Page 42

T he flagellants gasped.

On the far side of the tower, another light ignited, bright against the dark, dark sky.

A murmur ran through the crowd. “The light of God!”

The demon dragged me forward, his chin uplifted, his gaze transfixed. “No, it’s not. It’s a trick!”

I saw an opening and I shouted, “God’s eye is seeing your rebellious sins!”

Without even looking, the demon slapped me hard enough to make me fall to the ground. But I couldn’t fall, for he still held my arm, held me up; and when my knees buckled, he kicked me in the belly.

I couldn’t scream because I couldn’t breathe. My face bled, my gut heaved, and when I vomited, he tossed me aside.

Cretin! I reached under my skirt, pulled the stiletto from the scabbard at my ankle, and stabbed him in the thigh.

He could scream. As he collapsed, he did.

I jerked the stiletto free and rolled away. I had to hide. Hide in among the forest of men’s legs, still and taut.

“You . . . woman!” Baal’s voice writhed with amazement, contempt. . . and pain.

“The messiah has collapsed!” one man shouted.

Another yelled, “God is judging us!”

“He’s a false messiah!” the first voice shouted.

I landed close to one man’s pole planted in the street while he stared upward, and yanked it from his lax grasp.

Glancing behind me, I saw the demon crawling toward me, holding his thigh as if to contain the bleeding.

His eyes were fixed on me; they flamed in manic fury.

I had hurt him. He had been invincible, a messiah worshipped by men, and a mere woman had bloodied him at last.

As the third light ignited, murmurs swept the mob with wonder and increasing panic.

I feared Baal. I feared his mission, his vengeance. I feared the crowd would stampede and grind me into the stones of the street. I urged myself to get up and run. Run! Only then did I stand a chance.

I couldn’t stand. The kick to my gut had broken me. Every movement sent bile into my throat, and I choked on each breath.

I glanced back again.

Baal was gaining on me, his grim face intent on winning. Not rape, not anymore.

Murder. He would kill me, if it was the last thing he did.

I had no choice. I swung the pole, scattering the men around me with blows to their shins, and having cleared the battlefield, I turned to face Baal, stiletto in one hand, pole in the other.

He sneered. He had retrieved the knife he’d knocked out of my hand and he held it pointed at my heart. Pitching his voice to reach my ears, and the ears of his men, he said, “Justice. You’ll die on your own blade.”

I probably would, for that blade was long and so was his reach. But Papà had taught me to fight, and I would make Baal suffer, too.

He rose off the ground, a demon invincible once more.

Behind him, a man politely cleared his throat. “Excuse me? God’s wrath will ignite one more light. Then you will die.”

Baal swung around to face . . . Lysander, dressed in his rough work clothes.

Lysander shouted, “You will all die!” In a theatric flourish, he pointed his finger to the tower.

The fourth lamp blazed.

With his sword, Lysander stabbed Baal through the heart.