Trial by Fire

Gideon took the steps in his father’s keep two at a time. The Danforth Keep, much like the Citadel, had been built hundreds of years ago when the first witches rose from their pyres after the Salem Witch Trials and took over the continent. If only the witches had been hanged and not burned, they would have been wiped out, but apparently the constables of Salem hadn’t known that a rare breed of witches known as firewalkers had recently emerged. Since Carrick had explained to him how parallel universes worked, Gideon had often wondered what his world would have been like if that one choice, burning over hanging, had been made differently.

Gideon had been rushing since he got the message. The Danforth Keep was on the opposite end of Salem, as far away from the Citadel as one could get without breaching the city walls. And he’d had to traverse the city at first light, when every greentower was undergoing preparation to capture the scant hours of sunlight left during the autumn months. The traffic was murder, but unfortunately, there was no way to bring Danforth closer to the Citadel.

His father’s keep had been originally built to protect the Danforth family from the witches, and then later when witches and mechanics were found in the Danforth line, it became a satellite to the Citadel on the other side of town. It was widely know that Gideon’s ancestor, the original Thomas Danforth, had been the judge who’d sent half of Salem to the pyre. Gideon supposed that his father, the current Thomas Danforth, was not so different in temperament from his predecessor. Since the trials, hanging had become the customary way to execute all enemies of the Witch State, and many in Salem had dangled because of Thomas’s dedication to rooting out the scientist heretics for the Lady of Salem.

Gideon had gotten word from Carrick that his father wanted him to come directly to the dungeons, and Gideon shivered as he descended the many steps. He hated how medieval it was down there, but he knew that the cold and dark were necessary to deplete a witch. Even the solid stone construction served a purpose, no matter how ghastly it looked in the pale glow of magelight. The naturally occurring stone of the area, good old granite, had a hefty dose of quartz crystal in it. The single, clock-like vibration of quartz acted as a buffer from the varied and mutable vibrations created in willstones. If the walls of granite were thick enough, they could keep a witch protected from the magic of another—or keep her cut off from the outside. A witch could still do magic inside a granite keep, but it was nearly impossible for her spells to penetrate its walls.

At least, usually it was. Gideon knew that a witch as powerful as Lillian could do just about anything she wanted, which was why he was rushing when normally he would have waited for the greentower farmers to get where they were going before trying to brave the gridlock. His father wasn’t a mechanic. Thomas was a politician. He had no idea how powerful this Lily could potentially be.

Gideon arrived at the lowest level of the keep. He looked down and saw a slip of a witch with short, platinum-blonde hair lying on the damp floor in front of his father. Her whisper-thin dress barely kept her decent. She shivered and shook on the ground. Tears streamed from between her shut eyes. She was mostly unconscious, but still crying in agony. Gideon had to look closely to recognize her face, but the angular features, alabaster skin, and those heart-shaped lips that were so like Juliet’s were exactly the same. She was Lillian, but not Lillian. Carrick stood over her with something gleaming in the palm of his hand. Gideon froze when he realized what he was holding.

“You’ll kill her.” Gideon strode forward and offered his handkerchief. “At least put them in silk.”