Munroe’s cheeks burned. “And me, too. I’ll be a leader, too.”
Mrs. Ranulf tilted her head. “Women are meant to support the men. You know that. Without order, we are nothing.”
Silence descended on the room.
“Well, I hope everyone slept well.” She cleared her throat, and the frost in her voice did nothing to assuage Tobias’s unease. “There was a bit of an incident last night.” She ran her tongue over her teeth.
Fiona choked on her cereal, coughing into her hand. Munroe still glared at her mother, whose face began to soften as she smiled faintly.
“Munroe’s aunt Stella is not well. She was found wandering the grounds in the middle of the night. She gets into the strangest places sometimes.” A half-strangled laugh escaped her throat. Her eyes lingered on Mariana, whose black eye makeup included tiny star designs today. “I don’t suppose any of you were out last night, were you? Wandering around past your bedtime? The guards didn’t see anyone but the—” She cleared her throat again. “Munroe’s aunt was ranting this morning about seeing someone.”
Tobias tried to catch Fiona’s eye. Is that who’s locked in their crypt? An insane aunt?
“Mariana, you were friends with the Mather Witch, weren’t you?” asked Mrs. Ranulf.
“Celia? A few of us were. I mean, we all knew her. Or thought we knew her.”
“It must have been a great surprise, finding out she was a terrorist.” Her cheeks had whitened.
“I’m sure we were all inside last night,” said Connor after a while.
Mrs. Ranulf’s lips twitched into a half-smile, and her knuckles whitened as she crushed her napkin in her fist. “Well, I’m sure you’ll all tell me if you see anything amiss.”
“Of course, Mrs. Ranulf.” Sadie’s freckled face was all sincerity.
“If you work with us, and let us shepherd you, the world can be yours. Let me show you something.” Mrs. Ranulf leaned back in her chair, pressing both hands on the table. “Harrison!” she yelled. “Harrison!”
Within seconds, the blond assistant rushed into the room, struggling to hold a wiggling toddler. His shirt rode up over a protruding belly as the woman tried to grip him. “Nnnnnnyyuhhh!” He kicked out his legs, dropping onto the floor before the assistant picked him up again in a flurry of small feet and fists. A tiny sneaker flew across the room, hitting a wall.
Mrs. Ranulf looked out at the table. “Harrison. Show our guests how you’ve memorized the names of all the presidents.”
“Ugh, not this.” Munroe stared at the ceiling.
Harrison kicked at the assistant. “No no no no!”
“Harrison!” Mrs. Ranulf glared at him. “You won’t get your gold star for the day if you don’t follow the rules.”
Harrison stopped struggling, pouting as he scowled at his mother.
“Washington…” Mrs. Ranulf arched an eyebrow, waiting.
“Washew,” he mumbled.
“A-dams.” Mrs. Ranulf’s head dipped and rose in an exaggerated nod.
Harrison pinched his fingers as he spoke, twisting from side to side. “Ada.”
“Jeff-er-son.”
“Jehson.”
Victorious, Mrs. Ranulf beamed at the students and began to clap. A few students joined in with cheerless applause. Harrison resumed kicking as he was ferried out of the room, and Munroe folded her arms.
“You see,” her mother said. “Those who follow in a path of purity are given many great gifts. We can be leaders.” She looked at Mariana again. “But you must be honest with us. So if any of you know of someone—”
Tobias straightened. For a moment, he considered giving them Jack’s name. If anyone could handle him, it would be the Purgators. But something stopped him. I want to choke the life out of him myself. I want to watch his eyes bulge as I cut off the air in his throat, starving his brain of oxygen like he did to Eden.
A wave of horror washed through him. I’m becoming like him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jack
Jack woke in the dark, tangled in his silky gold bedsheets. He had the strangest feeling that someone had been sitting on his chest, but there was no one in the room. Alexandria wouldn’t come in here, would she? Sweat soaked the fabric beneath him, and a cramped hamstring contorted his right leg. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to subside. When his muscles relaxed, he sat up, wiping his hand across his damp forehead. He would have to make the trip to Virginia sooner than he’d thought.
