“His words mean nothing,” said Esther bitterly. “Less than nothing. I don’t want to know about false hope and promises. I want to know how you intend to save my son. How will you set him free?”
Immanuelle had been careful, so careful, to keep every detail of her scheme a secret. She’d made no mention of her plans to carve the reversal sigil and dutifully played the part of the meek and broken bride-to-be. But with Esther standing there so desperate and afraid, her conscience provoked her to offer some small assurance, enough to let her know that Ezra wasn’t alone. “After I’m cut, I have plans to free him. But I’ll need your help to do it.”
Esther glanced over her shoulder toward the door. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “What do you need me to do?”
“Tell me where he is. I need to see him tonight, before his sentencing, so he’s ready when the time comes.”
“Ezra’s in the library with Leah’s daughter. The doors aren’t locked, but the halls are patrolled by two guards. I can distract them, buy you some time.”
“That’s all I need.”
* * *
IMMANUELLE WAITED UNTIL the echo of Esther’s footsteps faded to silence before she crept across her bedroom, drew a shawl around her shoulders, and slipped into the hall. She found it odd that there was no bolt on her door—given that only hours before she’d been chained to a cell wall in the catacombs—but then she remembered, she wasn’t a prisoner anymore. She was a prize lamb, a treasure, the Prophet’s newest bride-to-be.
Besides, he knew she wouldn’t run. She was bound to the Haven, bound to her promise—to the Prophet, to the flock, to Ezra. The time for fleeing was over. What was left to be finished would be finished in Bethel.
Immanuelle padded barefoot down the Haven’s main corridor, careful to keep to the shadows. When she passed the windows, the darkness rushed to meet her, threatening to break the glass and flood the corridors within. She tried to ignore it, but its call rang through her head like a bell’s toll, and she could feel its pull deep in her belly, reeling her into the night.
Halfway down the hall, she paused before a tall stained-glass window, staring into the darkness. “What do you want from me?”
At the sound of her voice, the dark moved like water, rippling and doubling, turning in on itself. Immanuelle raised her fingers to the window, the glass cold beneath her hand. The shadows rose to meet her, and in them she saw a startling reflection. The girl who stared back at her had her features—the same dark eyes and full lips, the firm nose and pinched chin—but every detail was exaggerated, every attribute refined. She was beautiful and keen, and there was a defiant strength in the way she stood, shoulders squared, chin tilted. And there was something in her gaze that made her . . . more. It was as if the girl in the darkness was everything Immanuelle had ever hoped to be.
She pressed her hand to Immanuelle’s, so there was nothing but glass between them. Immanuelle shifted closer to the window, and the girl in the dark beckoned, almost coyly, to the window’s latch. Immanuelle reached for it, and the girl pressed herself to the pane, drawing so close her lips brushed the glass.
Immanuelle pulled the iron handle and the window swung open. A blast of winter wind rushed into the hallway, snuffing the lamps and candles. Night poured through the open window and the corridor went dark.
There was the distant clamor of footsteps. A voice: “Who goes there?”
Turning her back on the darkness, Immanuelle ran—fleeing the guards and the hallway and the girl who haunted the black.
It didn’t take her long to find the old cathedral, where the library was housed. Padding across the cold stone floors, she ducked down the hall to make sure the doors were unguarded. The corridor was empty.
Relieved, Immanuelle started forward. She was halfway to the library doors when she heard footsteps. She turned and found a guard standing before her, a long blade hanging on his belt. And he was looking right at her.
“Easy,” he said. As he stepped into the torchlight, Immanuelle realized he was one of the men she’d journeyed back to Bethel with. The only guardsman who’d shown her any kindness. His gaze went back and forth between her and the library doors. Then, in a low, urgent whisper, he said: “Go.”
“Thank you,” she managed to stammer, more grateful for that act of mercy than he could possibly know. She turned to the library doors and slipped through them into the darkness.
“Ezra?” she whispered into the shadows. “Are you there?”
There was the scrape of iron on stone, shackles slithering across tile. “Immanuelle?”
She started toward the sound of his voice, weaving between the bookshelves, tripping over toppled stacks. “It’s me.”
And then he was there, and she was in his arms, and he in hers. They clung to each other in silence, Ezra’s hands shifting down her back, each of their bodies fitting into the contour of the other’s.
“Are you hurt?” Immanuelle said at last, murmuring the words into his shoulder.
“No,” he said, and she could tell he was lying. There was no light to see, but she gingerly lifted the corner of his shirt. She felt the bandages beneath, binding his stomach and chest. They were wet, and when she touched them he hissed.
She sucked in a breath. “Ezra.”
“All right,” he said, wheezing a little. “I might have had a brief encounter with a bullet or two, but I’m fine. What about you?”
“I’m all right.” In truth, she’d sustained a bad beating the first night of her contrition, and several lashings after it, but she wouldn’t trouble him with those things. Not now, not when he was so weak, so frail in her arms.
“Why are you here?”
He didn’t know, she realized. He couldn’t know, of course. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t heard her final confession.
“I was sentenced today,” she whispered. “I was sentenced, and the Prophet decided to free me.”
“How can that be? I haven’t even been sentenced yet myself.”
