The Bitterwine Oath

by Hannah West

  After a few unbearable beats of suspense, the creature huffed its dismay.

  I sprinted back toward the porch, the dogs hot on my heels. I refused to look back until I’d slammed the sliding door shut and locked all three of us inside. Hopefully, Grandma Kerry had made this place a fortress.

  When I found the courage to look through the window, I thought I saw a shadow slinking from the tree line back into the deep woods.

  I sank down to the floor to catch my breath. “I don’t know how long I can go on like this, Grandma,” I whispered, pressing my eyes closed. Warm tears fell. “Doing nothing is so much harder than fighting back.”

  FOURTEEN

  NINETEEN DAYS UNTIL THE CLAIMING

  On the day of the Heritage Festival, joy hung in the air like a ripe fruit. The downtown square was flooded with color, from booths selling local vendors’ goods to pretty flower arrangements draped on streetlamps. I held a new appreciation for the shiny lacquer the town tended to paint over the past—even if I could see the cracks.

  The moon would be dark tonight. According to the Wardens, that meant the Woodwalkers could begin an earnest hunt for their Claiming prey.

  I hurried out from under the enormous white tent covering the dance floor.

  As I passed the petting zoo in progress, I reached down my boot to scratch the chiggers I’d gotten chasing Ranger the other night. The planning committee had asked the volunteers to wear Western boots to distinguish ourselves to guests. Aside from the fact that boots weren’t very distinguishing in these parts, walkie-talkies in our hands and the word volunteer on our matching shirts would have done the trick.

  Hordes of tourists had found their way to town already, and the event organizers had been shuffling us around all morning to meet the demand. I was crossing the overflow lot on my way to fill in for a parking attendant when I noticed some college-aged kids circled around the open trunk of a black van. One of them fidgeted with a piece of tech equipment.

  “I’m just saying the cops or the FBI have to know something,” a blond, bearded guy in a backward hat was saying. “I mean, twelve people died, and they couldn’t even find anyone to charge? They were either bad at their jobs or super corrupt.”

  “Neither,” a petite brunette girl in glasses said, gesturing at the heavyset guy with the equipment. “Paranormal activity is the only explanation. That’s why we’re here. If you’re not a true believer, I don’t want you on my team.”

  Bearded Guy rolled his eyes. “You know I am, Quinn, but a little skepticism is good for street cred. If there’s a logical explanation, I want to find it.”

  “It would have been better to come on the actual anniversary of the massacres,” the guy with the equipment said in a deep, dispassionate voice. “There will probably be more activity.”

  “They wouldn’t even let us in the church any other weekend,” the girl pointed out. “It’s only open to the public for the choir concert. Getting to the cabin might be harder, though.”

  “Maybe we should try tomorrow,” Bearded Guy said. “They’ll be expecting people tonight.”

  Potential news headlines flashed through my mind, bold black letters spelling out that three young people were missing, last seen in San Solano. “Don’t go there,” I said instinctively, doubling back. The two who had been talking looked surprised, but the heavyset guy just directed a long, curious look at me over his paranormal thingamajig.

  “Hi! Are you a local?” The girl dug a mini camera from her purse and pointed it at me. “Why shouldn’t we go to the cabin?”

  I collected myself and looked straight at the lens. Nothing turned people off faster than making them think the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze. “Last time my friends and I went there, we almost got arrested and it wasn’t even worth it,” I lied. “We thought it would be creepy and it was just, like, an old house.”

  “Wait…,” she said, squinting her eyes. “You were in that video from the cabin.”

  Dammit, Juliana, I thought. We were lucky that none of our parents had seen the footage. Juliana had added so many hashtags that anyone remotely interested in the sordid history of San Solano was sure to find it.

  “You encountered something there, didn’t you?” the girl asked. “Can you describe what it felt like?”

  “Ever heard of acting?” I asked. I brandished my walkie-talkie like a shield. “I don’t have time for this. Sorry.”

  Conveniently, a voice crackled through the speaker. “Still need help at parking.”

  “On my way,” I replied, turning my back on the three visitors.

