Once she’d gotten Maria settled, Roz puttered about the apartment, putting off the moment she went to bed. She was quite aware of why she was reluctant; the dream hovered on the edge of her consciousness. It didn’t come to her often now, only when she was tired or stressed. She blamed the damn cat—she’d known as soon as she’d seen Asmodai’s sidekick, Shera, in her kitty-cat form tonight that the demon wouldn’t be far behind. Ample cause to give anyone nightmares. Sure enough, as soon as her head hit the pillow she was dragged back to that long ago night…
Her mind refused to function. This wasn’t real. Her mother couldn’t be dead. But outside, the screams of agony had died to nothing. Through the high window, Rosamund could see the flicker of the flames against the darkness, hear their crackle over the mob’s cries. The sickly-sweet stench of roasting flesh drifted through the air. She gagged then rolled onto her hands and knees on the bare earth floor and retched. Her stomach was empty and the foul taste of bile burned the back of her throat.
Her strength was almost gone, eroded over the days of torture and the never-ending questions. But she dragged herself to her feet, leaning against the rough wall. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes and prayed for courage. Though why would God answer her prayers now? Had he listened as her mother screamed for mercy?
Gathering the last of her willpower, Rosamund pulled herself up on the bars so she could see out of the small window. It framed the village green lit by flames. She averted her gaze from where her mother’s body appeared to dance in the flickering firelight. Instead, it was drawn to the second stake. The villagers were piling brushwood around the base, pouring oil over the dry wood.
People she’d known her whole life had just murdered her mother. Now they were preparing to do the same to Rosamund. Soon they would come and lead her out, tie her to that stake, and watch her burn.
Since the arrest, she’d clung to the hope that this wouldn’t happen, that someone would save them, that the people would see they were mistaken and her sweet mother was innocent. That hope perished amid her mother’s screams as the flesh roasted from her body. Now hatred replaced hope, and she allowed it to saturate her mind.
Releasing her grip on the bars, she dropped to the floor, her legs giving way so she collapsed to her knees. Her breaths were coming short and fast, panic threatening to overtake her. She slowed her breathing, clearing her mind of the fear and grief.
She’d done nothing wrong. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t. Her mother was innocent of everything they had accused her of. Her only crime: loving the wrong man, and she’d paid for that with her life.
But while her mother had been innocent of the accusations against her, Rosamund wasn’t. She didn’t know what she was. She wasn’t even sure what the word “witch” meant. Not what the ignorant villagers believed, that was for sure. Now, as she knelt in the filthy cell and waited for them to come for her—to punish her for a crime they understood no more than she did—the hunger for revenge rose inside her. Someone must pay for her mother’s death.
Something slumbered in the dark recesses of her soul, something she had always shied away from. Now she closed her eyes and focused her mind. She visualized a door, locked and bolted.
Under her breath, she began to recite the prayer that came to her mind.
“Lucifer, aid me in my hour of need…”
She woke with a start.
Stumbling to her feet, she crossed the room to where she’d left the file, needing something to distract her from the memories. She carried it back to bed with her, pulled out the photograph, and slid her fingertip over the young girl’s face, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Fear filled her mind. For a moment, she fought the sensation, then she closed her eyes and let it take her.
Terror saturated her every cell.
She was naked, but hot as though in a fever. Her throat ached where the monster had bitten her. Now he was back and panic clawed at her insides.
Frantically, she tried to scramble back. His harsh laughter filled the room as a hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her toward him.
A whimper escaped her throat, and her heart fluttered as though trying to break free.
He licked up her leg almost as she’d imagine a lover would caress her. Then teeth sank into the flesh of her inner thigh, and she felt the spurt of her lifeblood. He drank greedily, sucking, swallowing, and for a brief while, her panic and fear faded. No pain. Just a tugging that pulled at places deep within her body, and the vague sadness that her life was draining away.
When he’d finished, he raised his head. Her vision was fading to blackness as she stared into his handsome face…
She recognized that face—the man from the convent. Jack.
A touch on her arm dragged her back to her own body. Roz sat up abruptly. The lamp was on, casting a crimson pool of light, illuminating the man who sat in the chair beside her bed. Although “man” was hardly the right word to describe him. Lucifer might not have answered her call all those years ago, but she’d gotten the next best thing.