Page 78 of Strange Grace
Mairwen nods, and Haf, too. Sal leans on the end of the table. “That’s right, Rhun.”
Aunt Delia has tears in her eyes, but nods.
“You should stay here a while,” Haf says to Rhun. “Keep out of sight. And where’s Arthur? He’s not the saint, not really, but the way his father talks and some others... they might...”
“I can’t hide,” Rhun says. “I’ll go find Arthur. The bargain will last a little while longer, and then we’ll—”
Mair stands. “I’m going to the manor, to look through Sy Vaughn’s books. There might be answers there. I want to know what his ancestors think happened to the old god.”
“I’m going with you,” Haf says, and Mair nods.
“Rhun, find Arthur, and Baeddan if you can. Hunt, encourage everyone you meet to live as if it’s any day, and all is well. Three Graces is the life part of the bargain, so people need to live.”
Rhun puts his hands on Mair’s waist and kisses her.
The veil slips against her braids, against her shoulders and arms as he
Mair presses her mouth harder to Rhun’s, feels the burn of the thorns at her collarbone and the impression of her own sharpening teeth against her upper lip. “Be careful,” she whispers.
Just as she lets go, she gasps: Her blood pulls taught suddenly, thick and cold. She shivers and lets Rhun wrap his arms around her. She can feel the forest reaching toward her, all the way here on the mountain. It is desperate, andstrong! The shadows pierce past the line of trees, up the pasture toward her mother’s house. Eyes shut, face pressed to Rhun’s shoulder, she sees a flock of birds dart over the valley, and a wind drags out of the Devil’s Forest, rolling toward her.
•••
THE DEVIL STUMBLES ACROSS THEyard and against the door, hard enough it shakes and his shoulder grows a new bruise. His sight is fading, blurred. He hurts everywhere, and the command is all, all, all he hears:hungry, so hungry bring the saint find the saint the saint saint
Every step withers the grass at his feet. Every tree he touches shivers and turns black in a mark the shape of his hand.
The devil is dying, and taking it all with him.
Throwing himself against the door again, the devil roars. He pounds and claws at it, and the door gives way.
Inside is warm, a fire in the hearth. He growls at a woman and young girl, blurs of skirts and wide eyes, and they grab on to each other, calling “John! John!”
The forest calls, too,John! John!
“John!” the devil bellows, and for a moment his sight clears, his mind clears. Baeddan knows why he’s here.
Running, he pushes aside the women and tears into the second large room of this homestead: A man waits for him, half dressed, light hair loose, one-handed. The other arm ends at a pinkish, shining scar of a wrist.
John Upjohn can hardly breathe.
The devil’s skin is yellowish and cream; the antlers have fallen from hair and head, and even his thorns are dying, two missing, with wounds left behind, and the hint of black bone beneath. He trembles. He’s weak. His eyes are sunken into his face and his lips are dry and cracked as he pulls them open over his sharp teeth.
John steps closer, eyes locked to the devil’s chest, where the remaining twenty-odd bones of his hand are sewn with vine and sinew into the devil’s flesh. Finger bones and hand bones, strange knuckles and pebble-like wrist bones.
The devil jumps forward to claim his prize.
•••
THE FOREST IS QUIET, BUTnot silent.
Light diffuses through the barren canopy, bright enough, but unnerving, as Arthur picks his way as directly north as he can, toward the Bone Tree. He imagines taking axes and shovels and with a line of men cutting a path through it all. Marking it with red paint as a warning not to stray.
Unlike two nights ago, Arthur cuts a strong, confident figure as he strides between the trees. No ducking aside, no peering uncertainly through the shadows. When he comes across a stream, he recognizes it from a flickering memory and leaps over it, glad to know he’s still going the right way. When a dozen bird women shriek and dive at him, he only shoves them away, batting gently with his hands. “I am Arthur Couch, and you know me,” he says through his teeth. “Let me be. You may not have my blood.” When his path is blocked by three undead bone creatures, one with a raven skull, another a goat, and the final a fox, he smiles his most ferocious smile and brandishes his knife.
They laugh and skip around to join the bird women following him.
It isn’t more than a quarter hour before Arthur has an entourage of ghouls and bone boys, all clicking their teeth and giggling. A fanged and claw-footed deer picks behind, and a handful of black wolves with red eyes and razor teeth. Shadows flitter, more shape than form, and nearly invisible in this scattered light.
