“You have other plans?” Ezra asked, and Immanuelle had the odd suspicion that there was something else, something more behind the question, though she couldn’t say exactly what.
“I’m going to the Darkwood.” The moment the truth was free of her, she wondered why she had offered it. She supposed a small, weak part of herself wanted to impress him . . . and she hated herself for it.
But to her surprise, Ezra seemed relatively unfazed by her confession. “I thought you were afraid of the woods.”
“I am. Anyone with the good sense they were born with would be,” said Immanuelle. And while this was true, she’d come to realize that fear wasn’t a reasonable excuse not to do what needed to be done. It was a strange notion, as Immanuelle had never been particularly brave. But in the days that followed the onset of the blood plague, she’d begun growing into her own kind of courage. And she liked the feel of it. “Some things have to be done whether they scare me or not.”
Ezra shifted closer, tipping his head toward hers, and she could tell he was struggling to read her, parse out the truth. “What does a girl like you need to do in the witches’ wood?”
She didn’t see the point in lying to him. “I want to stop the bleeding,” she said simply. “And I think I know how to do it.”
Immanuelle waited for his laughter, for his ridicule, but it didn’t come. “I’ll meet you by the well at daybreak.”
It was her turn to be shocked. “You can’t come with me.”
“I can and will,” said Ezra, as if the matter had been discussed and decided already. “There’s no way I’m letting you go into the Darkwood alone.”
“But it’s dangerous for men to walk the woods,” said Immanuelle, remembering the stories Martha had told her as a child, to warn her of the forest and its evils. She had often claimed that during the Dark Days, men who dared to enter the forest frequently returned rabid, bewitched into madness by the woodland coven.
Ezra waved her off. “That’s superstition.”
Immanuelle had once thought the same, but that was before she witnessed the witches of the woods. Now she knew the dangers of the Darkwood were real, and while she was willing to risk her own life to stop the plague she’d started, she wouldn’t risk Ezra’s too. “It’s too dangerous. Believe me. Especially since you’re a holy man, the wood is hostile toward the likes of you.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s a lie pagans devised in the ancient times to keep Bethelan soldiers from crossing their borders.”
“That’s not true. Just because you haven’t seen the horrors of the Darkwood firsthand doesn’t mean they’re not real. The forest is dangerous, and if you want to live, you should stay well clear of it.”
Ezra opened his mouth to respond when the horse gave a loud shriek. The cart listed so far to the right that Immanuelle would have tumbled off headfirst if Ezra hadn’t caught her by the waist.
Ahead of the horse, in the center of the road, was a hound. It was a hulking, mangy creature, and it was growling, its eyes reflecting the light of the cart’s swinging lanterns. It snapped at the horse’s hooves, its mouth blood-slick and frothing.
Ezra passed the reins to Immanuelle. “Hold these and stay here.”
“But your hand—”
“I’m fine.” He twisted to the back of the cart, where, from a heap of hay, he produced a long rifle.
“You’re not going to—”
“It’s rabid,” he said as he hopped from the cart. Gun raised, he stalked toward the hound. It snarled at his approach, pressing itself low to the ground.
The horse bucked, and Immanuelle yanked the reins so hard her palms chafed.
Ezra raised the rifle to his shoulder.
The hound lunged.
The crack of the bullet breaking from the barrel split the darkness. The hound staggered, tripping over its own paws, and fell dead to the dust.
Bile rose in Immanuelle’s throat, and she choked back the sick as Ezra returned to his seat, tilting the rifle against the bench. He took the reins from her shaking hands and snapped them twice, urging the horse past the hound’s bleeding corpse. Neither he nor Immanuelle said a word.
After a few more minutes, the cart rounded a bend and started down the long, jagged road that led to the Moore land. The light of the farmhouse appeared in the distance, glowing through the rolling waves of wheatgrass.
As they neared, Ezra said, “In the morning, then? At daybreak?”
Immanuelle muttered something less than holy under her breath, but conceded, knowing it was futile to argue. “Yes, and bring that rifle of yours. You may well need it.”
He snapped the reins, looking a little smug. “I’ll meet you by the well.”
Immanuelle nodded. Then something occurred to her. “Why did the Prophet want those names?”
“What?”
“In the Haven, your father asked you to compile all the names of the women and girls in Bethel. Why?”
Ezra’s answer was halting. “It’s said that a curse can only come from the mouth of a woman. From the mouth of a witch.”
A curse. There it was, then. The truth out in the open. “That’s what he thinks this is?”
“Well, it’s certainly not a blessing,” said Ezra. “What else could you call it?”
Immanuelle thought back to the cathedral, to the stained-glass window that depicted the Mother’s legions being burned and slain. She thought of the muzzled girl, chained to the market stocks. She thought of jeering crowds and flaming pyres. She thought of Leah lying prone on the altar, blood pooling in the hollows of her ears, a blade at her brow. She thought of young girls married off to men old enough to be their grandfathers. She thought of starved beggars from the Outskirts squatting by the roadside with their coin cups. She thought of the Prophet’s gaze and the way it moved over her, lingering where it shouldn’t.
