My name is Marduc Rouen, and I was told by my mother that I was born the son of a feudal vassal in the royal palace in Paris in the year 1214. For years I had believed her stories of my father without question, and I came to love him for the man he was. His death 10 days prior to my birth had shattered my mother, and it was through her tales that I came to know him. They were filled with the deepest of admiration.

       But as my life progressed, I came to know the truth behind the deception that was my parents. Gone was the image of a father so dear to my heart. In its place was the terror that I came to know as the truth.

       My mother, as I discovered, had spun fanciful yarns during my youth. And why should she have not? As a young woman under Philip Augustus� employ, she had told many to his young son, Louis. Daily she would take him into the courtyard of his father�s imperial palace, and amidst the spring birds, spin yarn after yarn, while his father carried on wars with King John of England. She had been the one familiar sight of his later childhood, developing his character, preparing him to be the next King. And after he took the throne from his father, it would seem an irony that from Louis VIII�s kingdom would come such bloody terror waged against my mother and myself.

       As she had wound that young imp within those whimsical stories that filled the days of Louis� journey into adulthood, so too had my mother wound me up in her words. Perhaps there were no lies as whimsical as those of my father. It soon came to be that I knew of no other truth than what she had bound me with, but as I loved my mother, I shall not hold it against her. She was a teller of tales, and it was the only way she knew of to protect me from the reality of it all.

       So began the deception. My father, she said, had been a proud man, a vassal under King Philip II of France, bound by an oath of loyalty to serve and honor, and in return, my father received a large fief, an estate of land to call his own. A king needed many soldiers to make up his army, and it was through the exchange of land for services such an army could be built up. They were horsemen, these soldiers, chevaliers, or as the English called them, knights, but they were so much more. They were members of Philip�s garrison, and summoned by him when he sought counsel on questions concerning the fiefs. They attended his court when it was deemed necessary. It was through these vassals the king received the prestige that so marked him.

       It was also from my father�s frequent visits to the king�s palace that he came to meet my mother. Three years after young Louis� marriage to Blanche de Castile at the age of 13 in 1200, there was no longer a need to care for him. My mother became the lady in waiting to his mother, Queen Isabella. Daily she would be seated alone in the courtyard, her words filling the air as she read from books, and when he passed, my father would stop to watch this beautiful maiden, her voice the softest sound he had heard. She knew he was watching, but never allowed herself to be so bold as to let him see her enjoyment.

       For months this simple charade continued, until one day my father was sent away on a battle in service to the King. For days my mother�s heart ached with his absence, and she promised herself to show her desire for this man upon his return. Then on November 12, 1213, my father returned to the palace, and he realized that he longed for my mother as she had longed for him. She told me how in the deep of night he had come into her chamber, their passion deeply ignited, and for months afterward they planned their wedding, keeping their love hidden within the closeness of the palace walls, away from the ears and the eyes of the King. My mother feared she would be sent away if the King knew of her wretched ways.

       But it was not the King�s trust that she needed to maintain; it was his unspoken love for her that ached within his heart. She had not been aware of his love during this time, and of course had not shared the same feelings. She found Philip to be a homely, rather unpleasant man out to destroy the English King, but Philip�s anger soon turned a new course in May 1214, when he discovered my mother�s secret love affair and her impending pregnancy.

       Philip dedicated himself to harassing and brutalizing my father, working him for every service he was capable of giving. What had begun as a mutual and honest relationship turned bitter, no matter how my mother begged for Philip�s mercy. As a lord, Philip had been obliged to protect and care for my father and his family in return for my father�s military and basic feudal service. Through most of this service, the agreement was maintained. Until that fateful day.

       On July 26, 1214, only 10 days before my birth, my father was called into battle at Bouvines, another in a long line of wars waged by Philip against John of England. My father was reluctant to leave my mother, but against a threat of losing his fief, he gave in to Philip. The battle was successful, and Philip managed to defeat both John and Otto IV, emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, but my father never returned to the palace. Killed in the field, my mother suspected that Philip had him murdered. The King still yearned for my mother, and promised to fulfill my right to lay claim to my father�s fief when I came of age if she were to be his lover. She refused and fled the palace with me immediately after my birth.

