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.
Okay. Alright. What's the plan, Al?
How do we get out of this one?
My hands were still useless meat patties, and for the first time, I missed the endless, subdued presence of my curse. For years, it had felt like a burden to carry, like an impossible, heavy weight to shed. But recently, that fiery undercurrent had become a treasured part of me—a part I didn't hate—and right now, I couldn't see or feel my co-spirit at all.
And I didn't like it one bit.
Of course, my external weapons were also missing, although it wasn't like I could reach them anyway. Not in this position. Not in this state.
Dammit, Kingsley.
I was supposed to be Beckett's backup plan, and yet I had no idea where he was, and I was about to join the ashes in the sky—a spectacle the High Court would've paid to see, I'm sure.
Why did things have to go so wrong so fast?
The little girl from the swing set approached me with a pile of twigs in her arms, and without making eye contact, she threw them onto the teepee at my feet. Unbothered by my predicament, unfazed by her contribution.
"Hey," I croaked, startling her. "Where's my friend?"
She stared up at me, but her brown eyes were empty of feeling, vacant of sympathy, just as Lucy's had been. Without a word, the brat walked away, and I swore under my breath.
Direct confrontation it is, then.
Surprise, surprise.
I glared at the crowd of spectators. "Where is the man you shot?" I demanded, fearing the worst. "What have you done with him?"
My shaky voice drew the gaze of every single attendee, and I realized they all had the same deranged look on their faces. It was the unstable look I'd seen on the gunman, and it was also the same expression Regulas had worn back in Rhea—an expression that told me he'd been alone too long with his own thoughts. Chained to a dead man's vision and obsessed with his own destiny.
The so-called Bishop appeared, awake and unarmed, and he strode through the congregation like a king—confident and untouchable, despite his frail physique. Tonight, he wore a ragged, floor-length cloak, and thick patches of hair dangled from the chain around his neck. Patches I could have sworn resembled human scalps.
My stomach turned at the reverence this leader elicited from the crowd. It was like watching a new prisoner strut down the halls of the Ground's psych ward—happy to find his way home, awaiting applause.
It reminded me of what Rover had once said about sending a mining party to the Southern Ridge in hopes of finding vanadium. The group had never returned from their mission, and now, I had a pretty good idea as to what happened.
The Bishop stopped in front of me, too close for comfort, and he calmly raised his hand, prompting two grown men to emerge from the tree line. They towed a limp body behind them, dragging it through the muddy grass. Stone-faced. Remorseless.
When they reached the foot of my pyre, they dumped Beckett in a bloody, disheveled heap, and my insides turned to stone.
Please, no.
Please, please, please...
"B?" I managed, hardly a whisper. For a second, nothing happened, and I thought I might pass out from acute devastation. Then one man kicked Beckett in the ribs, and the soldier released a beautiful, agonized hiss.
Relief hit me like a sack of grain, pinching the corners of my eyes. Thank the skies.
Beckett lifted his head, his skin ashen, his posture defeated. His gaze latched onto mine, teary and resigned, and he let out a tired breath. "I'm sorry, kid. This is my fault."
My heart dropped to my stomach. I'd never heard the man so hopeless, and I'd definitely never seen him lose. "Keep pressure on the wound," I told him, trying not to cry. "Hold on a bit longer."
Give me time to figure this out.
I have to figure this out.
"They're keeping me alive to lure the others here," he murmured. "If you find a way out of this, don't let them use me as bait, you hear me? Leave me behind."
I nodded, though it ached to accept such a request. "Same goes for you."
I could only hope our friends were safe. Safe, and far, far away from this place.
We shared one last look of solidarity, unified in our martyrdom, and then the clergymen dragged Beckett to the edge of the field, granting him a front-row seat to my private barbeque.
"The demon mimics empathy," the Bishop observed, watching me with his ugly pale eyes. "...They're evolving."
I leveled my gaze on him, surprised to hear proper English from a man accessorizing his outfit with human hair. "What are you talking about?"
He bristled. "Do not insult my intelligence. We've lived among Satan's angels for over a decade. They haunt the woods. The animals. The soil. They even feed upon the soldiers who stray from God." He tilted his head at me. "We're capable of recognizing evil when we see it."
I stared at the priest for a few seconds, struggling to follow his mental gymnastics.
These people had lived in demon territory for years with no context, no resources. They didn't know of Rhea's involvement, they hadn't watched a portal open before their eyes and spit dark energy into the world, and they hadn't witnessed the Pans storming the capital and slaughtering their peers, one by one.
It was no wonder they'd turn to a dead religion for an explanation—they'd have lost all scraps of sanity without it.
Although, I'd argue they'd crossed that line already.
"That may be true," I put carefully, deciding to roll with his belief system to avoid a premature fire bath. "But I'm no demon."
