Page 45 of The Women of Wild Hill

One of Many

Brigid took a detour on her way home from Liam Geddes’s house and cycled along Danskammer Beach Road.

Before all the billionaires began moving to Culling Pointe in the nineties, the road had been nothing more than dirt, sand, and shells.

She and Phoebe were allowed to ride up and down it as long as they obeyed Aunt Ivy’s rules: no swimming at Danskammer Beach and stay away from the Pointe.

Just as there were places with powerful good energy, there were also those where dark forces dominated.

Brigid knew about the inferno that had recently destroyed the buildings on Culling Pointe.

Fires these days were so common that most barely made the news, and Brigid doubted she’d have heard anything about this one if not for the scandal.

A wealthy art dealer had murdered at least three young women.

There were rumors that other rich men on the Pointe had been involved as well, though the lawsuit-wary media steered clear of the stories.

The dealer died in a helicopter crash days before the entire Pointe was destroyed by a mysterious fire that killed the billionaire who’d founded the community along with his longtime girlfriend.

Brigid only remembered the first house on the Pointe.

She’d seen pictures of the finished community, but she’d never visited.

As she cycled closer, she wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting.

A burnt-out wasteland, maybe, with the skeletal remains of two dozen mansions.

But as it came into view, she saw a stretch of land that looked much as it had when she was little—granite boulders and tall native grasses.

Two deer nibbled at the vegetation. The only difference, as far as Brigid could tell, were bushes covered with bright yellow flowers the color of caution tape.

Nature had reclaimed the stretch of land.

No trace of humans remained. Brigid couldn’t help but think it was meant to serve as a warning.

She pulled her bike to the shoulder of the road. A well-worn trail led through the scrub and down to the beach. She laid her bike on its side, where it disappeared into the roadside grass, and walked through the trees toward the crashing of waves.

The first thing she saw when she reached the beach was an altar halfway between the scrub and the high-tide line. Constructed of rocks and driftwood, it appeared hand built and well-maintained. A large chunk of schist bore a bronze plaque. In Memory of Amanda Walsh, Faith Reid, and Mei Jones.

Brigid looked up and around. She hadn’t made the connection until that very moment.

The killer’s three victims had been found nearby.

The Old One had brought her to a sacred place of death and justice.

She sat down on the sand a little ways from the altar and pulled Calum Geddes’s diary out of her bag.

She didn’t need to have it authenticated.

She remembered the leather-bound book well.

When Calum lived with them, he would bring it out at quiet moments to write.

For the memoir, he’d joked. Back then, the thought had been funny.

She opened the journal to a sketch of her mother.

Just a little portrait in pencil of Flora tucked into a chair with a book open on her lap.

It was obvious she hadn’t been aware that her image was being immortalized.

Her forehead was furrowed and her lower lip between her teeth.

And yet she appeared almost impossibly lovely.

There was no doubt that the artist had been deeply devoted.

There were others. Just little, everyday moments captured on paper. Then came the final entry, followed by empty pages.

I had one chance for happiness and I chose ambition instead. If only I’d taken the second vial. I suspect there are others hidden somewhere on the estate.

brIGID LOOKED UP TO SEE a woman strolling down the beach toward her.

As she drew closer, Brigid began to question if her visitor was fully human.

Her wild wavy hair shone gold, silver, and platinum.

The face behind giant Celine sunglasses appeared bronze.

She was wearing a large scrap of fabric tied artfully around her torso.

“Oh, good. You’re not a disasterbator,” the woman announced once she was close enough to be heard over the waves.

“A disasterbator?”

“Oh, you know, one of those sick fucks who get off on serial killers and crime scenes. I find them here sometimes—taking pictures or reenacting the murders.”

“No, definitely not one of them.” Brigid closed the diary and stuck it back in her bag. “Though I do go through a lot of fake blood in my line of work.”

“I know.” The woman took a seat beside Brigid. “You probably don’t recognize me. We worked together once a million years ago when I was in advertising and you were auditioning to be the spokesperson for a tampon company.” She held out a hand. “Harriett Osborne.”

