73. Petra
PETRA
My father bursts into the room holding a gas lamp, my brother and a few men I don’t recognize behind him.
“He was right,” he spits out at me. “You’ve been cavorting with the devil himself!”
“What is happening, father? Why are you here—”
“Shut up! We’ve caught you red-handed.”
“I don’t understand . . .” I say and take a step back. “Who was right?”
He smirks at me, a mocking smile that sends shivers down my spine.
“Snowden sent word the other day. He told me all about Leah’s pregnancy—the fact that she’s been spoiled by the devil. He implied you were involved in this monstrous business, too. I did not believe it at first. But you have been acting strange, talking back when you haven’t before.”
He shakes his head in disgust.
“He proposed that I allow Leah to send a message to you asking for help and see what happens. He warned me not to intervene and let things play out. And oh, how they’ve played out.”
Was the entire thing a trap? I should have been more suspicious of that message considering my father never allows me to receive any type of packages directly. I should have questioned it more. It seems Snowden had more information about Arnoult and Sin than previously thought.
But how could he have suspected me of being involved with either of them?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I add in a low voice.
“Snowden is dead. His house is on fire as we speak. And you . . .” His nose wrinkles in disgust as he pushes the gas lamp farther into the room, illuminating my figure. “Blood spatters.”
I look down, my eyes widening as I note that there are, indeed, blood stains on my dress.
“Son, grab her,” he commands.
My brother comes forward, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door. I try to fight him off, but he secures both my hands behind my back like I were a goddamn convict.
“This is madness, Father. Surely you realize this—” Before the words are out of my mouth, he backhands me.
My head reels to the side, and I taste blood from my lower lip.
“Shut up, you whore!” he snarls.
“Father—”
“Take her!”
My brother pulls me into the hallway, following my father and the other men.
Good Lord, this is really happening!
“Sin,” I whisper, though it’s in vain. I know he cannot hear me. He’s probably busy looking for Arnoult. But once he’s done, he will come for me, right?
That means I must hold out until he finds me. I must—
The other men are a small distance behind us when we reach the top of the stairs. Seeing a small opening, I push into my brother. His back hits the balustrade, and he winces in pain, momentarily letting go of me.
If I run fast enough, perhaps I can get away.
I pivot toward the stairs at the same time as my brother grabs my skirt, holding on to me. I slap his hands aside, but then he reaches for my sleeves, at which point I bite his hand. Hard.
He lets out a loud yelp, and instinctively, he slaps me. I don’t think he realizes his own strength because I momentarily see stars. My feet teeter at the top of the stairs, and my sense of balance becomes nonexistent.
His eyes widen in realization—or I think they do. I cannot be sure what happens in that split second after he slaps me except that I’m falling.
My body hits the first steps, the hard wood digging into my flesh and bones. My mouth opens on a soundless moan of pain.
I roll over, and the pain multiplies as my body hits the steps again and again. My breath is knocked out of me. I can no longer tell what’s happening around me except for the fact that at one point, I’ve stopped moving.
I’m on the ground, at the bottom of the stairs, my body broken and bent out of place. My neck feels stiff, and I cannot move it. But it’s my legs that are the worst. One of them is broken beneath me, and every little movement makes me want to howl in pain.
I’ve been wailing, I realize. For moments on end, I’ve been crying out in pain from my injuries, until my throat is too sore to make any more sound.
“Fucking hell, boy! What did you do?” Father sputters.
“I didn’t, Father! She bit me!”
“Is she dead? She’s not crying anymore.”
The voices are getting closer, followed by thudding footsteps on the stairs.
“She’s not dead. Not yet.”
“Good.”
What does he mean good? Wasn’t that his goal? Kill me for cavorting with the devil?
“Get her to the horse.”
“She’s bleeding, Father.”
Am I bleeding? I can’t feel it. Everything hurts so badly I can’t pinpoint one exact spot that might be worse off than the rest. But given the position of my body, the fact that I cannot seem to move well, I can infer that the damage is great.
Even if they don’t kill me tonight . . .
I choke on a sob.
Even if I don’t die tonight, I don’t think I will ever be the same.
“I don’t care. Move her,” my father says flippantly.
From the corner of my eye, I see the lot of them gathered around me like it’s a sick spectacle. They’re watching over me, bleeding on the floor, body broken, with no compassion.
