Kiss of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 1) - Page 78
“Don’t trust them. Any of them. You’re caught between forces that want to use you. And it’s tempting to give in. To be valued and coveted would be lovely. And they will certainly promise you that. They’ll give you shelter—compassion—companionship. All the things you lack. And some of them may even mean it. But we aren’t free, you and I. And we never can be unless we discover the truth. Why are we like this? What has the necromancer done to us?”
She heard pounding on the door. She had thrown the bolt as she ran deep into the ossuary. But it wouldn’t hold. And then there would be angry men with torches and pitchforks—perhaps literally—and they would string her up from a tree for being a monster. For being a freak of nature.
They weren’t wrong.
She looked back up at the cross. “Listen to me—find his phylactery. Find it, take it, and then the decision will be yours. Destroying it will kill us, but it will stop him and all that he’s done. Or you can keep it, and finally rise above their petty and manipulative games.”
Pausing, she felt something in her heart cinch. There was one more important warning to give her future self. If she was even listening. “And…don’t trust the necromancer, either. Don’t trust his sweet words and gentle kindness. Believe me when I say you must trust no one. I know how hard that will be, when you feel you cannot even trust your own mind.”
She heard wood splinter and knew it wouldn’t be long now. “But the one thing you can trust is your heart. Trust where it leads you. Follow your instincts and do what feels right, even if it seems wrong. Please.”
A crash. The sound of angry voices. She shut her eyes. “If you find his soul, we can choose whether or not to continue. Perhaps we might even find a way to really be alive. Or…perhaps we might find a way to finally belong in a place like this.”
Hands grabbed her arms. She didn’t fight. She looked up at the man beside her. He was tall and thin, and a white collar at his throat marked him as a priest. But not just any priest. He was from the Ordo ut Solis, and he was a hunter of monsters and shadowy creatures. Of which she was one.
“Hang the witch!” someone shouted. How considerate of them that they shouted in English. They wanted her to know she was about to die, as if they had been somehow subtle about their intentions.
The man glowered at her before making the sign of the cross in the air before her. He nodded to the man behind her. “Do it.”
The noose was slipped over her neck.
She shut her eyes again and let it all happen. It wasn’t the first time she had died, after all. And it would not be the last. He would find her. He would make good on his vow that she would never die alone. And for all his cruelty…he kept his word.
She just wished she knew why.
“Trust no one but yourself,” she whispered, pleading with her own self. “Find it. Follow your heart, Marguerite. Follow your heart and set us free.”
The last thing she remembered was the feeling of the ground leaving her feet. They did not drop her from a height and snap her neck. They were not so kind. She died slowly as her body twitched and spasmed, struggling for air that would not come.
All to the joyful shouts and heckling of a crowd.
Through it all, she repeated three words to herself, again and again, even as the coldness began to take her.
Set us free.
Set us free.
Set us free.
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