  “Wait,” the bearded guy said. His gangly arms swung as he jogged after me and produced a business card. “Here’s my card. We could get coffee later and talk about the encounter.”

  The girl flashed him a reproachful glare. “Keep it professional, dude.”

  I glimpsed the words Paranormal Investigator as I politely tucked it into my pocket. “Y’all enjoy the festival.”

  As soon as they were out of sight, I pulled out my phone to text Kate. Three paranormal sleuths are planning to go to the cabin tomorrow night, I typed.

  She responded promptly. Thanks for letting me know.

  Half an hour later, an organizer sent me to help finish the town history exhibit at the courthouse. I walked back by the vendors’ booths and saw someone selling “poisoned Communion wine” in plastic goblets. Scattered groups were drinking what were clearly grape slushies and snapping photos. The vendor also had twig talismans of the Malachian mark dangling from his stall.

  Tasteful, I thought with a sigh. Heather, the tattooed baker and Earth Warden, was scolding him. “You are profiting off a tragedy,” she insisted. “This is reprehensible. And single-use plastic is incredibly wasteful, sir.”

  The vendor, a sun-weathered man in a faded ball cap, crossed his arms. “There ain’t a law against giving the people what they want, and there sure as heck ain’t a law against using plastic.”

  Heather shook her head and marched back to her cheery yellow bakery booth.

  When I entered the atrium of the limestone courthouse, I found Mrs. Langford double-checking the displays. There were old artifacts in glass cases alongside more contemporary exhibits, like the jersey of a San Solano football player who’d been drafted to the Cowboys. To visitors, it was hardly more than an excuse to escape the heat and nose around for lurid details about the massacre, which they wouldn’t find here.

  “Well, heck.” Mrs. Langford’s G-rated curse echoed from the far end of the atrium.

  “Do you need some help?” I asked.

  She whipped around with a safety pin in her mouth. “Oh hi, Natalie. It’s nice of you to offer, but I’m just about done.” She turned back and focused on affixing a pageant sash to a display board: San Solano’s own Miss Texas runner-up from a decade ago, of whom we were inordinately proud. Clearly we were eager for a positive legacy.

  I turned to leave, but the glass door swung open and Miss Maggie stepped inside, inspecting the displays. Strange, how she had once seemed like nothing but a kind matriarch with a drawl that dripped honey. Now her aura felt thick and enigmatic, a cloak of early morning fog.

  “It looks perfect, Jennifer,” she called out.

  “Glad to receive a seal of approval from the great Maggie Arthur,” Mrs. Langford grunted as she forced a staple into the sash. She stood back to assess her work, nodded, and gathered her supplies to leave.

  “Wow,” I said to Maggie after Mrs. Langford had departed without another word. “That was frosty. I thought you two were close.”

  “Not by choice,” Maggie said matter-of-factly. She went straight over and adjusted the sash. By well-mannered Southern-lady rules of engagement, it was an insult on par with spitting on Mrs. Langford’s shoe. “Jennifer hates the Wardens, but she needs us.”

  “Wait, she knows about us?” I asked, and immediately cringed at the reflex to categorize myself as a Warden.

  “She knows enough,” Maggie said. “My cousin Nor
a was Levi and Emmy’s grandmother on their father’s side. The Woodwalkers killed Nora when Mike Langford was just a boy. Mike always knew something was off about his mama’s death, that she’d been a part of something dangerous. And he also knew Emmy was special…that she was one of us.”

  “Did he even know what you were?”

  “He knew we were protecting the town from whatever killed Nora. He let us stick close to Emmy in order to protect her, but the terms changed after his passing.” She clucked and turned back to me. “Jennifer never wanted anything do with us. She believes magic is antithetical to Christianity. Doesn’t matter what we do, or what values we stand for. She doesn’t like us. She thinks we’re ungodly, which tends to chap my hide. But she respects that we keep her daughter safe. And that’s enough.”

  “Does she know about my grandma?”

  “Sure does,” Maggie said, raising an eyebrow, relishing the reminder that I had skin in this game, too.

