IN THE HOUR OF CROWS
Author: Dana Elmendorf
Publication Date: June 4, 2024
ISBN: 9780778310495
Format: Hardcover
Publisher: Harlequin Trade
Publishing / MIRA
Price $28.99
An engrossing and atmospheric debut that follows
young Weatherly Wilder as she uses her unique gift to solve her cousin’s
mysterious murder and prove her own innocence, set in the beautiful wilds of
Appalachia and imbued with magic realism.
In a small town in rural Georgia, Appalachian roots and traditions still
run deep. Folks paint their houses blue to keep the spirits way. Black ferns
grow, it’s said, where death will follow. And Weatherly Wilder’s grandmother is
a local Granny Witch, relied on for help delivering babies, making herbal
remedies, tending to the sick—and sometimes serving up a fatal dose of revenge
when she deems it worthy. Hyper-religious, she rules Weatherly with an iron
fist; because Weatherly has a rare and covetable gift: she’s a Death Talker.
Weatherly, when called upon, can talk the death out of the dying; only once,
never twice. But in her short twenty years on this Earth this gift has taken a
toll, rooting her to the small town that only wants her around when they need
her and resents her backwater ways when they don’t—and how could she ever
leave, if it meant someone could die while she was gone?
Weatherly’s best friend and cousin, Adaire, also has a gift: she’s a
Scryer; she can see the future reflected back in a dark surface, usually her
scrying pan. Right before she’s hit and in a bicycle accident, Adaire saw
something unnerving in the pan, that much Weatherly knows, and she is certain
this is why the mayor killed her cousin—she doesn’t believe for a moment that
it was an accident. But when the mayor’s son lays dying and Weatherly, for the
first time, is unable to talk the death of him, the whole town suspects she was
out for revenge, that she wouldn’t
save him. Weatherly, with the help of Adaire’s spirit, sets out to prove her
own innocence and find Adaire’s killer, no matter what it takes.
Buy Links:
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Excerpted from IN THE HOUR OF CROWS by Dana Elmendorf. Copyright © 2024 by Dana Elmendorf. Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.
PROLOGUE
I was born in the woods in the hour of
crows, when the day is no longer but the night is not yet. Grandmama Agnes
brought me into this world with her bare hands. Just as her mother had taught
her to do. Just as the mother before her taught. Just as she would teach me.
Midwife, herbalist, superstitionist—all the practices of her Appalachian roots
passed down for generations.
And a few new tricks picked up along the
way.
Before Papaw died, he warned me Grandmama
Agnes was wicked. He was wrong. It wasn’t just Grandmama who was wicked; so was
I.
I knew it was true the night those twin
babies died.
“Weatherly,” Grandmama’s sleep-weary
voice woke me that night long ago. “Get your clothes on. Don’t forget your
drawers.”
My Winnie the Pooh nightgown, ragged and
thin, was something pillaged from the free-clothes bin at church. Laundry was
hard to do often when water came from a well and washing powders cost money. So
we saved our underwear for the daytime.
My ten-year-old bones ached from the
death I talked out of the Bodine sisters earlier that day, the mucus still
lodged in my throat. I barked a wet cough to bring it up.
“Here.” Grandmama handed me a blue
perfume bottle with a stopper that did not match. I spat the death inside the
bottle like always. The thick ooze slipped down the curved lip and blobbed at
the bottom. A black dollop ready for someone else to swallow.
It smelled of rotting flesh and tasted
like fear.
Sin Eater Oil, Grandmama called it, was
like a truth serum for the soul. A few drops baked into a pie, you could find
out if your neighbor stole your garden vegetables. Mixed with certain herbs, it
enhanced their potency and enlivened the superstitious charms from Grandmama’s
magic recipe box.
On a few occasions—no more than a handful
of times—when consumed in full, its power was lethal.
Out in front of our cabin sat a shiny new
Corvette with hubcaps that shimmered in the moonlight. Pacing on the porch, a
shadow of a man. It wasn’t until he stepped into the light did I catch his
face. Stone Rutledge. He was taller and thinner and snakier back then.
Bone Layer, a large hardened man who got
his name from digging graves for the cemetery, dropped a pine box no longer
than me into the back of our truck. He drove us everywhere we needed to
be—seeing how Grandmama couldn’t see too good and I was only ten. The three of
us followed Stone as his low-slung car dragged and scrapped the dirt road to a
farmhouse deep in the woods.
An oil-lit lamp flickered inside. Cries
of a woman in labor pushed out into the humid night. Georgia’s summer air was
always thick. Suffocating, unbearable nights teeming with insects hell-bent on
fighting porch lights.