       For more than a decade my mother raised me, her life one of hardship and poverty seeing that I had everything, while she had nothing. It was through her personal sacrifices that I was able to attend some of the better schools in hopes that I might forgo the need to seek my feudal inheritance that rightly belonged to me. I never resented her for denying me that estate of land, for if I could not then I can now see it all so clearly. I could never have served a lord who could brutally destroy such innocent lives. And yet such brutality quickly became my way of life.

       I believe it was after the hour of 10 on that morning when I heard the large gates of the castle being pulled open. Their heavy iron swinging outward allowed the Devil to come in and take residence among us. As the sound echoed through the stone walls, I stole back to my cell to gather any belongings I might have missed in my haste. There were no others down the long, stone corridor that housed the many tiny, individual cells; no perfects were running into their empty dwellings trying to find a place to hide. The still air hung heavy. I could hear my breathing as it came out, and it startled me for it was raspy. Passing by my mother’s cell I noticed how little there was left of her effects. So much had been scavenged. Picking up the pieces of her worn clothing, I held the riches gently in my hands, smelling the aroma. It was fresh and so familiar. I should have forced her to come with me. She was much too stubborn. Why had I not bound and gagged her? But her words rang clear. I must have respect for the choice she made, whether it was of her will or not. She would have died within my care, or at least she would have wanted to. Placing her things back down upon her straw mattress, I turned from them. They too should never be within my company. Quickly running to my cell, a fast glance around told me nothing had been forgotten. My pouch in hand, I hugged it against my chest, a last memory of my mother coming to mind. Breathing deeply, I caused it to be gone as I dashed from the tiny living quarters. My sandaled feet pushed fast upon the cold stone floor as I made my way to the back of the enormous castle fortress. Out in the open air, out of the dank, dark sanctuary, I would watch my mother and the others as they are put to their deaths. I must have the knowledge of what it was all worth. I must have the knowledge of what I had given up. No longer did screams or shouts reach my listening ears from the upper hall, only the sounds of orders being given by the massive men of the army. Was this the same army my father had belonged to? I feared the remainder of Montségur would be searched for those attempting to flee, and with that heavy on my thoughts I quickened my pace. Upon reaching the exit leading toward the back footpath I paused a moment looking back into the dark castle. The only light to see by came from a few flambeaus that showed the way to each small room. Have no guilt, I told myself. I must have no guilt for what has been done. “I shall not,” I whispered aloud. “Farewell, my mother.” I left the castle through the back, venturing out into the bright morning sunlight, the warm rays refreshing me, a slight wind wrapping itself around. Out here I could hear the sweet sound of birds in the nearby trees, and the air was fresh with the spellbinding scent of the coming spring. How strange, I thought, that such life should be thriving when such death was so near. The footpath guided me into the surrounding bush and rocks, shielding me from prying eyes. No longer did I fear being sought, for surely the army was occupied with the others. They would not have the time to search out strays. Into the dark of night I would run, allowing myself to become ever more distant from the place I had once called home, no longer familiar, but very fresh in thought. No memory of what I shall come to see shall ever be gone from my mind. I shall never let myself forget. Driven to the wild commotion at the front of the mountain I positioned myself at the farthest right corner of the castle wall to watch. A tight knot in my stomach may have tried to tell me I should not watch, must not watch, but I refused to heed its call. I needed to know what the French were capable of. What man was capable of. And as I held my eyes toward the members of the army, I kept sentinel and watched them as they ushered. The marched 216 perfects down the mountainside. As the procession was led by the great Bertran Marti, conductor of Cathar rituals, the group sang their hymns to God, their voices reaching high and far into the heavens. It did not make sense to me to see them follow one another to their deaths. Surely, they must all be mad. The sky should have begun to gray over, and I thought if the air had been any warmer the clouds might have given way to rain. The slick water would have been able to douse the flames as soon as they were set, but the sun continued to burn. Soon a great fire was lit upon the faggots. Massive orange flames burst toward the sky licking at it. A soft wind was blowing them in all directions, and the thick black smoke scattered over the countryside. The minds of my people were no longer their own. How could they be? How could their minds be anything but mad? And yet, wait. Some of the perfects had refused to step into the fire. I saw Jacques Coeur run from the flames, only to be clubbed upon the head. His unconscious body was dragged back to the faggots and thrown upon the blaze. Barthélemy Leclerc screamed out in agony as the fire licked at his feet, and he threw himself away from the spectacle. He grabbed at his young son, Josse, trying to save them both, but a member of the army pushed the child into the burning sticks. Then Barthélemy, who did make a valiant attempt to flee, was beaten to death before his body was burned. One by one the others fought, screamed, and ascended into the flames. Their bodies caught the sparks as they ate at their robes and then their remains. And all the while, as perfect after perfect mounted the burning bundles of sticks, the Crusaders bellowed their own sweet verses of song. They ignored the cries of pain that came from their fellow human beings, and chose to believe they were extinguishing the Devil, stamping him out. Oh, how could they ignore the screams that came as the flesh burned? How could they ignore the stench that arose as the flesh burned? The air around the faggots sweltered and warped as the flames rose high, the blue sky a mindless sea of waves, drowning the victims. I watched to bear witness, but was no longer able to. My eyes became dark. They became covered by the billowing black smoke that poured from the fire. The charred bodies of my fellow men and women fell against one another as they came to their deaths. The smoke was so much like the steam from a hot bath. Steam filling up the sky, covering the blue and leaving it black and gray, the sun hid away, no longer able to warm me. Twisted minds were at work. They tried to put me into a dazed state of thought, not letting me escape without being singed. And it consumed me. My head turned slightly, the thick smoke clearing from before me. Once again the deadly inferno at the base of the mountain was revealed. It no longer ate away the lives it yearned and hungered for. It was all over. It was complete, and it was erased from all minds that stood against it. And my mother. Pray God, my mother. Her death had come, and I had missed it. Damn the smoke. Now I shall never know for what it was worth. The sun tried to comfort me, to caress me, but even though it burned brightly I could feel no comfort from its yellow glow. Was I dead as well? Had I been taken to the flames and thrown upon the faggots? Of course not. I was here, alive. I had survived this inquisition, but soon they shall come for me, their hands reaching and grasping. No more shall I hear the gentle voice of my mother. I wiped away a tear, hating myself for weeping. Yet, should I not allow myself to cry? She was my mother. But I could not. I would not. She had shown me what she was when she turned away, when she turned from me to the God I now despised. What mother could do such a thing? Picking up my pouch of possessions that lay upon the earth beside me I ventured back to the footpath. Following it, I let it lead me into the mountains that abounded on either side, the mounds of trees swallowing me up, keeping cover over me.

