Page 35 of Bad Blood
“In order to render judgment, the Pythia must first be purified,” Nightshade said. “To admit someone to our ranks, she must go through the Rite of Seven. Seven days and seven pains.”
I didn’t want to imagine the meaning behind that phrase, but I did.Seven Masters. Seven ways of killing people. Drowning, burning, impaling, strangling, knifing, beating, poisoning.
“Seven pains,” I said, the thudding of my heart drowning out the sound of my words in my own ears. “You torture her for seven days.”
“If she rules the acolyte unworthy, he is discarded. We find another, and the process is repeated. Again. And again. And again.”
You’re enjoying telling me this. You like that it hurts me. Just like you like hurting her.
“Why did you save Laurel?” I asked dully. “Why take her with you when you knew they would take her back?”
There was no answer. I waited, letting the silence build, and when he showed no sign of breaking, I turned and walked out the door. My steps never faltered as I entered the interrogation room myself.
The expression on Briggs’s face told me that I’d pay for this later, but my attention was focused wholly on Nightshade. He raked his eyes over my face, my body. He drank in every detail of my appearance, and then he smiled.
“Why bother helpingNinebreak free of the Masters if you knew they would get her back?” I repeated.
I could see Nightshade’s thoughts in his eyes, see him searching my features for a resemblance to my mother.
“Because it gave the Pythia hope,” he said, a smile crossing his lips. “And nothing hurts the way hope does when you take it away.”
A flicker of white-hot rage burned inside of me. I stepped toward him, every muscle in my body taut. “You’re a monster.”
“I am what I am. And she is what she is. To save herself, she has condemned others. She will condemn me.”
“After they torture her for seven days?” I said, my voice low.
Agent Sterling stood to prevent me from going any closer. Nightshade angled his head downward. His body shook. It took me a moment to realize that he was laughing—silent, amused laughter that made me physically ill.
“For lesser matters, a single rite of purification will do. If the Masters are feeling generous, they might even give her a choice.”
A choice of how she’s tortured. My stomach revolted, but I clamped my jaw closed, refusing to give in to the bile rising in my throat. “And what if they don’t like the answer she gives them?” I asked, once I had control. “What if she tells them to let you live?”
“She won’t.” Nightshade leaned back in his seat. “Because if her judgment appears compromised, they’ll purify her again.”
Torture her again.
“Where is she?” I asked sharply. “Tell us where they are, and we can stop this. We can keep you safe.”
“No, Cassandra,” Nightshade said with an almost loving smile, “you can’t.”
YOU
This time, it was the knife. Five’s weapon—quicker than some, slower than others.
Chaos and order, order and chaos.
Now you’re on the floor, and your memory is full of holes. You don’t remember Laurel coming back. You don’t remember how or when she got the bruises on her throat.
But you do remember your blood dripping off of Five’s knife. You remember the music and the pain and telling the Masters that the traitor had to die.
You remember Laurel dipping her fingers in your blood. Smiling, the way you taught her.
“Did I do good, Mommy?” she asks, curling up in your lap.
The wheel turns. You tried to stop it. But some things will not be stopped.
The FBI put Nightshade in isolation and installed agents to watch him round the clock. By twoA.M., he was dead.
