All eyes fell upon the knight.
“Trey?”
There was quiet for a time, everyone staring expectantly at the young, armoured man who himself had attention only for one—for Adnihilo. The half-blood was staring back, but his face had changed over the course of the exchange. His hollow cheeks seemed softer now, wet with tears and filled with a shame that he was desperate to yet dared not speak of. And so they remained silent, each chewing his tongue or gnawing his lips or dipping his eyes to the floor and up again until finally the knight answered. It was a stiff, strained, “Yes… Your Grace.”
And that was it for their visit with the saint. He prattled on about confession to God while Ba’al put on a smile wider than the Walls of Barzakh. Jezebel took little in. Her head was reeling trying to understand the subtle discomforts surfacing on the knight’s face. The lie had left a sour taste in his mouth, she could tell, but he let the deceit carry on to its conclusion: the pastor’s son and even the Impii half-breed could be saved, though the witch was beyond grace. It would be the stake for her, determined Saint Paul on Ba’al’s recommendation. The bishop would hear the pagan’s final words while Trey escorted Paul to arrange the preparations.
The two men were gone when the bishop addressed her again. “Did you get all that?” he said. He waited for Jezebel to nod before continuing, “Good. Congratulations witch. You’re the first sinner to be baptized by fire since Gracious banned the practice two thousand years ago—damn milksop wasn’t man enough to handle burning his brother’s family. So, how does it feel to be the whore who allured our saint into breaking his holy oath? I hope it feels good. People are going to be flogged in the streets for missing this, you know.”
“What’s going to happen to Adnihilo and Adam?”
Ba’al rolled his eyes, reached into robes, then scowled at the packed earth. “I thought you were listening. They’re going with me on mission to Gautama.”
“What is that?”
“Not ‘what,’ you dumb whore. ‘Where.’” He dug further into the folds of his cassock, pulled out a smoky flask, and said, “You should be more worried about yourself. Where we’re going is a lot better than Hell.” Then he smirked and bit the cork from the bottle. It was clear glass filled with a black, viscous fluid that sloshed unnaturally as he took a swig. His lips were left blue, his teeth the shade of ink, and his tongue like a slug—slothful and slimy. “Drink up. Burning is an awful way to go.”
Jezebel stuck her nose over the bottle and recoiled, the stench of spoiled eggs lingering like flames, her face wrinkled at the flask as asked him, “What is it? Will it help with the pain?”
Ba’al grinned bigger. His tone became serious but his lips playful. “Are you sure you want to know?” He did not wait for an answer. “It’s the same stuff souls are made from.”
She stared at him, incredulous.
“So, do you want some or not?”
It’s poison, she thought, resting her bottom lip on the glass rim while the bishop poured. Slowly, angrily, the fluid oozed into her mouth and down her throat. Its texture was fire, its odor smoke, and its taste a strange, smoldered flesh. She wanted to retch, yet instead she suckled the ichor like a woman possessed until the flask ran empty and she found herself hacking black phlegm onto the floor.
“Do you have any last words?” the bishop asked her.
She tried to look up, but her head would only hang from her shoulders. Her tongue was numb, as were her cheeks and her throat—the sensation spreading fast into the depths of her lungs. “Adnihilo…Adam…I’m sorry.”
Those were her final words, the last sounds she’d heard that weren’t drown out by her heart’s pounding—so loud, it was deafening. And her head was throbbing. With each beat, black fog formed until everything was shadow. She batted her eyes; her sight returned, then echoes. Thunder. A thousand slamming doors. Booming, membranous drums. She blinked again then awoke alone in the dungeon. Only she was not alone. The clambering of chains warned her of others fast approaching. From the corridor, a dim, orange glow poured into the chamber. Then the door flew open, and in came a pair of snickering demons, swart-furred and ebon-skinned with tusks and talons and the seeming of dead men—of Cain and David.
Jezebel trembled as they entered the chamber. It was all she could do: shake and beg and pray for her body to move as the creatures loosened her fetters and fit her with new chains. She strained against them in vain, her arms like dead weights, her legs taking course on their own toward the corridor. And every step of the way she felt the claws of her escorts tickle her back, her thighs, her shoulders, her neck; all the while they laughed with familiar voices. But it was not long before they were through the door where the orange light burned brighter—blinded her—yet Jezebel could not stop for fear of the demons’ harry. Even as the floor morphed from cold dirt to hot sand, and as its climb soared higher, she dared not turn back. Yet there was no looking ahead, so intense was the light and the heat so torrid. Sweat sizzled where it dripped. Her feet seared and blistered. And the air lay thick, stinking of flowers and bodies and animals.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!” called out a thousand fervent voices.
Jezebel recoiled, but there was nowhere to run.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!” they wailed again with a sweltering wind, like the breath of a dragon.
Then suddenly, the singer’s strength returned to her, and she spun on her heels, ready to flee from the screaming choir and the black pastor and the sacrificial demon—yet they were gone, vanished—and
