From the black came a bellow, like a cathedral bell was tolling in the deep. At the sound, the corpses stirred to life and floated back into the darkness.
Then, from the murk and shadow, a new face appeared.
The Prophet?
No. Not him.
This was a face Immanuelle recognized from the statue in the market square, from the portraits that hung from the walls of the Prophet’s Cathedral and Haven.
He was the first prophet. The Witch Killer, David Ford.
Ford’s lips stretched into a ghastly grin, his mouth yawning wide like he meant to swallow her whole. He took a deep breath, and a lone cry echoed through the pond.
And then, from the black, there was fire.
The flames stormed through the water and devoured the women. Their cries became a chorus, mixing with the deep, roaring laughter of David Ford. The women wept and thrashed, some pleading for their mothers, others for mercy. But the flames didn’t relent.
Immanuelle strained forward, reaching for their hands, desperate to help them, but the rope around her jerked, the knot biting into her belly. She fought it, clawing forward, toward the women and girls, as the fire raged.
Another yank on the line knocked the wind right out of her. She gasped, and blood rushed in to fill her mouth. In the black depths of the pond, she could still hear Delilah screaming.
* * *
IMMANUELLE DIDN’T REMEMBER breaking the surface of the water or being pulled to the pond’s bank. One moment she was in the bloody depths; the next she was lying on her back, staring at the treetops. She sat up—rolling to her knees—and vomited. Blood and bile spattered the shore. It wasn’t until the second wave of sick subsided that she raised her head and squinted through the twilight shadows. She could swear it had been just past midday when Delilah dragged her under. How long had she floated in the depths?
The pond’s conjurings flooded back to her: the figures, the pleas and shrieking, the fire. Those women and girls weren’t all witches—some were too young to practice any faith at all. They were victims, innocents slaughtered by the likes of David Ford under the guise of a holy purging. He’d killed them in cold blood. The Holy Scriptures had always made those conflicts seem like battles and wars, but in actuality, it was just a massacre.
It was a horrible truth, but one Immanuelle was forced to push to the back of her mind. She needed to focus on the curses and the witches and getting back to Bethel and . . . Ezra.
Ezra.
She raised her head to look for him, knees buckling beneath her as she pushed to her feet. But he wasn’t by the bank where she’d last seen him. And the rope around her waist was slack.
Immanuelle staggered forward, calling for him, but he didn’t answer.
Then, as she scrambled up the bank, she spotted him lying in the reeds. She ran to him, stumbling up the shore, and fell to his side. Ezra lay limp, with his eyes wide open, his pupils swollen so large they nearly devoured his irises. His nose and mouth were smeared with blood, but she couldn’t tell if it was the pond’s or his. The gash on his bad hand was bleeding freely, the bandages ripped and the stitches split open by the friction of the rope, which he still had hold of in a vise grip. And his limbs . . . they were pinned to the forest floor, bound by a tangle of thorns and tree roots.
A few feet from where he lay was his rifle, lying useless in the reeds, the metal barrel twisted into a knot, as if it was nothing more than a bit of wire.
Immanuelle struggled to pry the growths away—bloodying her hands as she tore at the brambles—but the forest’s grip on Ezra held fast, and try as she might she couldn’t free him. Desperate, she raised Abram’s knife and began to hack at the tangle of thorns and tree roots, painstakingly cutting his arms free.
Ezra reached for her, his hand hovering in the air between them. He stared up at her with a kind of dazed awe, but his eyes were vacant and completely unfocused, as if he was seeing something more than just her. But the longer he stared at her, the more his expression changed—awe turning to confusion, confusion to dread, and dread to outright horror.
Something shifted in the woods.
The air went cold. The pond began to gurgle, small waves lapping against its gory shores. Overhead, a bank of dark clouds churned, and storm winds hissed through the treetops. A few crows winged to the sky, fleeing east, and the wind began to roar, blasting through the trees so hard it bent them double.
