I didn’t move.

It was over in less than a minute. With a final shudder, Estelle’s body slumped in Reid’s arms, and his grip slackened.

“Is she . . . dead?” I whispered.

“No.” His face was white, his hands shaking, as he let Estelle fall to the ground. When he finally looked at me, I stumbled under the ferocity of his stare. “What did it want with you?”

Unable to stand that look, I tore my gaze away—away from him, away from Estelle, away from the entire nightmarish scene—and looked instead to the stars. They were dim tonight, refusing to shine for me. Accusing.

After a long moment, I forced myself to answer him. Tears glistened on my cheeks. “She wanted me dead.”

He watched me for another long moment before hauling Estelle’s limp body over his shoulder.

“What are you going to do with her?” I asked fearfully.

“It’s a witch.” He started up the street without a backward glance, ignoring the alarmed looks of passersby. “It’ll burn on earth, and then in Hell.”

Witch Killer

Lou

Reid refused to speak to me on the way back to Chasseur Tower. I struggled to keep up, each step a knife in my heart.

Witch killer witch killer witch killer.

I couldn’t look at Estelle, couldn’t process the way her head lolled against Reid’s back. The way her corn-silk hair rippled with each step.

Witch killer.

When Reid burst into the Tower, the guards hesitated for only a second, shocked, before leaping into action. I hated them. Hated that they’d prepared for this moment their entire lives. Eyes bright with anticipation, they handed Reid a metal syringe.

An injection.

My vision narrowed. Nausea rolled through my stomach.

“The Fathers have been anxious to test it on a witch.” The Chasseur nearest Reid leaned forward eagerly. “Today is their lucky day.”

Reid didn’t hesitate. He swung Estelle forward, plunging the quill into her throat with brutal force. Blood trickled onto her shoulder and stained the white of her dress.

It might as well have been my soul.

She dropped from Reid’s arms like a stone. No one bothered catching her, and she fell face-first upon the pavers. Unmoving. Her chest barely rose and fell. A second Chasseur chuckled, nudging her cheek with his boot. She still didn’t move. “Guess that answers that question. The priests will be pleased.”

The manacles came next—thicker and rusted with blood. They clapped them on her wrists and ankles before yanking her up by the hair and dragging her to the stairwell. The chains clinked on each step as she disappeared down, down, down—into the mouth of Hell.

Reid didn’t look at me as he strode after them.

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.