Page 82 of Mortdale

I blew a frustrated breath, raking a slow, long look over the gardens. “The smell is gone.”

He stomped on a bit of scorched turf. “It looks like they’ve burnt the shrubs.”

He was right. The entire garden was charred. Any sort of dry, rotted vegetation from last time was gone.

As I was scanning the periphery of soot lining the rainwater-filled impluvium, I met a pair of strange eyes in the distance. Strange, but…familiar eyes.

Arthur looked around. “What is it?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. I think.” Hiding behind his arm, I took another peek at the tall man. “Who’s that?”

Arthur tried to shrug me off. “An acolyte. There’s many living in the Basilica grounds.”

He looked very familiar.

Why was he looking at me?

That’s when I spotted Gerda. Anxious and pale, she remained behind a tall column, hiding in the shadows, shivering almost as if she could feel the chilled storm air.

Carefully detaching myself from Henry and Arthur, I leaned against the column. “I haven’t seen you in a while. What are you doing here?”

Gerda pointed her head in Logan’s direction where he was in some thick discussion with the exarch. “He was in on their case. On the witches who have died.”

The shawl fell to the crook of my elbows as my arms dropped to my sides.

“He was put to investigate their deaths?”

Gerda frowned. “Investigate? No, dear girl. They’re saying he was ordered by his king to cover them up. That is why their names are nowhere to be found on any notice. Why their graves aren’t in any cemetery. He’s been making sure they vanish and leave no trace. He’s burnt every record, killed whoever had knowledge of their deaths.”

Something icy slipped in my veins, and the summer sweat covering my back made me shiver, turning me cold and clammy. “He wouldn’t do that.” Why would he do that? He loved his sister. Why would he want her death covered up?

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think.”

“He has no loyalty to the king. There is no reason for him to cover this up.”

“They also say he’s King Ulric’s bastard.” She slowly started backing away. “I am sorry.”

Cold dread covered my skin in dampness. Every thread stuck to me. Hair matted to the back of my neck.

“Are you alright, witch-woman?” Arthur asked. “Ye’ve gone deadly pale.”

Dear Goddess, no.

A golden perforated paravent separated the baptismal from the eager audience sitting in the dark nave, all holding lit candles in front of them. On the other side was a tub filled with red liquid, and on the altar stood the pulpit where the exarch would stand to perform the rites. The entire thing was beyond mechanical in spirit. Witch rituals varied, but they were all lively, filled with spontaneity, inventiveness, intimacy above all. We didn’t have spectators, only participants. Each person who stood to observe contributed to the success of the rituals. Energy was shared, chaos was shared.

“It’s not blood, just water and a red stain,” Logan said from the other side of the paravent when I hesitated at the foot of the tub.

I nodded quickly even though he probably couldn’t see me. Shedding my chemise—the last item of clothing on my body—I dipped my legs into the deep tub and sank down in the warm red liquid. When I made sure I was submerged far enough to cover my breasts, I said, “You can come now.”

His sleeves were folded back up to his elbows. Both his hands were gathered in tight fists, and I could see every thick vein bulging against his skin. Chest rising fast, he got on his knees at the other end of the tub and lifted a hand in my direction. “Come here.”

I worked a hard swallow, nearly cutting my own breath. Slowly, on still-shivering legs, I pushed forward until I stood at the edge, keeping as much of a distance from him as I could. And I knew he’d noticed it.

The exarch came to stand on the pulpit, placing a book on a wooden lectern and lifting a hand in our direction. A glint of satisfaction shone on his face. Before he started, he sent a content smirk in my husband’s direction—as if he’d finally gotten the upper hand on him. “Those who were unfortunate to not be reborn from the Ewer of Life, were also fortunate enough to be granted the mercy of our Saint Immortal Nestor, He Who Brings Life. To be reborn by his word for which he speaks through me.”

I never looked away from him. Nor did he look away from me. And as the exarch’s religious babble slowly seeped into the background, my cluttered mind tested how many thoughts it could produce per minute.

Why would he help the king cover up their deaths, his sister’s included?