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.
I decide on the thumbscrew.
As I go behind her and kneel down, I say, "Have you ever heard of a thumbscrew, Emily? It was a device used in the medieval times. My family has passed such things down through generations of Fairchild men. This is my heritage. Usiborn still has a torture room, reserved for the most stubborn of your lot."
Emily gasps as I slide both of her thumbs through the holes and gently clamp down on them. Hopefully this will be enough to have her talking. I hate spending more than an hour with these creatures. The furthest I've ever had to go with my methods was using an iron chair with hundreds of spikes. You strap a person on to it and keep tightening the straps until the spikes pierce deeper and deeper into the flesh. What a sight to behold! Their bodies are mottled with beautiful holes, red tears seeping out of every pore. How I would love to photograph every victim of mine and keep it as a trophy.
I remember him, a Mr. Mercer. I had to extract information from him about where he was hiding his daughter. Turns out, she was at Cathedral Reims in Malva, trying to be a nun. How sickening.
He died from infection.
"I'll give you one more chance to talk, Emily. Where is the safe house?"
Emily remains mum on the matter.
I hum. "I'm quite certain you haven't a clue what true pain is like then."
I begin tightening the screw. I can hear Emily's breathing deepen. When the screw tightens on her thumbs, she gasps, then groans. Her breathing then grows rapid, and when I hear the satisfying crunch of bone, a scream loud enough to crack ice bounces around inside my skull.
Her screams are symphonies.
"Do you want to know just what type of tortures I have engaged in? I've chopped off limbs, flayed flesh, broken bones with mallets, and torn out tongues after I've received confessions. I am quite the veteran."
Her thumbs soon yield. I am able crush them like fine powder. Blood seeps beneath the screw. It won't be long before the tops of her thumbs fall easily out of it.
"I hate you cretins. I hate that you possess fire so dangerous you can burn entire villages with it. I hate that you exist as punishment for our sins. But I understand why Deus feels he must punish us, as the children must pay for the sins of their parents. We disobeyed him so long ago. We disappointed him. Now we spend our lives worshipping him by murdering people like you."
Emily's screaming turns to wailing. The screw thoroughly crushes her thumbs. The tips fall off, bloody strings of flesh desperately trying to cling on like thread unwinding from a laceration. They make a small tap sound as they land. I rip the screw away, pulling off the rest of her thumbs. They are bloody stumps, slivers of bone like erect graves peeping through her flesh. I drop the thumbscrew back into my case. I'll clean it later.
I stand and round Emily. "You should see your face, so red and ugly."
Tears streak her cheeks. Fluid from her nose runs over full lips that I'm certain were once the envy of many women in Rumenai. I must admit she is a pretty little thing, if only she were clean. Her red curls are especially striking.
"You don't know the sort of suffering your people bring." I swallow hard as I think of my mother's murder. "I like to tell this little story to all of my prisoners, to make you realize what insufferable demons you are." I glance outside. "I don't know the context of my mother's murder. We were never able to obtain a reason from the witch who did it to her. I saw something burning in the woods one day. I live outside of Norbury, you see. Nice little town. But my mother was being burned alive. I can recall no more than that."
Through a sob-racked voice, Emily asks, "What would it take for you to forgive?"
I want to scream that nothing will ever make me forgive the fiend who did it to her, but I must remain calm. "The Vulgate tells us to hate witches, Emily. I doubt you've read it. Your lot isn't allowed to claim religion as an identity, so I'm certain you've never read this sacred text. I will say that it is a book I will always live by, so hate is what I will do."
Emily hacks up a bit of phlegm. When she's done, she looks up at me with narrowed eyes. "You're being brainwashed by a silly book."
"It is not a silly book!" I pace before her, hardening my eyes as though I can smash her to pieces. "I was indifferent to witches before, but seeing my mother burned alive made me understand why The Vulgate would tell us to hate them."
Emily scoffs, then hacks out more phlegm. Her voice is coarse when she speaks. "There are terrible people everywhere." She leans forward until her restraints prevent her from moving any further. Her voice deepens. "Like you."
I slap Emily, the callousness masking her face sending bullets of sharp heat firing through my veins in a way that no one has ever been able to do with me. Most are too beset with pain to care for conversation. Or most are too busy begging for mercy. But what I think has truly incensed my blood is that her forthright approach is so like my mother's. My mother never had an issue with judging my character when warranted.
My voice darkens. "I am nothing like you filthy witches."
Inhaling a deep breath, I remove a cat's paw from my case. It is an instrument with long, sharp iron spikes resembling claws. It's commonly used to tear flesh from bone, and it's like an extension of one's hand.
I waste no time with formalities or mocking words. I raise it above my head, then bring it down on Emily's thigh, the claws tearing through her dress and petticoats. Emily screams as the claws dig into her flesh and rake down her thigh.
"You can end this pain if you give me the information I want!"