       Moments later we were headed for our next kill. Lia ran through the streets and I followed her shadow. Within seconds we had come upon a spectacle. It was one I will never forget. A large crowd had filled the square near the university. I guessed there might have been 500 people standing about. They seemed to be waiting for something to happen, and I was curious.

       �Let me go into the crowd,� I said eagerly. �Perhaps I can learn of what takes place.�

       Lia had a hold of my arm. �Do not be foolish. You cannot be seen amongst the prey. You are a stranger. It shall be you who is accused of the killings once the bodies are found.�

       �I will blend like all others,� I insisted. �Do not be a fool yourself. I shall not be noticed amongst that large crowd. Their eyes look elsewhere. They anticipate an event. The flesh of others has warmed me, and I no longer appear the ghoul I once was. I will blend.�

       She was hesitant. I think I would have disobeyed her even if she had not let me wander about. Reluctantly, she gave her permission to venture into the crowd.

       �But do not remain long,� she warned. �You are still much paler than they. Do not be fooled, my love, no matter how much blood you drink or flesh you eat, you shall never bear the colour of the humans. You will never again resemble what you once were. Learn of what you need to know and be done with it.�

       I nodded and left her standing in the shadows. Unlike I, she could not let herself come out into the light of the street. The glow of the torches would not be kind to her. I dared not think what this mob would do if they caught sight of her. I did have confidence my flesh would blend, for what two humans bear the same colour? What two humans can match their skin to each other? No, Lia was wrong. She had been away too long venturing out only at night, staying hidden in the dark. She did not know what it was like to mix in and be one with the crowd.

       Jostling about, I began to ask questions of those around. From the back I could see little, and those in front of me were not about to let me get by. I found a crooked, elderly man draped in filthy clothes and dirty skin. His smell was repugnant, but I knew he would not speak of me to others.

       �What has this crowd gathered for?� I asked him, trying hard to get a glimpse of the front.

