Authors: C.N. Crawford
A guard strung a chalice pendant around Jack’s neck. “An extra precaution,” he muttered.
Instantly, Jack could feel the pendant sapping his energy, and his knife wound began to ache. Blodrial’s magic was anathema to those bonded with other gods. Nausea churned in the pit of his stomach while the guards dragged him through the tunnels, his limbs trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his mind. He’d escaped the Purgators for centuries. They weren’t going to end him now. His jaw clenched and unclenched. If he had his full strength, he would rip through their flesh, luxuriating in their sinews and fresh-pumped blood.
But I don’t have Druloch’s strength
. Weakened from the Purgator magic, he closed his eyes as they pushed and shoved him through a tunnel and down a steep stairwell that seemed as though it would never end. Descending a set of stairs, he pried his eyes open to see the brick stairwell give way to limestone walls.
At the bottom of the stairs, the guards led him into an enormous cavern, like a stony temple deep beneath the ground. Gothic-arched tunnels connected to the circular hall, and through them, party guests spilled into the space. The guests still wore their masks—butterflies and woodland creatures sipping champagne and nibbling on canapés. From the ceiling, chandeliers of candles hung between large stalactites, and torches lit the walls between the tunnels.
Is this how I’m going to meet my end? As the evening entertainment at a Purgator party?
The blood pounded in his ears.
Is Fiona here?
The guards shoved him in front of a curving limestone wall, attaching
his shackles to an iron loop in the stone behind him. He gritted his teeth, glaring at the guests who pooled around the edges of the circular hall, staring at him like an animal in a zoo. They dragged Alan to a nearby section of wall, just the other side of an arch. Two guards forced Alan’s wrists up and clamped them to an iron ring above his head.
The guests kept their distance from the center of the room. Near a raised stone platform, like an altar, a basin rested on an iron-wrought stand. But his legs buckled when he looked at the platform itself. An iron stake rose from the center, taller than a man.
I can only guess what that’s for.
He may have been responsible for a few hangings, but the Purgators really knew how to loosen a man’s bladder.
The adrenaline in his blood revived him. Tilting back his head, he saw gnarled tree roots that hugged the stone walls. If he squinted, he could see candlelight gleaming off a sprinkler in the ceiling, ready to release the red dust, and near the sprinkler was a vent to release the smoke into the night air. The Purgators had designed this place perfectly for witch-torture.
He glanced at Alan, whose face betrayed no emotion apart from the tightening of his jaw. Likely his mind was unwilling to process what was about to happen.
From the opposite side of the room, a line of guards dragged Mariana through an archway, her clothing filthy and face gaunt. They secured her arms above her head, clamping them to a section of wall opposite the stake. Her eyes barely opened, and her mouth hung slack in delirium. Fiona was next, her dress torn at the shoulders. Jack’s spine stiffened. If he were at his full strength, he’d hang every last one of these vermin.
Fiona’s eyes glistened with fear as an enormous, pale guard pinned her hands above her head. The giant seemed to enjoy running his fingers along her arms, grabbing her face with one hand. Jack yanked at the shackles behind him, trying to rip them out of the wall.
The guard moved away from Fiona, and two more men dragged Tobias into the cavernous temple. But they didn’t stop to shackle him to the wall. They shoved him toward the iron stake, his head hanging with fatigue.
But the last person they dragged in froze the blood in Jack’s veins. Snakes writhed on her head, and tears of blood spilled down her cheeks onto her ragged brown dress.
A Fury wouldn’t just kill a guilty person. First, she’d warp his mind, so he no longer knew what was what.
A guard yanked her, shackled, toward the platform. She stared at him with her cavernous eyes, and his mouth went dry. A flicker of recognition burned in the back of his mind as he glimpsed her in human form, with wild clumps of hair instead of snakes. It was—Dorcas.
She’s here for her revenge.
What would she do to him in his helpless state?
“Dorcas?” He called out.
The crowd murmured. Dorcas’s head whipped up, a movement more reptilian than human. She started to prowl toward him, but her chains prevented her.
The crowd’s attention was riveted on Jack, eyes wide in anticipation of a show.
