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  “A soft-hearted woman,” Winthrop added as the guard walked toward the steps. He turned to Muldoon. “You are a true citizen. I bow to your strength and courage.”

  Beck rolled his eyes. He hated the religious blather.

  Blackthorn asked, “Fire or sword?”

  “I’ll burn, either way,” Muldoon mumbled.

  Father Winthrop crept to the edge of his seat. “Fire Cleanses the body and the soul only if the soul has not already fled the body.”

  Oh, please, thought Beck.

  Muldoon shuffled nervously. Thick, glassy tears were in his eyes, though none rolled down his cheeks. “I…I don’t think I can. I’ve heard the screams.”

  “Ecstasy,” Winthrop said. He nodded several times to reinforce his argument. “That is simply the soul touching God.”

  Muldoon winced. “But it sounds like it hurts so much.”

  Beck felt sympathy for the man. “Take the sword. It’ll end before you feel it. The fire will Cleanse you either way.”

  A flash of hope crossed Muldoon’s face.

  There was a shout and a scuffle from the back edge of the plaza. When Beck looked up, a dozen of Blackthorn’s blue-shirted strongmen were wrangling a feisty Earl Friend toward the dais. Earl began to scream. He knew the fire was coming to lick his flesh. And like any sane man, he wanted no part of it.

  Chapter 5: Ella

  Ella stared down at the guards, then back up at her son. William had reached the top of the wall, and he swung his boot over the ledge, struggling to find footing.

  “Keep going!” she screamed.

  Hands tugged her from the wall, and a man’s sweaty palm clamped her mouth. Her bag was ripped from her shoulder, and the contents spilled out over the grass. She attempted to fight, but the guard had a firm hold on her, and before she knew it, a knife poked against her abdomen.

  She screamed uselessly into the hand on her mouth.

  Her eyes flitted to William. He’d paused on the top of the ledge—just long enough to look back—and in that moment, she knew it was over.

  “I got him!” the second guard yelled.

  The guard leapt onto the wall; within seconds he’d made the climb. William swung his second leg over, but he was too late—the delay had cost him. The guard snagged onto his arm, and the boy cried out, pawing at the moss-covered stone.

  “Do you want to fall, boy?”

  As if to prove his point, the guard gave him a tug. William stopped squirming and looked down. He shook his head at the guard, tears welling in his eyes.

  “Climb back down then. Slowly.”

  The boy complied, and the guard ushered him to the bottom. Ella tried to run to him, but the blade dug deeper into her side—a second warning. She replayed the last few minutes in her mind, trying to pinpoint the moment everything had dissolved.

  She’d scouted the area before running to the wall. There’d been no sign of the guards. Had the men been hiding? Had they been waiting?

  The second guard stared at her with a smug expression. She turned her head, catching a glimpse of the guard behind her.

  Of course they’d known they were coming—maybe not Ella and William, perhaps, but someone. Although she didn’t recognize the men, they looked about Ella’s age. If she’d known about this section of the wall, then it was a safe bet they did, too.

  She’d been stupid to come here.

  Although she’d never been told the details of another’s capture, she could assume they’d fallen into the same trap. No one had ever gotten away from town. At least that’s what everybody said.

  Why did she think she’d be any different?

  She closed her eyes, trying to eliminate the false steps she’d taken. If she could do it over, she’d go toward the creek, or the river, or the mountains. There had to be places where the wall had crumbled. Maybe she could’ve even crossed the river.

  Any border would’ve been better than here.

  She was snapped to attention by rough hands on her dress. The first guard threw her to the ground, and the impact stung her knees. For the first time, she got a good look at the man that’d been holding her—gaunt cheeks, several day’s stubble, and stained, smiling teeth.

  “What’re you fleeing for? You don’t look infected.”

  Ella said nothing.

  “She looks fine to me,” the second guard said. “Better than fine, actually.”

  Ella glared at them, trying to regain her footing, but the second guard poked William with his knife. “Don’t even try it,” he said.

  Ella dug her fingers into the ground, trying to control her emotions. First the Cleansings, then Ethan, and now this. How much could she take? How much could William?

  “Mom?” William whimpered.

  “It’s okay, honey.”

  “No, it’s not,” the second guard said.

  She gritted her teeth, trying to make her heart harden. Of all the bullshit and lies the Elders spread, maybe that was the one lesson worth learning.

  How could someone hurt her, if she couldn’t feel pain?

  The first guard crouched next to her, spinning his knife in his hands. His eyes wandered from her face to her dress, and she could read his thoughts as if she’d had them herself.

  These men had rules to follow, but what was stopping them from breaking those rules?

  Who would believe a traitor’s accusations?

  Ella inched away from the men, trying to keep the attention on her. Trying to keep them away from William. The boy watched, and she could see the panic in his eyes.

  “We’re not infected,” Ella pleaded.

  “Then why are you running?” the first guard asked.

