I do not know how to stop!’

A boyish giggle halted Ligeia dead in her tracks. Gasping, she saw that Thomas had wandered into the vacant lot by the edge of the Arrowsmith’s property. There was a huge pile of wood and a few tools for clearing away grass and bushes.

Ligeia gasped. Thomas was walking steadily toward an old man, who was clutching an axe. Unlike the other men in the village, he had long, white hair that hung around his shoulders. His beard was also pure white, and his skin belied the appearance of someone who had spent a great deal of time in the sun. He was as wrinkled as a walnut, with bright, shining eyes.

“Thomas!” Ligeia shrieked. “Thomas!”

Thomas turned around, giggling. As Ligeia ran toward him breathlessly, the old man erupted into laughter.

“Child, calm yourself,” he said. His accent was strange – thick and almost fluid, like honey.

“Thomas!” Ligeia snapped. She glared at her younger brother.

The smile disappeared from Thomas’ face as he slowly walked to join his sister. Ligeia grabbed Thomas by the wrist and started pulling him back toward the Arrowsmith’s yard.

“Not very friendly, eh?” the old man called. When Ligeia didn’t reply, he laughed heartily. “You will be!”

Ligeia shivered. Something about the old man made her think of the church meetings when sin and evil were discussed. The way he’d smiled had been almost…otherworldly.

“You disobey me one more time,” Ligeia hissed to her brother, “and I will tell Father that you have been colluding with the devil!”

Thomas stuck his tongue out, and Ligeia resisted the urge to slap him, too. She glared, and after a few seconds, his expression softened.

“I am sorry, sister,” Thomas said morosely. “I swear.”

Ligeia took a deep breath. “Go,” she said. “Go and be with your other siblings.”

It hadn’t always been like this. Back in England (or at home, as Ligeia privately thought of her former country), Ligeia had enjoyed the company of her siblings. Life hadn’t been so hard or nearly so bleak as it was in the New World. There had been time to play, time to sit in the dusty panels of sun on the dining room floor and practice making letters, or sewing stitches in old clothes of Mother’s. A nurse had been under the employ of William, and she was responsible for the younger children.

But William had been unable to cope with, what he saw as, the worst wicked of evils that began to pervade Glastonbury. The English Civil War had barely been over before William saw a terrifying split among the others in the village. Some families chose to secretly practice Catholicism. Whenever they were found, they were executed. And while most families belonged to the Church of England, William found the Church just as vile and fanciful as the Catholic Church.

Ligeia had been a child when William and Constance made the decision to book fare on a massive ship and cross the ocean. She was the only Arrowsmith child to have memories of living in England, albeit very vague ones. She wouldn’t have admitted it to her parents – or anyone – but Ligeia missed England constantly. She missed the wet, misty weather and the variety of life. Everything in the New World was plain, difficult, and bland.

And the paranoia that spread through Ipswich like wildfire was enough to make life practically unbearable.

Ligeia walked into the house just as William was replacing the pitcher of ale on top of the larder.

“Father, prithee, what business did Minister Boggust come to tell?”

William’s eyes hardened. “Do not ask such fanciful questions,” he said. “Go and look in on your mother. Prepare a meal,” he added. “And watch over your brothers and sisters.”

“I do not think Ipswich is full of sin,” Ligeia said suddenly. She looked at her father. “Father, why are you so afraid?”

William grabbed Ligeia by the shoulder and roughly yanked her across the room. She felt the blaze of fire from the hearth hot upon her cheeks. When she struggled in her father’s grip, he only grabbed her harder.

“Do not make me question the nature of my own daughter,” William growled, “or straight into the fire you will go!”

“Father, I–”

“You listen to me,” William growled. “Sin is afoot in Ipswich; sin and the devil are everywhere, Ligeia! You must stay alert and not fall prey to such evil!”

Ligeia bit her tongue. She was tempted to argue with her father, but she clamped her lips shut until William released his grip on her body. When he pulled his fingers away, a dull ache bled from her shoulder all the way down her back.

“Evil surrounds us,” William growled. “Witches and devils and demons in the air, in the night!” He clenched his teeth together, and Ligeia pulled away from his gust of foul breath. “I will see to it that all witches are burned, burned until the evil has left their bodies!”

“Father, this cannot be true!” Ligeia cried. Fear crept into her heart as she thought of how painful it would feel to burn at the stake, to have the flames lick over her petticoats and apron, melting the flesh from her bones.

“Witches,” William spat. “They ride at night and bear the devil young. They corrupt the minds of the innocent and seek to destroy all that is good and right with the world!”

“I have never seen a witch,” Ligeia said softly.

The sting of her father’s slap left Ligeia reeling. Tears came to her eyes, but she angrily blinked them away before William could notice.

“Heed me, child,” William said darkly. “Do not make me regret what I have said.” He stared at Ligeia for a long moment, then turned on his heel and stalked angrily out of the house.

Ligeia went to her mother. Constance was sitting up in bed, rubbing her arms. The pain seemed to have stopped, at least for the moment, but her face was lined and creased with exhaustion.

“Daughter, help me,” Constance said. She held out her hands and Ligeia gripped them firmly before pulling her mother out of bed. “I am as weak as a kitten.”

“The baby will come soon,” Ligeia said. “And then your strength will return, Mother. I know it.”

Constance narrowed her eyes at her eldest daughter. “Do not make such false prophecies, child,” she said. “You know how the devil can play upon one’s mind.”

Ligeia hung her head. “Yes, Mother,” she said. “It is only that I wish for you to be well once more.”

“If God wills the return of my strength, I welcome his blessing.”

Ligeia sat down on the end of the mattress. “There is a man outside,” she said. “A strange man.”

Constance nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Your father and I received news that the property has been bought by man called Henrik.” The name sounded strange and foreign, like the whisper of a dark wind. “He is not like us, child.”

Ligeia frowned.

“He is not a member of the truly godly,” Constance continued.

Ligeia almost mentioned how Thomas had found his way onto Henrik’s property, but she kept her lips tightly fastened.

“Ligeia?” Constance looked into her daughter’s eyes, searching.

Ligeia shook her head. “I do not have anything to say,” she said quietly.
“You keep away from that man,” Constance said. Her nostrils flared, and she looked proud. “A man like that is dangerous, child.”

Ligeia nodded. A shiver ran down her spine when she recalled the way Henrik had looked at her.

“Do not disobey me,” Constance said. She gasped and clutched her belly as a sudden pain struck her.

“Mother!” Ligeia cried. “Father!”

“Hush, child!” Constance snapped. “Do not alarm your father.” The pain seemed to pass, and she relaxed against the wall of the cabin, rubbing her swollen and distended belly with both hands.

“What is the man doing in Ipswich?”

Constance’s eyes blazed, and she glared at her eldest daughter. “Prithee, child, do not make such demands of your mother!” She sighed and yawned. “You keep away from him,” she said sternly. “If I find out you disobeyed me, I’ll have your father throw you out!”

Ligeia nodded. She stood up and wiped her palms on her petticoats.

“Is there anything else, Mother?”

Constance gave a brief shake of her head, and Ligeia left the room.

Chapter Two

Even as a child, I had my doubts about the extent of my parents’ knowledge. Ever since we abandoned England for the New World, my father seemed to grow more pious and devout by the day. I was sure that in time, the same ideations would come to me. I had doubts about God and religion, but it seemed to be something that strengthened with age – something that would come naturally with enough time and wisdom.

Little did I know, I had a lot to learn.

Despite the warnings of William and Constance, Ligeia felt more intrigued by Henrik with each passing day. She took to sitting outside in the sun with her morning sewing and mending, and watching Henrik as he turned the empty field of a lot into a small, but cozy home.

The few times Henrik called out to her, Ligeia ignored him. The first time it happened, she leapt from the ground and scampered inside, forgetting her mending. When Constance yelled at her for dirtying her work, Ligeia neglected any mention of Henrik.

But it wasn’t just the arrival of the strange man that had upended Ligeia’s world. Everything was changing – she was changing, transforming from a girl into a young woman.

William eyed Ligeia one morning as she served the family gruel and bread. “Daughter, how old are you now?”

Ligeia kept her head down as she moved around the table, ladling a spoonful of gruel into each bowl.

“I am two and ten, Father.”

William chuckled. “Soon, you will have a family of your own,” he said. “Prithee, child, tell me, does that please you?”

Ligeia kept her expression neutral as she met her father’s gaze. “What will please God and my family will please me.”

“Good girl,” William replied. “Ligeia, go and fetch milk from the goats in the shed. They are braying with full bellies.”

Ligeia took the wooden bucket and made her way outside to the shed. The morning was bitterly cold – it was hard to believe that spring was well underway – and she shivered under her thin gown. The two goats were circling in their pen, nuzzling and chewing at each other affectionately.

Ligeia eyed them with disdain. She hadn’t had any feelings about farm animals until her family had come to the New World, but now there was something about the blank eyes of goats, chickens, and cows that frightened her.

“Settle, thee,” Ligeia muttered as she reached forward and took ahold of the goat’s udders. The goat pawed the ground, eyeing Ligeia with beady eyes as warm milk splashed into the bucket. Despite the chilly morning, the work was hard, and soon, Ligeia was panting and sweating.

“Ah, good morrow!”

A cold stab of fear pierced Ligeia’s heart, but she didn’t look up as she heard Henrik’s voice booming through the air. She stuck the tip of her tongue out between her lips, concentrating hard on filling the bucket with fresh, warm milk.

“Child, can you not hear?”

Ligeia didn’t reply. She finally looked up and over her shoulder to where Henrik was standing at the edge of his property.

“Child, come here,” Henrik said. There was a kindly look in his eyes. “And bring some milk, would ye?”

Ligeia gave a terse shake of her head. When she looked back down in the bucket, she screamed in fright. The pale, yellowish milk had turned to dark red blood. Ligeia moaned softly as the sickening scent of iron reached her nostrils. In a panic, she leapt away from the bucket, kicking it with her foot.

“Child, I did not mean to scare ye!” Henrik bellowed.

Frightened, Ligeia grabbed the bucket and ran toward the Arrowsmith cottage. Henrik stood behind her, booming with laughter as she ran.

Inside, William admonished his daughter. “Ligeia! Prithee, tell me, why are you disobeying my orders?”

Ligeia kept her head down. The vision of the blood was still fresh in her mind, and she shuddered, unable to rid her senses of the rich, meaty scent.

“I was frightened, Father,” Ligeia said shakily. She twined her fingers together; they were cold and sweaty.

William frowned. “And thou has wasted milk!”

“I did not mean to,” Ligeia said quickly. She stepped backward, then turned on her heel and ran up the stairs to the large room where she and her younger brothers and sisters slept. In the middle of the day, the room was empty. Ligeia dove onto the straw mattress and pulled the rough blanket over her head. When she heard footsteps, she began to shake at the knowledge her father would likely beat her for spilling the milk. But these footsteps were too quiet, too soft to be that of William Arrowsmith.

Seconds later, Abigail poked her head inside the room. “Sister, what is wrong? What caused you to flee?” Abigail frowned, walking over to the mattress and sitting down. “You are never afraid of anything in this world!”

Ligeia was still shaking. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and shivered.

“I…” She trailed off, biting her chapped lower lip. “Things have been happening,” she said softly. “Things like what Father predicted would come at the end of the world.”

Abigail’s eyes went wide. “Ligeia!”

“It is true, Abigail,” Ligeia said miserably. She shuddered again. “I do not wish to continue seeing such horrors.”

Abigail touched her sister’s shoulder. “Sister, tell me. What have you seen?”