A woman at the edge of panic for being
left in charge greeted us at the door. Pearls draped her neck. Polish shined
her perfect nails as she pulled and worked the strand. Her heels click-clacked
as she paced the linoleum floor.
Grandmama didn’t bother with
pleasantries. She shoved on past with her asphidity bag full of her herbs and
midwife supplies and my Sin Eater Oil and went straight for the woman who was
screaming. Bone Layer grabbed his shovel and disappeared into the woods.
In the house, I gathered the sheets and
the clean towels and boiled the water. I’d never seen this kitchen before, but
most things can be found in just about the same place as any other home.
“Why is that child here?” the rich woman,
not too good at whispering, asked Stone. Her frightened eyes watched as I
tasked out my duties.
“Doing her job. Drink this.” Stone shoved
a glass of whiskey at her. She knocked it back with a swift tilt of her head,
like tossing medicine down her throat, and handed back the glass for another.
Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I quietly
poured the steaming water into the washbasin. The drugged moans of the lady
spilled to the floor like a sad melody. A breeze snuck in through the inch of
open window and licked the gauzy curtain that draped the bed.
When I turned to hand Grandmama the
towels, I eyed the slick black blood that dripped down the sheets.
We weren’t here for a birthing.
We were called to assist with a misbirth.
Fear iced over me when I looked upon the
mother.
Then, I saw on the dresser next to where
Grandmama stood, two tiny swaddles, unmoving. A potato box sat on the floor.
Grandmama slowly turned around at the sound of my sobbing—I hadn’t realized I’d
started to cry. Her milky white eyes found mine like always, despite her
part-blindness.
Swift and sharp she snatched me by my
elbow. Her fingers dug into my flesh as she ushered me over to the dresser to
see what I had caused.
“You’ve soured their souls,” she said in
a low growl. I looked away, not wanting to see their underdeveloped bodies. Her
bony hand grabbed my face. Her grip crushing my jaw as she forced me to look
upon them. Black veins of my Sin Eater Oil streaked across their gnarled
lifeless bodies. “This is your doing, child. There’ll be a price to pay for
y’all going behind my back.” For me, and Aunt Violet.
Aunt Violet took some of my Sin Eater Oil
weeks ago. I assumed it was for an ailing grandparent who was ready for Jesus;
she never said who. She said not to tell. She said Grandmama wouldn’t even
notice it was missing.
So I kept quiet. Told the thing in my gut
that said it was wrong to shut up. But she gave my Sin Eater Oil to the woman
writhing in pain in front of me, so she could kill her babies. Shame welled up
inside me.
Desperately, I looked up to Grandmama.
“Don’t let the Devil take me.”
Grandmama beamed, pleased with my fear.
“There’s only one way to protect you, child.” The glint in her eyes sent a
chill up my spine.
No. I shook my head. Not that—her promise
of punishment, if ever I misused my gift. Tears slivered down my cheeks.
“It wasn’t me!” I choked out, but she
only shook her head.
“We must cleanse your soul from this sin
and free you from the Devil’s grasp. You must atone.” Grandmama rummaged
through her bag and drew out two items: the match hissed to life as she set
fire to a single crow claw. I closed my eyes and turned away, unable to watch.
That didn’t stop me from knowing.
The mother’s head lolled over at the
sound of my crying. Her red-rimmed eyes gazed my way. “You!” she snarled
sloppily at me. Her hair, wild, stuck to the sweat on her face. The black veins
of my Sin Eater Oil spiderwebbed across her belly, a permanent tattoo that
matched that of her babies. “The Devil’s Seed Child,” the lady slurred from her
vicious mouth. The breeze whipped the curtains in anger. Oh, that hate in her
eyes. Hate for me.
Grandmama shoved me into the hall, where
I was to stay put. The rich woman pushed in. The door opened once more, and
that wooden potato box slid out.
The mother wailed as the rich lady cooed
promises that things would be better someday. The door closed tight behind us,
cries echoing off the walls.
I shared the dark with the slit of the
light and wondered if she’d ever get her someday.
Quick as lightning, my eyes flitted to
the box, then back to the ugly wallpaper dating the hallway. My curiosity poked
me. It gnawed until I peeked inside.
There on their tiny bodies, the mark of a
sinner. A crow’s claw burned on their chest. Same as the Death Talker birthmark
over my heart. Grandmama branded them so Jesus would know I was to blame.
That woman was right—I was the Devil’s
Seed Child.
So I ran.
