Behind Door # 3

 Dim light filtered into the cell.

Birds broke the silence with their twittering voices. Dim light filtered into the cell. The stench of unwashed bodies mixed with the tang of blood in the air. Her eyes, crusty with dirt and blood, refused to open. A soft gasp escaped her lips as a hand cupped her swollen cheek. Gentle, so at odds with the cold surroundings.

Outside, the coyotes’ laughing voices danced above the crackle of the bonfire. The full moon bathed the assembled crowd in her silvery glow. Flames twisted and twined with the darkness above, staining some of the faces in reddish streaks. Stars peppered the sky, cold, blue, and teasing. Fear parted from her company long ago. Left her when she saw the face of her accuser. There was poetry in knowing he signed her death warrant when he was the one with the power they sought and feared. They were foolish, never wondering why.

The witching had not begun until he came. She was guilty, just not the guilty he was. His magic was in the voices of the coyotes. Hers was something else. The fire would lick at her limbs soon enough, consume her. Then, at least she’d be warm again.

They unbound her hands, careful as if they were not leading her to the pyre. The wood before her wasn’t what caught her attention. Tears sprang to her eyes. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying out. They couldn’t leave well enough alone—these fools with their books and their fear.

The girl had been only a child, a kind creature with pale eyes and quick fingers whose only crime was befriending her. They were guilty, and the girl’s death was on their hands. Hers too, she guessed, but they would pay as well. They placed her against the pile of upright sticks and bound her arms against the wood behind her back.

“Let her go.” It was no use. They were too far gone. Too lost to reason and hungry to see them burn.

“You are a witch, and she too, and the flames will have you both,” he said, his gaze icy.

There was something beneath the ice, something that appeared almost like regret. It was only for the power he would never have.

 The fire.

“Have you no words? Will you confess?”

Cecily grinned, showing teeth. Her own blood tasted of ash in her mouth. The crowd around the fire was smaller than it might have been. Some recognized her hand in their good fortune, just as others saw his in their bad.

“Have you?” she asked. She looked up—her gaze on the sky. The fire climbed higher, and still they wanted her screams. The fire ate at her skirts and climbed up her limbs, turning the fabric to wispy ash and her flesh to blackened obsidian.

 Did they notice? She doubted it. The crowd trembled, shook, and numerous figures

disentangled themselves, tripping down the hill. She grinned harder, her blood boiling beneath her skin.

The fire tangled eager fingers into her hair. There would be no screams, not when he watched her, betrayer, accuser. He was going to regret what he’d done. The hair burned away from her stony flesh. Obsidian, volcanic glass, every inch of her once human flesh, delicate and breakable. It would only be a moment more.

The fire burned higher and hotter, and her body shimmered and swayed with it. He stared, his gaze gone wide. Did he know? Could he see the smile on her face? He grabbed a large branch and ran toward the fire. He swung it toward her glassy limbs.

Her laughter filled the air as she shattered into a thousand pieces. Each one going yellow and molten red as they fell into the flames.

Home at last.

The fire held her, enveloped her, remade her. Limbs reformed, mind recreated. She unfurled. Fire danced around her limbs, and she stepped down from their pyre. Moved across the clearing, fire dripping from her limbs. Blackening the ground before drops of obsidian formed behind her. He didn’t move, only stared, awed, frightened. It didn’t matter. Awe, or fear he’d burn just the same.

The screams blended with the coyotes’ laughter. She did not look back. Other debts were to be collected tonight, and his was only the first of the screams.