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  The old woman frowned. “The beast you fear is inside the fort.”

  “I need your help.” Anika picked up the bowl of crow feathers. “Teach me to conjure a spirit. A mean one. I want Master Pendleton to suffer for what he does to me.”

  Grandmother said, “We do not use our magic for evil.”

  “Please, if I don’t fight him with magic, he will never stop.”

  Her grandmother gazed up at the hole in the hut’s roof. “When you conjure a trickster for a favor, the day will come when the trickster demands a favor from you.”

  Anika nodded, tears running down her cheeks in streams. “I wish I could be strong like you.”

  “Strength comes from facing that which scares us,” Grandmother said. “As women, we hold our own power inside.” She picked up a dove’s feather from a bowl and added it to a small pile on a round piece of leather. “I have faced my own beasts in my youth. And I sit here before you alive, while the bones of my enemies rot in their graves.” She pulled the leather up into a small, tight ball containing an assortment of feathers, roots, and animal teeth. She held it up with two leather chords. A prayer bundle necklace.

  Anika smiled with falling tears. She knew I was coming today.

  “Wear this, child, and you will be protected from bad spirits. Both outside and in.” She tied the necklace around Anika’s neck. The bundle filled her heart with warmth. Grandmother Spotted Owl sat back and smiled. “When you are alone in your cabin, always remember…there is no separation between us.”

  59

  Tom hiked alone through the pines outside Fort Pendleton. He had a relentless hunger to avenge his son’s death. He wasn’t afraid to come across Kunetay Timberwolf or any other cannibal. Tom carried a high-caliber rifle, one strong enough to bring down a bear. He welcomed a chance to use it.

  He heard a noise in the distance that sounded like a lone bird singing. He followed it, stepping through thick brambles. As he got closer, he recognized the hollow sound. A native flute. The forest opened up to an Indian burial ground. Several small structures covered the graves. At the edge of the cemetery sat Anika, playing a flute.

  Tom sat down on the log next to her. Her intense green eyes remained fixed on the graves. She continued to play her melancholy song. The music penetrated Tom, pulling down his anger into a deep reservoir of sadness he wasn’t ready to feel. His face muscles tightened.

  Anika pulled down the flute. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “Neither should you.”

  They both sat in silence for a spell, listening to the wind, watching snow drift across the burial ground. “What are those structures?” Tom asked. Covering each plot were small, birch bark huts with holes in the front. They looked like elongated birdhouses.

  “Spirit houses. My people believe the holes allow the spirits to leave the bodies.”

  “Where do they go?” Tom asked.

  “Most of them journey to giizhig-oon where they fly among the eagles.” She pointed to the sky to describe the Ojibwa afterworld.

  “Giizhig-oon,” Tom said. “Sounds like our version of heaven.” He looked at all the spirit houses that covered the hillside. “What did you mean by ‘most of them journey?’”

  “Not all spirits find their way. Many get lost in the forest and become manitous.” Anika held up her instrument, showing him the ornate animal totems on the shaft. “The sacred flute guides their spirits up to the sky.”

  As she returned to playing the melancholy music, Tom thought of Chris and wondered if his spirit had found its way to heaven.

  60

  “Good riddance to this backwoods prison.” Willow stomped outside the fort’s open gate with her butler carrying her two suitcases. She stumbled through shin-deep snow.

  Brother Andre ran to her aid. “Lady Pendleton, let me give you a hand.”

  “Thank you.” She gripped his elbow, and the Jesuit guided her toward the river.

  “I didn’t know you would be journeying with us,” he said.

  “Well, Avery’s not leaving me here. That’s for sure.”

  At the river dock, the voyageurs were loading up two canoes with crates and bundles of furs. Her husband Avery, dressed in his typical black wolverine coat and top hat, was gathered with the other officers. When they saw Lady Pendleton charging across the dock, the men disbanded.

  Avery looked absolutely livid when he noticed the butler toting his wife’s baggage. “Willow, what are you doing outside the fort?”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “The hell you are.” To the Cree butler he said, “Charles, take her things back inside this instance.”