“The milk turned to blood in the pail,” Ligeia whispered, almost inaudibly. “I could smell it, Abigail. It was real; I know it was.”

“I think you are ill,” Abigail said. “You have been acting strangely for weeks now.”

Ligeia closed her eyes and sighed. “That is not all,” she said softly. “I cannot close my eyes; I cannot sleep. For when I dream…”

“What, sister?”

“For when I dream, I see the ungodly ones,” Ligeia said. The words felt too large for her throat, and for a moment she was afraid of choking. Then, suddenly, the feeling passed.

“Sister!” Abigail covered her mouth and leapt from the mattress in horror. “The devil is at work!”

Ligeia shook her head quickly until her black hair tumbled free from its grips and loosed around her shoulders. “No,” she said quickly. “Do not tell Father. Do not tell Mother, sister.”

“I must!” Abigail’s face was white with fear. “I must tell Mother and Father that the devil is here!”

Ligeia grabbed her younger sister’s wrist and pulled her close. “No! I swear it, Abigail. I will spend the whole day praying and repenting. I pray that God will pull me close once again, that I will be pure and righteous.”

Abigail stared at Ligeia for a long time before scampering down the stairs. Ligeia groaned as she heard her younger sister’s voice bubbling through the cabin, informing her parents of everything she had just witnessed.

---

Ligeia stayed upstairs all day, afraid each time she heard the thud of footsteps on the wooden floor. She prayed and prayed, growing more desperate with each passing hour. Despite her fervent calls to God, she felt only distant and removed from everything holy. Try as she might, she found it impossible to banish the ghastly image of the bucket filled with blood from her brain.

In fact, the more Ligeia’s mind wandered, the more afraid she felt. Whenever she closed her eyes, she was subjected to numerous and horrifically intrusive thoughts. Once, she saw a group of men and women, all hooded and cloaked in black. They were swaying back and forth and chanting in Latin; she recognized the ancient tongue from church rituals back in England. But this wasn’t anything like a church ritual. If anything, it was dark and evil, the work of the devil himself.

“Ligeia.” William’s voice was a stern command. “Prithee, look upon your father.”

Ligeia’s knees were aching from hours of kneeling on the wooden floor, and her throat was raw from praying under her breath and lack of water.

“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said. “What news have you brought me?”

“You are a troublesome child,” William said sternly. “The day you become a woman is the day I cast you from this family forever. You are to be married to a man from the village.”

“No!” Ligeia shrieked. “Father, do not force me!”

William’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Go from me,” he hissed. “Go from me before I am forced to act in the devil’s stead.”

Ligeia leapt from the floor and bolted down the stairs as quickly as her feet would carry her. She stumbled but didn’t fall, running out of the house and across the yard. The woods loomed ahead, dark and black with the magic of night. Ligeia’s lungs ached as she gasped for air, and she was so thirsty that she felt nauseous. Still, she ran on.

The woods felt cool and shady. Ligeia shivered but didn’t stop running, her feet churning over dead leaves and branches.

“Ho, child!”

The sound of Henrik’s voice made Ligeia shriek with fear. She stumbled on a fallen branch and landed on her hands and knees, roughly scraping her palms against shards of rock. Henrik stood there, looking larger than life.

“Child, do not be afraid of me,” Henrik said. His accent seemed even thicker than it had before. “Come here.”

Trembling with fear, Ligeia climbed to her feet. She stayed rooted firmly to the spot, as if Henrik would think she had vanished.

Henrik clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Come here, child,” he said. “I swear – I shan’t hurt you.”

Ligeia shook her head. “I cannot,” she said softly.

Henrik roared with laughter. “And why is that? Because of your pa, eh?”

Ligeia glared. She turned on her heel to leave just as Henrik spoke again.

“I have seen the future for you, child,” Henrik said. He shook his head slowly.

Ligeia knew she should run. She knew she should bolt away from Henrik as fast as possible, run back to the safety of the Arrowsmith cottage, and never speak to this strange man again. But something about the way he spoke made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“What have you seen?” Ligeia asked in a quiet, trembling voice.

Henrik smiled mysteriously. “Aye, so now you want to know?”

Ligeia stared at him.

“Your future, child, is tied to your destiny.” Henrik spread his hands through the air and goose flesh sprang up all over Ligeia’s body. “I have seen you wedded to a man from Ipswich.”

“Is it…is the marriage a happy one?”

Henrik grew solemn. “No,” he said. “‘Tis not. ‘Tis cruel and demanding, your future husband.” He leaned in close, and his words chilled Ligeia to the very bone. “You bear many a child, but few live beyond the first hour.”

Ligeia shivered with fear. She hated the idea of marriage, especially when it came time to think about her ‘wifely duty’ and bearing children. After seeing her mother have three miscarriages in such a short time span, Ligeia was terrified of suffering the same fate. And although she had taken joy in having younger brothers and sisters, watching her mother give birth had always been a particularly horrifying experience.

“You can change your fate,” Henrik said heavily. His eyes flashed and glittered. “But you must take matters into your own hands, child. You are strong. You need not let yourself be beaten down by those around you, don’t you see?” He threw his head back and cackled.

“You…you art full of dark magic!” Ligeia cried. Fear raced through her body, and finally, she turned on her heels and fled.

Chapter Three

The small village of Ipswich buzzed about Henrik Larsson, the foreigner, for quite some time. Spring turned to summer, and still the villagers talked and gossiped whenever Minister Boggust wasn’t around to chastise them. Mother and Father were no exception. Despite Father’s piety, he wasn’t above making snide remarks about the quality of our new neighbor’s dwelling. Henrik wasn’t a tradesman. In fact, most people had no idea how he truly lived. He spent most days alone, in his cabin. At night, he walked through the woods. It terrified me, and I never went under the shadow of the trees ever again…at least, not until much later.

Constance’s screams and cries of agony filled the air. Her facial features were screwed up and shiny with sweat as she grunted and writhed on the straw mattress.

Ligeia sighed as she reached down with a cool rag and wiped the sweat from her mother’s brow.

“There, Mother,” she said softly. “It will all be over soon. It will all be over.”

Constance shrieked again – an animal-like cry that filled Ligeia with horror and dread. Her mother had been in an agonizingly rough labor since the wee hours of the morning, and Ligeia and Abigail hadn’t left her side.

William, along with some of the other men in the village, were meeting with Minister Boggust and making arrangements to build a new church. The current church was a small, windowless shack. William and the other men were convinced that if they raised a large, airy structure, church would become a more popular option among the people of Ipswich. William had spent the previous week talking about how the church was losing its grip on the godly. Since the churches of the New World were plain and spartan, he reasoned, people felt less incentivized to come.

It was something that clearly enraged William. Ligeia had shuddered to see her father so angry, ranting about sin and vanity.

“God’s flock is straying, all due to lack of stained glass panes and lace,” William had sneered, driving his hand into the table again and again. “We deserve to burn, children! All of us – even the godly!”

It terrified Ligeia and her younger brothers and sisters. But today, she had more pressing matters at hand: the mortality of her mother, and hopefully that of the baby as well.

“Ligeia,” Constance grunted. She gripped Ligeia’s hand until the fingers were numb. “It’s coming,” she added in a hideous wail. “It’s coming soon!”

“Abigail, run and fetch water!” Ligeia barked. She stood over her mother’s bed, watching in horror as her mother’s belly shifted and moved. “Prithee, run as quickly as you can!”

Abigail darted out of the room, looking nauseous and terrified. Ligeia almost envied her younger sister for being able to leave at the moment. Because she was the eldest child in the family, Ligeia knew her place was at her mother’s side until the babe was born.

The chill spring had turned into a surprisingly hot and humid summer. Ligeia felt as though she would boil in her own sweat as she fanned her mother, brushing Constance’s sweaty hair away from her forehead. ‘Prithee,’ she thought desperately, ‘live, Mother! I need you to live!’

Constance groaned and shifted. She gulped for air, then lay back on the straw mattress with her legs akimbo. The straw bed was stained with blood and fluid, and the room smelled sharply of iron.

“Mother, be strong,” Ligeia whispered.

“Pray for me, child,” Constance said weakly. “My strength is beginning to fade.”

Kneeling at the side of the bed, Ligeia dipped her head in prayer. She prayed until her throat was raw and her knees ached from kneeling. She prayed for her mother, for the child, for her family to survive.

Abigail ran into the room, carrying a bucket full of water. Ligeia took the bucket from her younger sister and set it on the floor. She dipped a cloth into the lukewarm water, then sponged Constance’s forehead.

“In England,” Ligeia said quickly to her scared sister, “we had a midwife. But no midwife here; Ipswich isn’t like home.”

Abigail’s eyes were wide with fear. “Ipswich is our home,” she said slowly.

Constance screamed in pain once again, and there was the sound of something tearing. Ligeia crawled on the mattress between her mother’s thighs, reaching blindly. There was something slick and hot, and she gripped it, pulling gently.

“Mother, push,” Ligeia cried. “Push!”

Constance screamed. She arched her back and strained, clutching handfuls of the mattress until her knuckles were white with the effort. At last, a bloody infant slid into Ligeia’s arms, wailing and screeching.

“Mother!” Ligeia cried. “A babe!” A female infant lay in her hands, kicking and screaming. Ligeia was amazed at the scale of the features – the baby’s nose was smaller than her thumbnail, but perfectly shaped. Her fingers were like little worms, and her head was full of dark hair coated with blood and slime.

Constance had passed out. Her eyes were closed and her face was still etched with pain as Ligeia took shears from Abigail and cut the umbilical cord. The baby looked helpless as it squalled, crying and screaming. Ligeia wiped the baby’s forehead with the damp cloth before swaddling it as best as she could in some rough homespun.

“Will Mother go to live with God?” Abigail whispered.

“She is resting,” Ligeia said. “She will survive.”

“Ligeia, I’m scared,” Abigail whimpered. “Mother could perish.”

“She will not,” Ligeia snapped. “Now take the babe!” Ligeia passed the squalling infant to her younger sister before walking out of the room. She was so weary that she felt it in her bones, but she knew there was no time to rest.

Ligeia started a fire in the hearth and filled the cauldron with water. As she waited for it to boil, she sat down on the stone and leaned against the wall. It felt good to be idle, even just for a moment, and she rocked back and forth, cradling her elbows in her hands.

Ever since Ligeia had stumbled upon Henrik in the woods, her visions had mercifully stopped. She knew she should be grateful; perhaps this signified that she was again restored to grace in the eyes of God. But instead, Ligeia felt more fearful than ever before. She wondered if the visions had shifted to Abigail, or perhaps to one of her younger brothers. The idea was nothing short of terrifying to Ligeia. What if her whole family was being stalked by the devil, one by one, until they fell from grace?

Constance slept for over an hour. When she woke, Ligeia passed her the infant and looked away as Constance parted her shift for the infant to nurse. Despite the painful ordeal she’d gone through, Constance looked better than she had in weeks.

“How are you, Mother?” Ligeia asked softly. “Does it hurt very much?”

“I am always filled with joy when a new babe has come,” Constance said softly. She stroked the dried blood away from the baby’s head.

“What shall you name the babe?”

Constance didn’t look up. She cradled the baby in her arms, staring down with eyes full of love and admiration.

The door opened and slammed and William stepped in the room. His face was angry, but his expression melted when he saw the little babe. He strode into the bedroom with purpose before reaching down to pluck the child from his wife’s arms.

“Are you poorly?”

Constance shook her head. Some of her strength was beginning to return, but her face was still bloodless and pale.

