4
Margaret stood at the edge of the crater that had once been her barn. It did not look burned.
It looked erased.
Two days had passed since Franklin's screams tore through the night. Two days since hell split open and turned darkness into day. Two days since her world collapsed inward and left nothing but ash.
The barn had not simply fallen.
It had imploded.
Charred beams lay scattered outward in a violent circle, as if something had burst from its center and clawed its way into the sky. The earth itself was scorched black in a perfect radius. Even the air above it shimmered faintly in the morning heat.
People had already begun to visit.
Neighbors.
Travelers.
Men who claimed to have seen the light from miles away. They stood at the edge of the ruin and whispered, about angels, about judgment, about witchcraft.
But they did not whisper about Franklin Worthing as a foolish man who burned in his own barn.
They spoke of him as a martyr. And they spoke of her as something else.
The woman who fought fire. The woman who faced down rebellion. The woman who stood alone against slaves gone mad.
Margaret let them speak. She did not correct the details. In fact, she sharpened them.
"He screamed for God," she told one neighbor, voice low and steady. "And I ran toward the flames." She did not mention the moment she froze. She did not mention the cheering. She did not mention the eyes of the dead boy.
Legends did not need every truth. It had taken her hours that night to gather herself enough to do a head count.
Hours of smoke, hours of confusion, hours of staring at what remained of Franklin's body.
But when she finally demanded numbers the real fire began.
Three missing.
Three slaves unaccounted for. At first she thought it a mistake. Then she heard the names.
One of them was Wiley.
The moment that name passed someone's lips, something cold and sharp slid into place inside her.
OF COURSE!! The witch, the seductress.
The serpent who had wrapped herself around her husband and corrupted him. The fire had not been random. It had been escape.
It had been betrayal.
Margaret straightened at the edge of the crater. The legend shifted in her mind. It was no longer about a saintly husband taken by divine fire.
It was about a wicked slave who had conjured chaos to flee. And Margaret would make sure the story spread that way. She spoke carefully in the days that followed.
Not hysterical, not grieving, measured.
"She brought fire with her," she told anyone who would listen. "I saw it."
"She bewitched him."
"She burned him alive and fled under the cover of light." The tale grew teeth.
By the second evening, men were arriving not to mourn but to hunt.
Slave catchers. Men who smelled profit in myth. Men who wanted to be the one who brought down the Daylight Witch.
The name had already begun to circulate.
And Margaret encouraged it.
"If you catch her," she said coolly, standing tall in black mourning silk, "you will not only be paid. You will be remembered." That was all it took.
By nightfall, horses were saddled.
By dawn, riders were already combing the woods.
Margaret stood at the crater's edge, staring into the blackened earth.
Three runaways.
One of them Wiley.
Let the woods hide them for now. Let them believe the fire had freed them. Margaret smiled faintly. Legends traveled fast. But hunters traveled faster.
The horses arrived just after dawn, three of them.
Clean gear. Clean boots. No wasted movement.
Margaret watched from the porch as they dismounted. She had changed into black silk despite the heat. Grief suited her. It made her sharp.
The tallest of the newcomers tipped his hat first.
"That the lady of the house?" he asked with a grin too easy.
"Tom."
His smile lingered just a second too long.
Margaret didn't return it. "You're late," she said coolly.
Tom chuckled. "Two days late, maybe. But the trail's still warm."
Mitchell elbowed him lightly. "Less talk."
Tom rolled his eyes but fell silent. Greyson didn't greet her at all.
He stepped past them without introduction, boots crunching over blackened soil as he approached what had once been the barn.
Margaret bristled.
"Careful," she called. "That ground is unstable."
Greyson crouched at the edge of the crater.
The barn wasn't simply burned. It had blown outward. The blast pattern was wrong for accidental fire. Beams lay scattered in a rough circle. Dirt was scorched deep.
He ran a gloved hand across the ground, ash, char, and something else.
Movement!!!
