The end is a new beginning for Prudence. After witnessing her mother’s wrongful conviction as a witch in 1661 and wishing for death, she gets just what she asks for when recruited. In her new job as a reaper, Prudence must learn to navigate the delicate balance between the living and the soon-to-be-deceased. However, her duties as a harbinger of souls are only the beginning of her trials as she makes her way as an immortal through the centuries. With nothing else to care about, Prudence excels on the job, even with an ill-tempered horse demon to keep fed and jealous coworkers vying for her downfall.

Love arrives for this reaper with one of her soon-to-be-dead clients. Prudence is instantly smitten with hospital doctor Daxone, defies Death to save the woman, and pursues her desires. Unfortunately, immortals shouldn’t love humans. Worse, revealing Death’s secrets gets the couple banished to purgatory. Prudence settles in only to be yanked away to Salem, Massachusetts. Once there, she is forced to deal with another of Death’s deadly problems. Thrust into a world of witches and dark magic, Prudence must harness her innate powers and confront a coven plotting to overthrow Death. With the world’s fate and her lover’s life hanging in the balance, she must find her magic and understand her past to keep the love of her life and the entire planet alive.

Excerpt

Death and Coffee
Lisa Acerbo © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Hartford, Connecticut, 1661

A frigid wind slashed the outside of the building but the chill inside the dimly lit wooden church had little to do with the temperature. In the thick press of bodies, the smell of fear and anger assaulted my nose.

“Pray, pardon me.” I wormed my way deeper inside. Not a single compassionate glance or “Good morrow” came my way. The people who sat sermon with me and greeted me on the pathway a few days ago averted their gaze, tone hushed.

My father, coward, refused to attend the trial. Earlier in the morning, I’d asked him to bear witness to this day, but he claimed to be too ashamed of his family, meeting my gaze purposefully with his own.

When most attendees had seated themselves, jammed together on benches like barnacles, the minister glowered and declared, “It’s time.” He pointed. “Repent your wicked and reviling acts for your soul’s salvation.”

My mother hunched in the gloom, halfway hidden behind a burly guard. The man’s hand crushed her slight shoulder before she slid to the ground like a rag doll, exhaustion and pain creeping over her face and frail body. The audience gasped but for reasons other than the jailer’s brutality. They believed her collapse proved the devil.

The preacher hammered my mother with his words. “There is light in the darkness, Martha. Be repentant for the sins of your life. Ask forgiveness from God. Admit the devil afflicted you and commanded you to unleash wickedness on our community, and your soul can be free in death.”

“I’ve done nothing.” Mother’s gaze found mine in the last pew. Her once beautiful auburn hair, which rarely strayed from its cap, fell lank and greasy around her face.

“You have been a practitioner of poisoning in hand and deed, but in God’s house, no devil has power.” The minister’s voice boomed; his chin raised to the heavens. “It is the only way to possible salvation.”

Blinking back the tears forming, I knotted my hands. “Please stop this. I promise my soul, my life, anything demanded of me.” No one heard my whisper of pain. “If you exist, show yourself and give this horrible congregation something to fear.”

Those prayers elicited no response from the heavens. The two small, low-set windows failed to remove the shadows and darkness extending beyond the rafters and into the congregation.

“God will cast the wicked into Hell. He can most easily do so, and you will be next unless you tell the truth before all your brethren in attendance.”

His words were drowned in a cacophony of outrage from the spectators who packed the pews for this horrible show.

I stepped forward.

An almost imperceptible shake of my mother’s head slowed my feet.

Last week, on the only occasion Father allowed me to visit Mother in jail, she’d begged me to avoid her, fearing for my life. Heart empty, I had questioned if there was life waiting for me with her gone—she, the only person who loved me in this world. Her tormented sobs made me regret those words.

Clamoring voices thickened the air as her trial dragged. Someone in town had to stand up for her. Instead, the crowd grew louder and angrier. Few still loved and wished to protect her. And, no doubt, my former friends would happily turn me over to the minister if I said or did anything here.