“No,” she said softly. “William, we’ve had another girl.”

“Aye,” William said. He turned to Ligeia. “And fitting. I have news for my eldest.”

Ligeia’s heart sunk. “Father, what do you mean?”

William patted the infant and gently returned it to Constance’s arms.

“Father, tell me,” Ligeia demanded. “Prithee!”

William sighed. “I have found a place for you,” he said. “In Salem.”

Ligeia’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she thought she would be sick.

“You mean, I am going away? To live with another family?”

William nodded soberly. “Aye,” he said, “for a year. And if things are promising, you will marry the son.”

“No,” Ligeia said. She shook her head, stomping defiantly on the ground. “I will not go.”

William grabbed Ligeia’s arm and pulled her close. “You will heed me, chit,” he said. “I refuse to allow my own daughter to go against my wishes.”

“Mother, please,” Ligeia begged. Her eyes filled with tears as she turned to face her mother. “Please! Do not let Father send me away!”

“Ligeia, this isn’t a punishment,” Constance said. Her eyes hardened. “You are no longer a child,” she said. “You are becoming a woman. It is time for you to have a family, to bring godly children into the world.”
“No,” Ligeia said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I will not go!”

William yanked Ligeia roughly by the arm, pulling her close and slapping her across the face. She cried out in pain as the slaps grew heavier and her cheek was burning and stinging in agony. William’s face screwed with rage and spittle flew from his mouth as he slapped his eldest daughter.

“You will obey me,” William ordered. “Lest I cast you out to find your own way!”

Ligeia whimpered in pain. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. Do not make me go!”

William sighed. “Aye, child, I know it is not what you wanted.” He shook his head. “But it is the decision I have made for you, and you will do me proud.”

Tears streamed silently down Ligeia’s face.

“On the day you become a woman, I will make arrangements with the family,” William said. “You will act as a household servant for a year, in order to cover the cost of your room and board. And if you prove a suitable match for the household, you will wed Thomas Whittier, the eldest son, at the year’s end.”

Ligeia stood mute. She recalled Henrik’s warning, but she found she could not make herself refuse her father. The idea of being cast out was horrifying – too horrifying to bear. Ligeia shivered as she thought of being alone in the woods, curled under a sodden tree in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said softly. “I will do your bidding.”

William’s face relaxed and he released his grip on his daughter’s shoulder. “Aye,” he said. “You are headstrong, child, but this is the godly path. All women must obey their fathers, and then their husbands.”

I hate this life, Ligeia thought suddenly. Rage burst open inside of her chest. I cannot stand the idea of never being in control of my own fate! It’s not fair!
“William,” Constance said softly.

Ligeia’s heart flipped. She yearned for her mother to take her side, to stand with her against William. Maybe she will come to my aid, Ligeia thought as she stared at her mother, nursing the babe. Maybe it is not too late. And I have not yet begun to bleed. Perhaps I have months, even years before I must leave home.

“Yes?” William ignored his daughter and stepped closer to the bed. “What is it?”

“The babe,” Constance said. “Her name shall be Prudence.”

William nodded solemnly. “Prudence Arrowsmith,” he said quietly. “After the baptism, I will inscribe the name in the family bible.”

Constance beamed with pride. Ligeia’s hopes faded once more.

My parents don’t care for me, she thought angrily. She balled her hands into fists as the taste of iron seeped into her mouth. They’ve already forgotten my misery. And the same thing will happen with Abigail, and Drusilla, and yes, even to baby Prudence when she comes of age.

Henrik’s warning flashed in Ligeia’s head, but instead of saying anything else, she slunk out of the room, feeling utterly defeated.

Chapter Four

Months passed, and my blood cycle still did not appear. I felt both nervous and frightened each time my belly twinged with pain, each time I felt swollen and bloated. But there was no blood on the inside of my petticoats, and I remained a child for another year and a half.

My father grew impatient to be rid of me. Six children under one small roof was a great burden, and the responsibility of raising my brothers and sisters often fell to me. I took some small, petty delight in the knowledge that once I left home, the family would be lost, if only temporarily. But my younger sister, Abigail, was now the age I was when Father had brokered my own marriage. I knew she wouldn’t have much longer at home, either.

The strange visions never returned. I couldn’t forget them; I knew I’d never be able to rid my mind of the bucket filled with blood. But for the most part, life in Ipswich returned to normal. Even the buzz around Henrik Larsson died down. After a while, most people saw him as an eccentric old man, albeit not a godly one.

My father and mother grew more pious by the day. When I was thirteen, Father came home, looking defeated and angry. He had quarreled with Minister Boggust, and our family had been cast out of the church. Father said it was a blessing. He said the rest of the village placed too high of an importance on vanity and sin. He said that our family needed to stick together and remain godly, remain as pure and free of sin as possible.

The morning of my fourteenth birthday, I woke up in a pool of rusty blood. My mother scolded me for not being more careful, but she didn’t attempt to hide the news from my father. And later that day, my father made arrangements with James Whittier.

I didn’t cry when I left home. I was too angry with my father, and even angrier with my mother for failing to protect me from his wrath. But if I had known what horrors awaited me in Salem, I would have cried until my eyes were as dry as gravel.

---

Salem, Massachusetts – 1683

“What a pretty picture you make,” Thomas Whittier sneered. He stood with one foot planted on the steps, the other on the landing with his arms crossed against his muscular chest. “I should have Mother make you do this each day.”

Ligeia silently fumed. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a boar-bristle brush and lye mixed with water. It was backbreaking work. She had never thought her knees could ache as much as they did right now. It had taken her the better part of the day to scrub stairs, and now she had two whole floors of dusty wooden planks awaiting her. Despite the chill in the air, she was overheated and flushed. Sweat dripped down her forehead, soaking the neck of her gown. Her dark hair was plastered to her head with sweat, and her blue eyes glittered with hatred.

“Do not ignore me,” Thomas said. He glared at Ligeia. She still did not look up, keeping her attention on the work at hand. When she still did not reply, Thomas strode across the floor and grabbed her by the back of the neck, twisting his sausage-like fingers into her delicate skin until she whimpered with pain.

“Yes, Master Thomas?” Ligeia whimpered. Her blue eyes flashed with anger.

“That’s better,” Thomas replied. He released her and strode around her in a circle, keeping his eyes glued to her figure beneath the thin, homespun gown. “I am eager for your time to pass more quickly,” he said. “Do you feel the same?”

“Yes, Master Thomas,” Ligeia grunted. She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply as pain shot up from her knees to her thin thighs.

Thomas grinned cruelly. He squatted down. When Ligeia did not look up, he tangled his fingers in her sweaty hair and yanked her face to meet his own.
“You are a lovely thing,” Thomas sneered. He licked his lips, letting his eyes trail down her body and focus on her budding breasts. “And I know exactly how to treat things that are so lovely.”

Ligeia glared, but she did not speak.

“Only, you have one problem,” Thomas said. “You are too quiet.” He released his grip on her hand and stood up, circling her once again. He snickered as he leaned in and swatted her hard on the behind, smacking her again and again until his palm stung from the force of it.
“You stupid beast!” Thomas shouted angrily. “Make noise! I want to hear you cry!”

Ligeia was biting the inside of her mouth to keep from howling with pain, but finally, she relented and released a loud cry of suffering and hurt. Thomas grinned. He smacked her buttocks all the harder until Ligeia collapsed on the soapy floor.

“You little wench,” Thomas sneered. “Pathetic!” He kicked her roughly in the stomach. This time, Ligeia’s cry of pain was genuine. Tears flooded her eyes, and she sniffled, rolling into a ball and hugging her knees to her chest with both arms. Her cheeks burned with shame as Thomas grinned down at her, evidently enjoying the sight of his betrothed in pain.

“Leave me alone,” Ligeia hissed.

Thomas snickered. His boots were filthy with mud, and he smiled at Ligeia, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he strode around the room, covering the floor with mud and dirt.

“For now,” Thomas said cheerfully. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the room, humming under his breath.

Ligeia took a deep breath and hauled herself into a sitting position. Her whole body ached. She hated living with the Whittier family more than she’d ever thought possible. Thomas, the eldest son (and her soon-to-be husband) was a menacing bully who delighted in tormenting everyone around him – even his mother, Joy, who was the only kind person in the household. When Ligeia had first arrived, she had sensed an ally in Joy. But her trust and happiness eroded quickly as soon as she realized that Joy would offer no true protection against Thomas’ constant cruelties.

The Whittier home was a grand one, the largest in Salem. Ligeia’s father, William, had been very proud when he’d announced to his family that Ligeia would be marrying into wealth. But Ligeia deeply regretted not standing firm or running away. Life in the grand house was horrible, and she spent her days cleaning, cooking, and sometimes watching the younger Whittier children.

James Whittier, the patriarch of the family, was no better than his son, Thomas. Joy, his wife, and his daughters shrank when he was around. Ligeia was frightened of him, too. James and Thomas were both large, bulky men with shining caps of blond hair and smug, fat cheeks. They looked like overgrown children, and Ligeia grew more horrified with each passing day in the knowledge that she’d soon be having children of her very own.

Heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs, and Ligeia cringed. ‘Prithee, Thomas, leave me alone,’ she prayed silently as she scrubbed the floor. ‘Do not bother me again today!’

The footsteps grew nearer. Ligeia kept her head bent over her work, scrubbing hard at the wooden floor until it shone with suds and water.

“Ligeia.” James’ booming voice made Ligeia cringe. “You work so hard,” he said. He snickered, stepping closer. “Come, take a moment to chat with your father.”

Ligeia shuddered. The worst part of living as a servant in the Whittier home was having to treat James and Joy like parents.

“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said obediently. She stood and curtsied, keeping her gaze lowered at the floor.

“Tell me, are you happy in this godly home?” James snickered. “William seemed to think you would be.”

“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said. James’ eyes slid from her face to her bosom, and Ligeia was reminded, unpleasantly, of Thomas. ‘All men are disgusting,’ she thought as James ogled her. ‘I hate being subjected to this!’

“Come here.” James raised his eyebrows and held out his arms.

Ligeia walked forward stiffly, as if her joints were made of wood. James pulled her into a tight embrace. Ligeia couldn’t decide who was worse: Thomas or his father, James. While Thomas pinched and hit, James was more subtle. He enjoyed holding Ligeia close to his body and refusing to allow her to escape.

James wrapped his arms around Ligeia’s shoulders and pulled her close. She tried not to gag at his bodily stench. It was raw and musky, like onions and stale urine. She stood stiffly as James stroked her back, sliding his hands down to her bottom and squeezing. Her flesh was still sore from where Thomas had spanked her, and she tried not to shake as James squeezed her buttocks.

“You’re a good girl,” James said. His breath was even worse than the rest of his malodorous body, and Ligeia shuddered. “A very, very good girl.”

“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said automatically. She cringed as she felt James’ prick stiffen in his trousers and press against her.

Voices sounded from below, and Ligeia tried to escape from James’ grip, but he held her all the tighter. Ligeia stifled a groan when she recognized Joy’s light soprano making its way up the stairs.

“Husband,” Joy said. She was panting. She was extremely overweight, and her face was perpetually red and shiny with perspiration. “I need your help.”

Finally, James released Ligeia, and she immediately sank into a curtsey for Joy. Joy glanced at her with derision. Ligeia hated the sense of guilt and anger she felt toward Joy. She hated the fact that Joy’s husband treated her like a wanton slut and she was expected to put up with it. But mostly, she hated how Joy grew angry with Ligeia for obeying James.

