Petra huddled in the corner of the carriage in a fog of pain. The wheels churning through the mud and the steady clomping of the horses did nothing to ease the driving rain’s sting. Above her, the heavens churned in revolt, the clouds heaved, lightning sparked and thunder shook the ground. The horses pulling the coach strained against the bits, pushing toward Dorrington, to find shelter from the storm, food and comfort. Petra knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. Where would Chambers take her?

Chambers rode ahead, astride a white stallion, while one henchman drove the coach. Another guy carrying a pistol rode behind. In the scuffle, someone had hit her over the head and she felt the pain with every wagon jolt. Occasionally, as she bounced along the muddy and jutted roads, Petra considered escape. The ropes around her hands and ankles wouldn’t prevent her from flinging herself out the carriage door, but then what? The henchmen would most likely pick her back up and toss her back in like a wayward sack of potatoes. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Everything jumbled together.

Closing her eyes, Petra replayed a memory in her mind: Emory falling, blood draining from his face and staining his shirt. Petra had to keep reminding herself that he couldn’t die. Probably. Yes, she’d seen him heal in minutes from a bullet wound not too many hours ago, but what if it only worked so many times? He hadn’t really explained the rules of his existence.

Where was he now? When a henchman had banged her head, she’d lost focus. Maybe just for a moment, or maybe for hours, she didn’t know. By the time her vision cleared, all she saw was the sky swimming in rain. Heaven’s rage, she thought. It was her last conscious thought for a long time.

Petra woke in the dark. As she pushed herself to her elbow, away from the hard, cold ground, her head thundered, though the whistling wind and beating rain had stopped. When her eyes adjusted to the dark she realized that she was no longer in the coach, but inside somewhere. Sitting up, she tried to register her surroundings. Dark, damp, stone walls and floors. She was in a cell identical to the one where she’d seen the gypsy. Maybe close to the torture chamber. She bit back a swell of panic, which seemed to be her go-to emotion whenever Emory wasn’t around.

Scooting across the floor so her back rested on a stone wall, Petra took stock. She felt every stone and pebble through the thin fabric of her panties, but that was the least of her pain. Her head, her arm, her belly—she ached everywhere. Pulling her knees to her chest, she rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes. Somewhere along the way she’d lost the blanket. Emory. She shivered violently in her filthy shirt, bra and panties.

If Emory couldn’t die, why hadn’t he rescued her? Where was he? What had happened to him?

When the cell door swung open with a screech, and Petra looked up, hopes raised.

Fritz stood inside the cell bearing a tray of food. Breakfast in bed, she thought. The sight and smell made her stomach roll. She wondered if Chambers had ordered the meal or if Fritz had brought it on his own. Because of his nervous twitching, she guessed the latter. Fritz kept his gaze focused on the ground; he wouldn’t look at her. He set the tray on the ground and undid a satchel he had slung over his shoulder.

“Fritz, thank you. Tell Mary thank you too,” Petra said, suspecting that Mary had made the tray. Petra braced herself against the wall so she could stand. “How did you know I was here?”

He reached into the satchel and shook out her dress. Wrinkled and dirt smudged, it was better than nudity. “Tis common knowledge.” Fritz kept his gaze over her shoulder and made the sign of the cross over his heart with one hand and handed her the dress with the other.

With a sinking feeling, Petra took the dress. “Is why I’m here common knowledge?”

“They be saying you a witch, mistress.” Fritz edged toward the door. “They’ve sent for the examiners.”

Examiners? Petra pictured the man at the DMV who gave her the driver’s test. She hugged the dress to her body.

Fritz nodded. “The ecclesiastic examiners. They’ll be bringing a witch-pricker.”

Witch-pricker?

“They’ll test my blood?”

“If ye have blood.” He looked at her then and focused on her wound. The tightness in his shoulders seemed to ease when he saw that she definitely had blood.

She touched her head and felt the dried blood in her hair. “Who sent for the examiners? Chambers?” Fritz didn’t deny it, so she continued. “But Lord Garret, he won’t let me be pricked.”

“My Lord Garret has eloped with Mistress Anne.”

The previous night swam into focus.

“They’re saying you be responsible for his enchantment.” Fritz continued, looking somber. “His marriage so shortly after his father’s death is highly irregular.”

“The Earl is dead? How?” Petra rubbed her head.

“He died in the storm at Hampton Court.”

Petra considered the news. She wanted to ask more about his death—was it an accident, did anyone suspect foul play—because she did. What if the law, whoever that was, suspected Garret, Rohan or Emory? And what if the law was Chambers until Garret returned? A chill crept through Petra. “Lord Garret falls in love and I’m to blame?”

“Yes, bewitched, miss, so it seems.” He gave her an apologetic smile and turned away, locking the door behind him.

One or maybe five hours later, a figure in a black robe and hood opened the cell door. For a wild moment, Petra had a flash of hope that the man, the same size and shape as Rohan, had come to rescue her. When the man roughly yanked her to her feet, hope died. He wasn’t Rohan in disguise. He was Chambers’ henchman.