With trembling legs, he rose from his bed. He opened his oak dresser, pulling out a pair of gray pants, a thin blue T-shirt, and a black cashmere sweater. After dressing himself, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cool water. Hunger clawed at his stomach. He studied himself in the mirror. The red blood vessels in my eyes certainly bring out the blue.
He shuffled toward the kitchen. A loaf of fresh bread lay on the counter, and he cut himself a slice. The first bite was soft, but as he chewed, it began to taste like sawdust in his mouth. Bread wouldn’t satisfy this hunger.
A delicious smell wafted in from the living room—patchouli, but also something sweet—something like almonds and honey. Alexandria. She slept on the sofa with her arms outstretched, a faint glow from her laptop lighting her face. Her hair spread around her head like she was underwater. He bit his lower lip so hard that a drop of salty blood trickled into his mouth.
He kneeled down in front of her, eyes roving over the tattooed symbols on her arms. From the crook of her elbow, a black-socketed death’s-head stared out at him. It was the symbol for caput mortuum, the decaying remains left over from an alchemical operation. And it was what his own face would look like if he didn’t satiate his cravings.
His mouth watered, and he inched closer to her neck, inhaling deeply. She shifted in her sleep, and he stumbled back, his eyes wide. I need her alive.
He jumped up, hurrying back to his bedroom. I must get out of here. He pulled on a pair of socks and his black Oxfords. Swinging open the closet door, he yanked out a black shoulder bag and stuffed a few shirts and wool sweaters in. Arms shaking, he pulled on his coat and scarf, shambling into the living room. He grabbed a spell book, five bars of gold for the Earl, and a half-melted candle, shoving them into his bag. He paused, staring down at the bag. Why am I taking a candle? My mind isn’t working right.
He scanned the shelves for two small bottles of dried flowers suspended in oils: wolfsbane and cinquefoil. These would get him to Charles City in no time. After pulling on a hat, he yanked open his door, stumbling down the stairs and into the chilly night. Salem’s streets were empty. It must be around three a.m. The air smelled of blooming dogwood trees—a filthy, human scent, like a teenage boy’s bedsheets.
He turned onto Federal Street, dragging himself past the dark and crooked timber-frame houses that lined the sidewalks.
What will George Percy think when I arrive, mud-spattered and trembling? The old Earl had only a tenuous relationship with reality, anyway. Ruling Jamestown during the starving years had permanently muddled the man’s brain. Something must have snapped the first time the Earl had found himself feasting on a young girl’s corpse. Still, he was the best alchemist Jack had ever known, and a few bars of gold would secure his healing skills.
After what seemed an eternity, Jack found his way onto Witch Hill Road, and then tottered into a small, dark clearing that overlooked a shabby park. No one visited Gallows Hill. All that remained of this mound of misery was a little patch of grass off a bland suburban road—clumps of weeds feeding off the remains of accused witches.
He dropped his heavy bag, collapsing next to it on the grass. Fiona must understand that the Salem Witch Trials weren’t his fault. He’d cast the spell on the little girls to protect himself from the Purgators, but it had made the girls insane. And the Purgators had seized their opportunity to exploit them. Jack had needed to play along with the whole charade to spare himself. How else could he complete his Great Work?
>
He rubbed his eyes, leaning back into the bag and staring up at the stars. The malicious little girls had even gone after Dorcas Good—or Dorothy, he could never remember her name. Only four, she’d been chained up in a rat-infested and windowless jail. She’d been compelled to testify against her own mother, whose bare, dirt-crusted feet had dangled over this very spot. Little Dorcas had made up a story about a talking snake—the familiar her mother had given her, she said. But she hadn’t been a philosopher any more than Jack was an angel.
