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.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Tobias
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: “Sanctificamini 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.