Rumors about my mother started in the late summer. After church one day, our neighbor Bridget complained of stomach pains. My mother had sent me to her house with tea, but the herbs meant to help had only made it worse.

In Hartford, Connecticut, when a problem occurred, everyone prayed, but prayers often didn’t reach heaven, and divine intervention seldom arrived. My mother and her knowledge of natural remedies had been a quiet aid to the community for years. No one had said a word against it.

Even my father had allowed it.

However, Bridget’s condition worsened, and a fever struck her the day after she drank the tea. Not a week later, she died, arms and legs flailing without consent, screams of pain echoing from her house for all to hear. My mother had been restricted to our home first, then jailed until her trial.

Bridget’s death brought rumors of witchcraft to my door, and now, not even six months later, shouts of anger and fear assaulted the walls and my ears.

“You deserve to be cast into hell.” The words heaved from my neighbors like boulders. “Witch. Devil’s spawn.”

My mother’s desperate glance revealed the true horror of the ordeal; a stark contrast to the minister next to her and the pudgy magistrate who sat high on a bench, shrouded in black robes and stern expressions.

Bridget’s friends and family stood and faced the crowd as they recounted her illness and the supposed potion my mother provided that led the girl first to the devil and then to death.

It had only been dandelion tea. I’d helped prepare the draught, but fear of the community and that I’d be next to my mother in jail clamped my lips shut.

The flickering candlelight turned the magistrate, perched on his bench by the altar, into a demon. This man had been a guest in our home not only to share the word of God but to ask my mother for a cure for his headaches.

“You’re accused of witchcraft,” he said. “How do you plead?”

“I’m innocent. I never practiced witchcraft. I swear it on my soul.” My mother turned to Bridget’s parents when the room had quieted. “I’m no witch. I swear by all that is Godly. I’m innocent of all you proclaim.”

Charity, a friend of Bridget’s, spoke. “She bewitched Bridget and made her suffer. All should have witnessed the horror of her last moments. Her lips fumbled to make a sound, teeth gnashing and mouth foaming. Her body trembled and shook before her limbs flailed, unable as she was to control them.”

“Do you deny the accusations of witchcraft against you?” the magistrate asked.

“I’m a God-fearing woman, and I’ve harmed no one.”

My push forward parted air thickened with tension and sweat.

“The evidence against you is abundant,” the magistrate said. “You’re wicked. A consort with the devil. All to spell innocent people. Your potions and teas are well known in town. You deserve to be cast thither. Under the law of a righteous God, your eternal soul shall be condemned to hell.”

“I have done nothing wrong other than use what God has provided in nature. I’m innocent. This I swear in His name.”

The crowd reared like the head of a snake, the hiss loud and damning.

I bit my thumbnail to hold back a scream, and an iron tang met my tongue.

“Do not profane his name.” The magistrate called the minister over, and their conversation lasted less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

“You’ve been found guilty of witchcraft. The sentence of the court is death by hanging. Let this be a warning to all. The devil stands ready to seize our souls as his own.”

“I’ll die guiltless.” My mother yelped when the guard squeezed her arm to silence her.

The crowd held me back. Their slurs stalled me as much as their bodies. As they herded me out of the church, I reached out to touch my mother but stumbled as those gathered pressed back to the jail. My cry filled the air, unable as I was to offer support.

The sting of my last chance at a goodbye nettled.

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Meet the Author

Lisa Acerbo is the Director of General Education and Liberal Arts at Post University. Her short stories and poetry appear in Scarlet, Sagebrush Review, Moonstone Arts, Poor Yorick Literary Journal, Ripples in Space, Universe in a Bottle by Flying Ketchup Press, Whatever Happened to Hansel and Gretel? by Fathom Publishing (a finalist in the 2024 Best Books Awards in the category of Fiction: Anthology), and Birds of Vermont Museum. When not writing, you can find her walking in the woods with her rescue dogs.

Author Links

Website: http://www.lisaacerbo.com/  
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