Chapter 38 #2
Whatever it costs. Even if it ends.
“I understand,” she says. “Let’s begin.”
Mallory watches the flames from far away, as if she’s stumbled into another dream.
She stands alongside Ezra on the rock-crusted shore while the women tend the fire, smoke billowing behind the green cottage.
“Did you ever think it would end like this?” he asks.
She looks at him, suddenly reminded of their secret meetings in the theater after dark. Nights when she would fight with the muscles in her fingers, desperate to reach out and touch him.
One of my favorite things about rehearsals, Ezra said one evening, is that nothing ever happens the same way twice. You can never re-create an exact performance; once you live it, it’s gone.
That’s kind of depressing, she answered, staring at him over the flame.
It can be, Ezra mused. Or it can be inspiring. Maybe even hopeful. I mean, that’s everything else, too, right? Nothing happens the same way twice. So, you have to pay attention. ’Cause it’s never gonna be like that again.
Mallory stares at him now, all tangled hair and blood-tinged lips. “Are you really sure you want to do this?” she whispers.
Ezra nods with the faintest tilt of his head. Something splinters inside her at the gesture, and she moves without thinking, flinging her arms around him.
He hesitates only a moment before gathering her against his chest in the fierce, breathless grip of a last goodbye. It’s not an embrace punctuated by desire, but by finality. A broken boy and a broken girl on a moonlight-drenched island, a fading constellation of almost-love.
“Ezra,” Mallory breathes, face buried in his coat. “It was real for me, too.”
He presses a careful kiss to the top of her head, palms skimming her hair with precision.
“I know, Jules,” he says. “I know.”
When they pull apart, Ezra takes her hand, weaving his bloodied fingers between hers before squeezing twice in quick succession. It sends her over the edge; tears spill onto her cheeks, hot and damp.
It’s the last thing she’ll remember from him, the moment she’ll replay over and over for the rest of her life.
Ezra drops her hand and walks toward the fire. He doesn’t look back.
When the door opens again, one of the women in white is carrying Saskia, another trailing close behind.
“Come,” the second woman says. “You can help.”
Mallory nods, falling into place as they walk behind the cottage to the bonfire.
A few other women are throwing twigs into the smoke.
Dried flowers. Small bits of bone. Another woman in white has fashioned two circles on either side of the flames with stones.
Saskia’s motionless body is laid into one; Ezra moves into the other.
Mallory watches as he stares at the sky for a long moment before shutting his eyes.
It’s a careful, precise action. He knows he won’t open them again.
Swallowing a sob, she studies Saskia; her eyes are wide but unseeing. Her breathing is shallow. She’s a husk of the person Mallory saw just this morning.
“Here,” one of the women says, offering Mallory a crown of flowers before taking her hand. “We’ll be stronger with you.”
They join the circle around the fire, everyone wearing floral headpieces with twigs and leaves. Penelope stands in the middle, the bridge between Ezra and Saskia.
Then, they start to move, slowly at first, before picking up pace, circling the three figures while Penelope chants in a language Mallory has never heard before. Mallory struggles to keep up; the autumn air bites her cheeks as she runs with the other women, all of them humming in unison—
Until Penelope’s alto is drowned by a terrible snarling. The growl rattles low in Mallory’s skull, forming words.
Such a foolish, selfish girl.
Mallory gasps at the sound of the Blood Angel’s voice. The same voice she’s heard spilling from Ezra’s mouth. Only now, it’s in the air. On the wind. Pounding violently inside her ears.
Inside her.
Don’t you realize, the Blood Angel hisses, that you can’t defeat me? You can only quiet me. I will linger in your dreams. In your bones. You will never be free of me.
Bile churns inside her. “No—”
But first, the angel purrs, you will witness my wrath.
Before Mallory can process what’s happening, Ezra starts convulsing, like he’s having a seizure, dark red blood spilling from his mouth.
Mallory screams, ankles knotting together, forcing her to stumble.
One of the women pulls her up without breaking stride, just as Ezra starts twisting against the ground.
Limbs breaking. Snapping. As if his entire body is stretching to create a cavern wide enough for both forces of energy, but there simply isn’t enough space.
“Stop,” Mallory begs the voice in her ears. Nausea overtakes her as the world becomes a blur. “You’re hurting him. Please—”
You should have given me what’s mine, the angel taunts. Now his blood is on your hands.
Mallory rips herself free from the circle, crashing to the switchgrass below. The other women keep moving, becoming a streak of white around her. She barely notices.
Because blood is dripping from Ezra’s eyes now. His nose, his ears. His whole perfect, beautiful face, covered in the darkest red. Across the fire, Saskia somehow looks even paler, eyes milky white and soulless. Her body remains rigid, like it’s practicing to become a corpse.
Mallory cries out their names and fleetingly wonders if she’s made a horrible mistake. If she’s about to lose them both. If she offered her heart to the creature right now, would there even be anything left?
The angel cackles in her skull, as though he can sense her growing capitulation. Do you know what it’s like to live with regret, pretty thing?
Then, as if pulled by marionette strings, Ezra’s entire body rises, spine arching.
Mallory’s scream turns to a wail. Watching Ezra die like this is worse than Lily’s garish voice, worse than dozens of hungry ravens pecking at her flesh.
She wants to run to him, wants to hold him against her, keep him still and quiet until he’s asleep in her arms. And just as she’s about to dissolve into terrified sobs, her gaze sharpens at the weathered book resting at Penelope’s feet.
The Book of Angels. The one Ezra told them to burn to put an end to everything.