I ran out the door and down the road.
I ran until my feet grew sore and then
ran some more.
I ran until the salt dried on my face and
the tears stopped coming.
I was rotten, always rotten. As long as
my body made the Sin Eater Oil, I’d always be rotten. Exhausted, I fell to my
knees. From my pocket, I pulled out the raggedy crow feather I now kept with
me. I curled up on the side of the road between a tree and a stump, praying my
wishes onto that feather.
Devil’s Seed Child, I whispered, and
repeated in my mind.
It was comforting to own it, what I was.
The rightful name for someone who could kill the most innocent among us.
I blew my wish on the feather and set it
free in the wind.
A tiny object tumbled in front of my
face. Shiny as the hubcaps on Stone’s car. A small gold ring with something
scrolled on the flat front. I quirked my head sideways to straighten my view. A
fancy script initial R.
“Don’t cry,” a young voice spoke. Perched
on the rotting stump above, a boy, just a pinch older than I. Shorn dark hair
and clothes of all black.
I smiled up at him, a thank-you for the
gift.
“Weatherly!” A loud bark that could scare
the night caused me to jump. Bone Layer had a voice that did that to people,
though he didn’t use it often.
Over my head, a black wisp flew toward
the star-filled sky, and the boy was gone. I snatched up the ring and buried it
in my pocket as Bone Layer came to retrieve me. He scooped me up as easy as a
doll. His shirt smelled of sweat and earth and bad things to come.
Grandmama’s punishment was meant to save
me; I leaned into that comfort. Through the Lord’s work, she’d keep me safe.
Protect me. If I strayed from her, I might lose my soul.
Grandmama was right; I must atone.
The truck headlights pierced the woods as
Bone Layer walked deeper within them. Grandmama waited at the hole in the
ground with the Bible in her hand and the potato box at her feet.
Stone and the rich woman watched
curiously as they ushered the mother into their car. The wind howled through
the trees. They exchanged horrid looks and hurried words, then fled back into
the house, quick as thieves.
Bone Layer gently laid me in the pine box
already lowered into the shallow hole he done dug. Deep enough to cover, not
enough for forever.
“Will they go to Heaven?” I asked from
the coffin, as Grandmama handed me one bundle, then the other. I nestled them
into my chest. I had never seen something so little. Light as air in my arms.
Tiny things. Things that never had a chance in this world. They smelled sickly
sweet; a scent that made me want to retch.
Grandmama tucked my little Bible between
my hands. I loved that Bible. Pale blue with crinkles in the spine from so much
discovery. On the front, a picture of Jesus, telling a story to two little
kids.
“Will they go to Heaven?” I asked again,
panicked when she didn’t answer. Fear rose up in my throat, and I choked on my
tears. Fear I would be held responsible if their souls were not saved.
Grandmama’s face was flat as she spoke
the heartless truth. “They are born from sin, just like you. They were not
wanted. They are not loved.” Her words stung like always.
“What if I love them? Will they go to
Heaven if I love them?”
Her wrinkled lips tightened across her
yellow and cracked teeth, insidious. “You must atone,” she answered instead.
Then smiled, not with empathy but with pleasure; she was happy to deliver this
punishment, glad of the chance to remind me of her power.
“I love them, Grandmama. I love them,” I
professed with fierceness. I hoped it would be enough. To save their souls. To
save my own. “I love them, Grandmama,” I proclaimed with all my earnest heart.
To prove it, I smothered the tops of their heads with kisses. “I love them,
Grandmama.” I kept repeating this. Kept kissing them as Bone Layer grabbed the
lid to my pine box. He held it in his large hands, waiting for Grandmama to
move out of his way.
“You believe me, don’t you?” I asked her.
Fear and prayer filled every ounce of my body. If I loved them enough, they’d
go to Heaven. If I atoned, maybe I would, too. I squeezed my eyes tight and
swore my love over and over and over.
She frowned down on me. “I believe you,
child. For sin always enjoys its own company.”
She promptly stood. Her black dress
swished across the ground as she moved out of the way. Then Bone Layer shut out
the light, fastening the lid to my box.
Muffled sounds of dirt scattered across
the top as he buried me alive.
Author Bio:
Dana Elmendorf was born and raised in small town in Tennessee. She now lives in Southern California with her husband, two boys and two dogs. When she isn’t exercising, she can be found geeking out with Mother Nature. After four years of college and an assortment of jobs, she wrote a contemporarty YA novel. This is her adult debut.
Social Links:
Author website: https://www.danaelmendorf.com/p/home.html
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