New England 1647
Mercy Hawthorne Dark winds howl over the cornfields, but even three years after the pyres have burnt out, the cries of innocents still haunt the air.
Tonight, the magic conjured by my blood will breathe life into a scarecrow carved of pumpkin and bone, binding a damned soul to return and avenge those burned by pious men, drunk on their own corruption.
Men who thrive in the chaos left in the wake of destruction. But retribution is not all my dark passenger craves.
Summoned by my will, my reaper shall rise with eyes that burn like embers and an insatiable hunger for the hearts of sinners.
He’ll reap my enemies, one by one, devouring their darkness and on this most sacred of Hallows Eve, I shall have my vengeance.
And Silas Cohen shall have me.
