A Witch's Feast (33 page)

But with that pendant around his neck leeching his power, he wouldn’t last forever. And she would come after, with no supernatural defense against the flames. She would watch her friends burn, and then they would light her legs on fire, roasting her from the bottom up. She tried to rein in the uncontrollable shaking of her limbs.
I can’t give up. I won’t burn. This doesn’t happen to people anymore. This doesn’t happen to people anymore.
She had her own mantra now.

She felt nearly crazed with fear.
I need to get out of here.
That disgusting guard had the keys in his pockets, but she had no way to get to them.
 

What she needed was a spell, though any magical aura would burn away with the Purgator dust.
What about other magic?
Her thoughts raced. Other magic, like Simon in Maremount, his dried bones and muddy bottles, the mortars and pestles, the bug wings and salves.

She opened her eyes again, briefly catching a glimpse of Tobias. The behemoth was back already. He must have dumped Munroe somewhere. He was stoking the flames with a pointed fire iron, licking his lips as he grinned at Tobias. Sweat ran down Tobias’s cheeks, and he looked nauseated, but he wasn’t shrieking, even though the flames reached his hips.

Her shaking hands created a cacophony of clanking iron.
Think, Fiona.
Other magic. Magic without Angelic, that doesn’t create an aura. Herbs and potions and salves. She let out a grunt of frustration.
What does it matter if herbs and potions would be useful? I don’t have them.
And yet the idea had taken hold in her mind, like an invasive weed.
 

An invasive weed.
An image blossomed in her fevered mind of Pearl’s scrapbook—the pencil drawing of the conquerer root, its curled leaves and trumpet-shaped flowers. Hope blazed in her with the revelation that she’d seen it more recently—tonight, in fact.
 

She almost wanted to scream out with joy. John the Conquerer. It was the pink flower Alan had given her, and she’d tucked it into her tangles of curls. The drawing had been in pencil, so she hadn’t recognized it at first. But her memory had recorded its shape exactly. It was what the slaves had used to travel out of their bodies, and to plan their escape by the Underground Railroad.
 

Now I just need to get to it.
If she couldn’t bring her hands down to her head, she’d have to bring her head up to her hands. She glanced around the room. Now that she’d stopped screaming, no one was looking at her. They all stared at Tobias, eager to watch him burn. Some of them nibbled on cheese and olives from the party, like she’d seen in the lynching postcards, but all of their eyes were riveted on the supposed commander of the demon hordes.
 

She used the shackles to pull herself up. It had been a few months since she’d done a pull-up, but if she strained her biceps, she was able to bring her hair to her hands. Tilting her head to the left, she groped around in her curls until she felt a leafy stem, and she unthreaded it from her hair before tilting her head back and dropping the pink blossom into her mouth. She bit off the whole flower, chewing the bitter petals.
 

She lowered herself to the ground again, looking around the room. No one had noticed her except Jack, who stared in fascination.
As long as he doesn’t blow my cover, he can stare all he wants.
She swallowed a mouthful of floral pulp.
 

As soon as she gulped it down, a wave of dizziness crashed down on her. If she concentrated hard, she almost felt as though she had a phantom body, separating from the real one. Drifting upward, she focused on floating toward the wall. When she touched the winding tree roots, she could feel their rough bark. They helped to anchor her.
And if I can feel the wall, that means objects will be tangible.
 

She glanced down, catching a glimpse of her own body slumped over, as though she’d passed out from fear. With the straps torn away, her dress hung off her. Only Jack’s eyes seemed to follow her outside of her body. The rest of the crowd was oblivious in their enthusiasm for a night of
canapés
and medieval torture.

The flames rose higher around Tobias, and he moaned. Touching her fingers to the vines, she climbed higher. Acrid smoke filled the room.
That’s not the smell of Tobias, is it? What am I supposed to do now?
She hadn’t had time to plan this out.
 

The dust-releasing sprinkler—without it, Tobias could use Angelic. She concentrated on trying to move her ghostly fingers up the wall. She’d have to plug them somehow.
 

Jack’s eyes were wide, following her ascent. He was mouthing something to her. “I’ll help you.”

