In that moment—left with only an empty syringe and Estelle’s blood as reminders of what I’d done—I truly hated myself.
Witch killer.
I wept bitterly.
As if sensing my treachery, the sun didn’t rise properly the next morning. It remained dark and ominous, the entire world cloaked in a thick blanket of black and gray. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I watched from my bedroom window, eyes red-rimmed and glassy.
The Archbishop wasted no time in throwing open the church doors to shout Estelle’s sins to the heavens. He brought her out in chains and threw her to the ground at his feet. The crowd shouted obscenities, hurling bits of mud and rock at her. Frantically, she whipped her head back and forth in search of someone.
In search of me.
As if drawn to my gaze, her head snapped up, and pale blue eyes met my own. I didn’t need to hear the words to see the shape her lips formed—to see the venom that poured from her very soul.
Witch killer.
It was the ultimate dishonor.
Reid stood at the front of the crowd, his hair blowing wildly in the wind. A raised platform had been built overnight. The crude wooden stake atop it pierced the sky, spilling forth the first icy drops of rain.
To this stake, they tied my sister. She still wore her chorus costume—a simple white gown that brushed her ankles—though it was bloody and soiled from whatever horrors the Chasseurs had inflicted on her in the dungeon. Just last night, she’d been singing and dancing at Soleil et Lune. Now, she faced her death.
It was all my fault.
I’d been a coward, too afraid to face death myself to save Estelle. To save my people. Hundreds of witches—dead. I clamped a hand around my throat—right over my scar—and bit down on a sob.
Ansel shifted uncomfortably behind me. “It’s hard to see the first time,” he said in a strained voice. “You don’t have to watch.”
“Yes, I do.” My breathing hitched as he came to stand beside my tower of furniture. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, forming a pool on the sill. “This is my fault.”
“It’s a witch,” Ansel said softly.
“No one deserves to die like this.”
He startled at my vehemence. “Witches do.”
“Tell me, Ansel.” I turned toward him, suddenly urgent, desperate for him to understand. “Have you ever met a witch?”
“Of course not.”
“Yes, you have. They’re everywhere, all over the city. The woman who patched your coat last week might’ve been one, or the maid downstairs who blushes every time you look at her. Your own mother could’ve been one, and you never would’ve known.” Ansel shook his head, eyes widening. “They aren’t all evil, Ansel. Some are kind and caring and good.”
“No,” he insisted. “They’re wicked.”
“Aren’t we all? Isn’t that what your own god teaches?”
His face fell. “It’s different. They’re . . . unnatural.”
Unnatural. I dug my palms into my eyes to stem the tears. “You’re right.” I gestured below, where the crowd’s shouts escalated. A dun-haired woman at the back of the crowd sobbed. “Behold, the natural way of things.”
Ansel frowned as Reid handed the Archbishop a torch.
Estelle trembled. She kept her eyes trained on the sky as the Archbishop brought the torch down in a sweeping arc, igniting the bits of hay below her. The crowd roared its approval.
I remembered a knife coming down on my own throat. I felt the kiss of the blade on my skin.
I knew the terror in Estelle’s heart.
The fire spread quickly. Though tears clouded my vision, I forced myself to watch the flames lick up Estelle’s dress. I forced myself to hear her screams. Each one wracked my very soul, and soon I clutched the window ledge for support.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to die. I deserved to die—to writhe and burn in an endless lake of black fire.
I knew what I had to do.
Without thinking—without stopping to consider the consequences—I clenched my fists.
The world was on fire.
I screamed, toppling to the floor. Ansel scrambled toward me, but his hands couldn’t hold my thrashing body. I convulsed, biting my tongue to stop the shrieking as the fire ripped through me, as it blistered my skin and peeled muscle from bone. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. There was only agony.
Below, Estelle’s screams stopped abruptly. Her body relaxed into the flames, and a blissful smile crossed her face as she drifted peacefully into the afterlife.
Soul Ache
Lou
I woke with a cool cloth on my forehead. Blinking reluctantly, I allowed my eyes to acclimate to the semidarkness. Moonlight bathed the room in silver, illuminating a hunched figure in the chair beside my bed. Though the moon bleached his coppery hair, there was no mistaking him.
Reid.
His forehead rested against the edge of the mattress, not quite touching my hip. His fingers lay inches from my own. My heart contracted painfully. He must’ve been holding my hand before he’d fallen asleep.
I didn’t know how I felt about that.
Touching his hair tentatively, I fought the despair in my chest. He’d burned Estelle. No—I had burned Estelle. I’d known what he would do if I waited for him to wake in that alley. I’d known he would kill her.
That’s what I’d wanted.
I withdrew my hand, disgusted with myself. Disgusted with Reid. For just a moment, I’d forgotten why I was here. Who I was. Who he was.
A witch and a witch hunter bound in holy matrimony. There was only one way such a story could end—a stake and a match. I cursed myself for being so stupid—for allowing myself to get too close.
A hand touched my arm. I turned to find Reid staring at me. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and dark circles colored his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time.
“You’re awake,” he breathed.
“Yes.”
He sighed in relief and closed his eyes, squeezing my hand. “Thank God.”
After a second of hesitation, I returned the pressure. “What happened?”
“You collapsed.” He swallowed hard and opened his eyes. They were pained. “Ansel went running for Mademoiselle Perrot. He didn’t know what to do. He said—he said you were screaming. He couldn’t get you to stop. Mademoiselle Perrot couldn’t calm you either.” He stroked my palm absently, staring at it without truly seeing it.
“When I arrived, you were . . . sick. Really sick. You screamed when they touched you. You only stopped when I—” He cleared his throat and looked away, throat bobbing. “Then you—you went still. We thought you might be dead. But you weren’t.”
I stared at his hand in mine. “No, I’m not.”
“I’ve been feeding you ice chips, and maids have been changing the bedsheets hourly to keep you comfortable.”
At his words, I noticed the dampness of my nightgown and sheets. My skin, too, felt sticky with sweat. I must’ve looked like hell. “How long was I out?”
“Three days.”
I groaned and sat up, rubbing my clammy face. “Shit.”
“Has this ever happened before?” He searched my face as I threw off the blankets and shivered from the cold night air.