       He turned his withered face to me. �The witches,� came his raspy reply. �They are going to burn the witches.�

       �Burn them?� I stammered, unprepared for the statement. �Burn them for what?�

       The old man looked at me strangely. It did not occur to me I was acting in a manner not befitting the mob.

       �They destroyed last years crops,� he said. �They have brought misfortune on Toulouse. If they are not stopped, we will all be stricken down. They can cause such devilish afflictions.�

       There was no use in arguing. I forced my way through the thick mass of people to the front. Some individuals hit me as I passed, while others tried knocking me to the ground; it was my strength that kept me standing. I was defiant in making my way closer to the spectacle.

       I could hear the wheels of a carriage approach, and I knew what the crowd had waited for was going to happen soon. I continued my trek, and within moments I was standing in the second row. A rotund man was positioned squarely before me, and I had to crane my neck to see around him. Those behind were pressing hard against one another. They were jockeying for a better position at the approach of the carriage.

       I could barely see two withered old hags being thrown from the wooden cart. Dressed in rags, they were being shoved by two large men. My eyes followed them along their path until they came to a stop. Not far from where they stood, faggots had been laid down. A large wooden pole stood erect amongst each pyre.

       The executioner stood waiting. He was a burly man with black hair wrapped about his large head. His small eyes seemed lost within the flesh of his face. He was sinister. He smiled as the women neared.

       What could this crowd be thinking? Could they not see these women as I saw them? They were not devils or wicked women with black cats on their necks, nor did they have familiars crawling at their feet. They were simple hags who had no business being here. Except for their thin, crooked bodies wracked from torture and hunger, they were no different from any of the elderly women in the crowd. Could these people not see that?

       For the next few minutes there were deliberations and questions asked by members of an inquisitional tribunal. They wanted the women to admit they had not come to their confessions through torture, to admit they freely confessed to being witches. Both women gladly agreed to whatever was expected of them. Did they too believe they were witches? What was this crowd, these gullible buffoons to think if even the accused admitted their guilt? Satisfied with what they had accomplished, the inquisitors ordered the women tied to the pyres. The helpless hags were dragged to the wooden stakes.

       Moments later the fires were lit, and deep black smoke filled the air. As the faggots crackled, the flames breathed to life, making their way to the women. The fire caught first to the rags they wore, burning them away. The executioner slaked the fire, making it burn faster, but the two women were already scorched from it. Their bodies burned as their nakedness became exposed, their voices screaming out in pain and terror.

       I found myself running toward the pyres trying to still the flames with my hands. I lost all sense of awareness, the heat of the fire burning into me. The women on the stakes screamed as their fleshed blackened, and I could feel the same happening to my own. The mob was growing mad, I was growing mad, and the inquisitors were shouting for someone to suppress me. I felt myself being pushed into the open fire, and I was quickly consumed by the inferno.

       Shortly after our meal Jacob took me into the village to introduce me to many of his friends and acquaintances, while Rebecca accompanied Deliverence to the home of Jeremiah and Sarah Wickson to see the new babe. It was an unpleasant day, with a sky full of storm clouds and the air full of ruin. It was a day on which no one could forget of the witches.

       Jacob had been correct in his account of Daniel Cory. I liked the man the moment I met him. In his late 40s, Daniel had worked in the blacksmith�s shop since he turned 17 (since his marriage, he has lived on the second floor of the building with his wife). That was the year his father died and he had to care for his entire family�his mother and three sisters. Two of the sisters died of polio before his 20th birthday, and his mother passed away three years later.

       He was strong, perhaps 250 pounds, and as tall as Jacob; I felt small in comparison, my frame only five-foot-ten. He was a handsome man, and many of the young widows in the village could only hope his wife was taken into custody and hanged for her crimes, but Daniel wanted nothing of these women. He did not respect those whose husbands had died.

       �Good morning,� the man greeted, as we rode up in Jacob�s carriage.

       I had told him of my horse, and he promised to look into getting me another. But could I be trusted with it? When Jacob inquired of Daniel�s wife and her condition, Jacob responded with little emotion.

       �She has worsened. The doctor will check on her in the afternoon, but her illness is uncertain.�

       What he meant was it was a mental condition, not physical. She claimed to have heard voices speaking to her while she cooked, but Daniel refrained from using witchcraft to describe it. I�m sure he did not want to be seen as harboring a witch.

