Chapter 9 Waltz in the Ashes

The heat in the square wasn't a metaphor; it was an assault.

Sweat stung the raw cuts on my legs-the ones I'd earned in the training hall this morning-and the salt made them burn with every step. My eyes throbbed from the glare reflecting off the ivory stone of the Cathedral. I stood in the high inquisitorial box, the emerald velvet of my dress feeling like a layer of wet, heavy moss. The corset was cinched so tight that every shallow breath felt like my ribs were grinding against one another.

"Don't blink," Linus whispered.

He stood beside me, a towering mass of black wool and cold iron. The silver sigils on his chest didn't look 'brilliant'; they caught the sun and threw the light back into my eyes, sharp and jagged, making a headache bloom behind my temples.

His hand didn't just 'snake' around my waist. He clamped his arm around me, hauling my body back against his side until I was forced to stand straight. To the thousands of people below, he was a protective fiancé. To me, his fingers were a vice, digging into my hip with a pressure that promised bruises.

"Watch the square," he rasped, his voice a low vibration against my ear. "Don't look at the crowd. Don't look at the smoke. Look at the horizon if you have to, but don't you dare faint."

In the center of the plaza, three black iron pillars rose from mounds of wood soaked in black, stinking oil. Three men were bound there, their faces hidden behind hoods that were already damp with their sweat.

Directly opposite us sat General Malles. He wasn't a saint; he was a vulture in a crimson uniform. He didn't look at the 'sinners.' He looked at me, his milky, cataract-filmed eyes scanning my face for the first sign of a crack. He wanted to see the witch bleed.

"Ignite," Malles said. It wasn't a command; it was a bored dismissal of life.

WOOSH.

The fire didn't just start; it roared. The air in the square was instantly sucked toward the pyres, replaced by a wave of heat that smelled of scorched grease and chemicals.

ARGHHHHH-!

The screams weren't human. They were high, wet, and raw-the sound of vocal cords being cooked.

In a heartbeat, the square vanished. I was back in that closet, the wood grain biting into my palms, watching the white flames lick my mother's feet. My lungs seized. The air felt like I was breathing in hot sand. The resonance in my blood began to scream, a high-pitched metallic whine that made my teeth ache. I felt my knees give way, my body ready to collapse into a heap of emerald velvet.

"I said, look at me!"

Linus's voice hit me like a slap. He didn't just turn me around; he wrenched me toward him, his massive frame blocking the view of the burning men. He seized my chin, his fingers cold and unyielding, forcing my head back until I had to look into those bottomless indigo eyes.

"Think of the cellar," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "Think of the mat this morning. Think of how much you want to kill me for what I've done. Use it, Lillian. Feed on it."

Hate. It was the only thing cold enough to fight the fire.

I focused on the bruising grip of his hand. I focused on the way he'd collared me like a dog. The anger was a shot of pure, bitter adrenaline. It was sharper than the fear, and it gave me a floor to stand on. I stopped shaking because I was too busy trying to figure out how to bury a knife in his throat. My fingers clawed into the wool of his sleeves, my nails digging deep into the muscle of his arms.

To the crowd, we were a scandalous tableau-the Inquisitor and his consultant lost in a moment of dark passion while the world turned to ash behind them. Malles's lip curled in a sneer of irritation. He wanted a broken girl; he got a woman whose eyes were burning with a murderous focus.

Linus didn't pull away. He took my hand-the one that was trying to draw his blood-and didn't kiss it like a lover. He gripped it hard, his lips pressing against my knuckles with a cold, dry aggression. It wasn't a kiss; it was a brand. A marking of property in front of the world.

"You look like a blade, Nightingale," he whispered against my skin. "Stay sharp."

I shuddered, the cold of his lips lingering like a scar.

A new sound rose through the crackle of the flames-a low, rhythmic chanting. I turned my head. At the edge of the square, a woman in flowing white robes was moving through the masses. Agatha.

She held a staff topped with a massive, pulsing crystal. As she walked, the frenzied crowd fell to their knees as if she were a god walking the earth. She ignored the dying men; she ignored Malles. She stopped and tilted her head back, her gaze cutting through the smog to find mine.

There was no mercy in her face. Only a clinical, serpentine coldness.

She raised her hand and made a single, slow motion: a finger drawn across her own throat.

My pulse spiked, but not from terror. I felt it. A high-pitched, metallic thrumming in the marrow of my bones. It was the exact same frequency as the brass heart I'd pulled from the petrified corpse. It was the hum of a machine, not a miracle.

"Linus," I whispered, my fingers tightening on his vest. "The staff. Look at the crystal."

I looked up at him, my voice a jagged edge.

"I can feel the resonance. That thing she's holding... it's the same technology. The person who turned that dockworker to stone... she's standing right there."

Linus narrowed his eyes, a lethal killing intent exploding in his gaze as he locked onto the woman in white.

The execution was over. The victims were ash. But as the smoke cleared, I knew the real hunt had just begun.