She understood why Chambers was angry. She’d helped spoil the plot to prevent the distribution of the Bible. Maybe he held her responsible for the death of the Earl. Not that she’d pulled the actual pistol triggers or brandished swords, but she’d been there spitting fire and throwing smoke bombs.

Chambers no doubt would say Petra was on the other side of God. He believed in his cause. With the Earl gone and Garret sitting in his place, what would become of Chambers? Garret seemed to tolerate him, but with Anne whispering in his ear, how long would Chambers have a place in the manor?

The henchman drew her through the catacombs. Petra let loose a sigh of relief when they passed the torture chamber. Pushing open a heavy wooden door, the henchman strong-armed her across the courtyard and up a wooden stairway to an elevated platform.

A noisy, restless crowd milled around the square. Dimly, she recognized a few faces: Mary, red eyed and blotchy skinned, and Muffin Face and her perpetual scowl, Fritz staring straight ahead. Another hooded henchman stepped forward so that the two men flanked her.

Father Knightly slowly climbed the stairs, his face grim. He took center stage and addressed the crowd.

“The judgment of God has fallen on our fair village. Satan has come upon us in great wrath. God, for a wise yet unfathomable reason has left us vulnerable. God’s will, in time will be manifest, but only if we repent and purge ourselves of all ungodliness. We must not fall prey to the lion who seeks to destroy us.”

Is he seriously comparing me to a lion? Petra’s mind reeled.

Father Knightly faced the crowd with outstretched arms. “We must guard ourselves against the wiles of Satan!” His voice boomed, face red, eyes wild. “We must watch, pray and humble ourselves before God!” Spit flew from his mouth.

Good heaven, Petra thought, he really believes what he’s saying. He honestly thinks I’m an instrument of Satan. Looking over the crowd, she searched for Emory and Rohan. They had to be nearby. They wouldn’t let Chambers win. They would save her. Now is the perfect time for a hero to show up.

“True piety toward God is our only safeguard from the ills of life, our only hope for the life to come. Our village can only be saved through sacrifice and extermination!”

Extermination?

He pointed. “What say ye?”

Petra swallowed. “What charges do you have against me? Why do you think I’m a witch… or a lion?”

Father Knightly circled her, still pointing at her chest. “Do you have a supreme respect for the laws and authority of Gods?”

She shook her head, swiveling to watch his slow rotation of her. “Of course, I --”

“Are you disposed to resist His will and gratify your own?”

This is a good time to lie, she decided, although lying while defending her adherence to God’s laws seemed wrong and counterproductive.

“Do you surrender yourself, body and soul, to my service to be employed in whatever way I may judge conducive to the progress of God’s kingdom among men?”

“Absolutely not,” Petra said, standing straighter. “I don’t know who made you judge of this kingdom.”

The crowd roared.

Father Knightly took a step closer, dropped his outstretched arm and pulled her cell phone from his robes. He pressed a button and Breaking Benjamin screamed. The jeers, the catcalls and the whistling went silent. Father Knightly spoke quietly, “Can you deny this is an instrument of the devil?”

Petra wanted to laugh. The two men with vice-like grips on her arms were proof that this wasn’t funny, yet a nervous giggle bubbled inside of her. “It’s an instrument from Apple.”

The crowd jeered and cat-called, reminding Petra of the angry crowd in the old Frankenstein movie. They even waved the same pitchforks and clubs. Father Knightly raised his hands for silence. “She admits it!” he screamed over the crowd’s roar. “She admits that Satan, who tempted Mother Eve with the first apple, has sent another.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Petra said as the henchmen tightened their grips and led her to the edge of the stage.

A pole stuck from the middle of a heap of wood. As true realization hit, Petra kicked and screamed. Twisting her legs, she aimed high. Hit ‘em where it hurts, she coached herself, but she couldn’t seem to hurt them at all. Henchmen secured her arms with leather straps.

“Burn her! Burn her!” the crowd chanted in time.

Panic. Petra writhed as the henchmen lifted her to the pole. Where’s Emory? This can’t be happening. She took a breath, swallowed her fear, and opened her lungs to yell again, but she could hardly hear her own shrieks over the tumult of the crowd. They tied her to the pole and a man in a dark hooded robe lit the pyre with a flaming torch.

Smoke, heat, and crackling flames. Fire flickered toward her dangling feet.

She heard another roar and another name, her own. She saw Emory shoving through the crowd, tossing aside grown men, women and small children. Insults and fists didn’t slow him. The taunts shifted as he shouldered toward the growing fire.

“The witch’s lad!” someone shouted.

Another called, “Burn him too. Burn ‘em all!”

The fire, many inches below her feet, suddenly rushed toward her. Dimly, she realized that the fire had burnt the pole supporting her. She crashed. Something hit her head. Pain shot through her body and then, suddenly, nothing.