"And yet I witnessed your sorcery firsthand," he declared, loud enough for the crowd to hear him. "Your body filled with celestial light as you cast your evil spell upon me. It was the power of God that protected me from your poison. He saved me from your impure spirit."
I gaped at him, my brain stuttering in its comprehension. There was no way he actually believed that, right? It had to be a manipulation tactic.
"I wasn't trying to kill you," I protested. "You shot my friend first—I was defending myself!"
Disregarding me entirely, he turned to his people once again. "The Devil has come to eradicate our tribe, just as God warned us. We must purge this demon from this world before it escapes its husk."
Woah, woah, woah.
Husk?
What kind of backwards ceremony was this? And why the heck was I standing trial all over again? I thought I was done debating my right to exist.
"I'm not your enemy," I pressed, feeling the panic swell inside my ribcage as the opportunity for rational conversation slipped from my grasp. "Yes, there are demons among us, but I'm using my power to fight against them! I'm on your side. If you'd just listen—"
"The truth lies with our Heavenly Father! Do not lend an ear to the ancient serpent!" he bellowed, and the audience murmured in agreement, shooting me unwarranted looks of disdain and betrayal. "We must hurry! Before it shape-shifts."
I watched, flabbergasted and alarmed, as four adults lowered their torches to the base of the fire. Lighting their matches. Sealing my fate.
Really? That's all it takes to justify murder?
One man's illogical reasoning and blatant fear-mongering?
The Bishop faced his congregation, and for a man of God, his silhouette sure looked diabolical against the hellish glow of the bonfire.
"God once blessed these lands, but Satan led our rulers astray," he began. "Lucifer instilled greed, selfishness, and contention in the world, convincing our forefathers to shut their gates, to starve those less fortunate of resources. And thus, our people were left to die in the fumes of civil war, forced to burrow underground."
My gaze snapped to the back of his head in confusion. Shut their gates?
I was under the impression that these expatriates refused to help the Patrons rebuild civilization. So what nonsense was this loon spouting?
"Yet, Christ smiled upon His most devout followers and spared their children, while nonbelievers lost their young to radiation, famine, and thirst. He gave us another chance to defeat evil, to spread the gospel—for we alone could recount the Holy Scripture and His prophecies."
His audience clung to every word of his sermon, their eyes wet, their hands outstretched to the sky. It was as intriguing as it was horrifying, and I desperately wished Sol were here. He'd know how to communicate with these people. He'd know how to get through to them. Gritz, his cross necklace alone might have spared us.
"God led his followers to a source of groundwater, and it was here, at this very spring, where our ancestral tribes joined forces and shared their knowledge of His teachings." The Bishop raised his hands. "Together, these men and women founded the Temple of Josiah!"
His followers clapped and cheered ecstatically, but my soul merely cowered in its shell.
"We return to this spring every winter to pay homage to our founders, but this season...this season we're reminded that Satan is still at work," he continued. "Detecting the resurgence of Christ's influence, the Devil has sent his minions to destroy us."
He scowled at me, his bottom lip barely visible above his thick, nasty beard, and I honestly didn't know what to do at this point. These creeps were convinced of their own magnificent story; no facts or demonstrations would change that.
"But God tells us to don His armor and stand against the wiles of the Devil, and so we shall." He pointed a crooked finger at me, his eyes flashing with a righteous fury. "Let us send this demon back to its wretched birthplace!"
The mob erupted in noise, filling the night with clapping, yelling, and stomping. A few of them even broke out in song, while others tossed threats and condemnations in my direction.
It was a great mixture of jubilance, ignorance, and a harmony stitched of hatred.
The executioners stalked toward me with their torches ablaze, and I pressed my spine into the tree, petrified. I'd fought demons and spirits and everything in between, but these humans were somehow the most terrifying opponent yet.
And here I was, bound to a stake. Impaled, like horse meat on a rotisserie. Powerless.
My eyes watered, flicking to Beckett's in shock.
Is this it?
Is this Nova's vision?
Is this...how I die?
Miss Crazy Eyes handed her torch to the Bishop—granting him the honor—and the religious leader smiled at me as he dutifully lowered the flame to the tinder.
"Wait," I said faintly, straining against the nails in my palms. Drawing blood for the third time that evening. "Wait!"
I wasn't ready yet! I hadn't accomplished what I'd set out to do.
I needed more time.
Just a little more time...
And then, right before I tasted the flames of ruin, an object sailed through the air and pierced the wood between the Bishop's thumb and forefinger. Freezing him in place.
A taut breath whooshed out of me as I recognized the object of concern.
A vanadium point. A sleek, wooden shaft.
And of course, the prettiest, most flamboyant feathered fletching in all of Ells.
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Eyyyo. Thanks for reading! <3
P.S. This should be a given at this point in the trilogy, but I mean no offense to any religious readers of mine. I hope it's clear that I'm targeting the philosophy of a (fictional) extremist group and not the faith itself. :P