There is only a malicious glint in their eyes.
“She might die on the way. I think we should call a physician,” my brother mentions in a low voice.
“And say what? That you threw your sister down the stairs? You’d be branded a murderer!”
“But—”
“Even if she dies on the way, we can still use her.”
Use me? Terror engulfs me at my father’s words. And somehow the notion that he might use me is more terrifying than this gut-wrenching pain I’m feeling right now.
I blink. Tears gather around my eyes, but I still cannot move my neck. I can only stare at these figures looming over me, casually debating what to do with my dying body.
“But she won’t be able to stand straight.” The voice is unknown—another of the men present.
Why would they need me to stand straight?
“We will manage once we get there. By now, everyone must know about Snowden’s passing.
The people of this town must be terrified that the devil is out and about, lurking in the shadows, ready to murder the best of us.
We cannot allow that,” my father intones.
“We need to let them know they are safe.”
More confusion clouds my mind. What is he talking about? What does he want to do?
My father turns with a harsh stare toward my brother.
“Grab her. Take her to the horse. The crowd is awaiting.”
Crowd? What crowd?
I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. My fate seems to be decided; I won’t have much longer. But the thought that they will use me for something . . . to prove a point, scares me more than anything.
And then there’s the thought of Sin.
Does he know? Can he feel my anguish, my pain? Why is he not here?
He’s helping his friend, I tell myself. It’s not his fault that this happened. It’s only my fault for not agreeing to flee with him when he asked.
I gulp down. There is a metallic taste in the back of my throat—blood.
What does that mean? Am I worse than I previously thought?
If I taste blood, it means there is bleeding somewhere inside of me. Fear spears through me. Perhaps if it were just my body, I could at some point heal and mend, though not to who I was before.
But if I’m bleeding on the inside? Doesn’t that mean death is near?
“I don’t want to move her,” my brother comments. “It’s gross.”
“If I tell you to grab her, you will grab her,” my father raises his voice.
A few moments pass as my brother walks in circles around me, trying to find something to grab onto. At first, he pulls on my legs, and a strangled sound erupts from my throat.
It hurts.
It hurts so badly.
He shakes his head. I can’t see his expression, or the state of my lower body, but I hear a string of curses and a few mutters of disgust.
He moves to my arms, then jumps back and curses aloud.
“The bone’s sticking out,” he cries out.
That confirms more of my suspicions. I am in a bad, bad shape.
“Oh, be a man,” my father snickers.
My brother, trembling with revulsion, decides that the best way to grab me is by my hair. He wraps his fist into the back of my head, pulling me toward the door.
My mouth parts, and I let out a few barely audible moans of pain. He turns his back to me as if looking at my face while he’s dragging me by the hair offends him.
There are a few bumps as he drags me out of the house, all of which only amplify my pain. At some point, my mind becomes foggy. The next time I recover consciousness is while I’m strapped onto a horse like a piece of cattle.
The horse starts with a slow walk, though each step sends a fresh new wave of pain through my body. But then it goes into a full gallop, and the pain intensifies to such an extent, I struggle to keep myself awake.
I’m in and out of consciousness, though I force myself to bear it as much as I can, fight against the weakness of my body while I count down the minutes.
Please be fast, Sin. I’m waiting for you.
He’s going to come. I know it. I trust him.
We walk for what seems like forever through the dead silence of the night. Yet at some point, something changes. I hear voices—many of them.
Some are louder than others. Some are shouting. From my position on the horse, I cannot quite see far ahead, but as the noises intensify, I realize we’ve reached an area of town that is very poor.
The horses trot on, slowing down as a crowd of people parts to let them through. I only see some of them. Though it is dark, I recognize faces—people from our congregation, from our church.
But why would they be here at this late hour of the night? Why would they be gathered?
My train of thought is stopped by the sudden halt of the horse. My brother gets off and, not too carefully, pulls me down. I fall to the ground. Pain unlike any I’ve ever known shoots through me, and I teeter on the edge of blacking out.
The crowd cheers.
What is happening?
Once more, he grabs hold of my hair and drags me forward, this time through the harsh, uneven, and pebbled road. More pain. So much pain that I think I’ve become numb to it. I just lie there, conscious enough to know it’s happening, but far too helpless to do anything about it.