A Treacherous Flame: A Stars Trilogy Short

A Treacherous Flame

Usiburn Tower is my home, a place that punishes unforgivable sins. A tower of massive size, it imprisons the world's worst criminals: witches. I've tortured a fair amount of them as an interrogator here the last five years, an occupation passed down to me and one I willingly accepted when a witch killed my mother. She died in 1868, back when I was but thirteen. Now five years later, here I am to live out my lifelong revenge against witches. Some may think it is a bleak existence being surrounded by dark walls all day, being surrounded by witches at every turn; these are the people who do not understand the unending battle against them.

They are blasphemous murderers, their fire so dangerous it can burn bone within seconds.

Some days this job is simply a matter of making my rounds through the the tower, spending about ten minutes with one of these criminals and easily getting one to admit his crimes. Other times, like today, I may spend days with a single witch, trying to extract a single confession.

Deus help us all.

High up in the tower, I stride toward the arched window and peer through the bars at the fields of rolling hills that pile over one another for miles, the grasses so green, the trees so bright they'll never have to wonder when the rains will come. I turn away from the window and smirk at the girl before me, her defiant green eyes boring into my own. Bruises blotch her fair skin, predominantly her upper arms and the sides of her face. I wonder how many times some of the interrogators have knocked her over in the chair she is bound to?

No matter. It isn't as if any of them can interrogate the way I can. They're all soft, shying away from the instruments of torture that rest in a leather bag against Emily's chair. Oftentimes I fantasize of all the ways I can use these devices to eviscerate witches' organs.

I circle Emily, noting the dried blood on the ropes binding her wrists behind the chair. I then stop and bring my face close to hers. "So my dear girl, are you going to tell me the location of the safe house?"

Emily spits in my face. "I know of no safe house, and I am no witch."

I wipe the saliva off my face, my lips curling into a smile that is both venomous and saccharine. "Oh, so you haven't a clue where this safe house is? Pray tell then, why were you accused of witchcraft in Rumenai? Why were you accused of burning down a church? Why did the pastor there tell us that you were harboring witches in a safe house somewhere? Hmm? Do you really think a man of Deus would just lie?"

"Of course a man of Deus would lie! Plenty have to save their own skins." Emily closes her eyes, a quiet calm passing over her. "As I've told too many of you, the pastor's daughter is a witch, and he wants you to believe there is a safe house of witches to send you on a wild goose chase for as long as he can." She opens her eyes, that fiery defiance coloring them again. "I know what his daughter is."

My laughter ricochets off the expansive gray walls of Emily's cell. "What a wild story you have there, girl, but a man chosen by Deus never lies. That's what it means to be part of the clergy. We don't elect liars."

"You're a fool then."

My laughter heightens. "Do you know who I am, girl? I'm Benjamin Fairchild, and we Fairchilds are no fools. Every man in my family has inherited this tower and will continue to do so for generations. So I know what it's like to be surrounded by witches. I know the types of lies you tell. I know what you will say to comfort yourselves, to talk yourselves into believing that you're not sinning or going to hell."

I bend down and unlock the suitcase. I marvel at all of my devices, wondering which ones I should choose. Shall I try the heretic's fork? Lead sprinkler? Tongue tearer? No. That's foolish. She'll need that tongue—at least until I can get what I need from her.