The Year of the Witching(80)
“Their world doesn’t want the likes of you. Don’t you see that? It doesn’t matter what you do, how good you are, or if you save them from the jaws of the Mother herself. You’ll always be an outsider to them. You will never earn their favor or their trust.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“But you’re the one making the sacrifice,” said Vera, nearly shouting now. She reclined back into her seat, ran a hand through her dreadlocks, trying to compose herself. “Let’s say I give you the sigil. How can you hope to defeat four of the most powerful witches that have ever walked the earth when you frighten at the sight of your own shadow?”
“I am not a coward.”
“Maybe not in the face of certain dangers. I mean, you made it here all by yourself. Braved the wilds beyond Bethel without a single soul to turn to. It’s the makings of a hero’s legend . . . but I do wonder if that same bravery extends to the other things you fear.”
“What other things?”
“Damnation. Ill favor with the Father. Ridicule from the Church. The loss of your soul and virtue and good name.” Vera counted each of the strikes on her fingers. “And perhaps, more than anything else, fear of yourself. Fear of your own power. Because that’s what terrifies you the most, isn’t it? Not the Prophet, not the Church, not Lilith or the plagues, not the wrath of the Father . . . It’s your own power that you’re most afraid of. That’s why you’re suppressing it.”
Immanuelle didn’t know if she was some sort of seer like Ezra and his father, or if her weakness was so apparent that even a near stranger could recognize it, but she flushed with the shame of being so exposed.
Vera’s gaze softened. “If you want to end those plagues, you’re going to have to embrace yourself, all of yourself. Not just the virtues the Church has told you to value. The ugly parts too. Especially the ugly parts. The rage, the greed, the carnality, the temptation, the hunger, the violence, the wickedness. A blood sacrifice won’t mean much if you can’t control the power it affords you. And if you’re half as strong as I think you are, the power will be immense. You saw how your mother succumbed to it.” Vera tapped the journal. “She was mad out of her senses by the end. And when it’s all said and done . . . you may be too. Is that really a sacrifice you’re ready and willing to make?”
“Yes,” said Immanuelle, without a moment’s pause. “I’m ready to see an end to this.”
“You really are your mother’s daughter,” said Vera, and she turned the sketch of Daniel facedown on the table, took up a bit of graphite, and scrawled a small sigil that Immanuelle knew to be the mark of the curse, with a small alteration; a series of forked lines that looked a bit like arrows halved the symbol down the middle. “The plagues were born of your blood. If you carve this mark into your arm, they will return to you.”
“That is, if I’m strong enough to harbor them.”
“You are,” said Vera. “You’ll have to be.”
Immanuelle parted her lips to reply, but the sound of a woman’s scream cut her short. She and Vera were on their feet in an instant, their chairs crashing to the floor behind them. They snatched the lamp off the table and charged toward the door. The darkness beyond it was nearly impenetrable, broken only by three halos of light. In those halos, men, eight of them, with lanterns and torches raised. All of them wore the uniform of the Prophet’s Guard. Two had hold of Sage, twisting her arms behind her back, forcing her to her knees even as she kicked and struggled.
One of the guardsmen stepped closer, and in the wan torchlight, Immanuelle recognized him. He was Ezra’s older half brother, Saul. The same cruel-eyed commander whom many called the Prophet’s favorite son. To her horror, she saw that he now wore Ezra’s holy dagger around his neck. A sure sign that he either had, or would, replace him as the Prophet’s heir.
“No.” Immanuelle broke toward him, toward Sage, but Vera caught her by the arm and dragged her back.
Four of the Prophet’s guardsmen raised their rifles in unison, fingers curled over the triggers, but Saul waved them off, his gaze fixed on Immanuelle. “Lower your weapons. We bring the girl back to Bethel unharmed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
He watches me, I know it. In the night, I feel His holy eye upon me, but I am not afraid.
—MIRIAM MOORE
DO YOU BELIEVE in the Scriptures of your Father and Prophet?” The apostle’s words echoed through the chambers and carried down the dungeon hall.
“Yes,” said Immanuelle.
Apostle Isaac straightened his robes. He was a tall, starved-looking man with a head that was nearly as pale and gaunt as Lilith’s. He looked only half-human, as if—with his robes stripped away—he could skulk among the forest beasts unnoticed. In one hand, he held the Holy Scriptures, in the other a small candle that burned low on its wick. “And do you believe that hellfire meets those who live in reproach of the Father’s law?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever defied the Father’s law?”
Immanuelle nodded. “I have.”
It had been at least ten days since she’d returned to Bethel and more than twelve since the Prophet’s Guard had stormed Vera’s house, ripped her from the arms of the only loyal family she had left, and placed her in contrition. But the stagnant dark of the Haven’s dungeons made her feel like she’d been there far longer.