Dark Corner

Prologue

October 31, 1862

Black Mountain, North Carolina

“Terra, run now. They’re coming.” Agatha’s words echoed across the open field. I glanced up at her. I lay in the crop field that Agatha had been tending. We were at the top of a clearing outside her cabin on Black Mountain, part of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Western North Carolina. I stared deep into her turquoise eyes. I saw fear rising up from her. She stood, putting a hand to her lower back, and stared across the field. The purple flowers of the chives rustled in the breeze; the evergreens that surrounded her land swayed in the wind. Her red and white dogs sensed the intruders approaching. They darted around the field, barking, circling her, ready to protect her from whatever evil approached.

“Go, Terra, before it’s too late.” Her voice was more urgent this time.

I stood and stretched, realizing I couldn’t remember when she had become so old, her hair gray, her skin withered and wrinkled, her movements slow and unsure. I was reluctant to leave her. Since arriving in North Carolina, Agatha had provided me with refuge, allowing me to curl up by her fire, eat from her table, and accompany her on healing ministries. A woman of few words, she was a powerful healer. Despite her abilities, she still had not found a way to heal me. I remained as a cat, my true girl form hidden from me. At seventeen years of age, escaping from the trials in Salem, I took a potion that transformed me into an ordinary alley cat, and thus I have stayed. The knowledge to change me back to my true form was lost with my coven leader, Elizabeth, who had met her fate in the Salem witch trials.

I felt the pounding of the hooves charging across the field and the rattle of the heavy wagon before I saw them. Then I heard the telltale rebel yell. Garbed in yellow and gray, there were three men, two on horseback, brandishing pistols and one, the leader, driving a horse-drawn wagon. They stopped in front of Agatha, who was as surprised as I was. No intruders had ever broken through the enchanted woods around the cabin. The dogs barked, circling the wagon. Two black horses frothed at the mouth and kicked up their hooves. The wheels of the wagon sunk deep into the ground. Like the horses, the wagon was black. Holding the reins was a lieutenant, tall and thin. He cracked his whip as he stared the dogs down. The dogs whimpered and stepped backward. The oldest dog lunged toward him, and the whip cracked again. I ran and hid behind the wagon. Dangling from the bed hung bones tied with tendons. One sniff and I could tell they were human. Trophies, I thought, spoils of this brutal war.

As the dogs continued to lunge and bark, he cracked his whip toward them.

“No,” Agatha screamed, standing in front of the dog. “Run,” she screamed at her dogs as the whip cracked, lashing the flesh off her arm, causing her to drop to her knees.

Snarling, the largest dog lunged for the lieutenant, attempting to pull him down from the wagon. The whip cracked again, wrapping around the dog’s neck. The lieutenant pulled the whip, snapping the poor dog’s neck. The other pups scattered. Clutching her arm, Agatha knelt down next to the dog, cradling his head in her lap.

I stopped, stepped toward her, and then froze in place when I saw the face of the lieutenant. His face was scarred, his mouth distorted with a comical grin that stretched ear to ear. What kind of battle had he been through? He tugged at the kerchief around his neck, revealing the deep red scar that hung like a noose around it.

I ran into the fields toward the stream, the dogs behind me. We scattered, the dogs making their way into the stream, me avoiding water. The soldiers had been targeting Agatha since the conflict started as she would not declare a loyalty to either side. Blue or gray, she treated both with her healing medications. Agatha was not a proponent of war. Nor was I. I had lost too many friends to conflicts. I leaned against a mighty oak, catching my breath. I clawed my way up the tree, finding comfort on a heavy limb. From my vantage point, I watched as the lieutenant dismounted and circled Agatha. There was something about him, the lieutenant, that chilled me to the bone. His eyes stared past Agatha as though he could see through her. I had seen other soldiers, some mere boys, others old men. The lieutenant was neither. I looked at him, yet I didn’t see him. It was moments ago, yet I couldn’t remember his face, any of his features except the lieutenant bars on his uniform and the cracking of his whip.

They came without warning. Agatha Hollows enchanted the cabin and the woods surrounding it. The ash, oak, and thorn bent their mighty limbs over the road leading up Black Mountain, barring the way to any unwanted strangers. I had not heard them crack, and I had never seen Agatha Hollows truly scared. My heart pounded. The war was coming to Black Mountain; the war was coming to Agatha Hollows.