Constance poured herself a glass of vodka and put a couple of splashes of coffee on top. She had a hefty swig, then she started pacing. Her chiffon robe fluttered with her frantic movements.

"They're going to find my body," she muttered. "That bitch will find it! It's not like I hid it. Why would I? I was done with the Coven and they were done with me!"

During the silence that accompanied her having another large gulp of liquor, Jeremiah inserted: "Well, let's follow that train of thought a moment," he suggested, trying to calm her with logic. "Let's say they find your body. What then?"

She stopped pacing and folded an arm over her middle. She propped the other elbow on that arm, to keep her glass near her lips. "They'll try to resurrect me."

"Even if that could be done, which I strongly doubt," said the priest. "Would it be such a bad thing?"

She stared at him. "Go back to agin' and dying all over again?" She laughed bitterly. "No thank you. I don't want to know what happens to a soul that dies in this dark world now. I like my freedom."

Father Jeremiah settled at the table. He added some cream to one of the cups of coffee and stirred it in before having a sip. "I really don't think it's going to be an issue but if you want... I'll move your body."

She tipped her head. Then a small smile tickled her lips. "Why, Jeremiah. You are a saint among men."

He smiled a dry smile. "Hardly."

—

The practicalities of moving the body were more cumbersome than the priest anticipated. He went on foot, armed with a katana and a rucksack full of the things he might need once he got to the graveyard. The Japanese sword was a shopping mall find that had appealed to his inner child but proven very useful. It was sharp enough to cleave through a pig, in the hands of a strong man. It worked equally well on fog monsters.

Leaving the house was a creepy experience. Jeremiah felt isolated yet paranoid about being followed. He didn't trust the witches not to watch the house so he left by the back way without a light. He moved quickly and with purpose, on high alert.

The trip was entirely uneventful. Jeremiah didn't even see a carrion on bird. The foggy city was dead.

The cemetery gates were wide open. Weeds and grass had grown high around the wheeled iron gates, proof of how long they had been inactive. Jeremiah passed them and made his way toward the area where the caretaker's shed was. He kept off the path both because the gravel made noise underfoot and because it was more visible. There were plenty of hedges and statuary to blend with off the marked roadway.

When he got to the shed he found it was chained shut. He gave the padlock an experimental tug but it held fast. Jeremiah unshouldered the pack and pulled out a small set of bolt cutters. He had to work on the chain link a bit but it gave eventually. He tugged the lock free and dropped it on the ground. He dropped the bolt cutters back in the bag and pulled out a flashlight. Once he had the bag zipped again, he shouldered it and then opened one of the large double doors he'd just unlocked.

He entered cautiously, alert for whatever might ambush him. There was silence inside. The air was stale and smelled of petrol. There was a riding mower in there and a Bobcat. There was also a backhoe, which is what he was looking for. He pushed open the other door and then went over to the large vehicle. He climbed up into the driver's seat and dug around until he found the keys. Soon he had the thing cranked up and running.

After a couple of false starts he figured out how to get the backhoe moving, if slow and jerky. He killed several bushes on his way to Constance's headstone but managed to avoid the other grave markers. It took more trial and error to figure out how to operate the scoop portion of the big machine. When he was finally done digging up the grave it was obvious an amateur had done the job but the important thing was: The coffin was unearthed.

Next came the part Jeremiah was really not looking forward to. He was strong but he couldn't haul a loaded coffin all the way home. He had to bust the ornate thing open. Constance had been embalmed but several years underground had taken its toll. The desiccated corpse was light and he treated her with as much dignity as he could while hauling her out of the torn up hole in the ground.

Once he had her, he headed for home as quickly as he could. He only encountered a lone feral housecat on his way, and it hissed at him and bolted off into the fog when it saw him. The rest of the trip back to Murder House was blessedly uneventful.

Tate was ready and right near the door when the priest knocked. Constance had already been over earlier to let her son know what to do when Father Jeremiah arrived, so he knew what to expect. His instructions were to hide the body. Hide it good so no mortal could find it.

Fortunately Tate had just the spot. He stashed the black bag where he put Violet's body. Crouching there in the crawlway after arranging the bag containing his mother's body alongside Violet's skeleton, he thought it was kind of appropriate, having both of them together. He found himself wishing he had Mrs. Nora's body too. They would look very nice together, all pearly bones and smiles. He could dress them in their favorite kinds of clothes.

It occurred to him that others might find that weird. So he left the bodies as they were for the time being, but he made a mental note to ask Father Jeremiah later if the guy would dig up Nora Montgomery's body for him.

...

