Scarlette’s hands moved faster, breaking the last of the root and tossing it into the center. The candle flames bent sideways, almost flattened by the pressure.
I held Catherine tighter, and she pressed her face to my shoulder.
Mama Celeste’s voice came out cold and hard. “We don’t move. No matter what.”
The boots got closer. I could hear English, shouted orders. “Fan out! Find them!” Someone fired a shot into the air, and the sound cracked across the graveyard, echoing off the stones.
Maeve flinched, but she didn’t run. Moab raised his knife and stood between us and the line of trees.
Scarlette’s eyes locked on mine. “We finish this,” she said. “No matter what.”
I nodded. My jaw ached from clenching. I could feel my own heartbeat in my ruined wrist, in my chest, in my head.
The candles guttered, then went out, all at once.
The circle held, but outside, the world exploded into chaos—men yelling, boots stomping, gunfire and the high, animal wail of someone getting cut open.
Mama Celeste started the chant, low and rhythmic. Scarlette joined, then me, then Catherine, our voices stacking up into a wall against the outside.
We didn’t move. We didn’t let go. Even as the air inside the circle turned black and thick, even as the night filled with screams and the stink of cordite and blood.
Somewhere out there, the English closed in. But here, in the circle, all that mattered was Catherine’s hand in mine, the tremor in her body, the promise that if we did this, we’d never be apart again. Even if it meant leaving the world behind.
I barely had time to brace before the graveyard lit up like Armageddon. The English came through the trees in a line, boots slapping the mud, torches arcing wild shadows across the stones. Hale led them, dark coat whipping behind him, his face set in the same contemptuous sneer I’d seen in the torture chamber. He moved different than his men—deliberate, never ducking, eyes fixed on us as if he could smell the weakness.
The first musket ball hit a headstone near my ear, sending up a spray of old stone and lichen. Catherine shrieked, but I yanked her down, hard, shoving us both flat against the slab. Another shot ripped through the air, tore the edge of my jacket, and left the world ringing. Nora dropped in a heap, hands over her head. Maeve crouched over her, teeth bared.
“Stay down,” I rasped, but Catherine was already struggling to see over the tomb, eyes frantic for any sign of Declan.
He didn’t hide, of course. The old priest stood tall at the center of the path, robe flapping in the wind, arms outstretched like he was blessing his own execution.
“Hale!” Declan roared, and even the gunfire paused for a beat. “Leave them. Your quarrel is with me.”
Hale didn’t answer. He just lifted a pistol, took his time, and aimed it at Declan’s chest. For a second, I thought maybe Hale would let him talk, let him finish the old speech. He didn’t. The gun barked, and the ball caught Declan high in the side, a bright bloom of blood immediately soaking the black. Declan staggered, but didn’t go down—just gripped his own belly, teeth clenched, and managed to shout, “RUN! Complete the ritual!”
Moab didn’t need telling twice. He peeled off from the circle, moving like he was born for this, low and fast, firing a stolen musket as he sprinted for cover. The shot was wild, but it did its job—the line of soldiers dropped, half ducking, and two more shots went high and wide.
Scarlette was in the circle, back arched, hands splayed in front of her like she was playing a piano made of glass. The air shimmered around her, and the chalk lines glowed a faint, poisonous blue. Mama Celeste was behind her, head thrown back, voice gone raw with the strain of the chant. Their words hit the inside of my skull in pulses, louder than the musket fire.
“Get up,” I hissed at Catherine. She looked at me, then at Declan, who’d finally slumped against a crooked headstone,leaving a red streak on the granite. She reached for him, but I grabbed her, locking both arms around her waist, and dragged her toward the circle. It took everything not to let her go.
Moab made it back to us, face slick with sweat, shirt ripped at the shoulder. He slammed another shot into the musket and peered around the edge of the nearest monument.
“Five left,” he grunted. “Plus Hale.”
I nodded. My own hands were shaking. “They’ll rush us. We have seconds.”
He bared his teeth in something almost like a grin. “Good. Let them try.”
The next volley was all for us. Three shots in rapid succession, two low, one high. The headstone splintered, and a chunk the size of my fist flew off, grazing Catherine’s arm. She gasped, but didn’t make a sound—just clutched at her biceps, blood welling through her sleeve.
“Keep your head down,” I muttered, and pressed my palm over the wound. She glared at me, raw, but didn’t pull away.
Scarlette was calling out, voice sharp as broken glass. “It’s breaking! You have to hold the circle!”
Mama Celeste staggered, caught herself, and spat into the earth. “It’s too soon! We need more time!”
Hale strode up to Declan, who was now slumped at the base of the headstone. For a second, Hale studied the blood, then leaned in, voice too soft to hear from where I crouched. Declan didn’t speak, just stared back with hate so pure it lit up his whole wasted face. Hale nodded, like he understood, and cocked the pistol again.