The Year of the Witching(100)

Lilith started toward him, one hand raised.

The ground beneath Ezra’s feet began to ripple, trees and roots sprouting through the gaps between broken floorboards, curling around his legs the way they had that day at the pond. He fired on Lilith, but with the roots dragging at his arms, none of the bullets met their mark.

Undeterred, the witch walked toward him. As she neared, one of the roots coiled around Ezra’s neck and ripped him backward so the top of his head nearly touched his spine. He tried to fire again, but a vine wrapped itself around the barrel of the gun and forced it to the floor.

Immanuelle struggled to stand up. The gutting blade was just a few feet away. If she could reach it, she could put the witch down and end this once and for all.

Ezra struggled to speak. “Immanuelle . . . run—”

A bone-faced wolf prowled from behind him, the same one that had taken down Abram, its mouth still slick with his blood. It stalked toward Ezra, jaws slack, ready to lunge, when Immanuelle threw out her hand.

The ground beneath the wolf gaped open, floorboards buckling loose, a landslide of debris tumbling down into a yawning sinkhole. The wolf whimpered, slipped, its claws scrabbling at the floorboards, and plummeted into the void.

Immanuelle pressed to her feet. Every breath sent a bolt of pain through her ribs, but she managed to speak anyway: “Let him go.”

At her command the vines slithered from Ezra, and he half crawled, half lunged away from the sinkhole’s edge, grabbing for his rifle. He raised it to his shoulder and fired on Lilith again, just as she turned back to Immanuelle. The bullet pierced straight through the crook of her collarbone. Lilith stopped . . . then staggered into a nearby tree. Her knees buckled.

“Immanuelle!” Vera stood in the center of the aisle, the gutting knife in her hand. She staggered forward, limping on what looked like a broken leg, and threw it.

The knife careened through the air, flipping several times as it arced overhead. Immanuelle lashed out and snatched it by the hilt a split second before it hit the floor. Then, with a strangled cry, she turned on Lilith and lunged.

The blade lodged, hilt-deep, into the center of the witch’s skull. A great crack cleaved the bone, and then, with the softest whimper, the witch queen collapsed.

Spent, Immanuelle crumpled to the floor beside her, gasping and bleeding, so weak she felt she would never rise again. With the last of her strength, she pressed a hand to the witch’s head, smearing the bone with her blood.

Lilith peered at her, chest heaving. Tendrils of shadow eddied from the cracks in her skull, hanging on the air like smoke. One of her antlers snapped and hit the floor. At last, with a shudder that racked the cathedral to the stones of its foundation, the witch went lifeless.

Slaughter.





CHAPTER FORTY





And on that day, when the dark has passed and the sun has risen again, the sins of the deceivers will be brought to light and the truth will emerge from the shadows.

—THE LAST PROPHESY OF DAVID FORD





THERE WAS SUNLIGHT on Immanuelle’s cheeks when she woke. She opened her eyes and sat up, dizzy and squinting, struggling to process the scene before her.

The cathedral was in ruins. Half the roof had caved in, and fallen beams and debris littered the floors. Trees grew from great gashes in the foundation, their branches stirring when the wind blew. Survivors wandered the wreckage of toppled pews and broken windows, searching for the wounded and trapped. Strewn through the rubble were the corpses of beasts, guardsmen, and the faithful. Among them was Lilith’s body, lying limp in the shadow of the altar.

“Easy.” Ezra was by Immanuelle’s side, bracing a hand against the small of her back as she attempted to stand. “You’re all right. You’re safe now.”

She shut her eyes against the sight of the carnage, feeling faint and sick. The memories of the battle flooded back to her: the legions pouring in through the shattered windows, beasts and demons prowling the aisles of the church, children screaming, women fleeing, Abram pinned to the floor . . .

Abram. Abram.

“Where is he?” Immanuelle demanded, turning to Ezra. “I want to see Abram.”

“Immanuelle—”

“I have to see him. Now.”

The crowd parted before them, members of the flock shuffling aside to give her a clear view. There, lying motionless amidst the wreckage, was Abram. Glory sat tucked into his waist the way she had as a baby, Honor close beside her, weeping. Next to Honor sat Anna, sobbing into the folds of her skirts. Standing over the two of them, stone-faced and motionless, was Martha. When her gaze shifted to Immanuelle, she offered nothing but a slow shake of her head.

Immanuelle tried to stand. She might have fallen if Ezra hadn’t been there to catch her by the arm. She shook him off, dropped to her hands and knees, and crawled through the wreckage to the place where Abram’s body lay.

She didn’t want to touch him, for fear of unleashing the power of the curses again. So she simply sat there next to him, one hand clasped over her mouth to muffle her sobs.

“Only now do you see the price of sin. Only now do you understand.” Immanuelle raised her head to see the Prophet staggering from behind the ruined altar, where he’d hidden during the height of the massacre. He raised his voice, calling out to the crowd: “Do you see the evil this girl has brought upon us? She summoned this darkness, called the coven here. Even now, I see the shadow of the Mother in her eyes.”