Immanuelle kept hacking at the vines with Abram’s knife, working as fast as she could. She bloodied her own hands ripping at the brambles around his ankles. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to free you. Just hold on a little longer; you’re almost . . . Ezra?”
He stared back at her like she was a stranger . . . no, worse than a stranger, an enemy. He stopped struggling against the vines and branches that bound him to the forest’s floor and started to fight against her, lashing out and yelling, demanding that she stay away.
But Immanuelle refused to relent. She kept hacking at the branches, working to free him from the Darkwood’s hold, even as he thrashed and struggled as though her touch was burning him. And when Immanuelle cut the last of the roots that pinned his legs to the ground, Ezra lashed out, locking a hand around her throat so quickly she didn’t have the chance to scream.
His fingers—slick with gore and blood—bit deep into the hollows on either side of her throat, sealing it shut. Immanuelle tried to pry his fingers away, clawing at his hands, his arms, his shirt. But to no avail. Ezra’s grip was unrelenting, and his hold on her only tightened. Her hearing went first, and her sight began to go after it, the black edging in from her periphery. She realized then that she was about to die, there in the woods, at the hands of a boy she would’ve called her friend.
In a last act of desperation, Immanuelle raised Abram’s knife, forced it to Ezra’s chest, and the tip of the blade bit into the hollow between his collarbones. For a moment they sat there, frozen in place—Ezra with a hand around Immanuelle’s throat and Immanuelle with a blade to his.
Just as she began to lose consciousness, Ezra’s eyes came into focus. There was a flash of recognition, then horror after it.
He let go.
Immanuelle kicked away from him, gasping for air, and raised the blade between them, ready to use it should he reach for her again.
But before Ezra had the chance to do anything more than mumble her name, his limbs twisted in a series of convulsions. He thrashed, his head snapping on its axis, back arched so severely Immanuelle feared his spine would snap in two. But somehow, despite the throes of those horrible seizures, Ezra was . . . speaking, spitting prayers and catechisms, psalms and proverbs, and strange Scriptures that Immanuelle had never heard before. It was then, and only then, that she realized what she was witnessing—a vision, Ezra’s first.
Storm winds swept through the forest. Pines bowed low and the treetops churned. Immanuelle weighed her options as she fumbled into her dress. Her first thought was a selfish one: avoid the risk of a second attack and leave Ezra there in the woodland. Let him find his own way out. But as she stood to leave, her own guilt got the better of her. She turned back to Ezra, who lay motionless in the dirt, the worst of his vision now over.
Either they left the forest together, or not at all.
So she sat Ezra up, ducked under his arm, and stood, with no small amount of struggle, gritting her teeth as she pushed both of them to their feet and staggered toward the trees. Immanuelle tried to cry for help above the roaring winds, praying that some hunter or field hand would heed them, but her calls for help were lost to the tumult of the storm. Still, she pressed on, fighting for every step, lungs burning with the effort.
The Darkwood’s edge seemed to retreat three steps farther for every two she took, so Immanuelle moved faster, even as the shadows rose around her like water. In the distance, she could just make out the bright line of the wood’s
edge, where sunlight spilled through the trees. But as strange and twisted as it was—despite her terror and her desperation, despite Ezra’s dire state—there was still some wretched part of her that desperately wanted to stay.
But Immanuelle would not be so easily tempted.
Not now when Ezra’s fate depended upon what she did next.
She forced herself onward, fighting for every step toward the sunlight. And then, with a final lunge, she cleared the woods and broke to her knees at the cusp of the tree line. Ezra went down with her, and they struck the dirt together with a bruising thud.
Immanuelle scrambled onto her hands and knees, rolling Ezra onto his back, pushing the hair from his eyes. She pressed a hand to his chest, but she couldn’t feel his heartbeat.
Across the distant pastures, the farmhand, Josiah, broke toward them in a full run, scattering the flock as he approached. Immanuelle cradled Ezra’s head between her hands, brushed the dirt from his cheeks, pleaded with him to come back to her.
