The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(89)

I stand for a moment in the dark, broken library, trying to control my mounting fear. Trying to remember what Fifer said about illusion. Is it illusion that makes fear real? Or is it fear that makes the illusion real? And what does this illusion mean? It’s meant to show me fear, but I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Not yet.

I run back into the entrance hall. But instead of the black-and-white-tiled hallway I came in through, I’m somewhere different. Filthy stone floors, rugs shoved into the corner, more broken windows, stained glass this time. I can just make out a snake’s tail in one of the shards, dangling precariously from the frame.

“Nicholas!” I run through the house the same way I did at Humbert’s. The sitting room. The dining room. The bedrooms. They’re torn apart the way they were at Humbert’s. The kitchen. It looks as it did the last time I saw it: pots and pans and knives and food strewn everywhere. “Hastings!”

But no one answers. The house is quiet.

I turn in slow circles, my breath coming in gasps, my limbs numb with terror. What does all this mean? I don’t know. I just know I want to get out of here. I run back into the entrance hall, push open the heavy front door.

And I freeze.

I’m standing at the edge of a crowded square, watching the executioners light the pyre. They circle the narrow wooden platforms, their lit torches held high. At the top of each, chained to the stake, bundles of wood heaped around their feet, are John, Fifer, George, and Nicholas.

I sway on my feet; I actually swoon in horror. And even before the executioners touch their torches to the wood, I start to scream. Push my way through the jostling crowd, trying to reach them. I scream their names over and over, but they don’t hear me.

I lunge for the platforms, but the guards grab me and throw me to the ground. I scrabble in the dirt, trying to get back up, but they hold me down, and I’m screaming and sobbing too hard to fight back. But I need to get to them, to save them before it’s too late, but then it is too late: There’s an enormous whoosh of flames and a billow of smoke as the fire engulfs them and they’re gone, forever.

Somehow, I stumble to my feet and push my way through the crowd and into the street. And I start to run. I don’t know where I’m going, just away from this. Away from the smoke and the fire and the screaming and the death. Eventually I reach an empty alley and collapse in a doorway, trembling and crying and completely terrified.

So this is it—my worst fear. It’s not dying alone anymore. It’s watching the people I care for die in front of me and not being able to stop it. Being responsible for it. Knowing that if I don’t destroy the tablet, this is what will come of it.

My heart is pounding too hard, my breath coming too fast. I have to make it stop. I remember what Fifer said: I have to eliminate my fear. That eliminating the fear eliminates the illusion. But how? I start to sing, but I can’t remember the words. I take a breath, but I can’t stop sobbing. I try to think of something else, but I can’t seem to do that, either. I don’t know how to do anything but be afraid.

Some men pass by me then, their arms looped around one another. They’re singing some kind of drinking song. I smell the ale wafting from them as they go by and wrinkle my nose. They’re drunk and it can’t be past noon, and—

Then I get an idea.

I leap to my feet. Skirt through the alleys: left, right, left again, until I see the familiar green sign that reads THE WORLD’S END. I shove the door open and it’s just as it usually is, just as it was the last day I was here. Crowded and loud, musicians playing, Joe pulling drinks behind the bar. As I approach, he slides me a glass of ale and watches me, his hands folded.

“Well?” he growls.

I take a tentative sip. But instead of the usual horror—roasted pig or absinthe or God knows what else—this time it tastes like ale. This time, it’s actually good. And just like that, my heart slows. My breathing slows. I know without a doubt that this Joe and this ale aren’t real. This is an illusion.

I start to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn around and rush for the door of the tavern, flinging it open. There, on the other side, is the tomb, dark and dank. I’m right back where I started.

I step inside and go still. For a moment I fear dirt will start falling, that the illusion still isn’t over. But after a few moments when nothing else happens, I make my way to the entrance. The moon is bright enough that slivers of light work their way through the cracks, illuminating what is no longer a rickety wooden door but the edges of a massive stone slab, the number XIII etched at the top.

The Thirteenth Tablet.

It’s big; I knew that. But standing in front of it, I realize just how huge it really is. Six feet tall, three feet across. Solid stone, at least a foot thick. It’s been down here a while, buried in the dark and the damp, the edges beginning to turn green with moss.

I stare at it a minute. Run my fingers along the words etched down the length of the stone. I can just make out runes along the edge, along with Nicholas’s name, written over and over among all the symbols and marks.

Nicholas said Blackwell did it. That Blackwell cursed him, that Blackwell is a wizard. I didn’t want to believe it then, and, despite everything, I don’t want to believe it now. It was just speculation, just a guess. There was no way of knowing for certain if it was true.