One Grave at a Time

I wanted to spring to my feet but I couldn't. The unusual slowness to my limbs and the continuing burn in my chest told me I hadn't been shot with normal bullets. They were silver.

I had a split second to see a white-haired man loom over me, black monkish robes fluttering in the breeze and very corporeal hand pointing a gun at me. Then I heard another blast, felt my mind explode with pain, but couldn't see anything else.

Chapter Thirty-Six

My head throbbed like someone had shoved firecrackers into my brain and set them off. That was the first thing I became aware of. The second was the burning in my chest, so intense it sent throbs of pain throughout the rest of my body. The third was that my hands and feet were bound to something tall and hard behind me. The fourth was the most disquieting realization of all: I was wet, and it wasn't from water. The harsh scent of gasoline filled my nostrils without my needing to take in a breath.

"Burn her. Burn her now, before she wakes up!" a familiar voice urged.

Sarah. I should've killed her when I had the chance. Hindsight always was twenty-twenty.

I opened my eyes. Kramer stood a few feet away in the middle of a triangular clearing amidst the tall cornstalks. Sarah was off to the side, but Lisa and Francine made up the other two corners of the triangle. They were chained like I was to tall metal poles dug into the ground, gags in their mouths, eyes wide with horror as they looked at me. Unlike me, though, neither of them had a large silver knife stuck into her chest. The blade seemed to emit a steady stream of acid, scalding my nerve endings and sapping my strength. But though it was close to the center of my chest, it wasn't in my heart. Either Kramer had deliberately missed because he didn't want to risk giving me an easy death, or his aim wasn't as good as he'd intended.

Kramer pulled out a large, leather-bound book from the folds of his new hooded black robe. Guess he'd gotten sick of that old muddy tunic he was stuck with when he was in vaporous form. His gaze seemed to gleam with malicious triumph as he opened the book and began to read aloud.

"I, Henricus Kramer Institoris, Judge named on behalf of the faith, declare and pronounce sentence that you standing here are impenitent heretics, and as such are to be delivered to justice," he intoned, and though the original version of the Hammer of Witches had been in Latin, he made sure to speak English so we would understand it.

I didn't have a gag, probably because Kramer knew I wouldn't bother screaming for help, but that didn't mean I was going to stay silent.

"I read that, you know. Your prose was boring and repetitive, and your overuse of capitalization for dramatic emphasis was juvenile at best. Oh hell, I'll just say it-it sucked out loud. No wonder you had to forge your endorsements."

Now his gaze gleamed with outrage. He shut the book with a bang, stalking over to me. Writers were so sensitive when it came to criticism.

"Do you wish to die now, Hexe?" he hissed at me. Then he bent over, picking something up out of my line of sight. When he straightened, he had a hurricane lantern in his hand, the golden orange flame caressing the glass surrounding it as if begging to be freed.

I looked over his shoulder at Sarah, who was practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of his setting me on fire.

"She might not know what your routine is, but I do," I said softly. "So put the lantern down. You're not burning me yet, and we both know it."

"What's she saying?" Sarah demanded, hobbling over.

His white brows drew together, and I allowed a little smile to play on my lips. "Awfully bossy with you, isn't she? Then again, it makes sense. She's got the pants on, and you're the one in the dress."

His fist flashed out, but the blow didn't land on me. It struck Sarah right as she leaned on Kramer to steady herself. She fell back, crimson spurting from her nose. Now that she'd fulfilled her usefulness, he wasn't hiding his intentions toward her anymore.

"Why?" she gasped.

Her hurt and confusion were clear on her face, but it belatedly occurred to me that I couldn't hear it in her thoughts. Same with Lisa and Francine. They had to be screaming with panic in their minds, but all I heard from them was their pounding heartbeats and short, quick gasps through their gags.

The silver bullet Kramer fired into my head hadn't only knocked me out long enough for him to truss me up and wet me down with gasoline. It had also short-circuited my mind-reading abilities. Another round or two, and I'd be all the way dead, but of course, Kramer didn't want me dead yet. To look at the bright side, I could concentrate better without hearing everyone's frantic thoughts.

"Do not speak another word, hure," Kramer snarled at Sarah.

"That means whore," I supplied. "It's how he sees all women. Get used to hearing it for the rest of your short life."

That earned me a backhanded crack across the jaw, but compared to being stabbed and shot, it was a love tap. "Easy on the jostling, you don't want that silver shredding my heart and ending your fun too soon," I taunted him.

He looked at the knife in my chest and lowered his clenched fist. I didn't move a muscle, but inwardly my brows rose. My bluff had worked. So you don't know it's right outside my heart instead of pierced through it. Good.

Tears rolled down Sarah's cheeks, either from the pain in her broken nose or the realization that Kramer was everything I'd cautioned her about. I couldn't bring myself to feel sorry for her. She'd shot my best friend so many times she'd had to believe Denise was dead. Except for Denise's one-in-a-billion supernatural status, she would have been dead. Then Sarah had kidnapped Francine and Lisa and brought them as a present to this monster, fully expecting to watch them burn to death.

No, I didn't feel sorry that she was all teary-eyed to discover that she would also be on the receiving end of Kramer's brutality. When he landed a kick into Sarah's midsection next, doubling her over and causing her to let out an anguished cry, I still didn't pity her. That hurt a thousand times less than being burned, I knew from experience, and, considering her crimes, she had it coming.

He ground his booted foot into her broken ankle next. With her new, gasping scream and the constant crackling from the cornstalks around us, I didn't hear the bones shatter, but they probably did. She curled into the fetal position, sobbing and pleading for mercy that she'd never find from the Inquisitor. After a final kick to her rib cage, Kramer turned his attention back to me, leaving her writhing in pain on the ground.

I didn't say anything as he approached. In addition to the book, he had a satchel near the middle of the clearing, and I could imagine the various torture implements it must contain. Since Kramer left it there, he had other plans for me right now, and it didn't take mind reading to guess what those were.