Immanuelle answered Ezra’s question in a hoarse whisper: “A punishment.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the forest is hungry, feed it.
—FROM THE UNHOLY FOUR: A COMPENDIUM
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Immanuelle woke before sunrise and went to Abram’s empty workshop to fetch supplies. She sorted through the tools before making her selections: a thick coil of rope long enough to run the length of the farmhouse with slack to spare, a clean roll of gauze, and Abram’s sharpest whittling knife. The rope was heavy enough to throw her off balance, but Immanuelle managed to sling it over her shoulder as she crossed through the fallow fields to the gated paddock where the sheep spent their nights. Hurriedly, she let them out to pasture, where they would remain under the watchful eye of the farmhand, Josiah, while she was away in the woods.
With the flock attended to, Immanuelle started toward the well on the eastern edge of the pastures, where she waited for Ezra to arrive. To pass the time, she flipped through the pages of her mother’s journal, revisiting the sketches of the witches in preparation for what she was about to do. If all went according to plan, she would locate the pond, go into the water, and make her sacrifice, and by the time she emerged from the Darkwood again, the blood plague would be over. She just prayed that the daylight was enough to keep Lilith’s coven at bay.
Several yards off, cresting a hill and crossing into the pasture, came Ezra. He wore work clothes and his hand was freshly bandaged with a few strips of clean white gauze. On a leather strap slung over his shoulder, his rifle.
Immanuelle frowned, peering up at the sun. It had already risen above the horizon. “You’re late.”
The sheep scattered as Ezra moved through the flock. He stopped just short of her. Up close he looked rather tired, perhaps from a night spent sorting through the census. “And you’re reading forbidden literature.”
Immanuelle snapped the journal shut and hastily shoved it into her knapsack. “How do you know it’s forbidden?”
; “You look guilty. No one looks guilty reading a book Protocol allows.” He nodded toward the coil of rope by her side. “What’s that for?”
“Fishing,” she said, brushing the dirt off her skirts as she stood. “Shall we?”
Ezra started forward first, wading through the waves of high grass to the forest’s edge. She followed him into the brush, hating herself for the way her heart eased the moment the trees closed in around her. The woods were as beautiful as she’d ever seen them. Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the narrow path that wended through the forest thicket.
Never had the woods seemed so gentle and alive. In comparison to Bethel—where everything was withered and dying—it was a stark juxtaposition. There, in the Darkwood, it almost seemed like the blood plague was some vague and distant nightmare. If not for the glimpses of the red river threading through the trees, or the blood-filled ruts in the path, Immanuelle might have believed the blood plague had been contained to Bethel alone.
But the truth was even more startling. Unlike Bethel, which had been ravaged by the horrors of the plague, the forest was thriving off it. As if the woods were glutted with blood. The trees bloomed out of season, their branches lush with new growth. The bramble thicket was so dense it encroached on the path, making it hard to follow at times. It almost seemed like the forest was expanding, growing past its designated limits.
Was that what this blood plague was all about? Was it some ploy of the witches to take dominion over Bethel? Was Lilith trying to claim what had been lost to her all those years ago?
Ezra glanced back at Immanuelle. “For someone who claims to fear the Darkwood, you certainly seem at ease.”
He was right, at least in part. There was something about the Darkwood that made her feel as though she became more like herself when she entered it, and when she left it, less. But perhaps that was just the trickery of the witches. “You seem rather tense for someone who doesn’t.”
“If you’re ready for the worst, then you won’t have anything to fear in the first place.”
“Is that what you expect to find out here?” Immanuelle asked, ducking beneath the bough of an oak. She felt a little pang of guilt for all the secrets she’d been keeping from him. “The worst?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I may not believe in witches and folktales, but I know enough to realize few good things come from the Darkwood.”
The words stung, and it took her a moment to realize why: She was from the Darkwood, at least partially. It was the place where she’d grown in her mother’s belly, her first home, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
Ezra turned to look at her. “You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know,” she said, stepping closer, halving what little distance there was between them. “I guess I’m inclined to think good things can come from unexpected places.”
Ezra reached above his head, grasping a branch with his good hand, leaning on it a bit. They were close to each other, too close to be considered proper by Bethelan Protocol. But they weren’t in Bethel anymore, and the Darkwood was lawless.
It was Ezra who broke the silence, a ragged edge to his voice. “You’re a bit of a puzzle, you know that?”
Immanuelle tilted her chin to peer up at him in full. Ezra’s lips were parted, and the sunlight played over his face, painting shadows along his cheeks and jaw. Though there was barely a finger’s length between them, all Immanuelle wanted to do was step closer. But she didn’t dare let herself go. She couldn’t. “So I’ve been told.”
They walked in silence for a time after that. Immanuelle was all too conscious of the sudden quiet, and the careful distance between them. It seemed like hours had passed when Ezra finally stopped and motioned to a break in the trees. “We’re here.”
Immanuelle stepped in front of him. Sure enough, they were. There was the pond, a wide, bloody wound in the middle of the forest. The trees that encircled it were much taller than Immanuelle remembered, and their roots reached into the pond’s depths, submerged in blood, glutting themselves on it. The sweet stench of decay was so cloying and thick, Immanuelle almost gagged at the smell of it.