Little Dorcas had been freed from the prison, but she’d never recovered, not mentally. Her testimony had sent her own mother to the gallows, and Dorcas’s fragile mind couldn’t handle the guilt. He’d catch her wandering around Salem years later, with wild clumps of hair that gave her the appearance of a wild woman. She still blathered about her talking snake. The talking snake was what she’d confessed as a girl, what had sent her mother to her death, and she’d never forgotten it.
He stared into the little pinpricks of light in the night sky. What am I doing here? I’m supposed to be doing a spell of some sort… He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. This was more than just hunger. His fingers dug into the hard earth, pulling out a clod of dirt and grass. Someone had cursed his body and his mind. His lungs rasped.
Was it Dorcas’s mother? She must have cursed me. She’d been pregnant when convicted, and her little baby girl died in jail. Before the wretch was hanged, she’d raved to the judges that God would give them blood to drink. He could taste the blood in his mouth now. So sweet, like a fine Merlot. He rested his head on the ground, just below where the cursed woman’s naked feet had twitched. She had her revenge. She’d given him his blood to drink.
Through bleary eyes, he saw something white approaching in the dark. An angel? His lips were as dry as a desert wind.
“Jack. What’s happening to you?” It was Papillon. She fluttered before his eyes, her papery wings catching in the glow of a street light. “You look drained.”
“Cursed…” he croaked.
“Your skin is pale and dry. Like you’ve been…”
Maybe it isn’t a curse. He tried to moisten his mouth enough to swallow. “…hagged,” he finished her thought.
“Who would send a hag for you?”
Any number of people.
Papillon flew toward the bag. “You must call on Druloch for strength.”
Of course. He pushed himself up on his forearms, groaning as he sat up. He pulled his athame out of his bag with a shaking hand. He’d have to draw the symbol from this position. There was no way he could manage standing. His arms throbbing with fatigue, he listlessly traced an arc around himself, and then dragged it through the dirt to form a tree shape in the center. “Druloch,” he rasped. “Give me strength.”
When he finished tracing the symbol, tree roots sprouted from the soft earth around him. The air filled with the scent of elm leaves and decay. As it did, an electrifying power surged through his body. At the familiar feeling, a euphoric smile creased his face. But as he rose, his muscles still ached, and hunger still gnawed at his stomach. The usual ritual wasn’t enough.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped a jittery hand across. The damned succubus must have been draining me for weeks.
Papillon circled his head. “Better?”
“A bit. But I still need to see the Earl.”
Picking up his bag, he trudged across the clearing toward a stand of saplings, inhaling deeply. He should have just enough strength to make it to Virginia. He gripped a small sapling, and, using his newfound strength, cut its trunk with his athame. Laying it on the earth, he pulled out the jars of wolfsbane and cinquefoil. After unscrewing the tops, he rubbed the salve onto the sapling and then returned the jars to his bag.
He gripped the tree between his legs and soared into the air. High above Salem, the breeze whipped against his skin, cooling his fever. He would fly over the ocean, inhaling the salty coastal air. He was heading back to the nation’s origins. Let people think of Plymouth as the birth of our country. No one wants to think of Jamestown’s ravening, blaspheming skeletons, feasting on human flesh. Even the Earl hadn’t come to terms with it after four hundred years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tobias
Tobias stretched his arms over his head as he walked the path to the river. A thrilling breeze rushed over the riverbank, cooling his skin. To his right, the setting sun dazzled on the water, and bathed the sky in honeysuckle pinks and oranges.
The colors reminded him of the lurid dresses the Swan Ladies wore in Maremount. There’d been one named Thistle who used to grab his hand when he walked past. Her cheeks were always flushed. Once Eden had caught him with her…
He shook his head. It didn’t matter now. Most of the Swan Ladies were probably dead, beaten or burned by Jack’s men. He gritted his teeth. When I find Jack, he’ll get a quick death. Though he doesn’t deserve one. He pushed the thoughts away. He wanted a reprieve from morbid thoughts, at least for a moment.
