Lord of Embers(The Demon Queen Trials #2)(47)

“Why fear nonexistence?” he asked. “Do you feel afraid when you

think of the past, before you existed?”

“No.”

“Your body will feed the earth, as mine does once a year. Mushrooms grow from my flesh, and their mycelium spread beneath the forest floor, wrapping around the roots of trees that drink the light of the sun.

Death gives birth to life, Rowan, darkness to light, and the spirit lives on in the cycle of life and death.”

I heard distant shouts in the woods.

I knew things repeated here, that the dead came back to life. But were the Malleus Daemoniorum already back? I turned, catching sight of torches that pierced the dark.

The shouts were growing louder now, and I recognized Goody Putnam’s voice. I froze, my heart rate speeding up as I stared between the tree trunks. I couldn’t let them catch me here with the Dying God himself. So many torches, like moving fireflies. This wasn’t just the Malleus Daemoniorum. This was an angry mob. How many mortals had come into the forest?

I turned back to the Dying God, but he was gone. Darkness had enveloped the woods completely, clouds covering the moon and stars.

Either Tammuz had ditched me again or he knew I couldn’t be seen with him. But all of this was deeply inconvenient when I needed his help.

I turned and started hurrying away from the oncoming mob. If they managed to find me, I would explain that this was part of my penance —wandering in the cold woods. I turned to look over my shoulder. Why were they running so fast?

“Witch!” I heard the shout echo through the forest—Goody Putnam again. “She was consorting with the devil when the Malleus Daemoniorum were murdered!”



My chest went tight. What the hell, Goody Putnam?

“Where are you?” I whispered frantically to the Dying God.

At least these people had torches, which meant I should be able to keep away from them in the shadows. I hurried over the knotted tree roots, over the icy rocks. They seemed to be homing in on me with a surprising amount of accuracy, considering it was pitch black here.

“The spirit leads me to her,” shouted a man’s voice.

What the hell? I reached into my backpack, feeling around for the hilt of the knife. This would be a fantastic time to have my magic.

With a racing heart, I looked around for a place to hide, but I could hardly see in the darkness. Gripping my knife, I sneaked behind a large oak and peered around the trunk, watching the torches growing larger.

The shouts were growing closer now, the mob hurling insults at me.

“Thou foul witch. Thou demoness. Thou hast returned!”

They were coming at me with the

s again. Rude.

th ou



Someone was calling me a whore. I wasn’t quite sure how that fit into the scenario, but it seemed to be a classic go-to insult whenever men were angry at women.

My only defense was the darkness, but it wasn’t slowing them down a bit. As they started to close in again, I realized I had to move. I took one step. Two steps. My foot snapped a twig. I froze. Gunshots rang out behind me.

What had suddenly sent them after me? Had Goody Putnam suspected me?

“Kill her!” A male voice, full of primal rage. “She murdered the Malleus Daemoniorum!”

Bone-deep fear charged my body, and I tried to run through the trees, but the ground was uneven.

There were too many of them, their shouts growing louder, closer— Another gunshot, and pain exploded through the back of my left shoulder. I grunted, reaching for it. Agony electrified my body, and I fell to my knees. I had to fight now.

A primal desperation for survival took over, forcing me to my feet. I turned, wildly flailing with my knife as the torches and bodies surrounded me. I stabbed someone, but a blade cut through my side.

Another blow on the back of my head, and I lost my footing. They were all around me, these men in dark coats and tall hats.

One more crack to my skull, and my world went silent.

I WOKE with the early morning sunlight streaming over me, startled to find that I was still alive.

It took a moment for the pain to register. And when it did, I felt as if a knife were splitting my skull open from the back to the front. I tried to raise my hand to my head, but my arms had been tied tightly behind my back. My shoulder muscles burned. I was lying flat on something hard, like a bench.

Above me, red and gold leaves trembled on a tree branch. A gust of wind swept over me, catching the leaves and rolling them in the air. I breathed in deeply, my stomach turning. It smelled like death here.

And then I noticed something moving in the corner of my vision.

Dread sank into my lungs. A noose dangled from the branch, swaying forlornly overhead.

I’d been warned.

Maybe that

Do

you

w an t

to

see

h ow

you ’ll

d ie?

wasn’t Mortana’s death I’d seen. Fuck.

Above me, the bough groaned in the wind, a haunting sound. I shifted, trying to sit up to get a better view.

“The demon wakes!” The deep male voice sent shockwaves of fear through my nerves.

I scrambled to get up, but with my arms tied, I was unsteady. On my knees now, I took in the horrifying scene around me. I was kneeling in a rickety cart that was rambling up Gallows Hill.

Where hundreds of years later a Dunkin’ would stand—and my old powder-blue home—a grim crowd gathered. Men, women, and children glared at me, and Goody Putnam stood in the front row.