Tom drifted up beside Margaret on the porch.
"Heard you faced it down yourself," he said softly. "Fire. Slaves. A whole mess."
Margaret lifted her chin. "I did what was necessary."
Tom smiled like he appreciated that.
Mitchell stepped between them without ceremony. "Where were the missing quartered?"
Margaret's eyes sharpened. "Behind the north fence line."
"Which direction would they run?" Mitchell asked.
"Forest," she said instantly. "They're too stupid to try open fields."
Greyson stood slowly. He had found it, near the outer ring of the blast, where chaos met dirt that hadn't burned two distinct impressions.
Bare, small slender, A woman, and beside it lighter another woman. Not three runaways, two.
He followed the line outward ten paces. Then twenty. The footprints staggered slightly at first panic, injury. Then steadier. Directional.
They knew where they were going.
Greyson straightened.
"Tom."
Tom stepped away from Margaret immediately.
"You flirting or you hunting?" Mitchell muttered.
Tom smirked. "Both." margeret blushed in response.
Greyson didn't look at them. "Two," he said.
Mitchell's posture changed instantly. "Confirmed?" Grayson gave a thumbs up in response.
"Which way?" Mitchell asked as he approached with the horses. Greyson pointed toward the tree line.
Margaret stiffened behind them. "There were three," she insisted.
Greyson finally turned toward her. "No, ma'am." He gestured toward the ground.
"There's only two who mattered."
Silence.
Tom let out a low whistle. Mitchell adjusted his rifle. Greyson mounted his horse in one smooth motion.
"Pack light," he said. "They're injured. Two days ahead. Forest slows them. We'll make that up."
Tom glanced back at Margaret. "Don't you worry, ma'am. We'll bring your witch back."
Margaret's jaw tightened.
"Alive," she said. Greyson paused only long enough to respond.
"If it's profitable." Then he kicked his horse forward, the other three followed, woods swallowed them quickly.
Greyson rode like the devil was paying him per heartbeat.
The tracks were faint, letting him know they were moving fast. A few broken twigs. A patch of grass pushed down. A bare footprint must've been nara. The heavier, deeper prints belonged to the with.
Greyson had a nose for runners.
He liked to say it, too liked to remind the younger catchers that "a man don't run far when you know how to smell where he's been."
Tom and Mitchel flanked him on either side, their horses struggling to keep pace. The trail was tight, overgrown. But the signs were there.
A crushed fern. A snapped branch. A torn bit of cloth snagged on bark.
"Still fresh," Greyson grunted, kneeling beside a muddy patch. A heel print, deep and heavy. "She's carryin' somethin'. Probably some food."
Tom, barely old enough to shave, shifted in his saddle. "You think they'll make it far?"
Greyson didn't answer.
Because he didn't think. He knew.
Unju was smart. Smarter than the others. She had a fire in her that didn't burn out easy. But Greyson had put out plenty of fires before.
They moved like hounds through the woods, following the scent of desperation.
Mitchel cracked jokes between swigs from his flask, but even he got quieter the closer they got to the water. The air changed. Grew still.
Greyson narrowed his eyes as they crested a small ridge and there it was. The creek.
Wide, shallow, and full of white noise.
The trail led straight to it.
He dismounted, heart picking up. Every hair on his arm stood on end. The scent was fresh. Close.
Too close.
"They was here," he muttered, boots squelching in the mud.
Tom and Mitchel hung back, unsure.
Greyson scanned the bank. Bent grass. A partial footprint, toes barely pressed into the edge of the earth.
"I bet they washed up then they ran through here," he whispered. "Dragged the other one behind her, too." He motioned to the broken reeds. "But she ain't stupid enough to go straight across."
He checked upstream, nothing.
Downstream, till nothing. Then the moment hit him the first time in hours nothing.
No birds, no snapping branches, no breeze.
Just... quiet.
Greyson's breath caught in his throat.