“Brigid Laguerre. I remember you now. You didn’t give me the job. You said I was too good for it and told me I would go on to great things.”

“And it seems I was right.” Harriett looked around at the beach. “Do you come here often?” Somehow, it didn’t sound like small talk.

“No,” Brigid said. “My family has a place nearby, but I’ve been just outside of Los Angeles. I’ve just moved back to the Island.”

“To Wild Hill, am I right? I heard you were Ivy Duncan’s niece.”

“Did you know her?”

The lady’s grin was unusually wide, one might even say hungry.

“Only by reputation. She died before I moved to the Island. What a fascinating woman.” She didn’t elaborate, but she certainly hinted at the turn Ivy’s reputation had taken in the weeks after her death, when bodies were discovered in the basement of her former home.

“So what about you?” Brigid was eager to change the subject.

Harriett cocked her head. “What about me?”

“Do you come to Danskammer Beach often?”

“Oh yes,” said Harriett, as if she’d been hoping Brigid would ask. “I’m quite proud of my handiwork. I stop by once a week.” She gestured in the direction of Culling Pointe.

Brigid wasn’t quite sure what to make of the statement. “You’re saying you’re the one who burned down all the mansions?”

“No, of course not,” Harriett told her. “There were three of us. In case you haven’t noticed, there are always three of us.

But yes, we burned the houses down. They’d been used to shelter predators who preyed on young women.

My friends and I put an end to the ring, but a woman’s work is never done, is it?

Since then we’ve continued to hunt down the ones who got away. ”

“You’re a witch, then?” Brigid asked.

“Whatever you call yourself, you can call me that, too. You and I are of a kind. It’s one of my gifts—I’m always able to recognize others.”

“How many of us are there?”

Harriett shrugged as though a precise answer wasn’t terribly important.

“All I can tell you is that we’re nowhere as rare as we used to be,” she said.

“Our numbers are growing. Something big is on the horizon, and we’ll all be called upon to do our part.

But you—you will be asked to do more than most.”

“Why do you say that?” Brigid asked. “Do you know what the Old One has planned?”

“You call her the Old One?” Harriett thought about it and nodded.

“Yes, that fits. And no, I don’t know what lies in store for us.

But I sense the tide turning. The power of this place is drawing witches from all over the world.

I’ve already met a few, but I’ve never encountered anyone quite as powerful as you. ”

“How do you know how powerful I am?”

“I sense it.” She closed her eyes and held a palm six inches from Brigid’s chest. “I can feel the cold radiating off you. You’re a punisher, like me. But you’re much stronger than I am, even though you’re holding back. How old were you when you killed for the first time?”

Brigid paused. “Thirteen,” she admitted. “I killed a man who wanted to hurt my sister.”

“I was fourteen when I punished my father for murdering my mother. The experience shocked me so badly that I didn’t find my power again until I was in my late forties. What about you?”

Brigid had never spoken about her gift with anyone outside the family. “My mother committed suicide when I was seventeen. I was furious that the Old One let it happen, so I refused to do her bidding for thirty years.”

“What changed your mind?” Harriett asked.

“Who said I changed my mind? The Old One had to destroy my house in California to get me back to Wild Hill. I don’t know what she wants from me, but I have a hunch I’m not going to live through it. Turns out my mother’s death was all part of her plan.”

“Your mother was given no say in things?”

“She had a say,” Brigid admitted reluctantly. “She told us she killed herself so that my sister and I would find this particular path. She died for the two of us.”

Harriett winced. “Blessings and sacrifice go hand in hand, you know. Grieve your mother, but know that everything that has happened has brought you to this moment, just as your mother knew it would.”

“What if my path ends the same way hers did?” Everything about her relationship with Liam made her think it might.

“Then you will be given a choice as well. May I offer you another piece of advice?”

“Of course,” Brigid told her.

“Don’t be afraid. Trust your mother, who loved you so dearly that she sacrificed her life for you. And trust yourself to know what will have to be done. You have great power and you are wise enough to meet this moment.”

“Thank you,” Brigid said.

“You’re welcome.” Harriett rose to her feet. “But please—no more fucking feuds with your sister. You two need each other. The rest of us are depending on you.”