Zealots. I instantly diverted. No one moved to stop me, though they watched me with caution—apparently they did not consider a lone, boy-faced constable a threat.
Suddenly a great shout tore all our gazes up. Up. Up.
A man swung up over the heads of the crowd, under the mournful eyes of the statue, isolated on her little island. He jerked and clawed at the noose about his throat. The more violently he struggled, the louder the crowd cheered, jeered, and screamed. It was a manic sound, a primal sound, and it terrified me to the core.
Run. The word leapt to my tongue and clotted there, souring and turning fetid.Run.
I did not. Could not. I watched as the man was hauled higher,as his struggles lessened, as his strangulation truly began.
Copper threads sparked and lit and spread—the Zealots had stripped him to the waist. They twined across his collarbones, where a Guild medallion was plastered to the sweat-slicked hair of his chest.
A Guild mage. They were hanging not an Affinate, vulnerable and accessible, but aGuild mage.
A second rope was slung up and a second figure hauled into sight. She screamed as she rose, a middle-aged woman with her upper body similarly revealed, her clothing torn and corset exposed. Her threads spasmed into manifest—fiery, like the afterburn of lightning. A Gaslamp Entwined.
A hand dug into my hair, beneath the back of my helmet. No sooner had I cried out than I was barrelled under a massive arm and hauled forward. The crowd parted. I could not breathe. Could barely see. There was more shouting, more laughing, a clamor and a chaos that melded into ringing in my ears.
Then there was a noose, pulled tight, holding me in place on my knees. I felt the hands that tore the constable’s jacket from my upper body. I felt them tear open the top of my shirtwaist, buttons popping. I felt the helmet torn from my head and my hair skew down.
Incarnadine’s face filled mine.
“We got here eventually, Miss Rushforth,” she said, her eyes full of gentle satisfaction. “So kind of you to turn yourself in.”
Thunder boomed. Lightning latticed the sky, followed by another clap of thunder.
Another rope—my rope—was slung up over the lamppost. I was prodded and dragged into place, already half-strangled by the damp noose. Above me the man swung, limp. The woman was still twitching, though that was more likely due to the jerking of the rope itself than her final exertions. Those that held the rope had not tied it off to the balustrade as they had with the man. They still held it instead, tugging and jerking and making her body dance.
“No bravado now,” Incarnadine observed, smoothing the wet hair back from my face. “As I expected.”
I could not reply. The rope was too tight. Too tight for pleading and begging, for last words and the bravado she was so satisfied to have killed.
I heard a gunshot, then another, then the blare of horns. Headlamps pierced the stormy gloom and people began to scatter, shouting warnings and grabbing comrades as they went.
Incarnadine turned. The Zealots holding me—a man and a woman—froze.
Their leader’s distraction was momentary, but it was enough for me to flail forward, tear the hatpin from her head and plunge it into the torso of one of my captors. They howled and dropped me. The other recoiled, confused, and I broke fully away.
The noose went tight. I toppled backwards and might have snapped my own neck, if I had not made a flailing grab for the nearest person.
I never saw who it was. Headlamps blinded me and a speaking horn roared over the crowd. “Zealots, stand down by order of Grand General Baffin! You are under arrest!” There was more to it, but I did not care.
The noose finally slackened. I shoved aside whoever I had caught myself on and jerked the thing over my head, panting, wheezing, and sobbing as I did.
And then I ran.
Ipounded on the door of Pretoria’s hotel room. There was no sound of movement beyond, but I sensed I was being watched through the peephole. I pounded again, desperate.
The door opened and Pretoria stood there, her expression aghast.
“Zealots,” I croaked with what little voice I had left.
I was immediately folded into a desperate embrace, and held my sister tightly in return. We clung to one another until my trembling slowed and the ferocity of her grip softened to a gentler, cradling hold.
Someone, meanwhile, closed the door behind us. Through misty eyes, I saw Lewis. He supported himself with a walking stick for his bandaged leg, and his eyes had a haunted, near-maddened quality to them. I saw no outright evidence of Thera’s work, but there was something hidden in the way he looked at me. A conversation yet to be had.
“Your Mr. Harden and Perry are searching the streets for you.” Pretoria stole my attention again. She was pawing at my cheeks, my throat, taking in my injuries. “Are these marks from—”
“Yes,” I rasped.