He inhaled deeply, taking in the mossy spring air. The breeze brought with it the succubus’s dusty scent, luring him to the bank. He’d summoned her here late last night, but she took her time showing up. By the shore, she shifted from her hiding spot behind a tree and crept toward him. Sweat droplets glistened on her pale skin. She wore her hair piled high on her head. A few wisps escaped, floating in the humid air. She beckoned him toward her with a ruby red fingernail that matched her lips. “Tobias.” She smiled in a flash of dazzling white teeth.
“You look well fed.”
“You weren’t lying.” She cocked her hip. “Jack was delicious. It’s a shame he has to die. I could have dragged that one out for a while.”
He stepped closer to her, his eyes roving over her skintight black shirt and leather pants. He forced himself to look into her emerald eyes. “Everyone has to die. Even Jack.”
“Not the gods, or the angels.” The wind ruffled auburn wisps. There was another smell besides ash. Pomegranates?
“So he’s weakened now.”
“Yes.” She paused, staring at her blood red nails. “But he’s not in Salem anymore. He’s on his way here.”
He stiffened. “Here?”
“He’s visiting some old sorcerer just a mile from here. And he wants to see Fiona. So I suggest you kill him in Virginia.”
The mark on Tobias’s chest burned. His attempts to keep his friends out of this weren’t working out as planned. “Who’s the philosopher?”
She twirled a strand of her auburn hair. “George Percy. He calls himself an Earl, but I don’t think he is one. He’s owned a plantation down the road for four hundred years.” She glanced up. “That’s all I know.”
Tobias rubbed a hand over his forehead. There was a familiar ring to that name. Was he the famous Wizard Earl? “When is he coming here?”
“He’s with the Earl now, I think.” She lowered her chin, staring into his eyes. “Are we done now? Are you going to summon me every few weeks when you need errands run?”
“I’ll save it for emergencies.” Before she could immobilize him with her gaze again, he turned and strode along the path back toward the house. He’d have to stay alert. It would be a lot easier if his crow were here. He’d send Ottomie to stand guard.
The sun dipped lower, and the trees cast long shadows as he crossed the grass toward the gardens. If Jack was coming to look for Fiona, he wanted to stay close to her. He wasn’t going to let another one of his friends die at Rawhed’s hands.
He ran his fingers through his hair. If he told Fiona what was going on, she’d only want to get involved, and she had no idea how to fight someone like Jack. She wouldn’t understand Tobias’s new strength, the power that surged through his veins now. He could take on Rawhed singlehandedly without risking his friends’ lives again.
Cicadas in the trees began to whirr. As he neared the statue, he glanced to his left. Fiona sat on a bench in the center of one of
the gardens, a book open on her lap. Gardenias surrounded her. She looked golden in the sunlight, her curls radiating from her head like a corona.
She looked up. “What’s that look on your face?”
“You look…” Stunning.
She glanced down at her tight T-shirt with a picture of a bear in a top hat. “I know. I hate these clothes.”
He smiled, crossing over the grass and taking a seat next to her. “It’s not that. It’s just the sunset is lovely.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“What are you reading?”
“Anna Karenina. It’s assigned. I think we’re being forced to read it because the main character is of dubious moral virtue, and then—spoiler alert—she has to kill herself.”
He leaned back into the corner of the bench, spreading out his arm along the backrest. “Right. I haven’t really been reading it.”
“What have you been doing?” She flashed him a fake smile. “Drinking blood with Munroe?”
He stiffened. This again. “I’ve already told you. I’m not doing anything with the Purgators.” He stared at her. “Do you think maybe you’ve become a little paranoid because your ex-boyfriend is a psychopath?”
She snapped her book shut, leaning toward him. “Jack isn’t the only psychopath. That could be a human being they’ve got locked up in the crypt. Thomas said the Purgators have been hunting witches since the Roman Republic. King Charles I and King James I were both Purgator kings, and they tortured thousands of people. They created the Malleus Maleficarum—the witch-finding guide. They burned and hanged thousands of innocents. And they might still be doing it. They’re worse than Jack.”
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