Dorcas’s voice cut him open. “Tell everyone what you did.”
He couldn’t breathe. Why was she doing this? “We put your…” She was compelling him to confess, dragging the words from his throat. “We put your mother in prison in Salem. We called her a witch. She was with child. But no baby could survive in that rathole. And then the accursed girls went after you. And we made you confess your mother’s sins.”
A hollow feeling welled up in him, a void that could never be filled, and something trickled down his cheeks. He closed his eyes.
She’s come for me, at last.
He opened his eyes again to see if Fiona had been watching his confession, but her eyes were on something else—they were on the knife that Mrs. Ranulf held in front of Tobias’s chest.
Fiona tugged at the shackles above her head. They chafed at her wrists, but remained firmly rooted in the walls. In the center of the room, Mrs. Ranulf stood on the platform next to Tobias, her platinum wig and angel wings still in place. Tobias’s outfit had been cut away, only his black underwear remaining. He didn’t seem to notice. Despite his impending demise, he could barely keep his eyes open. The pendant around his neck seemed to sap his energy, his head lolling onto his shoulder.
Mrs. Ranulf held a knife in front of the scars on his chest, where the raised skin formed a triangle within a circle. A horrifying thought flashed through Fiona’s mind.
She’s not going to cut it off him, is she?
She exhaled with relief when Mrs. Ranulf stepped from the platform. Facing the crowd, she raised her hands above her head, still gripping the knife. “My husband, in all his wisdom, is allowing me to perform the ritual this evening.” Her eyes shined when she looked at him standing in a nearby archway. “Tonight, we begin the Purgator Reawakening. The time to claim this country is now. If we purge ourselves of evil, Blodrial will grace us with his heavenly body.” Her wide-eyed grin was all fanatical fervor. “Our gentler methods were not enough to summon him. Blodrial requires total submission. With his guidance, the fires will cleanse this land of evil. In our court, we tried the witch Connor last night. As I passed the sentence, I could feel Blodrial’s divine approval caressing my skin.”
Fiona’s heart leapt into her throat.
What did they do to Connor?
Fervid color rose in Mrs. Ranultf’s cheeks. “We’ve purged Boston of witches, but there are more armies coming. Judgment Day is upon us!” She pointed the knife at Tobias’s chest, her face growing angry. “And this boy planned to lead a horde of demons for the archdemon Emerazel.”
Of course. The Purgators never really know that they’re talking about.
“There’s are no more armies!” Fiona screamed. “Tobias is no one’s leader. How many times throughout history have you thought Judgment Day was upon us?” Hysteria raised the pitch of her voice, and the crowd turned to stare at her, some tittering behind their hands. “How many times have you been wrong? No one is coming for you. There is no Judgment Day. There are just humans doing horrible things to each other.” Her tone changed, pleading now, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “There are no more armies. You don’t have to kill anyone. If the Harvesters are dead, then you’ve killed all the terrorists.”
Mr. Ranulf stepped forward, his weeping angel mask pushed to the top of his head. A sneer twisted his face. “If you don’t hold your tongue, I will cut it out.” He lifted his head, addressing the crowd in a booming voice. “If there is even a one-percent chance that witches and demons threaten Americans’ safety, we must act swiftly to protect our interests.”
“Praise Blodrial!” Dr. Mellior shouted from the crowd, wrapped in a toga. “Without order, we are lost!” Others in the crowd joined in, chanting in unison. Anything Fiona could have said beyond that point would have been drowned out.
Mrs. Ranulf turned to the Fury, who bent her head in submission, hands bound in front of her with iron shackles. Munroe’s mother yanked the Fury toward the iron basin before plunging a knife into the creature’s wrists. The snakes seemed to writhe around her head in pain, and she let out an agonized howl that drowned out the guests’ chants. Many discarded their masks now, staring lustfully at the Fury’s blood that spurted into the bowl.
So that’s how they get Blodrial’s blood. The Fury is some kind of captive vessel for divine blood.