“How thee fare, wife?” James asked sarcastically. “Our little wench was just cleaning.” He pointed at the floor. “And doing a very poor job. What is all this mud?”

Ligeia’s ears burned. She could not tell the truth, that Thomas was responsible for the state of the room. “I will clean it all,” she promised meekly.
“No supper for you,” James said. He winked, and Ligeia shuddered.

“Go on,” Joy said. She gestured for Ligeia to kneel and once again begin scrubbing the floor. “Continue your work, wench.”

Joy and James left the room, talking amicably. Ligeia heaved a sigh and scrubbed with more force than ever before. She deeply wished to run away, but she had no money and no resources in Salem. The other household servants resented her. Ligeia wasn’t bound to servitude for life, and one day they’d be serving her themselves, and she had no companions in the home or in town. Ligeia was rarely allowed to leave the house, and when she was, she often was expected back in a strict timeframe. She’d had no contact with her own family since she’d left; her few letters had gone unanswered. More than once, Ligeia had thought perhaps James, or even Thomas, was responsible for taking the letters and hiding them. But then one day, she’d heard Joy saying how strange it was that Ligeia never received post from her family.

‘It’s like they forgot all about me,’ Ligeia thought sadly as she slopped a little more water and lye over the floorboards. ‘It’s like I never even existed.’

When she thought of her family, she pictured her brothers and sisters as young as they had been when she’d left. But she knew that Abigail was growing up. Maybe Father would find a place for her in Salem, too. Ligeia desperately wished for the opportunity to run away, but no such time ever presented itself.

Cleaning the floors of the Whittier home took the rest of the day. By the time Ligeia was through, she was exhausted and so hungry that she thought she might faint. She wasn’t looking forward to a cold night, alone in her tiny room, shivering and hungry.

“Girl!”

Ligeia’s head snapped up. The cook, Mary, snapped her fingers.

“Yes?”

Mary gestured for her to come closer. “Come here, wench,” she said. “You must go to the market and fetch fresh fish.” She stamped her foot in exasperation. “The little wench at the stove forgot it earlier, and Master James will be angry.”

Ligeia’s heart began to thump, and she nodded eagerly as Mary handed her a fistful of coins.

“And hurry!” Mary added in a sharp voice. “I can’t have Mistress Joy finding out, or she’ll whip the hide off my back.”

Ligeia pulled a cap over her dark hair and took her cloak from the washroom. The chilly air made her blood pump faster through her veins, but she welcomed a change from the dank, stuffy household. The Whittiers lived in close proximity to the market, but Ligeia knew that she had to hurry as it was almost time for the merchants to clear for the day.

The roads were muddy and slippery from last night’s sleet, and Ligeia stumbled, almost falling once. She pushed her way through the crowded streets, clutching the money tightly in her fist. When she was near a dark alley, she ducked inside and held the money close to her face, counting.

The cook had given her six shillings. Ligeia trembled, suddenly wishing she’d worn her warmer cloak and her thicker boots. She wouldn’t be able to get very far on six shillings, nor would she even be able to buy much food. Her back ached as she leaned against the brick wall, sobbing.

Suddenly, a flash of white hair in the street made Ligeia jump. She gasped as she emerged from the alley. Henrik Larsson, the strange man from Ipswich, was standing in the middle of the street, looking down at a piece of parchment.

“Henrik!” Ligeia cried.

Henrik looked up, frowning. When he saw Ligeia, he nodded. “Aye,” he said. “‘Tis Ligeia, the Arrowsmith girl.”

Ligeia lips her lips. They were dry and cracked. “Aye,” she said softly.

Henrik touched his forehead. “Well, good morrow to you,” he said. He turned around and began walking away from Ligeia.

“Ho!” Ligeia cried. She ran after Henrik, slipping and skidding on the muddy street. She was panting by the time she caught up with him. For such an old man, he had an interesting and slow way of moving down the street.
Henrik turned around, a curious smile on his lips. “Yes?”

“Prithee,” Ligeia begged, “help me.” She began to sob again. Henrik stood there, watching her for a moment with an emotionless look on his haggard face. Then he pulled her close, wrapping her in his cloak.

“I see you did not heed my warning,” Henrik said, but his voice was kind, “and now, you are suffering. Are you wed?”

Ligeia shook her head. She wiped her nose on her cloak and sniffled. “No,” she said. “I am not. But I am to wed within the year to Thomas Whittier.”

Henrik’s expression turned dark. “His cruelty is legendary for such a young man,” he said. “Your father sought to punish you, yes?”

“I do not know,” Ligeia cried helplessly. “I am a servant, and once I marry Thomas, a servant I will remain!” The sobs began to come in earnest, and she wept openly, burying her face in her hands.

“There, now, child,” Henrik said. He slid his fingers under Ligeia’s chin and tilted her face up to meet his. “Do not cry.”

“I cannot help myself,” Ligeia whimpered. “I cannot return to that home!” Her blue eyes flashed with hurt and desperation. “I cannot allow Thomas to beat me!”

“And beat you he will,” Henrik said. “Child, come closer.”

Ligeia obeyed.

“You must escape, yes?”

Ligeia nodded. “I do not know how,” she said softly. She bit her lip as tears streamed down her face. “I have no money, no friends, nothing!”

“Nothing but the six shillings in your hand,” Henrik said.

Ligeia stared at him. “How…how did you know that?”

Henrik gave a small shrug. “Now, child,” he said firmly, “you do not get to ask the questions right now. Do you want to escape, yes or no?” He sighed. “Time is running out for you, child.”

Ligeia nodded quickly. “Yes,” she said. “I am well aware.”

“Are you willing to risk your life?”

Ligeia nodded. “Yes,” she said. A flash of anxiety bolted through her body.

“Give me the shillings, child,” Henrik said. He held out his palm.

Ligeia hesitated. “I…I was supposed to buy fresh fish.”

Henrik shrugged. “Find a way to obtain it anyway,” he said. “I have no use for greedy children.”

Ligeia shoved the coins at him. “Here,” she spat.

“There is a forest at the edge of the village,” Henrik said. “Do you know it?”

Ligeia nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“Come tonight at the devil’s hour, three hours past midnight,” Henrik said. His eyes flashed with a bright light, and Ligeia felt hypnotized.

“At the devil’s hour,” she repeated, her lips barely moving.

“Yes, child,” Henrik said. He pocketed the coins, then gave her a gentle shove toward the market. “Tonight.”

The devil’s hour. The devil’s hour, Ligeia thought over and over as she darted through the stalls. Despite the late afternoon hour, the market was more crowded than she’d expected, and she found herself weaving in and out of masses of women and men. When she reached the fish stall, she stood for minutes unnoticed.

“Good morrow,” Ligeia said loudly, staring at the man in the stall. He ignored her.

“I said, good morrow!” Ligeia repeated, glaring angrily.

“May I assist you?” The man leaned in close, and Ligeia pointed to a fillet of salmon. But she realized he was speaking to the woman behind her.

‘How queer,’ Ligeia thought. ‘It’s…it’s almost as if I’m invisible!’

Her hand was shaking as she reached out and plucked a fillet of salmon from the counter. No one said anything. No one reached out to stop her or yelled that she was a thief.

Ligeia shivered. ‘I do not know what is happening,’ she thought nervously. ‘But tonight, I will be free.’

Chapter Five

I had never been more frightened. I was on the verge of running away – an act that would embarrass my family, and perhaps, if I were to be caught, even endanger my life. Life with the Whittier family in Salem was bad enough. I’d rather have killed myself than be captured and forced to return like some kind of runaway slave.

That was when I knew I had to do everything Henrik ordered. It was very strange to think that my only alliance in the world was a foreign man – maybe even a foreign man who worshipped the devil. It was curious. Even though only six months had passed since I’d left Ipswich, Henrik looked exactly the same, perhaps even younger. His grizzled white hair and face belied the appearance of an old man, but there was something in his eyes – a look that I’ll never forget – that seemed almost youthful.

Still, foreign or not, Henrik was my only hope to escape a life of abuse and assault at the hands of the men around me. Much as Thomas delighted in telling me of the horror that would come to pass once we were wed, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to escape his father, James, either. They were sadists.

And I was starting to realize that my family was equally sadistic. How could they have surrendered me to such cruelties without being evil themselves?

I was starting to realize that no matter how godly the people of Ipswich and Salem thought themselves to be, they were, in truth, the exact opposite.

The sky darkened as Ligeia ran home from the market, the fish clutched in her hands. She kept glancing down; the dead, glassy eyes reminded her of her own. Whenever she looked in the glass (and often when she was polishing it, by Joy’s order), Ligeia didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Her blue eyes were cold and hard, and her pale face was creased with worry and sadness. ‘Why, I don’t look four and ten at all,’ Ligeia had thought in horror. ‘I look like an old crone!’

Thunder boomed overhead, and pellets of rain stung Ligeia’s face as she hurried quickly back to the Whittier home. Her feet slipped in the mud, and twice, she almost risked losing the precious fish. But she arrived intact, and just as she began wiping her boots on the rushes at the front hall, the rain began to fall in earnest.

A painful set of fingers grabbed Ligeia’s ear and pulled. She cried out, pulling away and whirling around. The cook, Mary, stood there. She looked absolutely enraged.

“You stupid child,” Mary hissed. “Where the devil have you been?”

Ligeia held out the fish. “You sent me to market,” she said. “There was many a man more than I was expecting. The stall was busy.”

Mary tutted. She grabbed the fish from Ligeia’s hands and frowned. “Where are the coins?”

“I spent them,” Ligeia said. “On the fish.”

“You stupid child!” Mary repeated. “Six shillings, for this?” She waved the fish in the air. “‘Tis not worth half a farthing!”

“I am sorry,” Ligeia said. She hung her head.

“Dumb child,” Mary muttered under her breath. She shook her head. “Never the mind,” she said. “There is no time for anger now. Quick!” She barked at Ligeia. “Over to the stove. Help with supper!”

Ligeia nodded. She rinsed her hands in a bucket by the door, then hung her cloak. Her heart was thudding fast inside of her chest, and she couldn’t believe the encounter she’d had at the market. Why had Henrik agreed to help? And what kind of magic had he performed that made Ligeia invisible at the fish stall?

“Child, stop dawdling!” Mary growled. She was scaling the fish with her large, calloused hands as efficiently as a man. When she finished, she filleted and deboned the fish before tossing the raw chunks in a kettle filled with the leftovers from the middle meal.

The Whittiers were extraordinarily wealthy, even in the town of Salem which was far grander than Ipswich had been. Most colonists ate a single, large meal in the middle of the day, but James Whittier ordered a large supper – something that had been more common back at home, in England. When Ligeia thought of England, her heart ached. More than anything, she wanted to return.

‘And mayhap I will have the chance,’ she thought as she peeled potatoes on the stone counter. ‘Mayhap, with Henrik, I can do everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.’

“Child!” Mary snapped her fingers. “Are you dumb?” She chuckled at her own joke. “Potatoes and carrots in the stew, now!”

Ligeia nodded. She dumped the potatoes on top of the fish, inhaling the rich, salty fragrance coming from the cauldron. When she was finished, she hastily peeled a few carrots and tossed them in, admiring the way the rich, brown gravy looked as it coated white chunks of fish and vegetables.

“Has Master Thomas spoken with you?” Mary raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms across her chest. Despite her brash, bossy manner, Mary loved household gossip.

Ligeia bit her lip. “No,” she said shortly. “Aside from taunting me in the middle of the day and ruining my floors.”

Mary’s eyes went wide. “Oh, child,” she said. “Master Thomas has told his father that he wishes to be wed immediately.”

