The Year of the Witching(50)

“Is over, Immanuelle. You ended it at the pond.”

“You don’t know that,” she said, remembering her mother’s journal, the words scrawled across its final pages: Blood. Blight. Darkness. Slaughter. “What if there’s more to come?”

“More of what to come?”

“Plagues,” said Immanuelle, treading carefully now. “What happens if it’s more than just the blood?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what if this plague isn’t the last one? What if there’s more to come?”

“It ended with the blood,” said Ezra, and he sounded so much like his father that Immanuelle cringed.

“Just because you want that to be true doesn’t make it so. The Sight is formidable, yes, but it only allows you to see glimpses of the future. It doesn’t give you the power to shape it. I know that you’re afraid, Ezra. I am too. But that doesn’t give us the right to close our eyes and pretend what scares us doesn’t exist. If more plagues are coming—”

“For the sake of the Father, they’re not.”

“If they are, we have to be ready to face them.”

Ezra returned to the seat beside her, looking exhausted. He hunched forward, arms braced against his kneecaps, head hanging low. “Listen to me, Immanuelle. It either ends here, with this, or it ends with you dead. There is no in-between. That’s why I’m telling you—I’m begging you—to lay this to rest.”

She faltered at that. It wasn’t a threat, but the way Ezra spoke made it seem like the future was immutable, which was, of course, impossible. Unless . . . “Did you see that in one of your visions? Did you see me?”

He dodged the question. “I don’t need the Sight to confirm what I already know to be true. Girls like you don’t last long in Bethel. Which is why you need to keep your head down if you want to survive this. Promise me that you will.”

“Why do you care what I do, Ezra?”

He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, like he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “You know why.”

Immanuelle flushed. She didn’t know what to say to that, or if she was meant to say anything at all. “You make me a promise too.”

“Anything. Whatever you want.”

“It’s in regard to your father.”

Ezra froze. A range of expressions passed over his face in quick succession, so fast she couldn’t tell what he was feeling. “Did he hurt you?”

Immanuelle shook her head. “Not me. A friend. She was young when it happened, and I fear she’s not the only victim of the Prophet’s . . . compulsions.”

Ezra stood so fast the feet of the armchair scraped the floor with a screech. He half turned to the bedroom door.

“Don’t,” said Immanuelle, throwing out a hand. “He’s dying. Some say he won’t last the year. He’ll never take another bride. He’s too weak to raise a hand to anyone now.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Ezra demanded, and she saw the rage in him then. “Nothing?”

“Nothing except promise me that when it’s your turn to wear the Prophet’s dagger, you’ll protect those who can’t protect themselves—from the plagues, from their husbands, from anyone or anything who might hurt them. Promise me you’ll right the wrongs of the past.”

“I promise,” said Ezra, and at once she knew he meant it. “On my life.”

Immanuelle nodded, satisfied that she’d done what little she could. For a farm girl from the Glades, she had certainly come far. It seemed surreal to her that she was cutting bargains with the Prophet’s heir, reckoning with witches, making plans for the future of Bethel, when just weeks ago the extent of her responsibilities ended with the borders of the Moore land.

But the time for thrilling schemes and grandeur had come to an end. For now, and perhaps forever, the plagues were over. Ezra would go his way, and she hers. Whatever affinity they shared would quickly die. In fact, she doubted they would ever speak in such a candid way again. In due time, Ezra would rise to take his place as Prophet, and Immanuelle would recede into the shadows of his past. She should have been content with that. But she wasn’t.

“Take care of yourself,” said Ezra, and he, like she, seemed to sense this was goodbye. “Please.”

She forced a smile as she pressed to her feet. “You do the same.”

“And if you ever need anything—”

“I won’t,” said Immanuelle, striding to the door. She stalled a beat, her hand on the knob. “But thank you. For all of it. You were a friend to me when I sorely needed one, and I’ll never forget it.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN





From the Mother comes disease and fever, pestilence and blight. She curses the earth with rot and sickness, for sin was ushered from Her womb.

—THE HOLY SCRIPTURES





THREE WEEKS PASSED without any sign of the curses. The beasts of the Darkwood were dormant. No witches called to Immanuelle in the night or haunted her dreams. Had she not seen them firsthand—had she not felt Lilith’s cold fingers lock around her wrist—she might have believed the plagues were over and been lulled into complacency like the rest of Bethel, convinced that whatever evil descended upon them had been purged by the Father’s light.