While the other coven members went to secure a location to sleep for the night, Misty Day was drawn to the large bonfire down the road that lit a dirt lot where Buck's group had set up their communal meeting area. There were many lean-to pavilions crafted from sheets gathered from the nearby houses. The layers of multicolored cloth made her think of caravan encampments.

As she drew closer she could hear someone playing a guitar. The faint notes in the distance and the smoke from the bonfire only added to the magical effect for the witch. She pulled her shawls tighter against the cold and moved quicker in the direction of the campsite. When she got there she saw two people sitting in lawn chairs near the fire. There was a lean-to at their backs, keeping the wind off them and the fire.

The man, who was in his early 60s, was dressed in hunter's wear: A wool-lined leather coat and thick cargo pants stuffed into hiking boots. He also had a warm hunter's cap on with the flaps down over his ears. The woman who sat next to him looked several years older. She had her lower half stuffed into a sleeping bag and wore an old quilted ski parka. She was playing the acoustic guitar. The gloves she wore were fingerless, allowing her to manage the frets and stay warm. She didn't stop playing when Misty drew near but she did play quieter.

"Howdy, stranger," the man greeted her.

Misty Day smiled. "Hello. I'm Misty Day. Who are you?"

"Name's Buck," the man said. "This here's Aileen. You come in with those folks in the fancy cars?"

She nodded and moved closer to the fire. Her front warmed up. "They're my family."

Buck smiled big. "Well, you're in good company, Misty. Here, we care a lot about family."

Misty liked the sound of that. "You have kids?"

He laughed. It was a warm, good-natured laugh. "I had kids in my time but now, no. I'm too old. Aileen here's not my missus either. No. We're a... congregation. A group of folks who came here to be close to Michael. He's the way to the new world and we're ready to help him build it."

Misty Day turned so her back was exposed to the large fire. "I haven't met him yet. If he is who the prophesies say—"

"Oh, he is!" Buck insisted, with the conviction of a true believer. "I've seen him perform miracles. He even came back from the dead!"

Misty hugged her shawls closer. Her front was getting cold but she didn't want to turn away from the chatty fellow. The woman beside him started a new song.

"Came back from the dead?"

Buck nodded. "Sure did. A crazy man cut his throat. He bled out in the arms of Mother Constance. Hundreds of people saw it. He came back to life in the hospital without a wound on him. After he'd been declared dead by the doctors."

The witch tipped her head and her large gold earrings jingled softly under her wild blonde mane. "He must be quite gifted," she breathed. It had never occurred to her that she might meet another person who'd spontaneously resurrected.

"Can... he heal people?" she asked.

Buck smiled and nodded. "Sure can. He's healed whole crowds." He reached for his local draft beer. It was a nameless brew in a recycled bottle.

Misty Day finally turned to face the fire. She held one hand out to the flames while the other gripped her layers of shawls. "Whole crowds," she murmured, gazing into the bonfire. "I hope I can meet him tomorrow."

"He's a very busy man," said Buck. "But I'm sure he's got a few minutes for you, Misty. I'm the chief religious leader here. I see him regularly. I'll see if I can get a meeting set up."

She smiled at his attempt to be helpful. "That's all right. I know his grandmother."

The fellow's thick brows arched up briefly. "Really now? Well. Isn't that something." He gave her closer study then. "Where do you come from, if you don't mind my asking?"

"New Orleans," she replied without reservation.

"You've come a long way," said Buck.

The guitar woman started to play an old Creedence Clearwater Revival song. A log in the fire gave a big crack and split, throwing off a flare of bright red sparks before settling back down again.

Misty gazed into the bonfire, lulled by the golden-red dancing flames. "Still a long way to go yet." She turned back to him again with a sweet smile. "Do you think I could maybe stay here? With you kind people? I don't want to impose but your camp here is so nice. Reminds me of home."

"Wouldn't be an imposition, Misty," Buck said. "We take in folks all the time. We're hoping with enough people, we'll make this a real town again. Maybe not like it used to be..."

"Better," the woman next to him chimed in with conviction.

Considering it was the only word Aileen had said the whole time, Misty Day believed in that conviction. "Better," she smiled.

...

Author's Note:

I know 'unshouldered' isn't a word, technically, but I like it a lot. It should be a word. So I kept it in this chapter. Take that, Websters. Also: All heavy machinery (bulldozers, ditch witches, backhoes) are always left with their keys in them somewhere. A leasing place I worked for said it was so the teamsters wouldn't accidentally take 'em home and lose them.

Buck's name is derived from two sources: Sheriff Lucas Buck from "American Gothic" and a play on the name of the leader of the Heaven's Gate cult, Doe. Buck. Bad, I know, but so's the plan to drink poison in order to hitch a ride on a comet.

Next time: The witches make their move.