Ligeia’s heart sank, and panic welled inside of her chest. ‘No!’ She thought. ‘Now I won’t be able to escape! What if he knows what I’ve done? What if he had me followed?’

“Child, don’t worry,” Mary said kindly. “It won’t be as bad as all of that.”

‘Yes, you think that because you’re too fat and too old to be a target of lechery,’ Ligeia thought angrily. ‘You think that no one can touch you because you’re at the head of all the servants!’

“I think it will,” Ligeia said grimly. “I can’t help but think it will.”

“Master Thomas is a godly young man,” Mary said. “He is proud, that is all. He will calm with age.”

‘Yes,’ Ligeia thought. She glared down at her hands folded in her lap. ‘Once he is old, well, then he’ll be fine. And it won’t matter because I’ll likely be dead from constant pregnancy and childbirth.’

“You are dismissed, child,” Mary said curtly when it became clear that Ligeia wouldn’t divulge anything else. “Upstairs. Now!”

She spooned a small portion of the fish stew into an earthenware bowl and passed it to Ligeia.

“Your supper,” she added.

When Ligeia was almost out of the kitchen, Mary whistled. Ligeia stopped and turned around, looking at the older woman expectantly.

“Go,” Mary hissed. “And do not let anyone see you with that!” She pointed to the bowl. “We are not supposed to eat before the family; you know that!”

Ligeia felt a sudden surge of affection for the old cook. ‘With any hope, I will never see you again,’ she thought as she scampered up the back staircase. ‘With any hope, this will be the last meal I consume in the Whittier household.’

Upstairs, alone in the small attic room, Ligeia drank the soup and then reclined on her straw mattress, staring at the ceiling. Sneaking out to meet Henrik at three in the morning wouldn’t be an easy feat. Often, other servants woke as early as four. And in order to make it out of town and into the woods, Ligeia knew she would have to watch the moon to figure out the time.

Soon, sounds from below filled the attic. Ligeia shivered – she could practically hear Thomas’ booming voice all the way from downstairs. ‘I will not marry him,’ she thought. ‘I will refuse. Even if Henrik is attempting to trick me, I will run away. I’d rather die than become Thomas’ wife!’

Ligeia knew there was inherent risk in her plan. Henrik could be lying. He could have plotted a fantasy in Ligeia’s head. What would he do with her? Kidnap her and keep her as his own slave? Sell her?

Ligeia shivered. ‘Just a few more hours,’ she thought. ‘Just a few more hours, and then I will have my freedom.’

The hours and minutes crept by. Ligeia dozed fitfully, waking up with a start and then falling asleep again. She kept the window open despite the winter chill in the air. The rain had stopped and Salem was filled with the hazy, humid smell of moisture.

When she guessed that it was about a quarter past two in the morning, Ligeia pulled on her heaviest boots and cloak. She took the small leather purse that Father had given her before she left Ipswich. It was empty, but she planned to stop in the kitchen and grab whatever she could carry.

The house was silent as Ligeia crept down the stairs, holding a candle in one hand. When she reached the main floor, she was dismayed to hear that the fire was still crackling and burning. ‘They must have stayed up later than usual,’ she thought. ‘Normally, the fire would be all ashes at this time of night.’ Holding her breath, she snuck quietly across the floor.

“What cheer, Ligeia?”

Ligeia froze. Thomas stood in front of her, swaying with drunkenness. He was grinning like a fool, and his eyes glittered with savage lust.

“Pardon me, Thomas,” Ligeia said delicately. “I was just on my way to the kitchen for a drink of water.”

Thomas stuck out his foot and tripped Ligeia. She crashed to the floor, extinguishing the candle with the palm of her hand and screaming as the flame burned her skin.

“I dare say you will not be going anywhere for quite some time,” Thomas said. He squatted, toppling over from lack of balance. It was almost comical, but Ligeia couldn’t laugh. Her heart was in her throat as she tried to climb to her feet.

But despite his drunken behavior, Thomas was still strong and fast. He grabbed Ligeia’s wrists and pinned her to the floorboards, climbing on top of her. She kicked and struggled, but the heavy cloak made her as weak as a kitten, and soon, she found herself trapped completely beneath Thomas’ muscular bulk.

“I have waited long enough,” Thomas growled in Ligeia’s ear. “I have waited for you, and now you shall be mine. Tomorrow, we wed.” He snickered. “But tonight, we lie together as man and wife.” He grinned as he reached under Ligeia’s dress, ripping the petticoats away from her bare legs.

Ligeia shrieked with fright as Thomas pulled the cloth away from her bare body. She wriggled and squirmed, trying to fend off his advances as he kept her firmly in place. His breath reeked of onions and ale, and Ligeia shuddered each time Thomas tried pressing his damp mouth to hers.

“Stop!” Ligeia shrieked. “Thomas, stop it!” She yanked her arm free and cracked him over the head. The blow seemed to fall at just the right place, and for a moment, Thomas was too stunned to move. Ligeia grabbed his arm and pulled him off of her body, throwing him to the side and scrambling to her feet. Her heart thudded, and she glanced wildly around the room, looking for anything to use as a weapon.

Spotting the iron poker leaning against the hearth, Ligeia darted toward it. She grabbed it and swung it through the air, enjoying the feel of the iron gripped tightly in her sweaty hands.

“Oh, no,” Thomas said blearily. He got to his feet and reached for Ligeia, missing her and swearing under his breath. “You little wench, you can’t get away from me!” His menacing smile returned as he advanced on the girl, stumbling across the room.

“Stay away!” Ligeia shrieked. She swung the poker through the air, narrowly grazing the side of Thomas’ head. He cried out in pain, and she swung it again, bringing it down with a satisfying thwack!

Thomas crumpled to the floor.

“Thomas?” Ligeia stepped closer. Her heart skipped a beat, and a cold sweat broke out over her limbs. “Thomas?”

Thomas didn’t reply. His eyes were half-open, his lips parted. Spit bubbled at his mouth, and Ligeia gasped when she saw a dark pool of blood spreading from Thomas’ head over the wooden floorboards.

‘I’ve killed him,’ Ligeia realized. She was still gripping the poker in her hands, and without thinking about what to do next, she ran down the stairs and out of the Whittier home.

The sky was an inky, starless black as the clouds raced back and forth over the moon, providing minimal light for Ligeia’s escape. She ran as fast as she could, still gripping the fire poker in both of her small hands.

The town of Salem looked haunting and dangerous at night. Ligeia held her breath as she ran through the dark town, keeping to the quieter streets and alleys whenever she could.

Twice, Ligeia thought she heard footsteps from behind her. She quickened her pace, slipping and sliding in the mud and nearly falling more than once. She kept a firm hold of the fire poker the whole time, refusing to let go of the weapon that had likely saved her life.

Thoughts of Thomas lying dead on the floor filled Ligeia’s head as she ran and ran. Despite the fact that she’d committed one of the worst sins of all – taking another human life – she felt only relief…and a burning sense of shame that came from the relief itself.

Entering the woods felt like entering a different world. Ligeia gripped the poker and darted through the trees, crying out whenever a branch or twig snapped beneath her feet. After only a few moments, she saw an unearthly white glow fading through the trees.

“Henrik!” Ligeia yelled. “Henrik! ‘Tis I, Ligeia!”

Henrik appeared as if conjured from the darkness. His pale skin and white hair practically glowed in the forest light, and Ligeia gasped.

Henrik looked at the iron poker in Ligeia’s hands and chuckled.

“Have you come to kill me?”

Ligeia shook her head quickly, dropping the poker into the twigs below. Henrik tutted.

“You shan’t do that, child, if I have any clue as to what you used it for,” Henrik said.

Ligeia blushed. She grabbed the poker and held it behind her back.

“So, you’ve killed a man,” Henrik stated. “How does it feel?” His calm voice infuriated Ligeia.

“Are you teasing me?” Ligeia asked sharply. “Have you come to punish me, to bring me back to Salem in chains?”

Henrik threw his head back and laughed. “No, child,” he said. “Hush. No more of that talk!”
Tears filled Ligeia’s, eyes and she crumpled to the ground. Forgetting about the poker, she wrapped her skinny arms around her legs.

“The Whittier family will have me thrown in jail and hanged or burned,” she sniffled. “I killed their son!”

“Hush, child,” Henrik said. “There is no time for tears. You know that.” He reached down and gently but firmly pulled Ligeia upright to a standing position. “You are free,” he said. “And no harm shall come to you.”

Ligeia sniffled again. The guilt was still there, but it was starting to fade. She wondered if Henrik was using his spell craft again; she almost hoped that he was because it was quite ungodly to feel relief after committing such a heinous crime.

“You’re a witch,” Ligeia said softly.

Henrik shook his head. “A warlock,” he said.

Ligeia was full of strange feelings and conflict. She knew she should run from Henrik. He was evil, and not a godly man. But he had saved her. He seemed to have some kind of affinity for her – an affinity she could not understand, considering how infrequently they had actually exchanged words.
“Why are you helping me?”

Henrik laughed. “Because you are in need of help,” he said. “A blind man could see that.” He paused and looked at Ligeia until the hair on the back of her neck stood up. “And because you are a witch,” he said softly. “I have known since the first time I saw you.”

Ligeia shook her head. “No, that cannot be true! I cannot be evil!”

Henrik laughed again. “‘Tis not evil to be a witch,” he said. “Think, child. Haven’t you ever had experiences unlike any other? Visions? Dreams?”

Ligeia remembered the visions from years ago – the bucket filled with blood, the group of chanting men and women. She shivered.

“Dreams,” she said. “Mere dreams meant to tempt me away from the Lord.”

Henrik shook his head. “Visions,” he said. “Meant to alert you of your own power.”

Ligeia’s mouth grew dry. “Earlier, at the market…” She trailed off. “After you took my money, I realized I still had not purchased fish. I knew I could not possibly return to the Whittier home without it. They would punish me, and I would not be able to escape.”

“And you stole the fish, did you not?”

Ligeia nodded. Oddly, she felt more shame over the petty theft than over the murder of Thomas Whittier.

“Yes,” she said. “But the fishmonger…no one seemed to notice me. I just took it and walked away.”

“Your powers,” Henrik said. “You did that yourself.”

“No!” Ligeia cried. “I couldn’t have!”

“You did,” Henrik said seriously. “You are quite strong, child. And if you agree to come with me, you will find out just how strong for yourself.”

“I don’t believe in magic,” Ligeia said uncertainly. “It isn’t godly!”

Henrik laughed. “There are many great things in life,” he said. “Many of them are wonderful, and a great many of them are ungodly.”

Ligeia trembled in fear, but she didn’t run. She couldn’t help it. She was intrigued by Henrik and the stories he managed to weave with just words.

“I come from Sweden,” Henrik said. “From a powerful family, with ancient Viking ties.”

“Is…is your whole family witches?” Ligeia trembled. Something about the idea seemed awful to her.
Henrik looked grave. “No,” he said shortly. “My parents were killed at Mora years ago. They were not witches. They were merely suspected,” he said slowly. “‘Twas then that I fled Sweden for the New World, hoping to find a place of tolerance.”

The idea of tolerating witchcraft was so absurd that Ligeia laughed.

“Watch, child,” Henrik said. He waved his hand through the air. “Close your eyes and listen to your senses. Listen to what they tell you!”

Ligeia obediently closed her eyes. A warm gust of air blew over her body, and she gasped. She saw herself and Henrik standing together, hand in hand, over a stone ground etched with odd markings. They were wearing white robes and wearing stern but peaceful looks. Men and women danced around them, dressed all in black. The chant was haunting and strange, but somehow familiar.