She turned back to Ezra, slipped the coil of rope off her shoulder, and lowered her knapsack to the dirt. “Close your eyes and turn around.”
“What are you—”
Immanuelle lifted the hem of her skirt up to her knees and looked at him over her shoulder. The forest’s song turned taunting. It was in the quick rhythm of her heartbeat, in the hiss of the wind, in the dull thud of Ezra’s boots on the dirt as he stepped a little closer.
“Eyes closed,” she reminded him.
This time, Ezra obeyed, closing his eyes and tipping his face to the treetops. “Why do I feel like whatever you’re up to is a bad, creed-breaking idea?”
“I don’t know.” She paused to kick off her boots. “Maybe because you’re a bad, creed-breaking heir who has a taste for such ideas.”
She wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “You think I’m a bad heir?”
“I think you’re a devious one.” She wiggled out of her dress, the fabric pooling at her ankles. She folded it quickly and retrieved the rope, knotting it around her waist. When it was secure, she walked to Ezra and slipped the slack into his good hand. “Hold this and don’t let go.”
Ezra turned to face her fully, and his eyes flashed as he traced the rope from his hand to her waist. Immanuelle’s slip suddenly felt as thin as mist in the morning. “I told you to close your eyes.”
Ezra’s gaze went from her to the water, then back again. She could have sworn he looked almost . . . flustered. “You’re not going to—”
“I have to. The blood plague won’t end if I don’t.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Ezra, shaking his head. He’d humored her antics thus far, but it was clear his patience was long spent. “If you’re hell-bent on someone going into that pond, let it be me. You hold the rope.”
Immanuelle shook her head. “It has to be me.”
“Why?” he demanded, exasperated. Angry, even. “What does this pond have to do with ending the blood plague? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t have time to explain it to you, and even if I did I’m not sure you’d believe me. But that doesn’t matter now. You’re here because you chose to be, so you can either help me or you can leave. I just ask that whatever you choose to do, you do it quickly and with discretion. I’ve kept your secrets, so you keep mine.”
Ezra clenched his jaw, conflicted. “This is a fool’s errand.”
“Just keep hold of the rope,” she said, stooping to take Abram’s knife from her knapsack. “If you do that, then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But the water’s tainted.”
“Well, I’m not going to drink it, am I? I’ll make like a fish and swim. You’ve got the rope. If anything goes wrong—I’m under too long or I start to struggle—haul me back. No harm done.”
Ezra’s hand tightened around the slack. “Fine. But the instant that something goes wrong—you so much as splash too hard—and I’m reeling you back to shore.”
“Fair enough.”
Knife in hand, Immanuelle started down the shore. The cold, blood-black mud oozed between her toes and sucked at her feet, the brine making her blisters sting. Swallowing back a wave of nausea, she trudged in up to her ankles, her knees, her waist, cringing as the cold, bloody sludge lapped at her belly and seeped through her slip. Pausing to steel herself, she walked on, wading through the gore. When her bottom lip was barely above the water, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered her prayer to the Darkwood.
“I’ll not tell you my name, because you know it already. I’ve heard you call me before.” She paused a beat, pushing up on her tiptoes, straining to keep her head above the surface. “I’m here on behalf of Bethel, to beg . . . no, to
plead for an end to the plagues that were spawned here weeks ago. Accept this sacrifice. Please.”
And with that, she raised the knife to her forearm and made a deep cut.
As her blood mixed with that of the pond, a great wind moved through the forest, so strong it bent the pine saplings double. Wide ripples radiated from the center of the pond, as though someone had dropped a boulder in its depths. Waves broke against the shore of the pond in quick succession, and Immanuelle had to root her feet in the muck to keep from being swept away.
Ezra gave the rope two sharp tugs, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He yanked on the rope again, harder this time, shouted her name above the roaring wind. But before Immanuelle had the chance to answer him, a cold hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her under.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The woman is a cunning creature. Made in the likeness of her Mother, she is at once the creator and the destroyer. She is kind until she is cruel, meek until she is merciless.
—FROM THE EARLY WRITINGS OF DAVID FORD
THE WITCH OF the Water floated in the shadow of the deep. She darted around Immanuelle, swift as a minnow, as she flailed and struggled, trying not to drown. The witch cocked her head to the side, ebbed closer, so they were nearly nose to nose. Her expression twisted into a frown, lips ripped apart, and when she wailed, the blood began to bubble, and great black shapes rose from the shadows of the deep.
Immanuelle thrashed, so startled she nearly snatched a breath and choked. The shapes were figures, women and girls. Some were Honor’s age, some even younger. As they drew closer, Immanuelle could see they were all gravely wounded in one way or another, little more than corpses caught in the current’s grasp. One woman’s throat was gashed open. Another wore a noose around her neck. A third’s face was so bruised and swollen she barely looked human. A fourth cradled her severed head to her chest the way you would a baby. More and more souls rose from the shadows of the deep until the dead were near legion.
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