  “Yes, master.” The servant turned and headed back up the hill.

  “No, wait,” Willow insisted. “Avery, take me with you to Montréal.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. You belong inside Noble House.”

  “You can’t just abandon me out here in the wilds.”

  “Lt. Hysmith will look after you.”

  “But what about those beasts? Aren’t you concerned they may attack again?”

  Avery nodded toward the group of soldiers who continually watched the woods. “Until we return, the fort gate will remained locked. No one will enter or leave. Trust me, darling, you’ll be safer here. A canoe ride in winter is no journey for a lady.”

  Willow pouted. “But we’ll be apart for Christmas and New Year’s.” She hoped the idea of missing their first holiday together might change his mind.

  Avery kissed her forehead. “Don’t you fret, darling, we’ll celebrate when I return. I’ll buy you something special.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Three to four weeks. Now be a good wife and get inside before you catch cold.” He waved the lieutenant over. “Escort Lady Pendleton back to Noble House.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Before Lt. Hysmith could take her arm, Willow walked over to Andre and threw her arms around his neck. “You be careful.” In his ear she whispered, “I’m going to miss our daily confession.”

  He blushed, his angelic blue eyes beaming. “As will I, Lady Pendleton.” He climbed into one of the canoes along with several voyageurs, eight French Canadian and Scotch men per canoe, gripping paddles.

  Tears crystallized on Willow’s cheeks as she walked with Lt. Hysmith back up the hill toward the fort. At the gate she stopped and turned. The two canoes paddled away from the dock and down the river. Avery sat in the center of the lead canoe, looking prominent with his top hat. He stared forward, not even bothering to wave goodbye as his canoe disappeared around the bend.

  Willow stepped back inside her winter prison. She shuddered as the gate’s double doors clacked shut behind her.

  Part Six

  The Jesuits

  61

  Montréal, Quebec

  Two Weeks Later

  A horse carriage dropped off Brother Andre at the Notre-Dame Basilica. He felt small and humbled standing before this grand cathedral. The twin towers seemed to stretch toward the heavens. The setting sun cast a bright orange glow on the statues.

  Andre inhaled a deep breath. It’s been a long time, he thought. Three winters had passed since Andre last stepped foot inside the cathedral. Grabbing his suitcase, he entered the front door. As he was heading down a massive hallway toward the sacristy, a member of the clergy approached. “Bonjour, may I help you?”

  “Oui, I have an urgent message to deliver to Father Xavier.”

  “Give it to me. I must first take it to Bishop Rousseau.”

  Andre said, “I would prefer to speak with the bishop face to face. I have other news to report.”

  The clergyman, who was tall and crane-thin, scowled down at Andre like he was some beggar off the street. “The bishop is very busy.”

  “This is of dire importance,” Andre insisted. “Can you tell him that Father Jacques’ messenger has arrived to offer a full report about the mission work at Manitou Outpost?” He handed over the letter, but se
cretly kept the diary.

  “Wait in the nave.”

  Minutes later the clergyman returned. “The archbishop will speak with you.”

  Andre entered a room that was wall-to-wall books. Interspersed between the bookcases were paintings of angels and saints. Bishop Rousseau stood at a window, watching the snow falling in a courtyard. He was a heavyset man with gray hair. He wore a shimmering white robe and around his neck hung a pallium, a white band with six black crosses that signified his authority. A violet skullcap called a zucchetto covered his head.

  As the archbishop turned, Andre was suddenly overcome by shortness of breath. Bishop Rousseau had intimidating blue eyes set in a plump face. He held Father Jacques’ letter in his hand. “I appreciate you making the journey to deliver this message.”

  Andre bowed. “Merci, it is an honor to meet you, sir.”

  “Have a seat.” The bishop pointed to two plush, winged-back chairs.

  They sat across from one another. “So you have his diary for me?”

  Andre handed it over.

  The bishop scanned the pages, reading. His eyebrows knitted, as if he understood the coded passages. “You have additional news to share?”