But he didn’t answer. He didn’t stir.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Father will pour His spirit into the flesh of His servant; and the flock will call him Prophet, for he will see the wonders of the heavens and speak in the tongues of angels. The secrets of earth and blood will be revealed to him and he will know his Father’s voice.
—THE HOLY SCRIPTURES
IT WAS NINE days before Immanuelle heard any news of Ezra. After Josiah rode to Amas for aid, he’d returned with what seemed like half of the Prophet’s Guard on horseback. Immanuelle was still in the pasture with Ezra, his head cradled in her lap, Anna on her knees beside them, dabbing his brow with a bit of damp cloth in a vain attempt to ease the torment of his vision. Glory stood weeping a few yards away, waves of dead, high grass swaying at her waist. In the distance, the Prophet’s Guard spilled down the rolling hills of the pasture.
The rest happened very quickly. At least, it seemed that way to Immanuelle.
One moment, Ezra’s head was cradled in her lap, his hand grasping hers as he struggled through his second seizure. The next, he was gone, snatched away by some faceless members of the Prophet’s Guard. A few of the guardsmen had stayed back to interrogate Immanuelle, there in the pasture. In turn, she’d supplied them with a few lies and half-truths. Just enough to lay their suspicions to rest without incriminating herself or revealing the true horror of what had really happened in the Darkwood that day.
Immanuelle could only hope that if Ezra woke—no, when Ezra woke, he wouldn’t expose her lies. But she wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. Not after all that he’d endured in the Darkwood.
When news of Ezra’s condition finally arrived, it came in the form of a holy edict hand delivered by one of the Prophet’s personal couriers. While the letter was addressed to Abram, he gave Immanuelle the honor of breaking the seal and reading the edict within. Her hands shook violently as she tore the wax seal in two. The letter read as follows:
With the utmost joy, we share the news that Ezra Chambers received his First Vision. After eight days of dwelling with the Father through the Gift of Sight, he has regained consciousness and is now recovering in the Haven, in preparation for the coming Sabbath. Long live Ezra Chambers, heir to the Holy Prophethood, and may the Father bless his predecessor, Grant Chambers, in his final days.
In light alone,
The Holy Assembly of the Prophet’s Apostles
* * *
THERE WAS A gutting on the following Sabbath to commemorate Ezra’s First Vision. The Moores woke early, dressing in their best, taking care to iron the creases out of their skirts and polish their shoes in honor of the special occasion. They left at daybreak and arrived before the sun cleared the treetops.
The cathedral was as crowded as Immanuelle had ever seen it. A few paces from the churchyard, the river ran freely. Most of the gore on the rocks had been washed away and the water had cleared to a rusty hue. The taint of the blood plague was finally over. Many declared it a miracle—Ezra’s first.
Immanuelle scanned the crowds in the churchyard, searching for Leah. But she noted her friend was not among the Prophet’s brides who stood grimly at the cathedral’s threshold, all of them dressed in identical gowns of black. A few held damp handkerchiefs to their swollen eyes, openly grieving what they stood to lose—a husband, a father, a leader. The Prophet wouldn’t be long for this world now that Ezra had risen to power. If the rumors of his sickness were to be believed, he wouldn’t live to see the New Year.
At the sound of the bell’s toll, Immanuelle crossed the churchyard and trudged up the cathedral stairs. She shuffled into a pew that stood just a few feet from the altar.
It was hot with everyone crowded into the benches, standing shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and burning incense.
The doors of the cathedral slammed shut. The apostles moved along the walls, shuttering the windows as they went. The Prophet came after them, dressed in formal robes, his bare feet shuffling across the floor. He had a pronounced limp and it seemed like he struggled more and more with each step. Several times he had to catch himself on the back of a pew to keep from falling. As he staggered closer, Immanuelle could hear his labored breathing, a deep wheeze that rattled in the pits of his lungs. It was clear that whatever illness plagued him—be it gout or fever or some unnamed affliction—was rapidly getting worse.
