The Year of the Witching(96)

“You’re my wife before you are anything else.”

“I am my own,” said Immanuelle, fighting to keep her voice level. “My blood and bones belong to me, and me alone, and I would trade them, on my own authority, to atone for your son’s sins. I’ll take his place.”

The Prophet took a step toward her. “You have no right.”

This time, Immanuelle didn’t cower. “I have every right. My offering is pure. You can’t intercede.”

“But you have my seal. You took a vow, to me.”

“And now I take another,” said Immanuelle. “With the faithful of Bethel as my witnesses, I will go to the altar in Ezra’s stead.”

The Prophet tried to speak again, but his voice cracked. In his silence, Apostle Isaac limped forward. “Is it true that the girl has not been touched?”

Esther sprang to her feet, even as the wives around her grabbed at her skirts and tried to hush her. “The girl does not lie. She’s pure.”

“If she is pure,” said the apostle, turning to face the Prophet, “then she is a worthy sacrifice.”

“No,” Ezra rasped. He tried to stand, but one of the guards struck him so hard his legs buckled beneath him, and he hit the ground on his hands and knees. “Don’t hurt her. Please. There has to be another way.”

“There is.” A voice echoed through the dark, and to Immanuelle’s shock, Martha stepped forward, moving between tables to the front of the feast. “I’ll go in her stead. Spare her.”

The apostle appraised the woman, eyes narrow, his upper lip curling with disgust. “You’re not pure of flesh.”

“No,” said Martha, wringing her hands. “But I’m pure of soul. I’ve said my prayers. I’ve lived in truth and honor. I’ve served the Father well, Named generations in accordance to His will. I can take her place. Please.”

“Martha,” said Immanuelle, and her grandmother met her eyes. She was weeping, great brutal sobs, and she seemed to crumple a little more with each breath she took. “It’s all right. I’m ready.”

Martha’s face went blank, and a few tears slipped down her cheeks, dangling from the point of her chin. She swayed, and she would have collapsed to the dirt if Anna hadn’t caught her by the arm to keep her on her feet.

Immanuelle forced her gaze back to the Prophet. This time her voice didn’t break. “My life for Ezra’s.”

For a moment, she thought the Prophet would deny her, seize her by the throat, drag her back to the Haven by her hair, or hang her up in the bowels of that wretched dungeon, where she would remain forevermore. But the Prophet simply lowered his head, hands clasped, fingers locked, as if he was praying. “Take her to the altar.”

For the second time that day, Immanuelle found herself ushered into the cathedral and down the long aisle, to the altar at its end. There, in full view of the flock, she stripped out of her bridal gown and loosed her braids. Undressed and unburdened, she climbed onto the altar.

The slip of her bridal gown felt thin and sheer as the wind blew through the doors. Not that modesty mattered much anymore, in light of what she was about to do.

The flock spilled into the cathedral. They didn’t bother filling the rows as they had during the trial. Instead, they pressed forward, crushing into the aisle and gathering at the foot of the altar, all of them eager to claim a good spot to witness the sacrifice. Among them, the Moores, weeping and tearing at their clothes. Vera trailed behind them, flanked by guards on either side, expression dead. And then, at the forefront of the crowd—bound and burned and shackled—was Ezra.

Immanuelle had seen broken men before. Men sentenced to die for their sins with nooses around their necks in the town square. She had seen men cradle their dead sons, men with the lash of the whip at their back. Sick or wounded men, men gone mad with rage. But none of them had looked as undone as Ezra did in that moment.

Emerging through the thick of the crowd, the Prophet took his place behind the altar. He moved one hand to the bare slope of Immanuelle’s belly and the other to her head, his thumb pressing hard against the seal he’d carved just hours before.

Blood skimmed along the bridge of Immanuelle’s nose, pooling in the dip of her upper lip.

She waited for the prayer with her eyes wide open, but it didn’t come. They meant to usher her into the afterlife unwelcomed and unannounced, without last rites or prayers for mercy . . . and perhaps that was for the best, given the grave sin she was about to commit. There would be no place for her in the Father’s holy halls. No mercy for her in the heavens after what she was about to do.

Apostle Isaac shuffled forward, the gutting knife balanced between both of his hands. At the sight of the blade, fear washed over her. Her heart battered the backs of her ribs and she grasped the edge of the altar to keep herself from fleeing.

The Prophet wrapped a shaking hand around the hilt of the blade. For a moment, he studied it, as if testing its weight. Then his gaze shifted to Immanuelle. “You would really die for him? You would damn yourself?”

She nodded, knowing that the moment was upon her now. There was no turning back. “His sins are mine.”

“No.” Ezra struggled toward her, fighting his shackles and clawing the floor for purchase. “Immanuelle. Please, no.”

The Prophet put a hand to her brow, pressing hard enough to make her seal ache. He raised the gutting knife high above his head.