She screams louder as if to scream my words away.
I dig in harder as though I am trying to dig out a stubborn root. The claws meet bone. I intensify the pressure to crack it. Emily vomits to the side, her eyes glazed over as she raises her head. Since I don't want her to pass out, I pull the claw out of her thigh, set it in the case, and marvel at the thick, red blood that glides over her thigh. Beads of blood make little raindrops on the stone floor. Bits of her flesh cling to the claws. Emily's breathing grows hoarse as her screams die down.
I smile at the bloodstained case. "Emily, the most I've ever spent torturing someone was a week. He succumbed to infection, as do many of you. I managed to pull a confession from him as he was dying." I cackle. "He thought Deus would spare him if he did! Now isn't that quite humorous? Deus will not spare you because he created your ilk to torture us to begin with. Then when that torture is through, he disposes of you like a cow that no longer produces milk.
"You will die as they all die: miserably, without any hope of salvation."
When she speaks, her voice is cracked as though I scraped the claws down her throat. "Kill me, then. I have no confession to give you because I am no witch. You'll have to live in ignorance until your day of judgment, when Deus decides you are not fit for Paradise."
I bring my face close enough to Emily's that she turns hers away. "You don't quite understand how the world works, do you? No matter what, I am going to Paradise. I can commit genocide against my own and still be granted into Paradise. You witches will never be."
Emily's jaw tenses. "This world is wrong."
"This world is just." I turn away from her. "Now if you don't mind, Emily, I'm going to take my leave for the day."
I leave and slam the door to her cell behind me. Her screams echo down the corridor as I head down the dank steps to the residential quarters.
I shall spend time thinking of other torture methods to force her into telling me where the safe house is. All witches are the same. They'll do anything to save themselves, even if that means knowing they are going to die.
***
The apartment I live in with my father is small, but it is enough to shelter us for as long as we remain at Usiburn. My father is a warden for the upper floors, a man just as merciless as I am—but worse. If my father were an interrogator, like me, he would care not for confessions. He would torture them until his prisoners died.
I recline on a leather chair next to the fire, holding a sepia picture of my dear mother. It is unfortunate that pictures cannot yet capture the vivid colors of my mother's green eyes, her deep, brown hair that fell about her pale shoulders in beautiful ringlets. Nor can such a colorless picture capture the rosy flush that stole my father's heart.
I stroke the photo. "Don't worry, Mother. While the life I have chosen is hard, I assure you that it will be all worth it when I see you in Paradise." I rest the photo on the glass-topped table beside me.
The door creaks open. My father steps in, his black overcoat dusted with snow. He removes his coat and shakes it out. "A damn witch escaped from her cell a few hours ago. Spent over an hour chasing her around the grounds." He hangs his coat on the rack and relaxes on the leather sofa. He lifts a decanter of whiskey off the mahogany table beside him and takes a swig directly from it. "Ah, burns going down, but puts fire in a man's veins, enough to burn out the stresses of the day.
He looks at me with gray, weary eyes. "How was your day, my boy?"
"Difficult as always."
Father removes a tin of cigars from his breast pocket and lights one. He holds it out to me. "Such is the way of things here." I decline the cigar. Father chuckles and strokes his beard, which is a deep black like my hair and the bits of stubble on my chin. He simply holds the cigar in hand, his other swirling the decanter. "Still a boy, I see. Just take a puff."
I give him a sly smile. "I'd rather not fall prey to the coughing fits you suffer with."
"'Tis the season."
"It's always the season."
Father takes another drink. "We should return to Norbury. I can start up that law firm I dreamt of creating while your mother was still alive. You can join me, and I'll show you the ropes of what it means to be a cutthroat lawyer."
"You can set out for that on your own. I seek justice."
Father sits up and leans toward me, taking a puff from his cigar. He blows out smoke rings. "What sort of justice? The man who killed your mother is dead."
He tips the decanter toward me. I decide to take a drink. Its fire scorches my throat, igniting the passion I have for exterminating as many witches as I can in my lifetime. "I know that, Father. I seek a justice that may be impossible to meet, but I will not rest until I've murdered every last witch on Warbele."
"I wish the same, my boy, but it's a miserable existence. As long as we sin, there will always be witches."
"I don't care. Mother died miserably."
Father finishes the remnants of the whiskey and closes his eyes, cigar still in hand. All I can do is stare at my father and think of how terrible witches are.
***
Emily's wounds reek of infection; she herself reeks of vomit. Her eyes are red and swollen. Her skin is dull, tired. Her appearance swells my heart with pride over knowing I did this to her, that I made her as miserable as I was when my mother died. If I could put her head on a pike at the entrance of Usiburn, I would. Then every witch brought here would know there is no freedom.
"Are you ready to confess?"
She narrows her eyes.
"I don't believe I can torture you more than I already have. The implements I have on me aren't sufficient enough to cause you worse pain."
