Free The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson

Prophet’s wife, bound to him bythe sacred seal. Immanuelle knew there was power in a promise like that, and while she trusted Leah as her friend, as a prophet’s bride she wouldn’t belong to herself anymore. “They didn’t do anything. They just stood there. I ran before they had the chance to come closer.”
    Leah was quiet for a long time, as if trying to decide whether or not she believed her. Then: “What on earth were you thinking? The woods are dangerous. There’s a reason we’re taught to stay clear of them.”
    A flare of anger licked up the back of Immanuelle’s neck. “You think I don’t know that?”
    Leah caught her by the shoulder, gripping so hard she winced. “Knowing isn’t enough, Immanuelle. You have to promise me you’ll never go into the Darkwood again.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Good,” said Leah, and her grip slackened. “I hope those women you saw go back to the hell they came from. There’s no place for them here.”
    “But they weren’t here,” said Immanuelle quietly. “They were in the Darkwood.”
    “And does the Father not have power over the woods as well?”
    Immanuelle thought of her mother’s journal, the four words at the end of her final entry: Blood. Blight. Darkness. Slaughter. “Maybe the Father turned His back on the forest,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. “He has His kingdom, and the Dark Mother has Hers.”
    “Yet you passed through the Darkwood’s corridors unharmed. That has to mean something.”
    Before Immanuelle had the chance to respond, the church bell tolled and the front doors swung open. The Prophet entered in a slant of sunlight. He wore plain clothes, no robes or stoles as he did on Sabbath days. Somehow, his common wear made him allthe more intimidating. Immanuelle could not help but notice how sallow he looked. His eyes were shadowed with dark bags and she could have sworn there was blood crusting in the corners of his lips.
    The Prophet’s gaze went to Immanuelle first, falling to her dress, and something like recognition stirred in his eyes. He seemed to stare through her, to a lost time when Miriam was still alive. She had never fully understood what the Prophet had seen in her mother. Some said it was love, others lust, but most believed that Miriam had seduced the Prophet with her witchery. There were so many stories and secrets, tangled threads and loose ends, but Immanuelle wondered if the truth lay somewhere in the intersections between them all.
    After a long beat, the Prophet turned and nodded to Leah, as if he’d only just remembered she was there. He walked to the altar in silence, only pausing to cough into his sleeve. The rest of the congregation spilled in after him, filing into the pews. The apostles walked around the perimeter of the room, Ezra among them.
    Immanuelle tried her best not to look at him.
    In turn, Leah’s gaze fell to the Prophet. “It’s time.”
    Immanuelle nodded, giving Leah’s hand a final squeeze before she slipped toward the altar. As Immanuelle went to find her place in the pews, the apostles lifted an invocation and Leah climbed up onto the altar, careful to gather her skirts in such a way that her knees didn’t show. And there she lay, motionless, in wait of the blade.
    The Prophet placed his hand to her belly. “I bless you with the seed of the Father.” His hand shifted to her chest. “The heart of the lamb.”
    Leah gave a tremulous smile. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
    The Prophet lifted the chain of his dagger and slipped it overhis head. “May the power of the Father move through you, henceforth and forevermore.”
    The flock spoke in unison. “Blessings forevermore.”
    With that, he lowered the blade to Leah’s forehead and cut her, carving the first line of the holy seal. She did not scream or struggle, even as the blood slipped down her temples and pooled in the hollows of her ears.
    The flock watched in silence. Immanuelle gripped the pew white-knuckled to keep