Ligeia gasped when she recognized the sounds. It was the same sounds of the Latin chanting she’d heard years ago as a girl when she was still in Ipswich.

Ligeia opened her eyes. Henrik was giving her a kindly – if faintly sardonic – smile.

“Do you believe me now, child? Will you join me and embrace freedom?”

“Aye,” Ligeia whispered. “I will.”

Chapter Six

My life changed as drastically as day to night when I accepted Henrik’s offer. We disguised ourselves with magic – like Uther Pendragon, Henrik told me – and made our way out of the colony and to the north, where the land was rocky and mountainous and full of lush, verdant woods.

I thought I had known the idea of paradise. I thought paradise was a world after the earthly world, where the godly and the blessed sang and worshipped the Lord, day in and day out. There was no time, there was no age, and there were no earthly bonds like husband or mother. Men and women were but brothers and sisters, and they were happy, chaste, and protected from all evil.

After a month with Henrik, I learned that was no paradise at all. Paradise was freedom. Living in a small, wooden shack in the woods, eating whenever one wanted. Running and exercising and practicing natural healing and magic. Henrik taught me more than I’d learned in my fourteen years on earth. He said I had a natural aptitude for healing and that I must embrace all of my natural aptitudes.

In time, others joined us as well. The first two members of our coven were young girls that Henrik had found in villages, both with similar predicaments to mine. When they first came to us, their eyes were wide with fear, and they could barely speak without trembling. It was hard for me to believe that I’d once been the same – as skittish as a young fawn, and almost mute with shyness.

In my new life, I found a way to embrace myself that I’d never found before. I slept comfortably at night, knowing that I was living a life of freedom, without pain, and without cruelty.

And as for Master Thomas Whittier?

I rarely thought of him and the way he’d looked lying on the floor, dead.

---

Twenty miles west of Exeter, New Hampshire – 1692

“Ligeia! Mistress Ligeia!”

Ligeia turned in her chair and watched as a young woman ran into the room. She was clad in robes dyed dark blue with berries, and her pale hands were shaking.

“What is it?” Ligeia set her quill pen down on the crudely hewn wooden desk, glancing over her letter. “What is troubling you, child?”

“Master Henrik,” the girl said. “He wishes to speak with you!”

“Tell him I’m working,” Ligeia said. She sighed.

The young woman frowned. “He’s angry, Mistress,” she said softly. “He demanded I bring you.”

“Aye,” Ligeia said sarcastically. She stood up, brushing her hands off on her robes. Like the young woman’s, they were dyed a deep blue, but the linen was of a fine weave, and the robes suited her petite, slender frame. At three and twenty years old, Ligeia was of a similar stature as she had been years ago. But there was a wisdom in her blue eyes that hadn’t been there before, and she projected peace and calm wherever she went.
Henrik was waiting outside, scowling. He, too, was unchanged – his face only slightly more lined, his white hair a shade longer than it had been before.

“Yes? I was working on something, you know. I’ll need one of the younger women to gather inventory,” Ligeia said. “I need to ensure we have enough medicine for winter.”

“You’ve been going into the village again!” Henrik thundered. “I know it, Ligeia!”

“Aye,” Ligeia said. “I won’t lie to you, Henrik.” She shook her head sadly. “Henrik, those people…they have no idea of true medicine! They’re as likely to kill one another as they are to help.”

“Aye,” Henrik agreed. “But that is their business, is it not, Ligeia? These same people would have us burned if they knew our true identity! It is not up to you to save the very people who would condemn us!”

Ligeia sighed. Ever since she’d found a talent for medicine, she’d often dressed as a member of the godly and gone into a village, particularly when a woman was giving birth and in need of a midwife. She felt proud at the lives she’d saved, almost as if she’d atoned for the murder she’d committed years ago.

“Do not cross me, Ligeia,” Henrik said. “You threaten our existence!”

“That is not my intent,” Ligeia said calmly. “You told me years ago that I have a natural aptitude for healing and I must pursue it!”

“Yes, to heal those who would only wish you well,” Henrik snapped. “Ligeia, I forbid your involvement in the village affairs!” He lowered his voice. “All it takes is one mistake – one death – and you’ll be chased and likely killed!”

“But I haven’t made a mistake!” Ligeia persisted. “I have done everything well. Not a single person I have treated has died!”

Henrik sighed. “Do what thou wilt,” he said bitterly. “But know that you act against me, and without my support.”

“Aye,” Ligeia said stiffly. She turned on her heel and stalked back inside the cabin, continuing her lists of all the supplies they would need for the long winter ahead.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Ligeia supped with Henrik and the other witches of the coven, but her mind remained firmly on the people of the village of Exeter. Just last week, she’d been in town to deliver a woman suffering with a breeched babe. The babe and the woman had both lived, but they had been very weak. Ligeia had it in mind to return and offer some poppy for pain. From previous experience, she knew that the woman must still be suffering.

At nightfall, Ligeia shed her loose, comfortable robes and pulled on two petticoats, followed by an apron and a white cap atop her dark head. She took a few envelopes of the bitter-yet-effective powdered poppy in her leather purse and a flask of water, and then slipped out and began the long walk through the woods.

The town of Exeter reminded Ligeia of Ipswich, her childhood home. Every time she went to visit, she was flooded with nostalgia. She often thought of her parents. Were William and Constance still alive, or had they perished? And what of her brothers and sisters?

Ligeia spent only a few minutes in the home of the woman who had just delivered. The mother and babe were both doing better than expected, and Ligeia felt relieved. Somehow, after her conversation with Henrik, she had a nagging feeling that her arrival in the village would have yielded a horrifying discovery.

Just as she was leaving, she heard the patter of childish footsteps behind her.

“Miss, oh, miss! Prithee, stop!”

Ligeia turned on the muddy street to see a young girl chasing after her.
“Yes, child?”

“You must come,” the girl begged. Her cheeks were stained with tears. “It’s my mother. She’s given birth!”

“Child, if she’s already birthed, she will likely live,” Ligeia said. She felt weariness down to her bones. It was a feeling she was no longer used to experiencing, and more than anything else, she wished she were at home, in bed.

The child shook her head. Her blue eyes were wide with fear, and her dark hair was wild and uncombed about her shoulders.

“It is not like the other times, miss,” the child said. She sniffled. “I am worried! My mother is an older woman. This is the eighth child.”

Ligeia frowned. “Child, what is your name?”

The child trembled with fear. “Prudence,” she said softly. “Prudence Arrowsmith.”

Ligeia felt faint. ‘Oh, Mother!’ She thought in desperation. ‘Prithee, do not die!’

“I’ll come with you,” Ligeia said quickly. “But we must hurry.”

Prudence turned and darted down a dark alley. Ligeia followed, her feet barely making a sound as they landed. Prudence led the way into a small, stone cottage that was filled with smoke from the fire blazing in the hearth.

Ligeia could hardly believe her eyes. Her younger brothers had grown into young men, and they were sitting in front of the hearth, talking quietly. She didn’t see her younger sisters, Abigail and Drusilla, and wondered what had happened. Had they been married off?

“Here,” Prudence said. She took Ligeia into a small chamber. An elderly Constance reclined on a straw mattress. Her eyes were closed, and Ligeia panicked when she realized that her mother wasn’t breathing. It took every ounce of will not to throw herself into her mother’s arms and sob for forgiveness, but Ligeia knew she couldn’t disclose her true identity…at least, not yet.

Ligeia stepped close to the mattress and knelt by her mother’s side. When she took Constance’s hand in her own, she realized that Constance was already dead.
“She has passed,” Ligeia said softly. Sorrow and regret filled her, and tears came to her eyes.

“No!” Prudence threw herself on the bed and wailed, sobbing loudly. Ligeia pulled her younger sister into an embrace, and they rocked together. As Prudence sobbed, Ligeia closed her eyes and thought of her mother. All of the times Constance had gently chided her came rushing back tenfold, and Ligeia felt as though she could weep until her eyes were as dry as sand.
“I am sorry,” Ligeia said softly. “I arrived too late.”

The straw mattress under Constance’s body was soaked with blood. Ligeia pulled a sheet over her mother’s waist to hide the worst of the stains, then charged Prudence with bringing a bucket of water and some rags. For a time, the two sisters cleaned together in silence.

“There is nothing more I can do,” Ligeia said softly. “You must arrange for a funeral and a burial. Is your father at home?”

Prudence whimpered. “My father is dead,” she said softly. “He was sick for a long time, but I did not think he would die.”

The news hit Ligeia like a fist to her gut. She sniffled and dipped her head, hoping that Prudence wouldn’t see her cry. Straightening, she made sure to compose her face. ‘Oh, magic,’ she thought. ‘Serve me well. Allow me to remain calm. Allow me to summon strength from the depths of my will and guide this young child.’

“Where are your elder siblings?”

Prudence sniffled. “Abigail and Drusilla are wedded,” she said. “Abigail lives in Salem, and Drusilla is in Ipswich. John and Thomas are at home. Thomas can never leave. He is too soft.”

Ligeia stared. Her lips went white. Abigail had been in Salem, perhaps even during the same time as her! Oh, my sister, she thought desperately. I hope you are happier than I would have been!

“Who is the elder of the village?” Ligeia asked. “You must call upon him and make the arrangements for your mother.” It pained her to hide the truth from her younger sister, but Ligeia knew that Prudence should not be trusted with such sensitive information.

Prudence sniffled. “Elder Thorn,” she said. “Do you not know him? Do you not reside in the village?”

Ligeia thought of lying for a second. Instead, she shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I do not dwell within Exeter. I hail from Ipswich, then from Salem. Now...well, child, I do not live nearby.”

Prudence stared for a moment. She was almost a perfect twin of her elder sister, and it was unnerving for Ligeia to look upon her. Ligeia was still in shock. She could not believe that she had finally failed to save a life…and the life that had been lost was one of the dearest possible.
“My family moved from Ipswich years ago,” Prudence said softly. “My eldest sister was promised in marriage to a young man from Salem.”

Ligeia’s heart began to pound. ‘Surely, she cannot know ‘tis me,’ she thought quickly. ‘Surely, she has never been told the whole truth!’

“And what happened, pray tell?” Ligeia asked softly. “Where is your eldest sister now?”

Prudence gave her a sad smile. “‘Tis but a mystery,” she said. “But she is likely dead. She ran away from the home in Salem after murdering her betrothed.” Prudence sighed. “It tore my family apart,” she whispered. “My mother and father could never forgive each other – or themselves – for allowing their daughter to commit the vilest of evil acts.”

Ligeia stiffened. “Mayhap your sister acted out of self-interest,” she said softly.

Prudence’s blue eyes were turbulent with anger. “No,” she said sharply. “My parents spoke of Ligeia as a headstrong, ungodly child – a child who paid no heed to their word, a child who was bound for a life of misery and noncompliance with the Lord.”

Pain shot through Ligeia’s heart and she forced herself to look sympathetic. It was more difficult than usual to control her emotions. Suddenly, she resented herself for disobeying Henrik. She felt selfish, willful, and guilty for tearing her family apart. ‘If only I had obeyed Father and Mother,’ Ligeia thought sadly. ‘None of this would have happened.’

The thought that she would have been miserable as the wife of Thomas Whittier did not cross Ligeia’s mind. She was wracked with guilt, and she felt as though she’d never recover.

“My eldest sister ruined my family,” Prudence spat. “She was a child of the devil. Mother and Father always said she couldn’t have come from God.”

A lump formed in Ligeia’s throat, and she stood up. “Child, may I be of further assistance?”

