The Year of the Witching (21 page)

We will soon have to choose between who we wish to be and who we must be to carry on. One way or another, there will be a cost.

—F
ROM
THE
L
AST
L
ETT
ERS
OF
D
ANIEL
W
ARD

IMMANUELLE HAD NEVER
been quick to anger. As a child, under Martha, she’d been well schooled in the virtues of patience and restraint; she was more apt to take a slap than to deliver one. But now, as she emptied her lamp, splashing the walls of the cabin with kerosene, an ugly rage ripped through her, as if some animal caged within was trying to claw its way out.

She’d been used.

It was a truth so terrible, Immanuelle could barely conceive it. It was worse than being the harbinger of the plagues, worse than damnation itself. The idea that her mother—for whom she’d spent nearly seventeen years grieving—had never loved her as anything more than a weapon, an agent of her own vengeance.

Immanuelle threw oil across the sigils with blind fury. She snatched the pack of matches from her knapsack and struck one alight, holding it pinched between her fingers as she stared up at the oil-slick carvings.

One for cursing. One for binding. One for birthing.

She flicked the match into the puddle of kerosene a few feet away and a sea of fire washed across the floor. She retreated as the
flames rushed down the hall after her, past the threshold, spilling into the front room. In a matter of moments, the building was almost entirely engulfed.

Immanuelle emerged from the cabin in a cloud of ash and cinder. She wasn’t sure if she was crying more from the rage or the smoke. She took no comfort in the sight of the cabin burning. A few flames weren’t enough to protect her from the truth.

To avenge her lover, Miriam had surrendered her daughter, body and soul, to Lilith’s coven. She was their curse made flesh, and everything—the blood and the blight, the darkness and slaughter to come—it was all within her. Miriam hadn’t wanted justice; she had wanted blood . . . and Immanuelle had provided. That night in the Darkwood, when she had bled for the first time, she’d unleashed it all. This was Miriam’s legacy: one not of love, but of vengeance—and betrayal.

Smoke tumbled through the treetops as the cabin continued to burn. The heat was such that Immanuelle staggered back, the ash on the air so thick it nearly choked her.

But still, she didn’t retreat.

In her heart, she knew it made no difference—the cabin on fire, the flames of her own rage roaring from within. None of it would amount to anything more than cinders on the wind. But it felt good, so good, to burn and rage and lose herself to the flames. It was her own personal purging, and in that moment, it was the only comfort she had. She felt almost drunk with it, and perhaps Miriam had as well, all those years ago, when after Daniel Ward’s death she’d fled to the Darkwood and struck her deal with the witches. Maybe that devouring rage had mattered more to her than anything else . . . her soul, her daughter, her own life.

But even as Immanuelle’s anger boiled within her—even as her rage and guilt consumed her—she couldn’t imagine selling her family to the darkness the way that Miriam had sold her.

And therein lay the difference between them.

Immanuelle ran then, fleeing the forest and all of its evils, leaving the burning cabin behind her. Every time she closed her eyes—every time she blinked—she could see the words carved into the walls, the sigils that tied her to the curses . . . and she ran even harder.

After a long, brutal sprint through the thicket, she emerged from the woods and into the light of the setting sun. She brushed the leaves off her skirts and tried to collect herself, picking the twigs from her hair and wiping the last of her tears on her sleeve.

No one could know what she had found in the woods. Not if she wanted to live.

Upon returning from the Outskirts and reaching the Moore house, she found Martha outside, axe in hand, stooped over the chopping block. Without a word of greeting, the elder woman walked to the chicken coop, seized a hen by the throat, and forced it to the block. In one smooth shift of the shoulders, she cleaved its head from its neck. The hen’s body scrambled off the stump, wings snapping, claws scrabbling for purchase as it hit the ground.

The Moores usually killed chickens only on holy days, so this was a rare treat, but Immanuelle couldn’t muster any joy. The fear in her belly had been replaced by rage since her discovery of the cabin, but now it began to build again as she read the dark expression on Martha’s face.

Panic took hold of her: the blight, the girls. Sometimes—on the gravest of days—the Father demanded sacrifice, blood in exchange for a blessing. And perhaps, if they were desperate enough, if one or both of them had taken a turn for the worse . . .

“Honor and Glory—”

“Are fine,” said Martha, wiping a spatter of chicken blood off her cheek.

“Then what is the occasion?”

“We have company.” Martha lifted the feathered corpse from the dirt. “The Prophet’s here, and he’s asked to speak to you.”

Immanuelle’s heart seized. “Did he say why?”

Martha wiped her hands and the axe blade clean on the edge of her apron. “He says he’s come for confession. I hear they’ve been in the Outskirts since dawn—him and his heir—going house to house, letting the sick have their say in case the end comes. So they’re here for Honor and Glory.” She looked up at Immanuelle. “But I suppose, in his kindness, he wants to hear your confession too.”

Her heart began to race, her knees went soft, and she fought with everything she had to temper her mounting panic. Her fear wouldn’t save her now. Whatever the Prophet wanted, he’d come to collect. There was no running away, and she refused to cower in the face of what couldn’t be changed. Squaring her shoulders, she started toward the farmhouse.

“Wait,” said Martha.

Immanuelle paused, one hand on the door’s knob. “Yes?”

“Weeks ago, the night you came back from the forest, I was harsh with you. I hope you can forgive me.”