He turned in a slow circle, suddenly aware of how alone they were. The woods no longer felt like a trail they felt like a trap.
Tom shifted nervously. "They drown?"
"No," Greyson snapped.
Tom voice was small. "Then where'd they go?"
Greyson didn't answer. Because for the first time in a long time...
He didn't know.
He knelt at the water's edge. Mud clung to the underside of his boots, and a dragonfly danced across the surface as if mocking him.
The prints stopped here.
Nothing but rippling water and still silence.
Greyson scanned the opposite bank. No splash marks. No prints. No blood. No mistake.
"Damn," he muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek.
He stood, spit into the water, and looked upstream then down. Both ways empty.
"Smart bitch."
Tom coudln't stop talking.
"Why you think she ran with Mire? You think they're close?"
"You think she had help from the inside?"
"What if they went separate ways? Wouldn't that be smarter?"
Greyson didn't respond. He just kept riding. Eyes forward, focused on the trail or what was left of it.
Behind them, Mitchel snorted. "You ever ask a question you plan to answer yourself, or you just like hearin' your own voice?"
Tom ignored him, pressing on, "I just don't get why theyed run, . Or why they'd head toward the water. You think she's tryin' to get upstream? Make it to the mountains?"
That was when Greyson stopped.
No fanfare. No big show. Just a single, quiet pull of the reins that brought his horse to a dead halt.
Tom nearly collided with him.
Greyson didn't look back. He simply said, "Shut up."
Tom blinked. "I was just"
"I said. Shut. Up." The woods fell silent. Even the birds quieted. Greyson finally turned in his saddle. "The trail stops at the creek. That don't mean they disappeared. If you were runnin' scared, with no plan and no road, what would you do?"
Tom scratched his head, clearly caught off guard by an actual question.
Mitchel answered instead. "Follow the water."
Greyson nodded once. "Exactly. She's not dumb. If she was, we'd have her by now."
"So what then?" Tom asked, carefully.
"We follow the creek. Keep our eyes open for any split offs. Old trails. Deer runs. Anything."
The three of them kicked their horses into motion, moving upstream as the creek narrowed into rougher cuts and steeper paths. The deeper they rode into the wilderness, the darker the canopy grew. The trees leaned inward like eavesdropping giants.
Tom began shifting in his saddle, voice suddenly quieter. "Don't like this."
Mitchel smirked. "What now?"
"These woods. You know where we are, right? Old mountain country. My pa used to say these trees remember things. Bad things. Said they still scream if you listen close enough."
"Let me guess," Mitchel grinned. "Appalachian ghost stories?"
"Laugh all you want. You ever heard of a Blue Wailer?"
Mitchel rolled his eyes. "Lord, here we go."
"I'm serious. It's not a ghost. It's a warning. Like a spirit that screams right before something awful happens. Only ever happens when you're somewhere you shouldn't be."
Mitchel chuckled. "You're scared of bedtime stories."
"I'm not scared," Tom muttered, eyes flicking around the dense forest. "I just ain't stupid. We're chasing ghosts into places that don't want to be found."
Greyson said nothing.
But his jaw tightened as the trail narrowed and the water beside them deepened. He didn't believe in ghosts. He believed in blood and tracks and the kind of people who ran because they had to.
Still, something about this stretch of woods…
It was too quiet.
By the time the trees closed in around them, they had no choice.
"Off the horses," Greyson ordered, voice low and flat.
Tom groaned, but dismounted. Mitchel followed with a grunt.
The forest hugged the creek now tight and damp. The branches reached low, the thickets pressed in on either side, and the water deepened to their knees in some places. The ground beside it was mostly rock and tangled roots. No clean paths anymore. Just the unforgiving wild.
Every step became work.
They moved slow. Careful. Eyes scanning for prints muddy impressions, bent grass, even just the drag of a heel.
And it was work. Boring, tedious, soul-grinding work. But Greyson made them do it.