Right. I’ll just count on the ancient psychopath to get us out of this.

Smoke from the pyre billowed toward the ceiling. A more urgent moan from Tobias hastened her ascent, and she forced herself to let go of the wall. With a dizzying leap toward the ceiling, she gripped one of the chandelier’s stems. She plucked out a candle before leaping again toward the sprinkler.
 

She snapped the candle in half and jammed it into the holes with all the force she could muster, cramming every pore with wax.
Will Tobias be able to free himself once I pull off his pendant?
She glanced down. His entire lower half was on fire, and he threw back his head and screamed.
There’s no more time.

She tried to block out his screams, letting herself plummet toward him at a sickening speed. She jerked to a halt just above his head. Even without her body, she could feel the oppressive heat billowing from the pyre. She reached for the pendant around his neck, and it burned her phantom fingers as she tossed it into the crowd.

Tobias’s eyes snapped open, his irises blazing with red and orange flames. The fire now raged from within
him.
 

Emerazel’s power smoldered in him, inflamed by the inferno. Images flared and waned in his mind—memories he’d long since forgotten: Oswald’s father drunkenly punching his son in the face, Eden showing up to his house dirty and hungry, his little sister, Matilda, asking to be held after a nightmare, and his own mother—he could see her face now, her dark eyes as she bent by the hearth, sewing him a hat. He fought against the memory, but it took root in his mind. He’d wanted to look like the Throcknell philosophers, and his mother had fashioned a hat threaded with round, white sea pebbles that looked like pearls. But the rich boys had laughed at him when he wore it into town. He’d run home crying, and shouted at his mother for not making him a proper one.
 

The image of her hurt eyes scorched his mind, and he tried to snuff it out. He felt as though his heart might explode. The next thing he could remember of his mother was her gray and lifeless head, knocking against Matilda’s while his father had wheeled them through town, desperate to find a cure for the token.
 

It was always the worst people who ended up with the power to choose who lived and who died. The flames rose over his shoulders, but the fire no longer burned him. Through the blaze, he could see the guard who had ripped Fiona’s dress. He was pointing a gun at Tobias’s chest, shouting something about Blodrial’s reawakening. The guard would kill them all—Tobias, Mariana, Alan, and Fiona.
 

 
If ever there was a man who did not deserve to choose who lived and who died, it was this pale-faced lech before him.
 

Emerazel’s flames burned through Tobias, lending him a goddess’s power, and her voice seemed to whisper to him,
You should have the power over life and death. You are godlike now.
 

Tobias had a sudden urge to light the world on fire.
Gritting his teeth, he wrenched apart his hands, breaking free from the iron shackles, his muscles imbued with the strength of a demigod. He leapt from the platform, yanking the fire iron out of the flames. He swung it into the guard, knocking him to the floor. The gun flew out of his hands, and Tobias raised the iron once more, bringing it down into the guard’s head with a crunch. Blood pooled on the marble flagstones.

He turned toward the hall of frenzied party guests, raising his arms above his head. Emerazel spoke through him, her melodious voice mingling with his own. “Followers of Blodrial. You worship a petty god, who won’t allow you the gift of magic. For that, you deserve to die.”
 

The guests screamed, dropping their champagne flutes and scrambling for the exits in a frantic scrum. The tunnel entrances were narrow, and the guests trampled each other in their desperation.
 

Tobias’s own thoughts struggled for recognition among Emerazel’s.
Am I to decide who lives and who dies?
 

Mrs. Ranulf stood at the edge of the crowd, her face as pale as her dress. Her husband stepped in front of her, shielding her with one arm and holding his pendant up with the other.
His hand shook wildly as he chanted in Latin:
 
“S
anctificamini in flamma—”

Tobias wrenched back the iron and swung directly for the senator’s hand. There was a cracking sound, the breaking of bones. Mr. Ranulf screamed, and the amulet flew from him. They turned to flee with the crowd, and Tobias took a step toward them, considering whether to burn them or bash their heads in with the iron. They pushed and flailed for an exit.
I shouldn’t kill someone who’s fleeing, should I?
Then he would be just like them. But Emerazel’s voice smoldered in the back of his mind.
You are godlike now.
An image arose of a burning crowd of Purgators, their feathered party masks blazing—living torches.