       �I am sorry,� I said to him. �I do hope she is well soon.�

       He nodded and led us into his shop. We stayed for an hour while he showed me what a blacksmith does, and we talked about my life, his life, and anything else that might pass the time. We did not talk any more of Hannah, and left when Doctor Griggs arrived to look in on her. The doctor was rushed, telling us his office was overflowing with new cases, and should we wish to speak with him we should see him there. We made a point to check in on him later. In this harsh weather it would be good to know the doctor first-hand.

       Jacob took me to see Joshua and Mary Putnam, senior. The Putnams lived with their daughter, Mary, on a three-acre farm two miles from the center of town. Their single-story house was a faded white, the sun having long ago worn down its original luster, and it sat amid a tree-lined field, a barn situated 20 yards away. In the summer, horses and cattle would graze through the tall grasses, and rows of vegetables would be planted for a fall harvest. Apple and oak trees were the staple of the grove, and at times the Putnams would bring the luscious red fruit into town, selling them alongside Jacob for one shilling a bushel.

       There was never an unkind word said of either Joshua or Mary, senior. From the time they settled within the hamlet of Salem Village they had remained upstanding citizens. Every Sunday they would be seen in the meeting place, their souls saved of the sins they had wrought during the earlier weekdays. They told me tales of when they themselves weeded out those who were accused of such crimes; it is because of their prying eyes that many shall be hanged upon the hill. I had to question their sincerity of it all.

       Jacob told me he resented Joshua Putnam for selling apples in the village. Jacob had no other income in the summer, while Joshua had his livestock. It is because of this rivalry that the two men rarely spoke. Deliverence, though, was very good friends with Mary, senior.

       William Griggs was the village doctor. He also practiced in Andover. His office was next to the town�s schoolhouse, and on this day it was full. Mercy, his wife, assisted on days when the room became too crowded for one. She learned much of her knowledge of medicine from her husband, as she had never seen the inside of a college.

       Because of the hysteria over the witches, new cases were popping up everyday of people who believed they had been afflicted by others. Of course, there was nothing to their claims, and I am sure that Doctor Griggs was aware of this, but what could he say? If he were to conclude the only affliction about was hysteria, he too would have been branded a witch in league with the Devil. So, as usual, and as business in Salem Village, he proclaimed his patients as being �touched� by witchcraft.

       Few words were exchanged that day. The doctor was friendly, but I did not like his wife. I do not believe she cared much for me, either. I thought she was too cold. She appeared very eager to confirm any ailments brought before her. Unlike her husband, she performed few tests. One look into the patient�s eyes, their mouths, or their ears and Mercy Griggs was ready to deduce the illness. Perhaps, it was her dislike of strangers that prevented her from attempting a familiar tone with me. She had been a third generation villager and was not known to warm up to others very fast. Or perhaps it had been my accent she did not trust. No matter how much English I learned, I could not shake the French from my tongue.

       Of course, she was no match for Reverend Samuel Parris in his willingness to announce Satan had arrived in the hamlet, but it was his job to bring about misfortune. How else could he cure it and win over his flock? For him it was understandable and despicable; I disliked him from the moment he took my hand, until the moment he bid me farewell. Maybe, it was his disposition that found its way to my skin and crawled under, or perhaps it was the way he twisted everything to attribute it to witchcraft. Each event and every incident reported to him was contributed to the Devil entering the lives of those living in Salem. He was determined to frighten his parish into submission. He wanted total dominance, and his only way was with witchcraft. As long as people believed in it and he had the cure, he had power. I was sickened by it. I could not understand why no one else was wise enough to see it.

       �Be sure to come to meeting on the �morrow,� he bade me, as Jacob and I left the First Church. He seemed eager to take me under his spell.

       �We will be there,� Jacob confirmed, as he took my arm to lead me out into the cold day.

       �God watches all,� Reverend Parris warned, as he stood in the open doorway, the wind blowing his cloak up around him. �God watches all.�

       I broke free of Jacob�s hold and rushed from him to the cart.

       Screaming out, I awoke from my sleep, my face covered in sweat. My eyes were wide, and I searched about the room, seeking anything not as it should be. I swallowed, but my throat was dry, and as I licked my lips, I could feel them begin to bleed, the chapped skin cracking. I placed my hand to my mouth and breathed deeply. Rebecca was beside me, but she had not awakened. I decided not to disturb her, as I did not want to bother her with the nonsense of my dream.