Ezra entered after his father, slowing his steps to keep from passing him by. They stepped up to the altar together and stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the flock. There was a smattering of applause, but the Prophet ordered silence with a raised hand.
The cathedral doors swung open again. The sound of hooves on stone echoed through the cathedral as Apostle Isaac brought forth the sacrifice. It was a small calf, the buds of its horns piercing through its hide, its wide eyes brown and doe-like.
Honor grabbed a fistful of Immanuelle’s skirts. She had never taken to the slaughters well.
“It’s all right,” Immanuelle whispered, running her fingers through her hair.
Apostle Isaac hauled the calf up onto the altar. It slipped a little on the stained stone stairs, hooves sliding out from underneath it, legs skewing as it found its footing. Isaac eased a hand down its side, collecting its legs so that it was forced to lie with its stomach pressed to the cold slate of the altar. The calf obeyed without a struggle, too young and too dense to catch the scent of death on the air.
The Prophet moved forward with Ezra at his side, his bare feet rasping across the floor. He raised the blade high above his head. “To Ezra.”
The flock answered as one. “Long may he reign!”
* * *
A FEW HOURS after the Sabbath service and slaughter, Immanuelle left her family and took the bride’s carriage back to the Haven with Leah. All eyes were on Immanuelle as she entered the gallery. Despite her initial fears, Ezra, Father bless him, had not betrayed her to the Church. Quite the opposite, in fact. Whatever lie he’d constructed to explain their presence in the Darkwood that day had cast her as the hero. And now it seemed that everyone wanted to know the story of the hapless shepherd girl who saved the Prophet’s successor from the clutches of the Darkwood. But Immanuelle was tired of stories and lies. And she did all that she could to avoid wandering gazes as she settled into her place at the feasting table and picked through her food. She tried to keep up with the conversation at hand, but when the discussion turned to the laborious endeavors of childbirth, her attention waned and her gaze roamed about the room.
The gallery was immaculate. The tables were decorated with wreaths of roses, freshly cut and harvested from the Prophet’s own conservatory. Candlesticks as tall as Abram stood at intervals along the walls, their light warming the faces of the guests, who sat chatting over heaping plates of roast and potato. With the blood plague now ended and the rations order revoked, wine and water flowed in ab
undance.
At the front of the gallery stood a long oak table where the Prophet was seated. To his left sat Esther in a gown of pale lilac, and to his right, Ezra, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.
The Prophet leaned forward in his seat, carving a bit of meat from the roasted goat on the platter in front of him. As he worked his blade between the bones, his gaze moved across the congregation and found its way to Immanuelle. Their eyes locked, and the Prophet set his knife down and, with some effort, raised his goblet to toast her, a motion that a few of his guests mirrored.
All Immanuelle managed in response to the gesture was a curt nod. She fixed her eyes on her plate, trying to swallow down the sickness that boiled at the back of her throat whenever the Prophet’s gaze landed upon her.
And lately, that had been often.
Leah put a hand to her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” said Immanuelle, tracing her fork through a puddle of gravy. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you look pale and frightened, as though you’ve seen the face of the Dark Mother herself. Are you sick?” Leah demanded.
“No.”
“Tired, then?”
Immanuelle nodded. Of course she was. She was exhausted and annoyed, tired of telling the same stories again and again, answering the same questions, and entertaining the same people who, under typical circumstances, wouldn’t want anything to do with her. She wanted nothing more than to go home and retreat to her bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so terribly out of place.
Typically, Immanuelle would have never attended such an esteemed celebration in the first place, but on account of the fact that it was she who had “rescued” Ezra, the Prophet had offered her a formal invitation to the celebratory feast. She should have been excited, but all she could summon in response to the invitation was a deep and ugly dread. She’d never been good with social events, and they were always harder to endure without her family by her side. She’d tried every excuse she could think of to avoid the occasion, but Martha had held firm, forcing her to accept the invitation lest she insult the Church. So, there she sat. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself today.”
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