  “Oui.” Andre told him about the massacre at Manitou Outpost and the unfortunate demise of Father Jacques. How a disease that turned people into violent cannibals had reached Fort Pendleton and the neighboring Ojibwa village. A pack of killers, who might be carrying this disease, were still roaming the woods.

  Andre took this opportunity to share his progress as a missionary. “I have successfully converted all the residents at Fort Pendleton, as well as a few of their Ojibwa neighbors.” Andre felt his cheek twitch as he remembered he’d failed to get Anika Moonblood to accept Jesus Christ as her savior. “I want to show them that God is on their side. I am devoted to doing whatever is needed to serve the Church’s divine mission.”

  Bishop Rousseau nodded, his eyes deep in thought. “You wish to become a priest one day?”

  “Oui, your holiness, very much.”

  “I might be willing to ordain you sooner.”

  Andre’s heart lunged.

  Bishop Rousseau leaned forward over his desk. “But first, I have a mission for you. Father Xavier could use a new apprentice.”

  62

  Grief struck Father Xavier’s chest like a dagger when he heard that his mentor, Father Jacques Baptiste, had been brutally murdered.

  Translating the Aramaic, Father Xavier had read the entire journal in a few hours and then returned to Bishop Rousseau’s office. Behind his desk on the back wall hung a painting of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. The Christian Soldier. The founder of the Jesuits.

  Father Xavier gazed down at the diary. He remembered Father Jacques’ final passages.

  I have explored the Savages’ legend in the name of the Holy Church in hopes of disproving it. But my mission has failed on that account, for I have beheld the gaze of the Devil and, suffering from the most formidable temptations, feasted upon the Beast’s sacrament.

  So much insanity has plagued us. It was Margaux Lamothe, Pierre’s eldest daughter, who caught the disease first. And then our people. I tried to exorcise the possessed. But there were too many. Out of fifteen colonists, there are only four of us left, Pierre, myself, Wenonah, and a nine-year-old girl. By God’s grace, Zoé hasn’t shown any signs of the infection. As for me, it won’t be long before I succumb to the savagery like all the others. This Evil must be stopped before the hunger spreads.

  Father Xavier looked up at Bishop Rousseau who was sitting behind his desk. “The outbreak is happening again.”

  “Worse than before.” The archbishop clasped his ring-covered fingers. “I need you to travel to Ontario. Stopping the Devil’s Plague is of highest importance to the Vatican.”

  Father Xavier took a deep breath, considering the dangerous mission. He would be traveling to the deep interior of Canada. Indian country. He had read Father Jacques’ previous reports from the past three years. The woods around Manitou Outpost were haunted by evil spirits. In the end, they had infected a colony with madness and killed his mentor. “This battle cannot be won by one priest. We need an army of exorcists.”

  Bishop Rousseau said, “You are the only one I have in Quebec.”

  “Then we must request more from the Vatican. From Paris and London, as well.”

  “There’s no time, Father. The plague is spreading. This matter needs to be dealt with immediately. And I have complete faith that you are the best exorcist for the mission.” He motioned to the painting on the wall. “Not since St. Ignatius have the Jesuits had a finer warrior than you.”

  Father Xavier sensed the bishop was merely stroking his ego, but the comparison to his hero did boost his spirit. “I will need a new apprentice. Someone I can count on, preferably a priest.”

  Bishop Rousseau nodded. “I have already selected a man for you. Brother Andre is not ordained yet, but he has three years’ experience working with Father Jacques.”

  “As an exorcist?” Father Xavier asked.

  “As a missionary.” The bishop tossed a pouch of coins onto the desk. “I’m relying on you to train him to become an exorcist.”

  63

  Brother Andre had spent an hour of training with Father Xavier and was already feeling annoyed. The exorcist was domineering and barked orders like an army general. He was in his mid fifties. He stood over six feet and, with his broad shoulders and high forehead, he had a strong, overbearing presence. What unsettled Andre the most were the priest’s piercing blue eyes. They could appear warm and mirthful one moment and icy the next. He imagined Father Xavier could stare down the Devil.