       I removed the covers from myself as I slipped from the bed, my bare feet touching against the cold wood of the floor. Stumbling in the darkness, I made my way to the window. I could see the ground was covered in snow. Had it been snowing all night, or had it only started when I began to dream?

       Turning away, I let myself look to Rebecca, her face lit up by the moonlight coming through the glass. I feared she would become entwined in my madness, and I wondered if I needed to fear for her safety. Would I dare to harm her? I shook the thought away as I returned to the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. I could barely wait until spring.

       �I shall confess of nothing,� I said to him, �for nothing is to be confessed of. As for the wasting of time within this chamber, �twas not I who wished to be here.�

       The magistrate looked away and spoke with those beside him and they shook their heads in disbelief. I took the time to search the room. There were so many bodies pressed together that it was not easy to differentiate between the faces. I saw Mary Walcott, the young girl responsible for my being here. She sat in the very front row with her mother, her eyes turned away. A few rows back, I saw the face of William Griggs and his wife, Mercy. When the doctor had returned to Rebecca�s father�s house on the way out of Boston to check on me and my wife there was nothing to be found. There was no evidence of any wrong doing, but for the bedchamber with its disarray of books upon the floor that had been knocked from the bookshelf. There was never any mention of blood or of Rebecca�s body. So, perhaps Abigail had worked her magic and evil after all.

       But it was the row behind the doctor that I welcomed the most, for it was this row that held Jacob Gibson. But as my eyes traveled to him, I saw Jacob purposely avoiding me. Then it was true; someone had gotten to him. Either that, or the man feared what might become of him or his wife if he spoke kind words for me. There shall be no kind words spoken today.

       I returned my gaze to the magistrates, then let my eyes drop to the floor where I kept them down. The magistrate�s voice came out loud and clear, but I wasn�t able to make out the words until I looked up. The man was calling out for the onlookers to be silent again, and he said the proceedings would get under way.

       Mary Walcott was the first witness called to testify, and it would be Mary Walcott who would damage me the most. Would there really be any need for others? The young girl left the security of her mother and made her way up to the witness box. She kept her eyes away from me all the while. She seemed genuinely frightened of the proceedings, but I had to question whether it was me she feared or her own words. She would not want to make a mistake in her recollection of events.

       Mary seated herself and let her hands rest in her lap. The magistrate asked her if she could please point to the one she accused, the one she had seen as a specter. The girl turned toward me and pointed her finger. She did not smile, nor did she seem to feel anything of what she had done. It was as though she had been practicing for days to get it right. Perhaps she had set herself in front of a looking glass, turning to point an accusing finger toward it, ending its freedom. For how could she truly believe what she was doing? She knew full well she did not see me as a specter anywhere.

       And then she recalled, ��Twas on the morn of February 4 that I first saw the specter. I remember it well, �cause it was my birthday. I was walking by Mary Putnam�s house when I spotted something up in the sky. I took a closer look and saw it was Goodman Bailey. He was flying all about the roof and a couple of times he landed. I was frightened, so I ran to the door of the house. I banged and banged for Gammer Putnam to let me inside, and to warn her, but she did not answer my call. I knew young Mary to be ill, so I let myself in. And that�s when�and that�s�� Tears strolled down her face as she recounted finding the bodies, all bloody and strewn about. �I saw him again later that day. This time he was in the field by the house of Jeremiah Wickson. I do not know what he was doing, �cause I did not get close enough, but I know it was him, I do.�

       The magistrate looked at me as Mary Walcott finished her speech. �Do you plead innocent or guilty to this charge?� he asked.

       It was so right to the point. I threw my eyes to Mary and watched as she put her head down, and then I looked back to the magistrate.

       �I do not recall having been to either of those places before the deaths. Perhaps �twas not I whom she saw, but a stranger.�

       �A stranger?� the magistrate asked.

       �Aye, for she did say she was not very close. I do not think as she could see so easily.�

       �Why should a stranger wish to be at either place?�

       �Why should I wish to be at either place?� I countered.

