Free The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson Page B

her modesty, a few of the bolder men jeered. “Harlot! Whore!”
    “And who might she be?” Anna pointed as the apostle carried the figure toward the roaring flames.
    “That’s Jael,” said Immanuelle, and she shuddered when she said the name, remembering the wretched creature she’d encountered in the Darkwood days before. “The second Lover.”
    “Aye,” said Anna, and her lip curled in disgust. “That’s her. And she’s a mean one too. Wicked and cunning like the Dark Mother Herself.” She snaked out a hand to tickle Honor’s belly. The girl shrieked and giggled, kicking her legs beneath the table, the plates and cups jumping a bit when her boot struck its leg.
    The third witch followed. She wore a dress not so unlike Immanuelle’s, only her bodice was stuffed with straw to emulate the swell of a pregnant woman’s belly.
    “Delilah,” said Martha. “Witch of the Water. Hell’s own whore.”
    It was Ezra who carried the last witch, bearing her on an iron cross. The figure was twice the size of the others, and she was naked, her body a thatch-work of birch branches. The arms of a sapling twisted from either side of her head, forming a rack of antlers.
    Anna didn’t say her name out loud, though she cheered when Ezra carried her near. But Glory and Honor fell silent in her wake, cringing a little as the shadow of the last witch slipped past them.
    Her name surfaced from the depths of Immanuelle’s mind: Lilith. First daughter of the Dark Mother. Witch Queen of the Woodland who reigned in wrath, slaying any and all who opposed her.
    Each of the apostles raised his witch overhead and staked her deep into the soil, so that the figures stood upright on their iron crosses. The Prophet raised his torch, a flaming branch nearly as long as Immanuelle was tall. Then he moved it to the witches, lighting each of them in turn. The Lovers, Jael and Mercy, first, then the Witch of the Water, Delilah.
    Immanuelle tasted something sour at the back of her throat, and her stomach twisted. The sound of blood pounding through her ears briefly drowned out the jeering crowds.
    Lilith was the last witch to burn that night, and the Prophet made the most of the moment. He raised his blazing branch high above his head and thrust it between her horns, the way one might wield a sword. His eyes held the glow of the torch flame, the embers seeming to spark in the pits of his pupils.
    In silence, Immanuelle watched Lilith burn, watched the flames chew her up and swallow her, even as the rest of the guests returned to their food and chatter. She watched the witches burn until the fires died and Lilith’s blackened bones were the only thing that remained, smoking on the arms of the iron cross.
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    IMMANUELLE FLED THE feast, her belly warmed by barley wine, her head thick. She passed children running rings around the charred remains of the witch pyres, hollering hymns above the music of the fiddler. She passed Leah and the Prophet and the throng of his other wives. She passed the Moores unseen.
    Immanuelle staggered around the cathedral to the graveyard behind it. There, she broke to her knees and heaved, retching barley wine into the thicket. She pushed to her feet, dizzy, took a fewsteps forward, and heaved again. Her sick splattered a nearby tombstone and seeped, reeking, into the dirt.
    Shaking despite the summer heat, Immanuelle breathed deeply to steady herself and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
    She had been foolish to think she could banish the memory of the witches. What she’d seen in the woods that day was real. The Lovers weren’t passing figments. They’d been flesh and blood, as real as she was. The journal, the letters, the forbidden forest—none of it would leave her, and she couldn’t leave it. No amount of prayer or penance would banish it.
    What she’d seen in the woods had become a part of her . . . and it was a part of her that she knew she needed to kill, and quickly.
    Pushing herself off the ground,