  I thought of Mrs. Langford’s ice-capped gaze when she had found me in her yard that Sunday afternoon. “Will she tell anyone?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Couldn’t if she tried and wouldn’t dare.”

  Mrs. Langford had clearly been coerced into a blood oath.

  Something else occurred to me. All along, part of me had sensed and even hoped that there was a deeper explanation for Levi avoiding me, something so powerful that it eclipsed any attraction. This. This was it. Not just small-town drama between rival families, though Lillian’s book had made quite the intergenerational ripple. It was so much more than that. And if Levi had inherited his parents’ prejudices, it could explain everything.

  I could convince him that I wasn’t involved, that I wasn’t one of them.

  A woman with a brunette, blunt bob peeked her head into the courthouse atrium, revealing bright eyes with startlingly long lashes and a proud chin. Upon seeing us, she smiled and stepped inside. She made a quick journey around the display, her cork heels clunking across the marble floor. As she approached us, I noticed the sweat drenching the underarms of her long-sleeved blouse. She wasn’t from around here.

  “Excuse me. Are you Maggie Arthur?” she asked.

  “Guilty as charged,” Miss Maggie replied cheerily. “What can I do you for?”

  “I’m Alex Redding with Wayfarer, a culture and travel website based in San Diego.” She shook Maggie’s hand. “Could I trouble you for an interview?”

  “You’ve come too far for me to turn you down,” Maggie said.

  Alex Redding fixed her eyes on me and repeated her name in my direction with more confidence than a giant font on a billboard.

  “Natalie,” I admitted in response, shaking her hand.

  I watched her take note of my shirt and the walkie-talkie in my grasp. “If you don’t mind, I would love an extra quote from a volunteer.”

  Maggie and I shared a conspiratorial look, striking a silent agreement that we would say nothing of my heritage.

  “Uh, sure,” I replied.

  She smiled, ushered us to the nearest bench, and pressed record on her phone. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

  “No one seems to want to confront your town’s sinister past. Even at this history exhibit, there’s no tribute to the victims who lost their lives in the Malachian Massacres. Do you see that as a sign that fear is still a part of everyday life in San Solano?”

  Maggie tilted her head. “Well, you cut right to the chase, don’t you?”

  The journalist feigned a bashful laugh and pressed on. “Is there a reason why there’s no tribute to the victims, especially given the upcoming anniversaries?”

  “Flaunting tragedy for the entertainment of outsiders would be disrespectful,” Maggie said, unfazed. “We at the Treasures of Texas Heritage Festival Committee like to show respect to the victims’ families, while welcoming visitors with open arms.”

  “Do you worry that the cult could strike again?” Alex asked.

  Not even the faintest of shadows passed over Maggie’s face. She had lived with her secret for a long time. “Our history sparks curiosity and, dare I say, misplaced excitement. Some visitors may anticipate or even await another tragedy, but we here in San Solano feel confident that our local law enforcement will succeed in keeping everyone safe from harm.”

  The journalist pursed her lips, realizing she’d met her match and wouldn’t be catching Maggie off-guard or uncensored.

  “What do you think, Natalie?” Alex demanded.

  “Um, I mean, it seems unlikely.”

  “Have you met many tourists eager to unmask the secrets of the notorious cult murders?”

  I shrugged. “Most people are just here to have fun, I think.”

  She moved on from my unhelpful comment as though swatting away a gnat. “Tourism in San Solano has increased nearly sixty percent this year, according to your granddaughter at the chamber. Would you agree, Ms. Arthur, that the spike in dark tourism has led your town to greater prosperity? It’s boosting the economy, and more local businesses are thriving than ever before.”

  “Can’t argue with statistics,” Maggie said cheerily. “As I mentioned, we put a great deal of effort into our heritage tourism attractions, like this family-friendly festival, and we welcome all visitors.”

  Alex narrowed her blue eyes. “Wouldn’t you say that ignoring the visitors’ curiosity is biting the hand that feeds you?”