       �To bewitch them, naturally.�

       �I have not bewitched anyone.�

       �Did you not try to bewitch Reverend Samuel Parris during his sermon?� I shook my head, but the man shouted, �Speak your words! The entire company of this court shall hear the words you are to use.�

       �Nay, sir, I did not try to bewitch him, nor cast spells, nor commit harm.�

       �But you hit him.�

       �I was angered.�

       �Angered? Angered by what?�

       �Angered by the Reverend visiting upon myself and accusing me of doing so many terrible things without any proof. Angered by the thought of innocent people being accused of something so ludicrous as witchcraft by the simple voices of young girls, the same young girls who accuse all.�

       �Your anger is not justified.�

       �But my anger��

       �He lies!� came Mary Walcott. �I saw him as he went to the Putnam house. I saw.�

       I would sight this as a lie, just as I had the others. There was no proof that she had seen me, no other witnesses. But, be damned, I should never have let her see me on that eve. Her words may flow more easily now that she speaks the truth.

       �You had seen him again?� the magistrate asked her.

       �Aye,� she answered. ��Twas on the eve �fore the family was brought to their deaths and young Mary bewitched.�

       �His apparition?�

       �Nay. Not his apparition, but his true self.�

       The room was suddenly filled with voices. Now the truth shall be known. Now it was true, I had gone out there to slaughter the Putnams. This was all they needed. The magistrate pounded his gavel on the table and called for order. It took a few minutes for everyone to settle down, but I welcomed the commotion. To me, it meant a few minutes of not listening to testimony or answering questions that were foolish.

       �Continue, Mary,� the chief justice said to the girl, and I watched as she stared straight at me as she recalled the events of that evening.

       It was all too obvious to me, as it should have been to others that young Mary could only look someone in the eye when she was telling the truth. Surely, they must see this and know that all the other times she spoke without looking my way, she was only speaking lies. But neither the magistrates nor the onlookers saw this, or else they refused to.

With the spectacle of the burning women�Marie Dubois and Claire de Saint-Andre�at an end, the head inquisitor positioned himself in Toulouse�s most expensive inn, living comfortably upon the taxpayers� money. He was slumbering when Lia and I entered beneath the crack of his bolted door. He looked like an imp lying on his bed, his plump body wrapped up in blankets. His sleek head glimmered in the light of a torch outside his window, and his lips were moistened with spittle. He was snoring and did not hear us come in. In a flash Lia was upon him, her soft hand covering his mouth. Master Aubolt came awake.

       �Do not move, Master Aubolt,� I whispered, �or I shall cut your throat.� The terrified man stared at me. His eyes bulged with fear as he sweat from the heat of my breath. �You have killed two innocent women on this eve, and in return you shall die. I cannot allow you to live, to put other innocents to death. And by burning? I can think of no crueler punishment of execution. You should be burned alive to know the feeling. Yet I would not allow my most vicious of enemies to come to such a fate. Not even you.�

       The man struggled beneath Lia�s grip, but she held him down. His strength was no match against hers.

       �Do not hurt him, Lia,� I said to her. �I want him alive and well while I eat him, while he dies. I want him to know the horror of being killed.�

       Master Aubolt was becoming frantic. It took everything Lia had to vanquish the large man.

       �Cut him wide,� Lia said, laughing. �Spill his blood.�

       I put my hand up to calm her. �This must be done slowly. I want to do it as you taught me. I want to enjoy this, to love it.�

       She smiled at me and I returned my own. While Lia held the man still, I moved my face close to his, letting my tongue ride the length of his neck. It tasted sweet, and I allowed myself to sip his life. This man, this murderer, excited me. His fear engulfed me, and I wanted to allow myself to drown in it. His skin�the taste of it, the smell of it, the softness of it�I hungered for it. I wanted to devour it fast, and yet I wanted his death to be entirely slow.

       I bared my nails before his eyes, letting him see their sharpness. I placed them against Master Aubolt�s left cheek and sliced through his tender skin. A small trail of blood fell from the wound and I lapped it up with my tongue.

       His heart was pounding. I could feel the blood pumping through him. Filled with insanity, I let my claws move to his throat and slice open the skin. A two-inch slit appeared and I drank from it. I suckled his warm, sweet blood as though it was wine. For more than a minute, I drank while Master Aubolt�s heart beat slower.

       �Kill him, now,� Lia cackled. �Do not let him live a moment longer.�

       I looked up at her, my mouth drenched in blood. �I have told you. His death will come slow. He will not die until he can live no more. With each piece of his flesh I devour, his heart shall beat slower. I shall devour him until it beats no longer.