Ezra stood over him once more. A lash of pain forced Jude’s eyes back shut. His heart beat behind his lids, aching with a hammer-like pulse. Memory caught him by the throat and squeezed.
All of Ezra’s careful explanations earlier, his calm smiles, the false concern for his safety, all culminated in this – Jude flat on his back with salt in his nose and terror in his eyes. Alie, just like everything else the Abbey stood for.
‘What did you think would happen?’ Ezra asked. ‘Did you think you could deny my offer and go free anyway? Did you think you could save her? Save yourself?’ He laughed. ‘You’ve never been very good at that.’
Before he could move, before he could even breathe, Ezra ground the fingers of Jude’s right hand beneath his boot. He screamed, trying to pull away. Pain shot up his arm, hotter than fire.
‘Jude.’ He pressed harder. ‘Tell me.’
‘I didn’t—’ Jude gasped through clenched teeth. ‘I thought—’
‘No,’ Ezra whispered. ‘You didn’t think. Did you not remember what I told you that day you left the only home you’d ever known? Say it.’
The pain of his broken fingers magnified tenfold. They curled inwards, scrabbing at the roughened leather boot pinning it to the ground. Itburned. Jude whimpered, trying to leave his body, to rise above the pain, but Erza only pushed down harder.
‘My choices have consequences,’ Jude gritted out.
The boot left his hand. The tattered remains of his fingers pulsed with their own heartbeat.
‘That’s right.’ Ezra bent down. ‘And you don’t even remember what you did, do you?’
‘Because of you,’ Jude gasped. ‘You took my memories. You tainted my magic. Foryears, I hated myself. Because of you.’
Silence fell as Ezra rose back to his full height. ‘But you came back anyway, didn’t you? All three of you are back here. Just as you were always meant to be. Except now, you have that mark on your back. Marks I placed there. Hate me all you like, Jude, but they will always remain.’
All three?Jude wondered, focusing on that part of Ezra’s tirade and not the poisoned barbs. He was here, and Maeve must be too – but who else?
Ezra continued, ‘And what impeccable timing you have. The pilgrims are here, you know. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a saint for them to pray to? Or had that been your plan all along, to strike when the prayers are at their most potent?’
Jude’s mind latched onto his final words, turning them over in his head and comparing them to his scanty memories of the last time he had tried to burn the Abbey. Maybe he had failed because the icons hadn’t been at their full potential. Maybe they needed to burn them during the ritual – not before, and not after.
His thoughts swam and dipped feverishly. He closed his eyes to the sound of Ezra moving around the room. Carefully, he stretched his fingers one by one. The stiffness faded with each crack of his knuckles.
They weren’t broken. They weren’t even bruised.
Maybe he’d dreamed everything. He’d wake in bed to birds streaking across his window and tea boiling in the kettle. Olive would be curled somewhere by his head, silken black fur shining red in the dawn of a new day.
She would be there. He’d roll over and hold her – warm, safe,happy.
That dream didn’t exist in his head, with the caged nightmares pacing behind iron bars, scoring bleeding lines into his flesh. It lived lower, protected by his ribs and wrapped around his heart. Softer. A dream written in love.
Ezra’s footsteps drew closer. Jude opened his eyes to stripes of ochre and russet from the setting sun streaking across thewater-stained ceiling, blending into the indigo and violet of the gloaming. Fatigue weighed heavy on his limbs. His breathing barely moved his chest.
A touch on his arm. The crook of his elbow, wrapping oily tendrils around his wrist. It squeezed; ithurt. Fire followed the path of his veins up his arm like polluting oil dropped into a fast-moving stream. It bloated his belly and sucked at the blood pooling in the spaces between his ribs, the notch between his collarbones and the hollow of his navel. It dug claws into his tender skin, opening up the blackened lines of his tattoos with familiar precision. Pain served a purpose, even if Jude had long ignored its warning.
He wanted to raise his hands, cover his mouth.
He wanted to gohome.
Home meant safety. It meant anonymity and choice. It was a lonely house on lonelier moors, taken for granted until the moment he’d give anything to have it back. He would cradlehometo his fragile chest and slide it between his ribs for safekeeping. A poisonous delight; one too many, one too gluttonous, and it would end him.
As though accelerant was poured over his skin, the pain magnified tenfold. Jude located his lungs somewhere amongst the viscera andscreamed.
‘You should never have come,’ Ezra murmured. ‘Why did you return?’
Fingers touched his temple, carding through his hair. Jude flinched; thankful he’d asked Maeve to cut his hair short. He remembered having long strands pulled from his scalp too well to allow it to grow. It used to ache for days. Ezra was keenly interested in punishments that would linger far beyond their gifting.
Jude shook his head, tears dripping down the side of his face. The waves of agony receded enough for him to take a deep breath through his nose and open his eyes, unaware he had closedthem again. He lay prostrate on the cold ground, hands folded over his heart.