A shout from Fiona turned his head. “Tobias! We’re going to burn!”

His heart wavered as he looked around the temple. His rage had ignited all the tree roots, and his friends were shackled between them. He dropped the iron, sprinting across the floor to Fiona. She was shouting something about keys, but he wasn’t listening. He reached over her head, clenching his teeth as he tore the shackles from the walls.
 

 
The irons had begun to burn her skin, and he turned over her wrists, inspecting the red marks.
 

 
She yanked her arms out of his grasp. “Free Mariana. I’m going to get the keys to free Alan.”

She took off, running to the guard who lay dead on the floor. Tobias turned, hurrying to Mariana. Her black clothes were torn and dirty, and her head hung down as Tobias pried her shackles from the wall, and then from her wrists.
 

Nearby, Jack was screaming about something. Tobias ignored him. He picked up Mariana, holding her limp body in his arms.
 

Emerazel whispered to him:
Throw down the girl. Light the world on fire.
He focused on Fiona in her torn dress. She had unlocked Alan, and now she edged toward the Fury. Most of the guests had managed to push their way into the tunnels now.
 

“Fiona!” Tobias yelled, his body trembling. “We need to go!”
Before I burn this place down, and you all with it.
 

Fiona crouched, pulling off the Fury’s pendant. “Hang on!” She slipped the keys into the hag’s shackles, unlocking her. “We can’t leave people here. Or—Furies.” Free from the pendant, the fury’s eyes opened, and she shifted into a feral crouch, her eyes darting around the room.
 

“Let’s go!” Tobias shouted again.
 

“Wait.” It was Alan, his voice commanding as he hurried across the room to Jack. “I’m not letting anyone burn to death.”

What is he doing?
Tobias watched in horror as Alan plucked the pendant from Jack’s neck. Jack grinned, exultant.
 

Tobias still held Mariana in his arms, but Emerazel’s rage burned through him. The walls blazed with his fire.
 

Jack chanted a brief spell, freeing himself from the shackles.
 

You could kill him,
Emerazel whispered to him.
Lose the girl, and kill Druloch’s minion.

Tobias glanced down at Mariana, her chest slowly rising and falling. Her lips were white from dehydration. When he looked up again, he found the smile had been wiped from his enemy’s face. Jack stared in terror at the Fury, who prowled toward him on all fours. “Dorcas…” he muttered, his face pale. “I didn’t meant for them to come for you.”

Fiona and Alan were already running for the exits, and Tobias followed, carrying Mariana in his arms.
 

But Jack and the creature stayed behind. As Tobias ran through the tunnels, he listened to Jack’s fading screams, and could feel the rush of Emerazel’s pleasure at the sound.

Just before Fiona and her friends crawled back through the crypt entrance, they paused as Tobias chanted the cloaking spell, carrying Mariana in his arms. There were no sprinklers here, and they faded away without setting off any alarms. The crypt door had been smashed open by the stampeding party guests, and Fiona crept over the shattered glass littering the dirt. As she tiptoed through the garden maze, screams pierced the air, and an alarm clanged from within Winderbellow. The trees around them blazed, and the fire was spreading to the house. Two helicopters beat the air above their heads, whipping Fiona’s curls around her face. Their spotlights darted over the grounds, searching for the witches.
 

When they stepped out of the hedge maze, Tobias whispered directions, and she and Alan followed in silence. It was clear he was no longer quite the same Tobias that she’d come to know—now half demon, possibly fueled by a crazed bloodlust. But he was on their side for now, and at a time like this, he seemed like a good person to have as an ally.
 

She regretted the loss of her sneakers. Broken twigs pricked her bare feet as they trudged through the dark fields away from Winderbellow. The smoky air receded as they pressed on. She had no idea where they were going, only that they needed to get to a pay phone to call her mother. Why hadn’t she arrived yet? It couldn’t take more than a day to drive to Williamsburg from Boston.