“Listen to me.” Immanuelle grabbed him by both hands. “About your sentencing, you have to tell them you’ve repented for your sin. Swear that you will.”
“I don’t understand.”
She heard the echo of footsteps in the distance and ducked instinctively, shifting behind a nearby bookshelf. “I made a deal with your father.”
“What kind of deal, Immanuelle?” Ezra’s voice was tight. “What have you done?”
“I agreed to take his hand in marriage, to save your life and mine,” she said, the words like bile on her tongue. “I’m going to be cut on the coming Sabbath.”
“No.” Ezra’s hands tightened painfully around hers, and in his voice was such revulsion—such rage—that Immanuelle flinched away from him.
“It was either the Prophet or the pyre,” said Immanuelle, rushing to explain. “He said he’d spare your life if I married him, and I agreed to it—to buy you time, to save you.”
“He lied,” said Ezra, in a tone so low, his words were barely audible. “That was the deal I made with him. He said if I pleaded guilty he would make sure you survived your sentencing, and he’d set you free.”
He’d lied to them both, she realized. His deal had never been about sacrifice—hers or Ezra’s. The Prophet claimed he was carrying out the Father’s will, but it was power that drove him. The power to purge, to punish, to control. It was all he cared about.
“Immanuelle, you can’t go through with this,” Ezra said urgently. “He’ll hurt you. He’ll break you, the way he does everyone.”
She closed her eyes, and when she did, she saw a glimpse of that fateful night when the Prophet turned on her mother, and her mother turned on him. “He’s not going to lay a finger on me, or on you or anyone else. We’ll find a way to stop him, to stop all of this, but I need you alive and well and by my side to do it.”
“
This is madness,” said Ezra. “Isn’t it enough just to save ourselves? You got past the gate once; we can do it again. We should run, tonight. I know a way out of the Haven, through the back passages. If you can free me from these chains, we can escape before anyone realizes we’re gone. We could make our own way.”
Immanuelle humored the idea. She imagined turning her back on Bethel and all of its troubles, running away with Ezra, making a new life for themselves beyond the gate. It was an appealing dream, but Immanuelle knew it was nothing more. Her fate was not that of a runaway.
“Saving ourselves isn’t enough,” said Immanuelle firmly. “There are other people in Bethel suffering as well, and they deserve better. We have to help them. All of them.”
Ezra didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he asked, “So you’re just going to trade yourself? Barter your bones to that tyrant?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. And then, after I’m cut, I’m going to end these plagues once and for all.”
“How?”
Immanuelle thought of the sigil, of the sacrifice she’d have to make to bring its power to fruition. “Better that you don’t know. That way, if you’re ever asked, you can claim ignorance.”
Ezra sighed and tilted his forehead against hers. Immanuelle was suddenly aware that this was as close as the two of them had ever been. But all she could think of, as they clung to each other in the darkened library, was how she wanted him even closer.
“I hate this,” said Ezra, his breath warm against her face. “I hate that I’m chained up here. That I can’t help you. That I’m going to be here in shackles while you’re cut by him, claimed by him.”
“What’s done is done,” Immanuelle whispered. “This time, let me help you. Let me fight for you.”
Ezra didn’t answer as he slipped his arms from around her. His fingers found her face, her cheek, then skimmed down to her jaw, the soft dip of her chin. He traced a fingertip along the line of her bottom lip, then angled closer. He pressed a kiss to her upper lip, then her lower one.
He said, “All right.”
PART IV
Slaughter
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I have seen the beasts of the wood. I have seen the spirits that lurk between the trees and swam with the demons of the deep water. I have watched the dead walk on human feet, kept company with the cursed and the crucified, the predators and their prey. I have known the night and I have called it my friend.
—MIRIAM MOORE
IMMANUELLE KNELT IN the middle of her bedroom, hands clasped, dressed in the pale silks of her cutting gown. She was supposed to be praying, but her thoughts were not with the Father. As she crouched there on the floor, the occurrences of the past few days flashed through her mind like the bright beginnings of a headache.
Ezra’s sham of a trial had come and gone, as had the sentencing that followed it. Like Immanuelle, he had been indicted on all counts, but she’d heard no word beyond that. She knew only that he was still alive and jailed somewhere below in the catacombs of the Haven. She could only hope they were treating him with more kindness than they had her. Not that it mattered for much longer.
In the days leading up to her cutting, she had traced and retraced the reversal sigil—in the soft crook of her inner elbow, on walls and tables, and into the pillows she slept on at night. And every time she made that mark—committing it to memory over and over again—she prepared herself for the sacrifice at hand. The sacrifice she would make the night of her cutting, when she was called to her husband’s bed. She felt there was some poetic justice in it all. That seventeen years after Miriam had taken up the Prophet’s holy dagger, Immanuelle would take up that very same blade and carve the sigil that would reverse the curses her mother had wrought all those years ago.
Tonight, in the wake of her cutting, she would act.
When the Prophet’s wives came to collect her, Immanuelle was ready. She walked barefoot through the corridors of the Prophet’s home and out to the wagon that awaited her in front of the Haven. She clambered onto the front bench—the other brides piling in behind her—and together they made the long, silent trip to the cathedral.
