Mist gathered over the common, rolling in from the sea. She tried to hide the tremble in her hand as she ladled the creamy chowder into her bowl. “Thanks for the help,” she snapped. She immediately regretted it. He’d only just learned he would be spending an infinite amount of time in the inferno, and she was already mad at him.
“They’re hierarchical,” he said. “We can’t defy her if we’re staying here. We should think about leaving. I just haven’t figured out where we can go.” He halfheartedly ladled a dollop of chowder into his bowl.
The name “Forzese” crackled over the radio, and they stopped talking. The entire outdoor banquet had fallen silent.
“…during a police interview. Police officials say that Josephine Forzese acted erratically during questioning.”
Fiona sat frozen, her spoon suspended on the way to her mouth. Mom didn’t act erratically. Ever.
“The investigation is ongoing. But we do know that when Ms. Forzese lunged for an officer’s gun, another opened fire. The official cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Officer Mullen…”
Fiona didn’t hear the rest. She heard only the heartbeat in her ears and the sound of rushing water. The bread in her mouth seemed to turn to ash. The wolves all stared at her, their faces compassionate—even Estelle’s eyes held a flash of sympathy before the mist grew heavier, fogging Fiona’s vision. This can’t be real.
It must be fake. Misinformation. The Purgators were trying to lure Fiona into the open so they could arrest her. Right now Mom was finishing up her dinner in South Boston, clearing the table.
Fiona rose, stumbling over her chair. She needed to tell everyone before they thought it was real, but for some reason she couldn’t get the words to come.
Tobias stood, and she felt his warm arms around her.
“…Newspapers have received criticism for their decision to show pictures of Josephine Forzese’s body…”
How could they get pictures of the body? Maybe they were Photoshopped… She pushed Tobias away. She needed to explain to him that it was all fake. She shook her head, trying to clear it.
Her knees began to give way.
It was true. She knew it was. Of course the Purgators were trying to lure Fiona out, but their tactic of choice was murder.
Mom used to say she would sweep the monsters away before putting her to bed. Sometimes she’d act it out with a little pink toy broom Fiona had kept in her closet. Mom would reach in, grab the plastic handle, and mime brushing out monsters from under her bed. It went on until Fiona had started to find it embarrassing. “You don’t have to keep doing it, Mom,” she’d said. “I know monsters aren’t real.”
What an idiot she’d been. Monsters were all around.
She hid her face in her hands. Tobias’s arm was around her shoulders again, warm and smelling of cedar, but she shivered as though it were winter.
The Purgators should have killed Danny. It made sense for him to die. But of course, the police hadn’t shot Josephine Forzese because she was acting erratically. The witch hunters had murdered her as revenge.
An unwelcome image crept into her mind of the smug look Mrs. Ranulf’s face had taken on over the dinner table—the Purgator Queen crushing her napkin in her fingers until her knuckles turned white.
Fiona’s swell of rage felt strong enough to make the rocky earth tremble. A second vision flashed—her own hand, wielding a knife that would cut the smug flesh right off Mrs. Ranulf’s face. The thought of jamming a knife into Mrs. Ranulf’s beautiful cheeks brought her a brief twinge of pleasure. There was no point in fighting it.
Fiona was a monster, too.
Her stomach clenched as the voice in the depths of her mind resumed its chorus: Monster… monster… monster…
10
Jack
He opened his eyes to the dull glow of cold morning light, a warped window by his face. Where in the hells was he? A bed’s canopy hung over him, earthy-brown and dusty. When he tried to move his arms, pain lacerated him. He was trapped in his own shattered body.
To his right, a clock stood on a bedside table. The hands didn’t move.
Please, gods, don’t leave me alone with my own thoughts. He tried to take in the room: the bitter smell of foxglove, an embroidered blanket. Through the window, willow branches sagged; a mourning dove cooed.
Why wasn’t he dead, suffering in Druloch’s hell? That was supposed to be his sentence. After death, his soul was condemned to one of the shadow god’s hells: nothing but unending torment and the gnawing void.
But he wasn’t in Druloch’s hell. His entire body shrieked with pain, but he was reasonably certain that hell did not look like an old woman’s bedroom.
The last thing he remembered was the Fury tearing into his abdomen while the Purgators’ temple blazed around him. How could he be alive? A spark of hope ignited. Maybe Fiona had saved him. Maybe she’d changed her mind.