Chapter 56
Fifty-Six
Sorcha
The next morning dawned bright and clear. I sent a pigeon to Neal, telling him we were alright and sharing a few brief notes Ansel had shared the night prior. Someone was at the door to fetch us for breakfast at seven.
The dining room was stiff, spartan, and oddly formal—especially since the only food provided were thin bowls of gruel and overly fatty plates of half-burnt bacon. I thought back to the pig carcasses Ansel had mentioned the night before and shuddered. Were we eating the sigil-branded animals?
The young woman with cancer—Jenny—threw herself at me the moment we reached the dining room, bawling.
“What’s wrong?” I asked softly, pulling the girl aside.
“It didn’t work, Miss Sally,” Jenny sobbed.
“What didn’t work?” I pressed. Ansel nodded approvingly as I played dumb. We knew, of course, but Jenny couldn’t know that. There was trust to be built, more to be learned.
“The ritual last night,” Jenny cried. “Mr. George promised. He said for sure it would help. Amos was so certain but . . .”
She trailed off, pulled back the neck of her tired, cotton wrapper, and revealed red, weeping welts along her breast. I just shot Ansel a worried glance and held the girl as she cried.
It wasn’t long before George came up from the kitchen and gestured for everyone to sit.
Jenny was still sniffling. Ezra sat stiff as a board beside her, expression unreadable.
It wasn’t five minutes before I realized several of the cultists weren’t feeding themselves, rather relying on their neighbors to get food to mouth.
I glanced down. Some of their hands were clearly shaking while others had fingers that looked blue white and withered like they’d gone too long without circulation. Nobody batted an eye.
Then about halfway through the meal one of the old men in rough clothing began coughing blood into his napkin, barely stopping in his conversation with the two teenaged boys across the table from him. A nod from George and the old man got a stack of ten more napkins dropped beside his plate.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” George muttered, entirely nonchalant.
I managed all of three bites before my stomach had other plans. I fought down the inevitable retching.
“Just excuse yourself,” Ansel murmured.
A young woman in an oddly expensive dress sat opposite us, talking blithely to the older woman beside her as a rivulet of blood dripped from her ear to pool in the hollow of her clavicle.
I realized abruptly any battle against emptying my stomach was already lost and got to my feet to at least go vomit in private. Instantly the room froze. The few hushed conversations stopped. Nobody took a bite or a sip.
“We do not leave table,” George said curtly.
“She’s taken ill,” Ansel put in.
“That does not matter,” George insisted. “You will sit down.”
So I swallowed hard, sank back into my chair, and moments later vomited onto the floor beside my seat.
Still no blood. I could only assume that was from the lead shielding built into the floor below that Ansel had mentioned the night before.
And like Jenny’s tears, like the people unable to feed themselves, like the man coughing blood and the woman with it trickling from her ear, no one commented. Not a word.
“You may have noticed that we are an unusually quiet group this morning,” George said after a time, “which is in large part due to our failed ritual last night.”
The room quieted.
Jenny sank lower in her seat, flushing scarlet. Ezra glared.
“Which is why today I thought it might be important to remind you how this little arrangement works.” George stood now and began pacing the width of the dining room, heels clicking.
“You are here because you need something. And these generous portal spirits are willing to provide it.” He paused. “If you believe they can. And what do we think the problem was last night?”
He glared at Jenny. The young girl sank even lower in her seat, like she was trying to disappear beneath the stark white table and dissolve into the floor below.
“You were a skeptic from the start, Miss Ellington,” George said.
“Amos was a true believer. Ezra as well, I like to think. But Amos proved it last night. And all for nothing. Young life snuffed out. Power wasted. All because you couldn’t convince yourself this was real.
But let me remind you, Miss Ellington, that we have known for millennia that proper power comes from blood sacrifice.
Not hard work. Not connections. Not new-fangled technology.
No, those are the lies of modernity. This work we are doing here?
This ritual? The shedding of blood in exchange for the fulfillment of dreams?
That is the backbone of human civilization.
Consider the Aztecs. Consider the ancient Hebrews.
Consider the very Eucharist of our dear brothers and sisters across the water in Ireland and in France.
And your doubt, Miss Ellington? Nearly proved it false. ”
And with that George crossed the room and dragged Jenny out of her chair, hand fisted in the front of her dress. The girl was shaking, eyes cast down.
“And for that you shall suffer, Miss Ellington,” he said, then punched her hard in the stomach.
Jenny doubled over, clutching her middle, gagging up blood.
Red stains blossomed on her chest as the jolt opened up the cancerous wounds there.
I gasped, and Ansel grabbed my wrist hard to stop me from intervening.
No one else said a word. No one else did a thing. Not even Ezra. George shoved Jenny down to her hands and knees.
“Perhaps next time you will have improved your disposition to the supernatural,” he said. “If you merit a next time.”
And then nothing more. Slowly, conversation resumed, with the young woman still there on the floor, spitting blood on the whitewashed boards.