"We're not here to guess," he said. "We read the land. She'll leaves a mark. They always do."
They'd been walking for hours.
Boots soaked through. Legs stiff. The creek babbled like it was mocking them always whispering, never showing.
The horses had been tied off long ago, unable to squeeze through the tight bends of forest crowding the water. Now it was just men, mud, and the slow, miserable grind of the search.
Tom kicked a rock into the water. "I'm just sayin', this don't feel right."
"Again with this," Mitchel groaned without even looking back.
"No, listen." Tom waved a hand toward the forest. "We been followin' this damn creek all night, and not one clean track since the bend. Nothin'. Not even a scuff."
"That's why we keep going," Greyson snapped. "No tracks means we're close. Means they're being careful. Which means they know we're comin'."
Tom scowled. "Or maybe it means they ain't here. Maybe they went another way and we're wastin' time in a cursed patch of woods."
Greyson stopped cold. Tom ran into his back again. "You callin' me wrong, boy?"
Tom hesitated. "I'm sayin' this feels wrong. Like they vanished. Ain't natural."
Mitchel rolled his eyes. "Not this again…"
Tom turned, arms flailing a little. "You don't feel it? How quiet it is? Like the woods are watchin' us. Like we ain't supposed to be here. Like if we go one step its to far."
Greyson spun on him.
"The only reason we ain't found 'em is because we keep stoppin' every ten damn minutes to listen to you whine like a kicked pup. I swear, Tom, you weren't talkin' this much when you signed up for the coin."
Tom's mouth opened, closed, then fired back. "Yeah, well maybe I didn't sign up to get dragged into the Devil's backyard!"
"Then go home," Greyson growled. "Go on. Back to your bed. Back to Margaret. Tell her you got spooked by some trees while a runaway was makin' fools of all three of us."
Mitchel let out a short, humorless laugh.
Tom turned on him. "Don't act like you ain't feelin' it too."
"I ain't," Mitchel said flatly. "'Cause I ain't a coward."
Tom stepped forward. "Say that again."
"I said," Mitchel repeated, "you're a coward."
Greyson put a hand between them, eyes cold. "That's enough."
Silence fell.
Only the water moved, rushing quietly beside them. The wind didn't even stir.
Greyson exhaled slow. "We're not turnin' back. Not for ghosts. Not for fear. Not 'til we got something in our hands or blood on the ground. Now get movin'."
He turned and started walking again, scanning the earth with hawk's eyes.
Tom glared down at the mud as he followed, jaw tight.
Mitchel smirked and muttered under his breath, "Bet the runaway ain't half as scared as you."
Tom heard it. But said nothing.
"I'm just say i don't think they'd come this far," he muttered at one point.
"You don't think at all," Greyson shot back.
Mitchel chuckled under his breath, but even he was starting to sweat through his shirt. The creek gurgled endlessly beside them, the only real sound in the air. Not a bird call. Not a squirrel. Just water and footsteps.
And then they saw it.
Up ahead, half hidden behind a curtain of hanging moss and ivy a cave.
It was dark. Wide enough to walk into standing tall. The rocks around it glistened like something had been wetting them recently. But no footprints. No drag marks. No evidence of entry.
Greyson scanned the ground.
"Nothing," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Yeah," Tom said, already backing away, "so let's not go messin' with it."
But Mitchel stepped forward.
"I'll check it," he said casually, already unclipping the lantern from his belt.
"There ain't no prints," Greyson said.
"There's also no prints anywhere else since that last bend. What if she stepped through the water? Used a branch to climb the rocks? Could've thrown the scent off. If she's smart and you said she is. This is exactly the kinda place she'd hide."
Tom looked like he wanted to protest again but bit his tongue.
Greyson stared at the cave entrance for a long moment. His instincts twisted in his gut not fear, not yet. Just... uncertainty. "Fine," he said. "Check it. But be fast."
Mitchel nodded and stepped inside. The dark swallowed him whole.