  “We owe a debt to one of the merchants in town. He said he’d collect it after The Cleansing, and we don’t have the money to pay him.”

  The guards were silent for a second. They exchanged glances.

  It was a story that happened often, and one that rarely ended well. Usually the merchants would take out their debts in other ways—often by violence or sexual servitude, if the debtor were a woman of age—and the law allowed it.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Ella said. “You can Cleanse me, if you want—both of you. But afterward, you have to promise to let us go.”

  The guards looked at each other, as if they’d never heard the offer before. Ella couldn’t imagine no one had ever attempted to bribe them. She’d heard the unclean ones say almost everything, when the pyre was lit and the guards were shuffling them toward the flames.

  She moved her hand from the ground to her knee, purposely knocking away the ripped fold of her skirt, swallowing the sick feeling inside her.

  The guard on the ground smirked, and his cheeks puffed in and out with excitement. “Okay,” he said. He looked at the other guard, but the man had no objections.

  The first guard moved toward her, relaxing his grip on the knife. William stared at them, his eyes wide.

  “Wait,” she said, holding up a finger.

  “What is it?”

  She pointed to a distant building, across the field. Then she let her eyes wander back to William. The guard nodded that he understood.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  The guard helped Ella to her feet, this time with a little more care, and she walked in front of him, still cognizant of the blade pressed against her back. The wind ruffled her skirt, and she held it in place, trying to preserve her last moments of dignity.

  As they walked, she tried to envision a scenario that would interrupt the one she’d created. Maybe an unclean resident would run for the wall. Maybe another guard would take pity on them. Something. Anything.

  The field before them was wide and vacant, and the buildings in the distance seemed as uninhabited as before. There was
no sign of help. Anyone they ran into would probably make things worse—insisting they be taken to The Cleansing.

  They’d probably be taken there anyway, once the guards were through.

  All Ella had bought was time. Nothing more.

  The knowledge hit her like a fist to the stomach, and suddenly she was crying, unable to hold back the tears.

  “Keep moving,” the guard behind her grunted, his courtesy waning.

  She stifled her sobs, peering over her shoulder at William. The boy was following along, watching his feet. He was mumbling. She wondered if he knew what was coming.

  Or was he having delusions again?

  In some small way, she hoped that his head was somewhere else; that he’d be spared the memory of what was going to happen.

  They left the shelter of the trees and entered the sunlit field. Ella tried to take in the moment, knowing the minutes to follow would be much worse. There were a lot of things that could be survived and forgotten, but this wouldn’t be one of them. They reached the nearest building, and the knife receded from her back.

  “Stay here, or we’ll kill the boy,” the guard said.

  The guard walked out in front of her, peering into the decrepit building. The walls were filled with gaping holes, but the rooms were dark, and she could see little of the interior. A fitting place for such a vile act.

  When he was satisfied the building was vacant, the guard looked at his friend.

  “I’ll go first,” he said simply, as if they were setting up for a pig-pull, rather than stripping a woman of her decency.

  The other guard nodded, and the first man pulled her into the building. She fought the urge to look back at her son. She couldn’t meet William’s eyes. Not now.

  She stepped into the darkness, taking in the shapes and outlines of things she didn’t recognize. Before she could make them out, the man grabbed hold of her arms. The stink of alcohol filled the air. She hadn’t realized the guard was drunk before. Perhaps that was why he’d agreed to the proposal.

  “Wait a second,” she whispered, her pulse beating so fast she could barely think.

  “What is it?”

  He paused, his hands already pawing at her dress, his breath so bad she thought she’d vomit.

  “Let me undo it. I don’t want to rip the dress; it’s the only one I have.”

  “Okay.”

  He let go of her, and suddenly she was free—mercifully free—if only for a few seconds. She searched for the buttons on her back, groping in the dark, feeling sick and nervous and angry. Her fingers trembled. She’d undressed a million times before, and now she could barely get her hands to cooperate.

  It’d been over a year since she’d been with a man.

  Of course, that was with Ethan.

  But the guard in front of her wasn’t a man, she reminded herself. He was a monster, as vile and corrupt as the others in town. The ones who’d burned her husband, and who’d burn her son, too, if she’d let them.

  This was the last thing they’d take from her. She’d see to it.

  She undid the top button, feeling the fabric loosen around her neck and shoulders. The man breathed harder. She reached up to shed the garment, crying as she smoothed out the ruffles. It was then that she heard the commotion from outside.

  William shrieked.

  She retracted her hands, starting for the door. Before she could proceed, the guard clamped his hand around her wrist and wrenched her backward.

  “I don’t think so.” His voice was harsh and foul.

  She tried pushing him away, but he stuck the knife back under her chin. A scream lodged in her throat, and her son’s cries tore at her soul.

  “You promised,” she whispered.

  “I promised nothing.”

  “You said that you’d let us go, once I was Cleansed.”

  Her eyes had adjusted, and she could make out the sneer on the man’s face. She did her best to stay calm.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Please,” she added. “Undress me, if you want. Just don’t hurt my son.”

