Salem, Massachusetts
March, 1692
**Lazarus**
The cottage sat at the edge of Salem like a spider waiting in its web, ringed by gardens too careful to be just for food. Even in the dying March light, Lazarus saw the truth beneath all that green: defenses, not decoration. Vervain grew next to wormwood, rowan twisted through rosemary. Herbs picked not for cooking but for killing things that shouldn't exist. Each plant had its place, creating layers of protection that would make even the cockiest predator think twice.
She'd been planning this. Not for a month, not even a year. Decades, maybe. The thought sat heavy in his chest.
The stones weren't random either. They marked paths, steering intruders into the open while blocking the sneaky routes with ground too rough for careful steps. Ir
