Page 8 of The Great and Terrible

“The breaking of a law is never a misunderstanding. It’s always an absolute.” Jasher stopped at the scarlet splattered chopping block and moved behind me, as if he planned to do to me what he’d done to Rags.

A loud ring consumed my ears.Am I truly dying today?

“Context matters,” I rasped. “Both surgeons and murderers cut people open.”

“You have only proven my point. One is a crime, the other isn’t.”

He wasn’t wrong. But I lifted my chin, refusing to shrink back, and called, “A late payment isn’t worthy of a death sentence. You know that, right?”

My words did nothing to shame the spectators into action. Nothing to encourage their insistence that I live. If anything, I spurred their impatience.

“Kneel.” Jasher delivered the command behind me, as heartless as Dorothy’s Tinman.

I swallowed a humorless laugh. “I won’t help you behead me.”

“That’s all right. I don’t require your aid.” Giving no quarter, he settled a big, rough hand on my shoulder and pushed.

Locking my knees, I grated, “There’s got to be a better way to settle this.” If I could just change his mind. He was the linchpin. The crowd would follow his lead.

“There isn’t.” He increased the pressure. “The storm looms.”

I resisted with every ounce of my being. Soon, panting breaths turned into wheezes. At least the air smelled nice. A dreamy, dizzying combination of sandalwood and orchids. Problem was, all that goodness came from him. The man determined to murder me.

“What do my actions have to do with the storm?” I demanded.

“The crimen.” More pressure. Almost enough to break bones. “It draws the beasts.”

“You and our audience are the only beasts in the vicinity,” I snipped. “And I don’t even know what a crimen is.”

“Lack of knowledge doesn’t alter the truth or what must be done to safeguard the town.”

As my legs threatened to snap in half, the metallic odor of Rags’s blood reached my nostrils, overshadowing the intoxicating, earthy perfume. I gagged on a surge of bile. Strength draining…

“What did you take?” Jasher asked. He almost sounded curious.

“An elixir for my wrist. But I dropped it before drinking any,” I admitted, because why not? “Won’t you show me a shred of compassion?”

Jasher didn’t hesitate. “I will not.”

He proved his words, too, increasing the pressure. Still I fought. Fought so hard sweat dripped down my temples. But in my weakened— and weakening—condition, there was no outlasting him. It wasn’t long before I sank to my knees and rested my upper body upon the wet wood.

“I’ll make it quick, my aim true,” he vowed, both merciful and pitiless.

End of conversation—end of the line? No. No! Such a travesty of justice would be stopped.

Jasher’s clothing rustled, and I didn’t have to glance over my shoulder to know he readied his weapon. I opened my mouth to say something, anything.

“A law has been broken,” he called, and tears welled.

“I’ll pay for the elixir,” I babbled. “I just need time.”

“There must be payment in blood,” a woman cried, frenzied with worry as dozens of lightning bolts zigzagged above our heads. “Quickly!”

Murmurs of agreement blended into a terrible, grating song.

“Will anyone show mercy and take her place?” Jasher asked, a replay of Rags’s last minutes alive.

No one offered, same as before. A new clap of thunder shook the dais. The audience went still and quiet as my would-be executioner lifted his ax. I squeezed my lids shut.

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