  She reached out for his arm, gently, pulling the man toward her. The man lowered his knife. He put his hands on her shoulders, resuming what he’d started. He slipped the top of the dress from her shoulders, and she felt it drop past her arms. She shuddered at the oily touch of his fingers.

  Before he could get any further, Ella thrust her knee into the man’s crotch.

  The guard doubled over in pain, the breath hissing out of him. She heard a small thud in the dirt—the knife—and she dropped to the ground, searching for the handle. The guard was still bent over, trying to catch his breath. She patted the ground until her hands closed around the blade. Suddenly, the knife was in her hand, the man was grabbing her, and she was thrusting it into him.

  The man let out a muted cry and fell back to the ground. Ella could feel his warm blood on her hand, but she didn’t wait around to see what she’d done. Instead, she raced through the dark room and to the entrance, darting frantically for her son.

  The daylight hit her—fast and sudden, blinding. She wiped her eyes. William was on the ground, partially disrobed. The second guard was standing over him, his blade held high in the air.

  “He’s infected!” he cried, as if the news would be a revelation to Ella.

  Ella screamed and charged.

  Before the guard could react, she barged into him with all the momentum of a mother’s rage, knocking him backward to the ground. And then she was on top of him, heaving the knife into his chest, plunging it again and again, until the blade struck bone and the man was still.

  She rolled off of him.

  “Come on!” she screamed. Without looking back, Ella grabbed William’s arm and ran for the nearby field, clutching her opened dress to her shoulders.

  Chapter 6: Minister Beck

  Beck stared across the dais at the condemned man, watching Muldoon’s final moments. Muldoon stood naked from the waist up. Father Winthrop was inspecting him.

  Careful not to touch Muldoon’ skin, Winthrop’s finger circled the smudge at the base of Muldoon’s spine. “Come closer Franklin. Get a good look at this. This is classic smudge.”

  Franklin stepped forward. Before he could get a good look, Oliver poked out from behind him. “It looks like a bruise to me.”

  “Quiet, ignorant boy,” Winthrop said, allowing his impatience with the boy to pull his temper to the surface.

  Returning to his place at the back of the dais, Oliver muttered, “Looks like he got kicked by a horse.”

  Franklin turned to Oliver and shook his head. “Don’t.”

  Muldoon remained tense, oblivious to the conversations going on around him.

  Winthrop turned in his chair. “You must learn, boy. Tormenting this strong man with your childish speculations does him no favors. You watched your own father endure the flame. You should know.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You see, Franklin, the smudge is the size of a man’s palm, and it usually appears here first. It has this bluish hue, sometimes with yellowed edges. Often, it appears on the elbows or knees, but occasionally it appears on the wrists or ankles.”

  “Why?” Franklin asked.

  “The spore seeks the stony heart to bury its roots. But the spore is not wise. Any place where a man’s bones are near the surface of the skin, the spore may settle.”

  “And the skull, too?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes, especially the skull.”

  “Why not check there first?”

  “Discolorations on the scalp are covered by the hair and near impossible to discern. We only find evidence on the skull after the spore has grown a wart.”

  “I understand.”

  “Muldoon,” Fath
er Winthrop waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “Show your smudge to General Blackthorn.”

  Muldoon shuffled to over in front of Blackthorn’s chair, stopped and turned so that Blackthorn had a good view of his back.

  “Indeed, a smudge,” said General Blackthorn. “Show Minister Beck.”

  Muldoon shuffled.

  Beck waited for Muldoon to stop and position himself.

  The smudge looked like a bruise, indeed. Beck leaned close enough to smell the man’s unwashed skin and whispered, “Take the sword, Muldoon.”

  Muldoon hesitated. “But I have a son.”

  “He will understand.”

  “He’ll think that I am weak.”

  “Are you?” Beck sat back in his chair. “Turn and face me.”

  Muldoon obeyed. He held out his arms, palms up. “I have the strength of several men, when I am doing my work.”

  “Then your son will see that strength in you. You’ve already proven your bravery by standing in front of your fellows and showing your bru— smudge. Your son will know you are brave.”

  “May I ask a favor before I go to the pyre?”

  Beck slumped in his chair. More than anything, he hated when they asked for favors. And it was always him they asked, never the others. On the rare days when a man came to the dais, pissing himself as he imagined the lick of flame on his skin, it was Winthrop who’d examine them first, always Winthrop, with his dim knowledge of anything beyond superstitions and stories. But he was the accepted expert in the ways the spore corrupted human flesh.

  Expert my ass, Beck thought. That man wouldn’t know a wart from a booger he’d dug out of his own nose.

  After Winthrop, the unclean passed to Blackthorn who never dithered. He’d glance. He’d speak four or five syllables and wave them past. So it was inevitably Beck who got asked the favors—Beck, who had the misfortune of being the last kind face they’d each see before getting escorted to the pyre.