Page 70 of The Year of the Witching

“The witches are evangelists before they are anything else. How else could four foreign girls raise armies so large they rivaled the forces of Bethel? How else did they sow the seeds of discord if not by winning the hearts and souls of the Church’s flock?”

“So they weren’t trying to bait me; they were trying to win my soul?”

Vera nodded. “They want you, Immanuelle—your power, your potential. Lilith would like nothing more than for you to join her, as a sister and servant of the coven. And before the end comes, mark me, they will make you an offer. Invite you into their ranks.”

Immanuelle considered the idea, imagined what it might be like to walk the woods alongside Lilith. She would not be made to fight temptation any longer, or grovel at the feet of the Prophet. She would live free of Protocol and punishment—to roam and do as she pleased. “What happens if I refuse their offer?”

“Then you’ll share in Bethel’s demise.”

Immanuelle straightened in her chair. Her hands stopped shaking. Her shoulders squared. For the first time, she looked Vera dead in the eye. “Is there any way to stop them?”

Vera nodded. “There is one way. A powerful sigil to redirect the energy of the plagues. You’d need to carve it into your arm with a consecrated knife.”

“Like a holy dagger?”

“Yes, butonlythe Prophet’s. You see, a powerful sigil requires a powerful tool to carve it. The blade must be consecrated—imbued with power through prayer or spell casting. There are only a few objects of that nature in Bethel. The Prophet’s holy dagger; the sacred gutting knife; and the sword of David Ford, the first crusader saint, which hangs above the altar in the Prophet’s Cathedral, are the only ones that come to mind. A point from Lilith’s antlers would also suffice. In fact, I suspect that’s what your mother used to carve her sigils in the cabin.”

“So all I have to do is carve the sigil into my arm with a consecrated blade and then it’s over? The plagues will end, and everything will go back to the way it was before?”

“If only,” said Vera with a sad smile. “When you carve the sigil, it will drag the power of the plagues back to its origin place: you. Once you’ve done that—if you’re even capable of surviving such a feat—the power of the plagues will be yours to wield as you wish.”

Immanuelle paused to imagine it: the blight, the blood, and the darkness, and the slaughter to come, hers to wield as weapons. With it, she’d have the leverage she needed to bring the Church to heel, spare Ezra’s life, make the Prophet atone for his sins. She could reign over Bethel if she wanted to, and under her oversight there would be no pyres or purgings. No young girls lying like lambs on the altar for the cutting. No one made to suffer in the squalor of the Outskirts. With power like that, she could raze theProphet’s Church to the very stones of its foundation. Build Bethel anew.

“What’s the cost?” she asked, knowing it would be a heavy one. If there was one thing she’d learned thus far, it was that power was never free.

“It’s impossible to say what it will take or when. But know that the price for power like that will be steep. It may claim your life, like it did your mother’s, erode your bones and spread through your body like a cancer. Or perhaps it will manipulate your senses, claim your sanity as recompense. Maybe it will steal the life of your firstborn or make you barren. The only certainty is that one day you’ll be made to pay for the power you’ve taken.”

“And is there a cure for these... afflictions?”

“Perhaps, but that would depend entirely upon what you’re afflicted with.”

Immanuelle nodded, first to herself, then to Vera. “Teach me how to do it.”

Vera laughed outright; the sound was harsh and ugly, almost frightening. Across the kitchen, the oven burned so hot Immanuelle could see heat waves distorting the air around it, and the kettle on the burner began to whistle. Froth spilled from its spout and sizzled on the coals below.

“What’s so funny?”

Vera settled herself, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “The idea that you think that I would damn you to an end like that one.” Her smile died, and all at once she was so serious she seemed almost grave. “Bethel has placed its burdens on the shoulders of little girls for far too long. I already lost my boy. I’m not going to lead you to the same fate he met. Certainly not in some futile attempt to save a place that doesn’t deserve deliverance.”

“There’s still hope for Bethel. There are good people there, and if I don’t help them, they’ll die in the plagues to come.”

“Good people don’t bow their heads and bite their tongues while other good people suffer. Good people are not complicit.”

“There are children there,” said Immanuelle, trying to make her see. “Little girls, like my sisters, who are innocent in all of this.”

“And I feel for them; I do. But if they suffer it’s not because of the witches or the plagues or you. It’s because their fathers, and their father’s fathers, created this mess. Perhaps you ought to let them answer for it.”

“And do what? Stay here with my hands tied? Turn my back on Bethel, my home?”

“If the worst comes—”

“It will.”

“Ifit comes, then we go,” said Vera. “There are worlds beyond this one, Immanuelle.”

“You mean the heathen cities? Valta and Hebron and Gall and the like?”

“More than just them. The world is vast, and you deserve the chance to see it. We can explore it together, the three of us. A family.” Vera reached across the table, caught her by the hand, and squeezed. “Let me do what I should have done seventeen years ago. Let me take you with me.”

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