The Year of the Witching(41)

But the truth was even more startling. Unlike Bethel, which had been ravaged by the horrors of the plague, the forest was thriving off it. As if the woods were glutted with blood. The trees bloomed out of season, their branches lush with new growth. The bramble thicket was so dense it encroached on the path, making it hard to follow at times. It almost seemed like the forest was expanding, growing past its designated limits.

Was that what this blood plague was all about? Was it some ploy of the witches to take dominion over Bethel? Was Lilith trying to claim what had been lost to her all those years ago?

Ezra glanced back at Immanuelle. “For someone who claims to fear the Darkwood, you certainly seem at ease.”

He was right, at least in part. There was something about the Darkwood that made her feel as though she became more like herself when she entered it, and when she left it, less. But perhaps that was just the trickery of the witches. “You seem rather tense for someone who doesn’t.”

“If you’re ready for the worst, then you won’t have anything to fear in the first place.”

“Is that what you expect to find out here?” Immanuelle asked, ducking beneath the bough of an oak. She felt a little pang of guilt for all the secrets she’d been keeping from him. “The worst?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I may not believe in witches and folktales, but I know enough to realize few good things come from the Darkwood.”

The words stung, and it took her a moment to realize why: She was from the Darkwood, at least partially. It was the place where she’d grown in her mother’s belly, her first home, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Ezra turned to look at her. “You don’t agree?”

“I don’t know,” she said, stepping closer, halving what little distance there was between them. “I guess I’m inclined to think good things can come from unexpected places.”

Ezra reached above his head, grasping a branch with his good hand, leaning on it a bit. They were close to each other, too close to be considered proper by Bethelan Protocol. But they weren’t in Bethel anymore, and the Darkwood was lawless.

It was Ezra who broke the silence, a ragged edge to his voice. “You’re a bit of a puzzle, you know that?”

Immanuelle tilted her chin to peer up at him in full. Ezra’s lips were parted, and the sunlight played over his face, painting shadows along his cheeks and jaw. Though there was barely a finger’s length between them, all Immanuelle wanted to do was step closer. But she didn’t dare let herself go. She couldn’t. “So I’ve been told.”

They walked in silence for a time after that. Immanuelle was all too conscious of the sudden quiet, and the careful distance between them. It seemed like hours had passed when Ezra finally stopped and motioned to a break in the trees. “We’re here.”

Immanuelle stepped in front of him. Sure enough, they were. There was the pond, a wide, bloody wound in the middle of the forest. The trees that encircled it were much taller than Immanuelle remembered, and their roots reached into the pond’s depths, submerged in blood, glutting themselves on it. The sweet stench of decay was so cloying and thick, Immanuelle almost gagged at the smell of it.

She turned back to Ezra, slipped the coil of rope off her shoulder, and lowered her knapsack to the dirt. “Close your eyes and turn around.”

“What are you—”

Immanuelle lifted the hem of her skirt up to her knees and looked at him over her shoulder. The forest’s song turned taunting. It was in the quick rhythm of her heartbeat, in the hiss of the wind, in the dull thud of Ezra’s boots on the dirt as he stepped a little closer.

“Eyes closed,” she reminded him.

This time, Ezra obeyed, closing his eyes and tipping his face to the treetops. “Why do I feel like whatever you’re up to is a bad, creed-breaking idea?”

“I don’t know.” She paused to kick off her boots. “Maybe because you’re a bad, creed-breaking heir who has a taste for such ideas.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “You think I’m a bad heir?”

“I think you’re a devious one.” She wiggled out of her dress, the fabric pooling at her ankles. She folded it quickly and retrieved the rope, knotting it around her waist. When it was secure, she walked to Ezra and slipped the slack into his good hand. “Hold this and don’t let go.”

Ezra turned to face her fully, and his eyes flashed as he traced the rope from his hand to her waist. Immanuelle’s slip suddenly felt as thin as mist in the morning. “I told you to close your eyes.”

Ezra’s gaze went from her to the water, then back again. She could have sworn he looked almost . . . flustered. “You’re not going to—”

“I have to. The blood plague won’t end if I don’t.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Ezra, shaking his head. He’d humored her antics thus far, but it was clear his patience was long spent. “If you’re hell-bent on someone going into that pond, let it be me. You hold the rope.”

Immanuelle shook her head. “It has to be me.”

“Why?” he demanded, exasperated. Angry, even. “What does this pond have to do with ending the blood plague? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t have time to explain it to you, and even if I did I’m not sure you’d believe me. But that doesn’t matter now. You’re here because you chose to be, so you can either help me or you can leave. I just ask that whatever you choose to do, you do it quickly and with discretion. I’ve kept your secrets, so you keep mine.”