After the Fury’s blood was drained, she collapsed to the ground, and her wails faded. A silence descended on the room, and Mrs. Ranulf dipped a finger into the basin before stepping up on the platform again. Over Tobias’s scar, she traced a circle of blood and an arrow that jutted from its side. “You have been marked with Blodrial’s sign now.” Smiling, she stepped off the platform, taking care not to drip blood on her pure, white dress.
She turned to three men in the crowd dressed as goats. “Fetch the firewood.”
At the sound of the word “firewood,” it was as if the whole world went silent, and Fiona could hear nothing but the sound of her blood pounding in her ears. She’d read about burnings for a Tudor history project. When a person burned to death at the stake, it wasn’t a quick blaze like you saw in the movies. Over a small fire like this, skin would burn for about forty-five minutes before a victim died of blood loss and cooked organs. Family members had to fan the flames to try to hasten their loved one’s demise.
This can’t be happening.
She fought the urge to puke.
Is that what they did to Connor? The barbecue yesterday…
Her chains rattled as she tried to rip them from the wall in a frenzy. But her mother was coming, wasn’t she? She would arrive any moment and put an end to this madness. Assuming she could get past the guards, and the legion of fanatical witch-hunters.
Sheer panic shook Fiona’s bones, her limbs trembling uncontrollably. Whatever Tobias was, he didn’t deserve to be burned alive. No one deserved that. “You can’t do this to us!” she shrieked. “You can’t just burn people! This isn’t legal!”
Mr. Ranulf smiled at her this time. “But we make the laws.” He walked toward the basin of blood, dipping in his champagne glass. He took a long sip, and some of the guests followed suit.
The three goats stumbled forward, laying armfuls of wood at Tobias’s feet until a small pyre surrounded the stone platform.
This can’t be happening.
She glanced at Alan. His eyes were closed, unwilling to watch his friend burn to death.
This must be a nightmare.
Someone dragged the Fury across the floor, away from the platform. She twitched, regaining consciousness. They wanted her out of harm’s way when they lit the fire. Tobias lifted his head, staring at Fiona. She didn’t see fear in his eyes, just sadness.
Is this what he felt when he watched Eden die—the helplessness?
There couldn’t be a worse feeling than this.
Except burning alive. That will be worse.
Someone handed Mrs. Ranulf a torch, and she held it against the wood around the platform.
Fiona’s entire body shook, rattling the chains. “No!” was all she could think to scream, over and over.
A hysterical scream echoed off the high ceiling. It wasn’t her own, nor was it Tobias’s.
“You can’t do this!” Munroe shoved her way through the crowd, her hair disheveled.
Fiona nearly cried with relief. Munroe wouldn’t allow this to happen.
Munroe loves Tobias.
She never expected to feel gratitude at the thought.
Munroe’s porcelain face was red and blotchy, and she gripped her mother’s arm. “Mother! You can’t do this! You can’t just
burn
him.”
The flames rose around Tobias’s legs, not yet close enough to touch his skin. But she had full faith now that Munroe would convince her mother to let him go. And then they’d all have to be let go, right? Munroe would be the one to bring some sense to this nightmare. Underneath her relief, she felt a flicker of resentment that it was Munroe who would save them all. She’d be indebted to her now.
But to her horror, Mrs. Ranulf plucked her daughter’s hand from her arm with a look of disgust, as though she were pulling a worm from her sleeve. “Do
not
embarrass me.”
Tears flowed down Munroe’s cheeks. “Dr. Mellior can save him! You said Dr. Mellior can save anyone!”
Yes. Dr. Mellior can fix us.
Fiona couldn’t breathe, watching the scene unfold.
Convince them
,
Munroe.
Mrs. Ranulf didn’t reply. She just shot a sharp look to one of the guards—the behemoth who’d ripped Fiona’s dress. He crept up behind Munroe with an eager grin and clamped a pale, meaty hand over her mouth and nose. She kicked and flailed, but he held on until she lost consciousness.
Stunned, Fiona watched her last hope dragged back through the crowd in the form of Munroe’s limp body.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Tobias. She wasn’t strong enough to watch his face as he burned. She shut her eyes. Why wasn’t he screaming? That fire goddess must give him strength in the flames.
Thank God he picked the fire goddess and not the tree god.