"What more could you possibly do to me?"
"It's something I'll have to think about." I pace in front of her. "I hear burning is the most miserable feeling in the world. Perhaps I can make you feel the suffering of people who have been murdered by a witch's fire."
I bend over and peer into her face. Though it's dirty and covered in sweat, her face is still quite lovely. If she were washed and scrubbed, those red locks of hers could shine again.
"Tell me, Emily. Are those looks of yours prized?"
"If you want to use me, go ahead. I know I'm going to die anyway."
"I'm not a sexual deviant."
I search her face. Her frown is hard; it gives me an idea of what I want to do to her next. Bending on to my knees, I remove a razor from my case. I stand, putting the razor at the corner of Emily's mouth, giving it a small tug. The pain will not be any worse than the thumbscrew or cat's paw; yet, pain is still pain. It is a sensation that is incredibly hard to get used to.
Inhaling deeply, Emily says, "Go ahead."
I wag the finger of my free hand in front of her. "Now, now, dear Emily. I want to give you a chance. Your pretty little face is so unmarred. Don't you want to die without a scratch on it? Just tell me where the safe house is, and I won't do it."
Her eyes harden. "Do it anyway."
I slice a smile about three inches into her cheek. Her scream is hoarse, her vocal chords exhausted and frayed from so much torture. I toss the razor back into its case. Blood runs down her face, pooling onto her chin and dripping on her lip in thick, wiry strands. "How does it feel to be the living embodiment of sin? I wonder what sort of sins your parents committed to give birth to someone such as yourself?"
Tears create pale lines down her cheeks. "Your children are undoubtedly going to be witches, because you're committing several sins."
Muscles burning, I take the razor back in hand and stick it in the other side of her mouth. "Say it. I dare you."
"Gluttony, anger, and greed."
My eyes widen as a wide smile overtakes my face. I slice the other side of her mouth and laugh. All she can do is groan. She can't even scream. Pathetic.
I grab her chin, digging my nails into her skin. "You are horribly, horribly mistaken. If I am any of those things, it is only because of my fervent desire to serve Deus."
Emily hacks out blood on to my arm. I pull away and procure a handkerchief from my breast pocket. I smile at the blood blotting my monogrammed initials.
She moans as she says, "You're only doing it for yourself."
Her words blow the smile from my face. Anger fuels my blood. "What an arrogant wench you are. Most witches do not have your audacity." I spit on her face. She winces. "They know their place, as should you." My heart is racing too fast for my comfort. I wallop Emily on the side of her head. Her head lolls to her chest. She doesn't bother raising it. "How dare you say something so blasphemous."
She inhales as much air as she can, looks at me, and screams, "You know I'm right!"
I kick the legs of her chair, sending her crashing to the stone flooring. Her head hits the floor, but she doesn't fall unconscious. "You will never pass on to Paradise!" I kick her with my steel-toed boot. She can only grunt with each blow. "You'll suffer and die into nothingness."
"You're only proving my point!"
I hear a crack as my boot makes contact with her ribs. I then cut Emily free of her bonds, rip her up from the floor, and slam her against the wall. I dig my fingers into her shoulders, drawing blood that snakes down them in tiny rivulets.
"I'll grant you a merciful death if you tell me, right now, where the damn safe house is. Why must you insist on bringing more misery upon yourself? I can make the final minutes of your life as comfortable as can be. Just tell me what I wish to hear."
Emily's words are toxic. "What you wish to hear, or what you need to hear? That you're damning your children to the fate of the man who killed your mother?"
I wrap my hands around her neck. "You bitch." Her throat feels so delicate as I slowly twist it in my hands. Her eyes bulge. She claws at my hands. "Is this how you wish to die? Is it?"
An intense fire I've never felt in me before flares in my belly, heats my chest, and extends through my limbs. My heart boils, pounding so hard I fear it may rip through my chest. I feel as though molten lead is pooling into my veins. I scream when fire explodes beneath my hands and consumes Emily all at once. I drop her, backing away until I hit the wall on the other side of her cell. I slide down it, gasping, watching the fire render her body to ashes in mere seconds.
Only a witch's fire can burn that fast.
I look at my shaking hands, my twitching fingers. I press my palms into my eyes and scream.
Emily was never a witch.
It was always me.
***
I toss my father's limbs in the furnace located in Usiburn's basement. I didn't bother telling my father what he and mother made. I simply slit his throat with the razor I used on Emily.
What a fool I am. Emily was no fool when she spat the truth right in my face. She'll go on to Paradise and I won't. At least, in a way, she was able to enact her revenge since her blood will forever stain my razor.
I'll never wash it.
I'll kill everyone in Usiburn. Everyone. Emily was right. Their sins will be their undoing. And so the cycle of witches will forever continue.
I'll kill them all.
When Stars Die can be found through Amazon, Lulu, and Barnes and Noble. It is the first book of The Stars Trilogy.