Chapter 11 #2
Striding to the nearest guard, I snatch a flaming torch from his slack fingers. Maude’s gaze bores into me, her black, dilated pupils swallowing the light, her lips curled in that infernal grin. She hawks and spits a glob of venomous saliva that sizzles where it lands on the wood near my boots.
I shake my head, steeling my resolve, and hurl the torch into the front hay pile. Flames leap hungrily, crackling and devouring the dry straw with greedy pops. Circling behind her, I wrench another torch from a second guard’s hand and ignite the rear stack.
The fire spreads in a ring, orange tongues licking upward, smoke billowing thick and acrid into the twilight sky.
Maude throws her head back and laughs—a piercing, unearthly screech that claws at the air, echoing off the stone walls like the wail of a thousand damned souls.
The men stumble backward in unison, faces paling, torches dipping low.
Even the guards recoil, one dropping his weapon with a clatter.
Again, she unleashes that demonic caw, the sound twisting into something profane, as if the depths of hell itself are mocking us through her throat.
“This heat? Foreplay. I’m going to fuck all your husbands tonight now.
Especially your new man…” Maude looks to me, then back to the panicking crowd.
“Every prayer you ever speak will twist into blasphemy the instant it leaves your lips. Your god will hear only curses against himself, and he’ll answer by turning your tongue black and swollen until it fills your mouth like death. You’ll suffocate on your own devotion.”
The flames climb her like ravenous vines, devouring the white linen of her dress until only ragged, fiery tatters whirl about her torso. Her head lolls against the rear beam of the cross, a wet giggle leaking from her throat, unhurried and unbothered by the heat.
Mad Maude, true to her name.
The laughter from last night, the one that had slithered up the stairwell behind me after I’d left her cell, returns.
Not a whisper, not a memory. It erupts from the shadows themselves, a surround of wet, chittering mirth that circles the pyre like a pack of unseen jackals.
The crowd fractures. Men drop torches, women shriek, children are hoisted and carried off, the square emptying in a stampede of boots and skirts.
I stay and through the glare I see it: the darkness around Maude thickens, drinking the firelight, a pocket of night that refuses the blaze. It clings to her alone, a living silhouette and then disappears completely.
And then she screams.
It is not human. It is every wound ever opened, every throat ever cut, every promise ever broken, all braided into one glass-shattering wail. The sound punches the air from my lungs. I laugh, short, sharp, incredulous. She actually believed that Doubt and Desire would keep her.
Her skin blisters, splitting and running like tallow.
The scream gutters into a gurgle. Her head drops forward, neck snapped by its own weight, as the fire claims the rest of her.
The heat presses through my jerkin, a lover’s palm against my chest and I breathe it in: scorched hair, fat, wool, sin. A sweet, cloying incense.
Euphoria blooms under my ribs, light and vicious.
The world narrows to the pyre, to the melting mask of her face, to the black curl of smoke rising like a genie freed from its lamp.
My pulse slows to the rhythm of the flames.
I close my eyes and feel Him settle behind them, warm, patient, and pleased.
I open my eyes and the pyre is wrong.
The body on the cross is no longer Maude’s.
It’s the scarecrow from the barley field, sacking split open, straw guts spilling like yellow entrails.
Crimson soaks the straw in thick, arterial ropes.
The flames chew through it with the same greedy crackle, but the smell is wrong: sun-baked burlap instead of flesh.
I blink and the world tilts.
The square around me has disappeared underwater. The last stragglers—three, maybe four—stand frozen mid-gesture, mouths stretched in silent howls, their torches hanging like guttering candles in a painting. No sound reaches me but the slow, syrupy thud of my own heart.
I look back.
The scarecrow is gone. In its place: Him.
Arms wrenched wide on the cross, bare chest gleaming with sweat that refuses to boil.
Fire licks the edges of his skin but never crosses the line.
He smiles, slow and fond, as if we are sharing a private joke.
