24

Salem, Massachusetts

“Stop,” Jason commanded the woman. According to the man who’d been walking his bulldog outside the church, her name was Samantha.

She turned, startled. He’d caught her walking toward the bathroom. “Yes?”

“My mother was very specific about the pulpit, which she wanted me to see. It was a shining memory from her wedding. Yet, it doesn’t look like the original I saw in the pictures. Is it?”

“The original? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

The gray-haired office worker’s smile took on a strained appearance. “Of course.”

When she walked through the door into the sanctuary, she gasped.

The enormous, gorgeous building had been constructed in 1836, and little had changed in this section of it in the nearly 200 convening years. The ceiling was still covered in quatrefoil molding, replicating the design on the exterior tower. The lancet windows still held the watercolor glory of the stained glass, nearly as old as the stones of the church, depicting biblical scenes. The dark wood of the row pews, and even the worn red velvet of the cushions of the box pews that lined the west and east sides of the church, was intact. The glorious organ in the balcony, which turned the entire upper back of the church into a brass wall, was untouched.

It was the pulpit, the magnificent ten-foot lectern at the head of the church, that Jason had destroyed. Every delicate panel of wood adorning its front and sides had been molested, splintered, ripped open.

The church worker spoke through shaking fingers. “What have you done?”

Jason stared intently at her. The destruction meant nothing to him. He needed the docket. It hadn’t been anywhere in the pulpit, and he had to figure out where he’d gone wrong. “Is this the First Church of Salem?”

“Of course it is.” She was backing toward the door.

“The only one?”

She began weeping, sniffling, still fumbling backward, her eyes wide with shock. “No. There were four. Didn’t you know?”

Jason’s mother’s face slid over Samantha’s. He knew this sniveling woman wasn’t Vera, but still, he heard her speak his mother’s words, telling him how stupid he was, not good for anything, a mistake who just made more mistakes.

He should have researched the church more carefully. He’d been too excited, too close to success. He should have known there would be more than one.

You ugly shit. Put a bag over your head when you go out. It’s good they come at you from behind so they don’t have to look at your face. Don’t tell them I’m your mom. And if you get lost, don’t bother getting found.

He hit the side of his head to drown out her voice. Vera couldn’t hurt him. Making sure of that was his first order of business once the Hermitage Foundation had given him the necessary skills and money. He checked on her every week, two at the most, just as he had done on his layover on the way to Massachusetts. It took no more than twenty minutes to change the litter under her chair and pour fresh water in the bottle and tube he’d strung from the ceiling. Only a minute to switch out the IV bag that supplied her nutrients.

She’d given up on begging him to untie her years ago, even before the flesh had grown over the IV needle, consuming it, making it part of her.

Now, she didn’t even open her eyes when he visited.

He spoke to the gray-haired church lady, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Tell me what you mean when you say there were four.”

“Four first churches, three buildings. The original First Church met in 1629.” She was talking so fast, snot running from her nose and into her mouth. “About a hundred years ago, that building was moved behind Plummer Hall up a ways on Essex. It’s a tourist stop, a tiny old thing, no longer in use.”

Her back was flat against the door, but she seemed to have forgotten how to work a door knob. “Then came the East and North churches, and another First Church. This building was the North Church, built in 1836, but when it reunited with the First Church congregation in 1923, they both moved here because—”

She choked on the slimy yogurt of her own words, the blood draining from her face. It was only when he spotted the whites around her pupils that Jason realized her terror had ramped up a notch. A second later, he understood why—his bones weren’t set. This happened to him in times of great stress, more frequently the older he grew. Only once had he witnessed his face when it was loose, reflecting back at him from a plate glass window.

It was a demon’s mask.

He quickly rearranged his bones to support a bland expression, but it was too late. She was melting toward the ground, unable or unwilling to turn her back on him, her mouth opening and closing like a landed carp.

He leapt forward, grabbing her. Her throat was sliced before his feet touched the ground, his hands quicker than gravity. He wished he hadn’t made such a mess of the pulpit, but there was no turning back time. He stuffed her in one of the box pews and cleared away the worst of the pulpit’s wood splinters. He only needed to buy an hour or two.

Now that he knew his mistake, he could address it. He needed to go to the original First Church, the one that was now behind Plummer Hall, a tiny old thing, no longer in use.