“No,” Prudence said. Hatred shone in her blue eyes. “You cannot.”

Chapter Seven

I went crawling back to the coven last night, feeling worse than I’d ever felt in my life. Prudence’s words haunted me. I couldn’t believe that such a young girl was already so fervent about religion. Somehow, that made me feel worse. What was wrong with me, that I’d never accepted the scripture as truth? What had happened to me to keep me unafraid of sin?

Why was I so selfish?

Henrik and the others seemed to sense a change, but no one spoke to me about it, not even Henrik himself. I ceased my visits to Exeter as well as all the surrounding New England villages. I threw myself into a work as a mistress of the coven and a healer, counseling everyone who sought my assistance. But I no longer disguised myself as a godly woman. I no longer wore dresses and petticoats, only robes – both plain, and ceremonial.

At Samhain, three new witches joined our Coven. Henrik and I planned an elaborate ritual, followed by a feast. We slaughtered deer, bear, and moose to keep for winter. Henrik often compared our coven to the coven of Avalon back in Arthurian times. But I never felt prosperous or happy again. Prudence’s words stayed in my head, and even though I knew I could never return to a normal, godly life, I felt as though staying with the coven was doing a disservice to both myself and the other practitioners of witchcraft.

---

Twenty miles west of Exeter, New Hampshire – 1693

At four and twenty years old, Ligeia was no longer a young woman. She often spent solitary days alone, away from Henrik and the other witches as she studied plants, herbs, and the craft of healing.

A year had passed since Constance’s death. Ligeia had tried to give herself time to mourn – time to mourn Constance, William, and the life that she’d never had. At first, she’d thought that with enough time, she would overcome all of her sadness and trials. But the guilt plagued Ligeia, and eventually, she ceased speaking except for the occasional affirmation or argument.

Henrik was bothered by the changes in his companion. Despite his aloof behavior, Ligeia knew he cared for the coven more than anything else in the world. One day, he came to Ligeia’s small hut and knocked on the door.

“Mistress,” he called. “You are much missed within the circle. Rejoin your family, Ligeia.”

Ligeia stared. She had not disclosed what had happened, but she felt the weight of Constance’s death more with each passing day.

“I cannot,” Ligeia said simply. She attempted to walk past Henrik, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her close.

“Mistress Ligeia,” Henrik said sarcastically. “You forget to whom you owe respect. Have you forgotten ‘twas I that saved you from a life of misery?”

The dam that had been building inside Ligeia for almost a year broke loose. Tears streamed down her face, and she looked away, letting her long, dark hair fall in her face.

“Mistress Ligeia!” Henrik softened, tilting her face toward his. “What has happened?”

Ligeia shrank from his touch. “My own sister found me the last time I returned to the village,” she said.

Henrik’s eyes went wide. “And she knows about us? Did you disclose knowledge of the coven?”

“No!” Ligeia said. “She came to me because her mother – our mother – was giving birth. But the babe arrived, and Mother perished before I could intervene.” Ligeia began to sob, burying her face in her pale hands. “I am useless,” she said softly.

“Even the best of magic cannot save lives,” Henrik said. He shook his head. “Ligeia, what were you expecting to happen? That your family would be pleased to know about what happened in Salem? When I took you in, I made you a promise that no harm would come to you. Ligeia, I intend to keep that promise. But you cannot continue to compromise the safety of the coven!”

“I know!” Ligeia screamed. Her sadness melted into rage, and she snarled in Henrik’s face. “You’ve ruined everything! Without you, I would still have my family!”

Henrik threw his head back and laughed. “The family who sold you into misery? That family? The family who called you ungodly and selfish?”

“I am ungodly and selfish!” Ligeia roared. “And ‘tis all the fault of you!”

Henrik laughed. “You’re a fool to blame that upon me,” he said. “Have you never considered the life of unhappiness you would have endured at the hands of Thomas Whittier? You realize he would have kept you as a meek servant, do you not?”

Ligeia shivered. “At least my family would not have turned their backs on me,” she said softly. “At least I would have that.”

Henrik shook his head. He glared at Ligeia in disgust. “You are a fool,” he repeated. “My Sight never lies, Ligeia. I saw you miserable, and you were indeed miserable. I took pity on you because I could sense the power and magic deep within your soul.”

Ligeia shook her head. She wanted to argue, to tell Henrik that he was wrong, that she would have lived a satisfactory and happy existence as Mrs. Thomas Whittier.

But deep down, she knew that he was absolutely correct. She knew that Thomas would have abused her, made her miserable and unhappy for the rest of her days. She shuddered. I could even be dead, she thought. ‘I could have died in childbirth, just like Mother. And Abigail and Drusilla – what of them?’

“Think on it, Mistress,” Henrik said angrily. “But you must know that I’m correct.”

He stalked past Ligeia, angrily shoving her with his shoulder. She stayed rooted firmly to the spot, silently fuming with anger and guilt.

---

The week passed uneventfully, and Ligeia kept even more to herself than before. She began taking meals alone in her hut, staying up until the sky was streaked with light and studying the art of healing until her eyes ached from reading.

One such night, Ligeia was startled to hear the door of her cabin burst open. One of the younger witches, a girl named Faith, ran into the room, panting.

“What is it?” Ligeia asked. Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Is it Henrik? Is he injured?”

“No, Mistress,” Faith said. “There is news from Salem!”

Ligeia’s heart sank. “My sisters,” she said softly. “Abigail and Drusilla!”

“No, miss,” Faith said quickly. Her cheeks were pale and bloodless. “Prudence – Prudence Arrowsmith!”

Ligeia stood up and grabbed Faith by the shoulders, shaking her quickly.

“You must tell me! You must!”

“Prudence Arrowsmith is on the hunt for witchcraft,” Faith said quickly. “She has spoken to the town magistrate and arranged for the burning of five young girls.”

Ligeia felt faint. She gripped the back of her chair until her knuckles went white. “That cannot be,” she said softly. “That cannot be possible!”

“Aye,” Faith said. “But ‘tis, Ligeia.”

Ligeia grabbed her cloak and ran to Henrik’s cabin. Unsurprisingly, he was awake, sitting in front of the hearth, warming his hands.

“Henrik!” Ligeia cried. “Henrik!”

Henrik frowned, but when he saw the genuine concern on Ligeia’s face, he stood up and ran to her, pulling her into his strong arms. For a moment, Ligeia sobbed against the chest of her oldest friend. Then the panic came back, and she pulled away, pacing back and forth in front of the flames.
“I did not tell you before,” Ligeia said quickly, “although you may have surmised. My sisters, Abigail and Drusilla, were both sent to Salem to be married. And now my younger sister Prudence is there, as well!”

“And I assume you want to intervene, to pull her close,” Henrik said.

“No! She has told the village magistrate that witchcraft is taking place, and five young girls have been sentenced to burn! To die, at the stake!”

Henrik sighed softly. “Ligeia–”

“It’s my fault,” Ligeia said quickly. “It’s my fault that I didn’t speak up, that I did not disclose my true identity to Prudence before.”

Henrik scoffed. “And you think that would have made a difference in the child? She is a fanatic, Ligeia! There is no helping someone like that – no turning them away from the Lord and back to rational thought!”

“Henrik, she’s going to have five innocent girls murdered!” The hair on the back of Ligeia’s neck stood up. True witches could survive such a sentence; the fire would not burn them. But innocent women had no such power, and Ligeia felt sick to her stomach as she imagined the scent of roasting human flesh singing her nostrils.

“And you wish to travel to Salem, to prevent this?”

“Aye,” Ligeia said. “I do.”

To her shock, Henrik nodded. “Aye,” he said. “This might be a chance to redeem yourself, Ligeia. Redeem yourself in own your eyes.”

Ligeia felt shaky and nervous with fear as she fled the coven. She packed a small bag and raced through the forest, disguising herself and traveling through the air as fast as a demon. It took hours to reach Salem when it would have taken a normal human days, and Ligeia reached the small village just as the sun was shining high in the sky.

As quickly as she could, she ran to the magistrate’s house. The door was bolted and locked, and Ligeia pounded her fists, screaming for help.

No one answered the door. Panic consumed her, and she raced through the town, not even thinking about what would happen if she saw a member of the Whittier family. There was a crowd gathered at the marketplace, and Ligeia’s heart sank when she saw the five stakes piled high with straw.

Young Prudence, looking absurdly mature for her three and ten years, was standing at the front of the crowd.

Ligeia stared at her sister. ‘Come to me,’ she thought, summoning her strength. ‘Leave the crowd and follow me.’ For a moment, she was horrified by the thought that her magic might not work on such a godly young woman. But Prudence’s face grew dazed, and she wandered away from the crowd.

Ligeia grabbed Prudence by the elbow and yanked her behind a building. Prudence gasped.

“‘Tis you!”

“Yes,” Ligeia said angrily, “‘tis I. Your sister, Ligeia!”

Prudence gasped in horror and started to scream, but Ligeia muttered a quick incantation and soon, Prudence’s voice was reduced to a whisper.

“Yes,” Ligeia repeated. “I am your sister, and I have done awful, unspeakable acts, Prudence. But these five young women – they are innocent. You must release them! Do not kill innocent women just because you’re seeking the true evildoers of the world!”

Prudence’s blue eyes heated with anger. “I should have known ‘twas you,” she said angrily. “You are the spawn of the devil, the most evil!” She narrowed her eyes and spat. “And I shall not bend to your will and do your bidding!”

“Release the young women,” Ligeia ordered. Her eyes flashed with light and magic. “Do not make me force you, Prudence! Do the right thing – the godly thing!”

“These women are not godly, and neither are you!” Prudence said hotly. “I hate you, sister. I wish that I had never met you. You killed our mother.”

“I did not,” Ligeia said. She felt shock and horror as she stared at her sister in disbelief. “She was dead when I arrived,” she said. “You are aware of that, sister. You know that, do you not?”

“I think you killed her with witchcraft!” Prudence said. “You murdered her just to increase my suffering!”

Ligeia stared at her sister in shock. “Come, sister,” she begged. “Do not make such accusations! Are we not of the same blood?”

Prudence slapped Ligeia across the face. It didn’t hurt exactly, but Ligeia felt cold with shock and panic. As Ligeia stared at her villainous younger sister, she realized that she was never meant to be an Arrowsmith all along; she had always been wicked, she had always been different.

Ligeia waved her hand over her sister’s face, muttering in Latin: “Ne obliviscaris, et ne obliviscaris, delere!”

Prudence’s blue eyes glazed, and her pupils shrank and grew smaller.

“Forget….” Prudence mumbled under her breath. She stumbled away from Ligeia, looking dazed. Ligeia watched her sister for another moment, making sure that the spell had worked correctly. Prudence stumbled slowly down the alley, holding her arms in front of her like the walking dead.

Ligeia smelled smoke. Her heart began to race. I’m too late, she realized in a blind panic. She began to run toward the center of town, her feet racing beneath her. To her horror, five young girls had been tied to the stakes. They were all crying, tears streaming down their faces as they screamed for help. The townspeople gathered around them booed and hissed. Ligeia gasped when she recognized Joy Whittier sneering and throwing tomatoes toward the accused girls.

Ligeia hid herself behind a stall, keeping her eyes locked on the girls at the stakes. She pulled a handful of herbs from her pocket and crumbled them in her fingers, smelling the fresh scent and calling to mind the power of the coven. As she watched the magistrate step forward with a flaming torch in his hand, the screams of the young girls almost broke her concentration. But Ligeia summoned every ounce of strength in her body. She stared, narrowing her gaze and chanting under her breath until her mind was flooded with the images of the girls twisting at the stake.