  “You will do everything I tell you,” the exorcist said, as the two walked down a hallway. “The tasks we perform will test every ounce of faith you have. If you don’t think you can handle working with an exorcist, then speak now, and I will find another apprentice.”

  Andre stiffened his shoulders. “I just spent three years on the frontier living among the Savages. You will find none as dedicated as I, Father.”

  “Very well.” He smiled and put a hand on Andre’s shoulder. “Let’s get started.”

  The priest led him down a flight of stairs to a tunnel beneath the cathedral. The undercroft. Feeling a sense of adventure, Andre followed his new mentor along a torch-lit passage. A guard was down here, sitting at a table. Father Xavier signed a book. He took an oil lamp from the table then led Andre into a stone chamber with an arched ceiling. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. Andre’s jaw dropped at the sight of all the relics: statues, swords, goblets, tapestries, and tables covered in silver crosses.

  In the center of the chamber were eight chairs sitting around a circular stone table.

  Father Xavier said, “This is where the monks bless our holy weapons.”

  On the back wall hung a large painting of a Christian soldier fighting off a horde of demons with a sword.

  Andre said, “St. Ignatius Loyola.”

  “Yes, the founder of the Jesuits.” Father Xavier looked down at Andre. “Do you believe in demons?”

  “I believe what the Bible says about them,” Andre said, feeling nervous under his mentor’s suspicious glare. “But honestly, I’ve never seen anyone possessed by one.”

  “Have you ever seen an insane person?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then you’ve seen a possession. Our duty as exorcists is to banish demons who possess people’s bodies and guide the victims to the light of God.” Father Xavier pulled two cases off a shelf and began filling them with silver crosses. The cases reminded Andre of medical kits. “Father Jacques had a case like this. Was he sent to Manitou Outpost to perform an exorcism?”

  “Yes. Three years ago we were informed that a demon had possessed an Ojibwa man who was the chief’s son.” The priest gathered a few plum-shaped vials and filled them with holy water. “Father Jacques was sent there to release the possessed man from his demon. That mission was s
uccessful.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me that was his true mission?”

  “Your mentor was under strict orders to keep his mission secret and document his findings. That’s why he left you behind at Fort Pendleton. We generally wait for our apprentices to become priests before we invite them to join the exorcists. Bishop Rousseau is making an exception for you.” Father Xavier continued down a passage and entered a library filled with volumes upon volumes of books.

  “The Basilica’s archives,” Father Xavier said. “Every book you see has been duplicated and stored at the Vatican.” The priest meandered through the labyrinth of bookshelves, the flame of his oil lamp flickering across dusty spines. He pulled a black book off the shelf. It had a bold red cross on the cover. “The Roman Ritual of Exorcism.” He handed it to Andre. “Read it and memorize the protocols for the ceremony and all the prayers, word for word. You have two weeks.”

  Andre flipped through the pages, feeling overwhelmed by the daunting task.

  “Come, I have one more thing to show you.”

  The priest led him into another chamber that had a life force unlike anything Andre had ever felt. Father Xavier lit a torch. Giant silver crosses were embedded into the four walls. In the center of the room sat a long, stone sarcophagus. On the lid was a relief of St. Ignatius holding a cross-shaped dagger to his chest.

  Father Xavier stepped around the stone coffin. “Andre, what I am about to show you is of highest secrecy. There are very few Jesuits who know of it. You must swear to the Christ, our Lord, to never speak of what I am about to show you. Not to anyone.”

  “I swear, Father.” Andre crossed himself.

  Father Xavier grabbed an iron rod that had a key on the end of it. He twisted the lock, and the lid grated as it slowly opened.

  Andre gasped.

  Inside the stone coffin lay a mummified creature. Dry, flaky skin shriveled around the thing’s twisted form. It had the body of a man and the face of a beast with sharp teeth. The bony arms, legs, and torso were incredibly long.