  “San Solano was founded long before travel magazines and dark tourism, and we’ve managed not to fall apart since.” She smiled, savagely. “This is a town, Ms. Redding, not a theme park.”

  “How can—” the woman started again, but I cut her off.

  “I don’t know what things are like in San Diego.” My stifled Texas drawl spilled into my words as though my own mother had taken possession of my body. “But here, we respect our elders. Like she said, this isn’t a theme park. Anyone with an appetite for gory details can go see a horror movie at the dollar theater.”

  Alex tucked away her irritation as neatly as her fresh-pressed blouse and stood up. “Well, thank you for your time,” she said before slipping out.

  A voice crackled from my walkie-talkie. “Can we get some more volunteers at Calvary Baptist? We’ve got people trying to sneak in, and the security guards haven’t started their shifts yet.”

  “On my way,” I replied, and headed for the door.

  “Natalie,” Maggie said, her voice echoing through the atrium. I turned. “Maybe today will remind you of what’s at stake. The joy here, the innocence, the fragile barrier that separates people from the darkness in this town.”

  I knew she was trying to capitalize on our moment of camaraderie. But Grandma Kerry had not minced words. She had gone to terrible lengths to prevent me from taking the Oath, not just for the sake of protection, but of conviction. Even if I didn’t understand it, I had to trust.

  “There are more important bonds than the bonds of family,” Maggie called as I stepped outside. I ignored her.

  A few streets over at the church, I found Vanessa wearing a volunteer shirt that would have swallowed her whole if she hadn’t tied the extra length in a big knot at her hip. She stood guard outside the foyer doors.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to fan the sweat off my face with my collar. She hadn’t been at the volunteer meetings.

  “Trying to protect people. What I’m always doing,” she said, but her tone had a little less bite to it than Lindsey’s had a couple days ago. She didn’t take my refusal to join personally. “Can you do a walk-through and make sure no one’s inside? I can’t keep up with these lunatics, and security isn’t due for another ten.”

  I wanted to refuse simply because a Warden had asked. It felt like they were trying to bring me into the fold without my consent. But I didn’t want regular people finding out about them any more than they did. That would put me in danger by virtue of association, not to mention impair their efforts to protect the town on the cusp of the Claiming—and mine, if I could f
igure out what Grandma Kerry wanted me to do.

  So I did as Vanessa asked, encountering a trio of giggling preteen girls on their way out of the sanctuary. Before I could chide them, one girl in braces mumbled a self-conscious, “Sorry, it was unlocked,” and led the others scuttling back outside.

  I entered the empty sanctuary and crossed in front of the stage toward the choir hall. The performers were practicing in a closed classroom, but there were other voices, too.

  “Do you feel that?” a girl asked. “I mean seriously, do you feel that?”

  “I don’t feel anything,” a boy replied. “And I’m not getting a reading.”

  I found the paranormal “investigators” clustered on the stairs leading up to the baptistery.

  “Only the choir is allowed to be here until the doors open for the performance,” I said.

  “Just a second.” The girl wearing glasses, Quinn, put up a finger to shush me. She pushed herself off the stairs. “I sense something here.” The guy holding the device pointed it up at the baptistery, but she redirected him, leading him down to the blank wall at the end of the hall, where Kate had opened the secret passage to the Warden hideout. Palms sweating, I pinched the button on my walkie-talkie. “There are three trespassers backstage in the church.”

  “You take your unpaid job seriously!” the girl exclaimed. The three of them stomped back down the hallway, and I heard her say under her breath, “That girl knows something.”

  FIFTEEN

  I relegated my fear of imminent nightfall to the back of my mind until sunset, when an organizer forced me to sit down at a picnic table, shoved a plate of barbecue in my hands, and ordered me done for the day. But with the Wardens swarming, I knew the square was the safest place in town tonight.

  As I tossed my plate in the trash, I caught sight of Dad’s graying hair and Mom’s blond poof bobbing in front of him. She spotted me and broke free from the crowd, weaving around picnic tables and blankets spread out on the grass. “This is so great, baby!” she said, planting a kiss on my sweaty hair.