His laugh rolls out, low and warm, the only sound in the hush, filling my skull like wine.
I stagger as the euphoria spikes, a bright needle behind my eyes. My mask feels suddenly too tight and I taste copper.
He tilts his head, still laughing, and the flames roar up in answer, swallowing him whole.
I wrench my gaze away. Tears stream down my face, but I can’t tell if they’re from smoke or something else, and when I dare look again, the fire exhales, and he steps through it.
He walks out of the flames as if they are silk curtains, heat rippling off his bare skin, yet the flames bow away, never quite kissing him. He stops an arm’s length from me, close enough that the scent of smoke and something darker, fills my lungs.
“Hello, my love.”
The voice hits like a tremor through my chest. I gasp.
He circles me slowly, unhurried, the firelight sliding across his skin. “It’s so nice to finally stand before you… and speak.”
That voice—it’s smooth and magnetic. Every syllable coils around me and I want more. I need more.
“You’ve been such a good girl for me,” he murmurs. “For us. And now… you can have me. But not all of me. Not yet.”
My heart slams against my ribs, sweat beads at my temples and my breath comes ragged and deep. The fire still roars, yet everything beyond it is silent, frozen—time itself holds its breath.
“What magic is this?” I whisper. “Who are you?”
He turns toward the stake, crouching beside what’s left of Maude; her bones have crumbled into ash, the fire licking at them like a final kiss.
How long have we been here? Bones don’t burn to dust that fast.
He stands and crushes a bone in his hand, watching the ash fall from his hand as he runs his other hand through his long, black hair. He faces me again.
“You can call me… Gray.”
Like ash. Like death.
He bows slightly, a courtly gesture that looks almost mocking, then straightens with a smile I’ve seen before—somewhere in the dark between dreams and killing.
“Gray,” I breathe, only realising I’d been holding my breath when he shudders at the sound of his name.
He chuckles, stepping closer until his shadow swallows mine. “If I told you my true name, my crow, it would kill you. It’s far too old for a human tongue.”
Human.
“What are you?” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
His eyes meet mine—black, but ringed faintly in blue, like the edge of a dying flame. “I am a god.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. A god.
He tilts his head, long hair falling into his face, and smiles in a way that’s both beautiful and cruel. “A death god, Evelyn.”
The way he says my name nearly buckles my knees.
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper.
“Don’t you?” His grin fades, replaced by something quieter, colder.
“Then explain how I’m here. How you only see me when you kill.
How I stood in the forest and watched you drive your blade through an innocent man’s chest. How you found the ornament I left for you—the one you used to bleed another man dry. Tell me, Evelyn…”
He leans close, breath grazing my ear, voice a low growl. “Explain how we both get off on inflicting pain to those who deserve it?”
A shiver runs through me, every nerve awakening.
Death god.
My mouth barely forms the words. “What do you want?”
He steps back, slow and deliberate, the fire seeming to reach for him as he moves.
“I want you, Evelyn.” He’s already fading, dissolving into smoke and flame. “I need you.” His voice softens, almost tender now. “You are mine.”
Then he’s gone—swallowed by the fire.
The world exhales and sound rushes back in: wind, crackling hay, my own uneven breathing. The square is empty. No crowds. No guards. Just me, standing on a half-burned stage, ash drifting like snow. Maude’s bones lie among the embers, nothing left but shape and memory.
The fire dwindles to a soft, glowing heartbeat.
I turn to leave—and freeze.
The King is still seated in his box. A guard stands beside him. No… not a guard. The constable. Richard.
Both are staring straight at me.
Their faces are pale, their expressions unreadable—curiosity, fear, suspicion all knotted together.
Oh, no.
How long have I been standing here?
Were they watching the whole time?
What did they see?
The questions hammer through me, one after another, no answers following. A hot thread of panic curls tight in my chest.
I need to go. I need to get home.
Now.