The Year of the Witching(95)

The cathedral doors swung open and Immanuelle’s heart stopped, panic cleaving clean through her. She watched in horror as two apostles ushered Ezra past the cathedral threshold and down the stairs. He staggered, his boots trailing through the dirt as they dragged him to his father. Apostle Isaac forced him to his knees with a well-placed strike between the shoulders. He fell to the ground, his head hanging inches above his father’s feet.

“Ezra Chambers.” The Prophet peered down at his son, eyes aglow with the light of the purging pyre. “Do you repent?”

Ezra didn’t move. He gripped the dirt with both hands, like he was trying to anchor himself. At last he said, “I have nothing to repent for.”

“Very well,” said the Prophet, nodding. “May the Father have mercy on your soul.”

Immanuelle’s heart thrashed behind her ribs. She was on her feet in an instant, standing so quickly her chair toppled behind her. “What is the meaning of this?”

No one else moved. No one spoke. No one made a sound, save for Esther, who cried out with a ragged shriek. But the Prophet didn’t dignify her with so much as a glance. His eyes were locked on Immanuelle. Not his son, the guards, or the flock.

Her.

And it was to her the Prophet spoke to when he said, “Take him to the pyre.”

The guards didn’t make the mistake of hesitating again. They hauled Ezra up by either arm and dragged him to his feet. The Prophet trailed behind them like a shadow as they made their way toward the fire.

“No!” Immanuelle sprang after them, straining toward the guards, toward Ezra, her hands outstretched as if she could snatch him back. She had always known it would come to this, but she’d never expected it to happen so soon. She thought she had a little time, if nothing else, but she was wrong. “You promised Ezra would be spared,” she said, though she knew her protests were in vain. “We had a deal!”

“Immanuelle, please.” Ezra’s voice was tired, resigned. “It’s done now. Enough.”

Immanuelle didn’t heed him. She ran after them, tripping on the hem of her cutting gown as she went.

“You’re a tyrant!” She trailed the Prophet so closely, she clipped his heels with her slippers. “You’re a liar! You’re a madman! You promised me he’d be safe.” She caught his sleeve and yanked it so hard she ripped the velvet. “You promised!”

The Prophet turned on her then, drew back his hand, and slapped her. Immanuelle fell back, her head spinning, and crashed into a nearby bench. She heard Ezra cry her name again, his voice ringing in her ears.

“We had a deal,” she whimpered, pushing herself up from the dirt. Shadows swam before her eyes. She tasted blood. “You promised.”

The Prophet stared at the hand he’d slapped her with, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done, what she’d made him do. “I am fulfilling that promise. I told you I wouldn’t harm him. That’s why I’m going to free his soul and save him from the hellfire.”

Immanuelle tried to rise to her feet but staggered. “You gave me your word.”

“My word is the Scripture, and the Scripture demands blood atonement.” With that, the Prophet nodded to the guards again, and at his bidding, they dragged Ezra to the foot of the nearest purging pyre, his boots carving tracks through the dirt. Once there, they seized his arms and forced him back, flinching as the flames churned and roared before them.

Fire licked across Ezra’s back. He cried out in pain.

Immanuelle realized then that the Prophet had never meant for his son to live. He would protect himself above anyone else, even if it meant surrendering his son to the pyre’s flames and watching him burn.

The Prophet turned to face his flock. “Sins must be atoned for by blood and burning. That is our oldest and most important law. Blood for blood. Ash to ash. That is what the Father demands, and that’s what we will give Him tonight.”

“Then take me.”

No one heard her above the roar of the purging fire.

But the second time Immanuelle spoke, she was screaming. “Take me instead!”

Ezra stumbled to his knees as the guards released him, struck the dirt with a dull thud. His shirt was smoking, already singed by the touch of the flames.

And Immanuelle knew then that she had to end it. Either she acted now, or not at all.

She drew forward, moving past the Prophet. “I offer myself as a sacrifice. My life for Ezra’s.”

To this, there was no jeering, no wails or curses. Every soul in that congregation—man, woman, and child—sat silent, as still as tombstones in a graveyard.

All except Glory Moore, who let out a long, high cry that cleaved the night in two. Abram attempted to fold the girl into his arms, but she thrashed and struggled so violently even Anna couldn’t ease her. “No!” she shrieked, and her voice echoed across the plains. “No!”

Vera started forward next, attempting to lunge free of her guards, but they dragged her back before she had the chance to do anything more than shout Immanuelle’s name to the wind.

In the distant dark, the forest stirred.

Immanuelle forced her gaze back to the Prophet. He stood in her wake, his mouth open, his face bathed red with the light of the bonfire. He looked at his son, bent before the flames, and then he looked at Immanuelle with so much anger she felt the blood curdle in her veins.