The woman is now standing on the table she was lying on, blood slowly dripping down her naked body. Her arms are outstretched like she's welcoming us.
"Shit," Zaria says. "They're going to pass the cloth."
"The what?"
She looks up at me through her mask. "They are going to pass a cloth of her blood around. It's blessed by the Morrígan. Each woman kisses it and then kiss the man there with or next to."
I stare at her. "You're not doing that."
Her grip tightens.
"We can't refuse," she says quietly. "Not here. We don't have a choice."
"I'm not letting you."
"If you pull away, they'll notice."
My jaw locks.
I scan the room again.
The chanting grows louder as the cloth moves through the crowd.
I watch it pass from woman to woman. Each one presses her lips to it and says the same words before turning to the man beside her.
"Blessed be the Morrígan."
Then a kiss.
Over and over.
Zaria's breathing turns shallow. She almost braces herself, like she's ready for impact.
The cloth is closer now. And even though I know it's not possible, I feel like I can smell the blood.
The chanting slows.
Footsteps stop in front of us.
A man stands there, holding the cloth out to Zaria.
The room feels like it's holding its breath.
Zaria lifts her chin.
And my world narrows to that single strip of blood-soaked fabric.
24
ZARIA
Ilock up when Brother Tracy approaches. Most don't know it's him, but I know his hood and goatskin mask hide his face. Thankfully, I'm not wearing my normal robes or he'd probably know me, too.
The cloth dangles from his fingers, wet and dark red.
I stare at it as my fingers turn numb. My throat closes. My mind does that awful thing where it goes blank and I forget how to act.
I've done this hundreds of times, but right now, I can't seem to move, and my chest is tighter than it's ever been in my life.