Immanuelle swallowed. Her palms were slick with sweat. “Of course.”

Martha offered her something almost like a smile. “You scared me when you went into the Darkwood that night. I thought we’d lost you—the way we did Miriam.”

“But she came back.”

“No, she didn’t. When she returned she brought the Darkwood back with her. That’s why I was so afraid when you returned . . . but I shouldn’t have allowed my fear to make me cruel. That was a sin, and I’m sorry.”

“You were only doing what you thought was right.”

“Which doesn’t mean much if I was wrong,” said Martha, and
she nodded toward the farmhouse. “Go now, confess your sins, as I have mine. The Prophet’s waiting.”

THE PROPHET SAT
at the head of the family table, filling Abram’s place. He had his hands clasped like he planned to pray, but when Immanuelle entered the room he smiled and gestured to Martha’s chair at the opposite end of the table. “I’m glad you’re home safely.”

Immanuelle sat down. “By His grace.”

Across the room, Ezra stood behind his father, shoulders squared, hands clasped at his back. Even though Immanuelle sat in his line of view, he barely registered her presence. And while she knew this was part of their oath—to put the past behind them for his sake and hers—it still hurt to see Ezra look at her like she was little more than a stranger.

The Prophet leaned back into his seat, and its spokes groaned as he shifted. Immanuelle could have sworn he looked a little anxious. His gaze flickered over her, searching as ever, but more tentative than it had been in weeks past, when he’d made no attempt to curb his stare. He nodded toward her knapsack. “What do you have in there?”

“Herbs,” she said, hoping the waver in her voice wouldn’t betray her. “For my sisters.”

“Your grandmother tells me you’re quite the nurse.”

“I do what I can.”

“As we all must,” he said.

Upstairs, Glory unleashed a shriek that echoed through the house. The Prophet’s smile dimmed at the sound. He turned to Immanuelle and started to speak again, when the back door creaked open and Martha entered with two bloodied chickens, Anna at her heels. They started on dinner, plucking the birds,
cutting the vegetables, trying to pretend they weren’t listening as they went about their work. A look of irritation flickered over the Prophet’s face. He cast his gaze toward the kitchen, raising his voice above the din of clattering pots and pans. “Might we have a moment alone?”

Anna stopped in the middle of peeling a carrot. Strips of orange rind drifted to the floor as she turned to face them. Martha put a hand on her shoulder, and the two of them curtsied and scurried from the room.

The Prophet tipped his head to his son. “You too.”

Ezra tensed, then nodded, stepping from behind his father’s chair. He brushed past Immanuelle without a glance in her direction and started for the stairs.

As Ezra’s footsteps faded to silence, the Prophet’s gaze returned to her. He studied her with sharp intent, as if he was trying to commit the details of her face to memory. His gaze was so keen she could almost feel it, like a cold finger tracing along her brow, the seam between her lips, then down her neck to the crook of her collarbones. She froze, afraid that the slightest flinch could betray her for what she was: the plague’s harbinger, heretic to the Church, a pawn to witches.

“You’re a shepherdess, are you not?”

She nodded. “I tend to my grandfather’s flock.”

The Prophet raised the cup of sheep’s milk—eyeing her above the rim as he drank—then he set it down and licked the froth off his upper lip. “You and I are alike in that. Both of us have our flocks to tend.”

“I daresay your calling is greater than mine.”

“I wouldn’t.” The Prophet’s gaze hung on her for a moment; then he coughed violently into the crook of his arm. It took him some time to catch his breath. “Do you know why I’ve come here today?”

“To hear my confession and tell me how to absolve my sins.”

“And do you think it’s that simple? Do you think sin can simply be wiped away with a few minutes’ penance and a sorry heart?”

“Not all sins, no.”

“What about the sin of witchcraft?” The Prophet’s voice was measured, but his eyes held a malice that almost made her shudder.

Immanuelle fought to keep her face expressionless. “The sin of witchcraft is punishable by pyre purging.”

“And have you ever engaged in such a sin?” the Prophet asked, gently, like he was trying to coax the truth from her. “Have you ever conjured spells or curses?”

Immanuelle stiffened. The image of the seals and sigils carved into the cabin walls flashed through her mind. If casting a curse was punishable by death, what was the punishment for being the curse’s harbinger? “Of course not.”

“Have you kept company with the denizens of the Darkwood, as your mother once did?”

Rage burned through her, but she pushed it down. “I’m not my mother. Sir.”

The Prophet stared down at his hands, and there was something odd in his eyes. Bitterness? Regret? She couldn’t parse it. “That’s not an answer, Ms. Moore.”

Immanuelle was terrified to lie, but she knew the truth would damn her. Besides, what were her deceptions compared to those of the Prophet and the Church? If she must lie, it would be for the sake of her life, and the same couldn’t be said for them. “I know nothing of the woods or the sins of my mother. I was raised to keep the faith.”

The Prophet started to respond, but another fit of coughing cut him short. He hacked into his sleeve for a long while, wheezing and gasping for air. When his fit finally ended, he lowered his
arm, and Immanuelle saw a small red stain in the crook of his elbow. “What of lechery?”

Immanuelle stiffened. “What?”

“Whoring, fornication, adultery, lust.” He counted the crimes on his fingers. “Surely you know your sins and Scriptures if you keep the faith, like you claim to.”

Immanuelle’s cheeks warmed. “I know those sins.”