Ve'Rah Daa (The Ephemeral: Book 3)

Chapter 9

The scent of smoke and burning flesh pulled me from my slumber.

I struggled to open my eyes, overwhelmed by the throbbing pain in my head. I couldn't move my body, and anxiety wrapped its icy tentacles around my heart as I attempted to find my bearings.

The last thing I remembered was Miss Crazy Eyes pinning me to a filthy hardwood floor, grinning down at me with crooked teeth. Then she'd grabbed one of the loose bricks from the ground and slammed it against my temple—hard. Just like I'd done to Demon-Tom months ago.

When my vision finally cleared, though, I almost wished she'd killed me with that blow. It would've been a hell of a lot easier than the conundrum I faced now.

It was nighttime, and someone had tied my body to the trunk of a dead tree, nailing my hands to the wood above my head, palms out. Fresh blood dribbled down my gloves onto my shirt sleeves, and while I could identify five pale fingertips on either hand, I couldn't feel the digits. In fact, I couldn't feel much of anything except the splitting headache above my left eyebrow and the rusty nails impaling my thenar creases.

Perfect, Al. This is...perfect.

Heaving a miserable sigh, I examined the rope hugging my thighs, then the pile of rocks, sagebrush, and kindling stacked beneath my boots.

Ah.

So the woman wasn't bluffing earlier: they were actually preparing to burn me at the stake.

These outcasts had gone and built me a whole pyre, and now they were about to carry out the same barbaric practice Ellsians had wrongfully accused Rheans of performing for decades. All because I'd zapped some weirdo unconscious.

The entire situation was so preposterous, it almost made me laugh.

My gaze shifted from my unfortunate predicament to the giant pine trees surrounding my cremation device. Old snow dusted their crowns and outer branches, which meant I'd been transported to the eastern slope of the Rim, even further removed from my friends. I'd been taken to a secondary location, stolen from my place of capture.

And it was not looking good.

As if it couldn't get any worse, the meadow before me harbored what appeared to be the carcass of an ancient church. Because things weren't creepy enough already.

Crumbling buildings bordered a field of stained glass, rotten pews, and concrete pillars, like an Olympian had squashed the entire building beneath its heel. At the epicenter of the debris stood a bronze statue glazed in turquoise and dead ivy—soiled, cracked, and abandoned. Perhaps the robed figure once brought comfort and security to its worshippers, but its oxidized flesh and corroded garments just made me pity the thing.

And then...then there were the occupants.

At least a hundred people had gathered here to witness my execution. They huddled around a fire where slabs of Beckett's horse turned on a spit, roasting above the flames. Animal skins and fur coats clothed their thin bodies, and their hair was either long and unkempt or short and jagged, as if they'd taken a cleaver to their locks.

An assortment of knives and daggers bejeweled their outfits, and ancient firearms hung off their shoulders, polished and seemingly undamaged. Somehow. Someway.

The adults glared at me with loathing, and the few teens and children sprinkled among them watched me attentively, as if I might spontaneously combust at any moment. Although, I sensed their fear had little to do with my snow-white hair and foreign attire.

The woman who attacked me had called me a witch, a demon. But unbeknownst to her and her brethren, I was much, much worse.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.