As Ligeia stared and chanted, her mind opened. ‘These girls are yet innocent,’ she realized. ‘But they have the power to become witches, to open their minds and escape from the confines of the godly life.’

“Vivo risus non uror,” Ligeia whispered again and again. “Vivo risus non uror! Vivo risus non uror!”

The girls’ shrieking stopped as the flames licked higher and higher. Ligeia stared grimly ahead, desperately repeating the incantation under her breath. ‘This will allow them to survive the flames,’ she thought. ‘They will realize their true power, and hopefully embrace it. The flame should only tickle and not burn.’

Smoke filled the Salem marketplace, and the jeering and screaming of the crowd began to die down. As the girls sagged against their bonds, people slowly began to filter away from the marketplace. Soon, everyone but the magistrate was gone, but the flames were still burning high, sending columns of black smoke into the sky.

Ligeia gathered her petticoats in her hands and ran toward the girls. With a wave of her hand, the fire was extinguished.

They stared at her in shock.

“I am Ligeia Arrowsmith,” Ligeia said, almost proudly. “And you will all be coming with me.”

Chapter Eight

When I returned to the coven with five girls in tow, I knew that I’d made amends. Henrik was proud. Although he didn’t say so, I didn’t need to hear the words to know. He told me that my strength as a witch exceeded his wildest expectations, and that I had made a successful contribution to the coven.

I never saw my sister Prudence – or any of my other family members – ever again. I heard many a report from those in the coven who traveled to villages that Prudence had gone dumb. She spent the rest of her life in a daze, wandering from place to place, a glassy look in her eyes, and her lips slow to move. I did not regret cursing her. The hatred in her eyes had been unmistakable, and I knew that she was finally getting what she had long deserved.

In a way, I still felt guilty. Prudence had very likely been indoctrinated by my father; I wondered just how devout he had become before death. But that did not excuse her wild demands and cries for the murder of innocent girls. After I rescued the girls from Salem, no one else was burned at the stake. Life returned to a state of almost normal, and for many years, the coven was happy.

Times changed. The centuries shifted, and the former colonies became their own country. Henrik and I aged slowly – our power kept us relatively young at mind and in the heart. Religious fervor gripped the country, but our coven was always safe. Henrik and I shared a bond more powerful than any on Earth.

Eventually, I forgot about my old life completely.

But just because the times had changed did not mean that my coven and witches were free of danger…

---

The woods outside of Jaffrey, New Hampshire – Present Day

It was a crisp fall day. Henrik and Ligeia walked through the woods, arm in arm, collecting mushrooms and various herbs.

“I had a vision last night,” Henrik said stiffly.

Ligeia snickered. “And you’re quite sure it wasn’t the wine?”

“No,” Henrik said shortly. “‘Twas not the wine.” He sighed, groaning as he leaned against the trunk of a tree.

“Well, what then?”

“A young girl – nearby, in town – has a familiar spirit,” Henrik said slowly. “A spirit very familiar to that of your sister, Prudence Arrowsmith.”

The name sent a chill through Ligeia, and she shuddered. “It has been years since I even thought of my family,” she said softly. “What did you see, friend?”

Henrik sighed. “Nothing good,” he said. “This girl… she is young, but powerful, is fervent, and determined to rid the world of demonic activity and witches.”

Ligeia frowned. “And she is aware of us?”

“No,” Henrik said. “Aware of a young witch – a young witch who is much like those girls from Salem many years ago.”

Ligeia frowned. “And you want to intervene?” She raised an eyebrow. “That is most unusual, Henrik – most unusual for you.”

“I did not want to alarm you,” Henrik said unsteadily. “But when I say a familiar spirit, I believe she is a reincarnation of your sister. I believe she is dangerous.”

Ligeia took a deep breath. “I am sure it is not as bad as all that,” she said softly. “After all, we live in a rational world. People are all too proud of their science, their designs. No one fears us now,” she said. “Which is a good thing, I know.”

“This girl is different,” Henrik insisted.

Ligeia fell silent. For a moment, there was no sound other than their feet crunching dead leaves. Henrik escorted her back to her small hut, and Ligeia locked the door before building a raging fire in the hearth. When the flames were as high as her shoulders, she tossed a handful of rosemary and lavender into the fire. The fragrant smoke soothed her, pulling into a headspace of magic and tranquility.

Ligeia took her looking glass from the mantle and held it close to her face. ‘Show me the girl,’ she thought as she stared into the glass. ‘Show her to me; make me see what Henrik sees.’

The glass fogged and swirled, as if covered with mist. But after a few seconds, the mist cleared and a girl – perhaps four and ten at the oldest – appeared to Ligeia. In no physical way did she resemble Prudence Arrowsmith. Her hair was light brown, and her face was round, almost chubby. But her eyes belied the same evil fire, the same ‘godly’ drive that Ligeia had seen so obviously in her younger sister.

The sight was shocking. Ligeia felt the strength drain from her body as she focused harder and harder, watching as the girl’s thoughts opened to her. She learned that the girl was attempting to expose one of her friends as a witch – one of her friends who surely had powers but was likely still unaware.

Ligeia set the glass down and closed her eyes. She breathed in the fragrant smoke, summoning Henrik to her cabin. After only a few seconds, his face appeared in the fire.

“She is dangerous,” Ligeia said. The flames flickered in her blue eyes as she spoke. “You must stop her. We must bring the girl she seeks to accuse here and give her warning.”

Henrik chuckled. “I am pleased to see you’re taking this seriously,” he said, “because we could all be in grave danger. Grave danger, indeed.”

“You must spirit her friend, Monica, away,” Ligeia said. Knowledge was blossoming in her mind with each passing second, and she felt her body weakening with the force of the ritual.

Henrik chuckled again. “Aye. She will be frightened,” he said. “Just as you were, Ligeia.”

“She will survive,” Ligeia said dryly. “But we must hurry.”

Henrik dipped his head in a signal of respect. “Aye,” he said. “Worry not. She will be safe, and so will we all.”

“May it pass,” Ligeia whispered into the dying fire, “may this danger pass swiftly.”

---

A day later, Henrik brought the girl to Ligeia. She looked even younger than Ligeia had suspected, with fine, blonde hair layered around her face and big, brown eyes. Ligeia chuckled. This girl had evident strength about her that seemed to radiate off her body in waves.

“Who…who are you?” The girl swallowed. “I want to go home!”

“Soon,” Henrik promised. “This is Ligeia Arrowsmith. She is the mistress of the coven.”

The girl gasped. “Not you, too,” she said. “This guy keeps trying to tell me that he’s a warlock!”

Ligeia chuckled. “Aye,” she said. “That may well be because he is indeed a warlock, but that isn’t any of your concern right now.” She patted the stone bench. “Come, child. Sit.”

The blonde girl stepped forward nervously. Ligeia could tell she was fighting the power.
“I won’t hurt you,” Ligeia said. “You have to trust me.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” the girl retorted.

“Child, what is your name?”

“Monica,” she said defensively. “Monica Boer.”

“And tell me, Monica, have you not noticed anything strange, anything unusual, going on around town?”

Monica stiffened. “How…how did you know?”

Ligeia smiled serenely. “You don’t think we could just spirit you away, do you?” She laughed at the surprised look on Monica’s face. “Dear child, we were behind the activity.”

“You murdered a bunch of my neighbor’s cattle,” Monica said angrily. “Why?”

“We sacrificed them to ensure your protection,” Henrik corrected. “Someone you call a friend is out to hurt you, Monica. Someone very powerful. Someone reincarnated from your worst nightmare.”

Monica shivered. Ligeia put a homespun cloak around her shoulders.

“Child, do not be afraid,” Ligeia said softly. “I was like you once. Afraid and surrounded by people who called themselves godly. But they were not godly at all. They were cowards and prone to making false accusations.”

“I don’t believe you,” Monica said. She began to cry, and Henrik and Ligeia exchanged an annoyed glance as the girl sobbed.

“Andrea D’Amico is a powerful girl,” Ligeia said. “She is a descendant of my sister, Prudence Arrowsmith.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Monica sobbed. “I wanna go home! I don’t care!”

“Child! Cease this,” Henrik said sharply.

Ligeia glared at him. “I promise, you are safe,” she said softly. “But you must listen to Henrik and myself. You can go home very soon – as soon as you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You’re a witch, Monica,” Ligeia said softly. “You have very strong powers.”

“Aye,” Henrik agreed. “And you may not have believed me, but you ought to listen to the mistress. She is wise, child. She knows.”

“What happened to you?” Monica sniffed.

“I was born to a Puritan family in England, but my family moved to Ipswich to seek their version of religious freedom,” Ligeia said. “The people in England were too worldly – too bold – and my father thought they were all damned. He thought we, too, would be damned if we stayed. So, we left.”

Monica listened, obviously interested. Her tears dried up, and she pulled the cloak tightly around her shoulders.

“My younger sister, Prudence, was born shortly before I had to leave home,” Ligeia said. “My parents gave me to a family in Salem, a wicked, rich family who sought to make me miserable. I escaped because of Henrik. He saved my life.”

“That was hundreds of years ago,” Monica said slowly. She reached out to touch Ligeia’s shoulder, the cold tips of her fingers brushing Ligeia’s cloak.

“Aye,” Ligeia said. “But the powerful do not age like normal humans, Monica. We do not shrivel and die – we can sustain ourselves for long past a normal human lifespan.”

“My fanatical sister has been reborn as your friend, Andrea,” Ligeia said softly. “And unless you work with Henrik and myself, everything is at stake.”

Monica shook her head. “That…that can’t be true,” she said slowly. “Andrea’s crazy, but she’s not that crazy. She wouldn’t, like, hurt anyone.”

“Are you positive about that?” Ligeia stroked Monica’s back. “Can you not recall a time when you angered or frightened her?”

Monica’s eyes glazed over, and after a few moments, she nodded.

“The séance,” Monica said dimly. “It frightened Andrea so badly that she wouldn’t speak to me for months.”

Ligeia nodded. “Andrea does not realize that witches are not evil,” she said slowly. “She is just like the Puritans of my time: hell-bent on destroying anyone who isn’t like her.”

“But what if I talked to her?” Monica swallowed. “Isn’t there some way I could make her understand that she’s wrong? I don’t want to hurt her,” she said fearfully. “I mean, I don’t like her. But I don’t want anything bad to happen to her, either.”

“Harm shall come to everyone unless you help,” Henrik said strongly. “You must accept your fate, Monica. You are one of us, and you will help us…or else everything you know, life as it stands, will change forever. Your town and your home and your family will all be destroyed if Andrea has her way.”

Monica blinked. “I don’t believe it,” she said slowly. “I don’t believe anything that bad could happen.”

“It is true,” Ligeia said. “Jaffrey will be the scene of the biggest witch hunt of all time unless you intervene. You must work with Henrik and myself.” She paused. “I could force you, but it would be better if you agree.”

Monica’s brown eyes shone with fear. “And what if I consent? What then?”

“Then you get to go home,” Henrik said. “For a time. You will watch Andrea. You will observe her every move. You will ensure that she remains in the dark.”

Monica looked frightened.

“‘Tis for the best, child,” Ligeia said softly. “‘Tis what must be done.”

As Henrik led a mute and dazed Monica back toward her home, Ligeia sat in front of the fire, contemplating her next move.

‘I will not let you win, Prudence,’ Ligeia thought as she stared into the licking, hungry flames. ‘I will not let you triumph over my coven.’ ’

THE END