All the pyres were burning again. The fires had been fed with fresh timber, so the red flames now climbed high, lighting their way.
When they arrived at the cathedral, there were no crowds to greet them. No glowing lanterns. No music or merriment. No fanfare. In this eerie silence, Immanuelle stepped down from the wagon and onto the cold packed dirt of the front drive. She lingered at the threshold of the cathedral as the rest of the brides milled about behind her. Perhaps she ought to have prayed in that moment—to something, to anyone—but all she thought to do was conjure a curse:
Let those who have raised a hand to me reap the harm they sow. Let the shadows snuff their light. Let their sins defy them.
The cathedral door swung open before she had the chance to finish. She was greeted by dancing torchlight, the blurred faces of the congregation gazing at her, expectant. Among the crowd was the Moore family, Martha and Abram, Glory, and Anna, who held Honor cradled to her chest in a nest of shawls and blankets. There were dozens of Outskirters present also, occupying the pews at the back of the cathedral. Immanuelle could only assume they were there as a matter of diplomacy. This was, after all, the first time in Bethel’s age-old history that a prophet had wed one of their own. The ceremony was nothing short of historic, and it only made sense that they’d be there to witness it.
Immanuelle walked alone down the center aisle. She took the steps two at a time, the train of her gown trailing behind her, then climbed up onto the altar. The stone was cold and sticky, as though some servant had neglected to sop up the mess of the last Sabbath slaughter.
She stretched herself across the altar, arms spread wide. The Prophet loomed over her, dagger in hand. They exchanged their vows woodenly, Immanuelle muttering the words that would bind her to him—flesh and bone, soul and spirit—forever.
A sacrifice as real as any.
When the proceedings were finished, the Prophet took his dagger from around his neck, wrapping his hand around the hilt. As he lowered the blade to her forehead, Immanuelle didn’t flinch.
* * *
LATER, THE OTHER wives bandaged Immanuelle in a dark room at the back of the cathedral, tending her wounds with anointing oil that stung so badly tears sprang to her eyes. Blood slipped down her nose as Esther bound her brow with strips of gauze. Her head throbbed as if the Prophet had carved his mark into her skull, not her flesh.
She belonged to him now. She was his, and he was hers. A creed of flesh and blood, a bond she had never wanted.
When she was sufficiently cleaned up, Esther and Judith materialized by her side. Together they led her through the cathedral, past the threshold, and down the stairs to the feast where the Prophet—draped in all his holy robes and finery—sat waiting for her.
If Leah’s cutting had been a celebration, this seemed little more than a funeral feast. The guests sat stiffly at the tables, as if they’d been forced there at knifepoint. The Outskirters occupied tables of their own, stone-faced and silent, their unease almost palpable. There was no chatter, no laughter or song. In the distance, the pyres burned high, their flames licking the starless sky, keeping the darkness at bay.
Standing in the shadows at the cusp of the feast, flanked by guardsmen, was Vera. Her head had been shaved, as was Protocol for those in contrition, and she wore a pale garment that looked more like a slip than a proper dress, the fabric far too thin, given the night’s cold. She’d lost weight and looked weak, but when Immanuelle locked eyes with her, she squared her shoulders and gave a stern nod as if to say: It’s time.
The Prophet grasped Immanuelle’s knee as she sat beside him, his cold fingers pressing through the folds of her underskirts. “My bride.”
Immanuelle gripped the arm of he
r chair to keep herself from bolting. She shifted her gaze down to the table. Before her, a porcelain plate heaped with blackened vegetables, graying slabs of meat, and a small mug full of mead beside it. She raised the mug to her mouth. One sip for luck, then another for bravery. She’d need both in the coming hours.
Those who were seated at the table watched the Prophet and Immanuelle with what she could only describe as veiled disgust. Their discontent so palpable it hung on the air like a pall.
It was clear that they had expected an immediate end to the plague upon her cutting. But the dark was as thick as it ever was, and the night was unbroken. The seal carved between her brows had not been enough to draw back the plague, as the Prophet had promised it would be.
Halfway through the abysmal feast, the Prophet rose to speak, as if he knew he needed to seize control of his flock before he lost their trust forever. “Through forgiveness, through atonement, through purging and pain, we make ourselves clean. Today, my bride, my wife, Immanuelle Moore, has bled for her sins. She has suffered, and now she is clean.”
The flock raised their voices on command. “For the glory of the Father.”
The Prophet paused to cough into his sleeve. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly. “But my bride isn’t the only one in need of grace. Before this day is done, another will be atoned for and forgiven. Another sinner will be cleansed by the Father’s mercy.” He paused—eyes closed, mouth open—as if he was trying to gather the strength he needed to continue. “Bring me my son.”
The cathedral doors swung open and Immanuelle’s heart stopped, panic cleaving clean through her. She watched in horror as two apostles ushered Ezra past the cathedral threshold and down the stairs. He staggered, his boots trailing through the dirt as they dragged him to his father. Apostle Isaac forced him to his knees with a well-placed strike between the shoulders. He fell to the ground, his head hanging inches above his father’s feet.
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