“Praise Blodrial!” Dr. Mellior shouted from the crowd, wrapped in a toga. “Without order, we are lost!” Others in the crowd joined in, chanting in unison. Anything Fiona could have said beyond that point would have been drowned out.
Mrs. Ranulf turned to the Fury, who bent her head in submission, hands bound in front of her with iron shackles. Munroe’s mother yanked the Fury toward the iron basin before plunging a knife into the creature’s wrists. The snakes seemed to writhe around her head in pain, and she let out an agonized howl that drowned out the guests’ chants. Many discarded their masks now, staring lustfully at the Fury’s blood that spurted into the bowl. So that’s how they get Blodrial’s blood. The Fury is some kind of captive vessel for divine blood.
After the Fury’s blood was drained, she collapsed to the ground, and her wails faded. A silence descended on the room, and Mrs. Ranulf dipped a finger into the basin before stepping up on the platform again. Over Tobias’s scar, she traced a circle of blood and an arrow that jutted from its side. “You have been marked with Blodrial’s sign now.” Smiling, she stepped off the platform, taking care not to drip blood on her pure, white dress.
She turned to three men in the crowd dressed as goats. “Fetch the firewood.”
At the sound of the word “firewood,” it was as if the whole world went silent, and Fiona could hear nothing but the sound of her blood pounding in her ears. She’d read about burnings for a Tudor history project. When a person burned to death at the stake, it wasn’t a quick blaze like you saw in the movies. Over a small fire like this, skin would burn for about forty-five minutes before a victim died of blood loss and cooked organs. Family members had to fan the flames to try to hasten their loved one’s demise. This can’t be happening.
She fought the urge to puke. Is that what they did to Connor? The barbecue yesterday… Her chains rattled as she tried to rip them from the wall in a frenzy. But her mother was coming, wasn’t she? She would arrive any moment and put an end to this madness. Assuming she could get past the guards, and the legion of fanatical witch-hunters.
Sheer panic shook Fiona’s bones, her limbs trembling uncontrollably. Whatever Tobias was, he didn’t deserve to be burned alive. No one deserved that. “You can’t do this to us!” she shrieked. “You can’t just burn people! This isn’t legal!”
Mr. Ranulf smiled at her this time. “But we make the laws.” He walked toward the basin of blood, dipping in his champagne glass. He took a long sip, and some of the guests followed suit.
The three goats stumbled forward, laying armfuls of wood at Tobias’s feet until a small pyre surrounded the stone platform.
This can’t be happening. She glanced at Alan. His eyes were closed, unwilling to watch his friend burn to death. This must be a nightmare.
Someone dragged the Fury across the floor, away from the platform. She twitched, regaining consciousness. They wanted her out of harm’s way when they lit the fire. Tobias lifted his head, staring at Fiona. She didn’t see fear in his eyes, just sadness.
Is this what he felt when he watched Eden die—the helplessness? There couldn’t be a worse feeling than this. Except burning alive. That will be worse.
Someone handed Mrs. Ranulf a torch, and she held it against the wood around the platform.
Fiona’s entire body shook, rattling the chains. “No!” was all she could think to scream, over and over.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Fiona
A hysterical scream echoed off the high ceiling. It wasn’t her own, nor was it Tobias’s.
“You can’t do this!” Munroe shoved her way through the crowd, her hair disheveled.
Fiona nearly cried with relief. Munroe wouldn’t allow this to happen. Munroe loves Tobias. She never expected to feel gratitude at the thought.
Munroe’s porcelain face was red and blotchy, and she gripped her mother’s arm. “Mother! You can’t do this! You can’t just burn him.”
The flames rose around Tobias’s legs, not yet close enough to touch his skin. But she had full faith now that Munroe would convince her mother to let him go. And then they’d all have to be let go, right? Munroe would be the one to bring some sense to this nightmare. Underneath her relief, she felt a flicker of resentment that it was Munroe who would save them all. She’d be indebted to her now.
But to her horror, Mrs. Ranulf plucked her daughter’s hand from her arm with a look of disgust, as though she were pulling a worm from her sleeve. “Do not embarrass me.”
Tears flowed down Munroe’s cheeks. “Dr. Mellior can save him! You said Dr. Mellior can save anyone!”
Yes. Dr. Mellior can fix us. Fiona couldn’t breathe, watching the scene unfold. Convince them, Munroe.
Mrs. Ranulf didn’t reply. She just shot a sharp look to one of the guards—the behemoth who’d ripped Fiona’s dress. He crept up behind Munroe with an eager grin and clamped a pale, meaty hand over her mouth and nose. She kicked and flailed, but he held on until she lost consciousness.