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me.”
    The pagans surrounded the man, chanting prayers as Claude stepped forward. Clemence stood beside him, watching, her eyes cast down. Claude pulled the hood of his black cape over his head so his face was in the shadows. With each innocent, it was becoming easier to kill. The guilt wasn’t as heavy as it had been after his third or fourth sacrifice. There was no hesitation now. He finally understood it, all the power his father must’ve felt when he took a man’s life. How alluring it was, to be the one who chose who lived and who died.
    Claude held the knife in his hand, swinging it in an arc, as he’d started to do before each sacrifice. He spoke in low, even tones, praying as he came closer to the innocent. “May your death appease our gods,” he said in the pagan tongue. “May it prevent the plague’s return and bring us peace.”
    The man twisted, trying to get free, and his cape fell off his face. Claude was looking directly at him. The man’s skin was red from all the blood rushing to his head. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.
    They sometimes said that, but Claude now knew it was a lie. He did have to do this, just as he’d had to kill Lily that day in her house. Human sacrifice was the only thing that had stopped the plague, and it was the only thing that could stop it from coming back. He wouldn’t let his family die again. He wouldn’t let it steal Clemence, or anything he’d created since it left. He could feel its presence right behind him, chasing him—a wild beast always nipping at his heels.
    â€œOur gods, be appeased, be appeased by this, our sacrifice,” he chanted. His pagan followers formed a circle around him, chanting with him, repeating his words over and over as he took another step toward the man.
    Then he raised his knife and cut across the man’s throat. The man started to scream. Blood rushed out of the wound, gurgling and red. Claude grabbed the side of the man’s head and slashed into his neck again, stopping when the blade hit his windpipe.
    Blood shot out, covering the front of Claude’s shirt. After his second kill he’d felt the familiar queasiness he’d known as a boy. But now, with each sacrifice he grew stronger, untouchable. It was surprising how quickly you could get used to the smell of blood.
    Claude took a step back, joining his followers as the man bled out. When the hunter had finally stopped moving and his skin had turned a ghostly white, Claude finished his last chant. The others stopped soon after, waiting for Claude to permit them to leave. “You may go now, my children,” he said. “The gods have accepted our sacrifice.”
    Claude took Clemence’s hand, which was cold to the touch. He helped her onto their horse. He noticed then that she was crying. She kept her head down, letting the tears fall onto her shirt.
    She often cried after sacrifices, even though he’d told her it made her look weak. She had to show resolve in the face of death, otherwise the gods might punish her. He refused to acknowledge the tears now—he only hoped they would stop.
    When they were riding back toward the village, she spoke. “That made ten,” she said.
    Anger rose in his chest. “What is that to mean?”
    â€œTen innocents have been killed. When will it stop?” she asked. “How many more will die?”
    â€œAs many as it takes,” he snapped. “My hand has kept the plague from returning. Together we have slowed time. There is a reason for all this.”
    She held on to him, her cheek resting against his back. Though it should have comforted her, she only cried harder. “I don’t understand your reasons anymore.…”
    He didn’t respond. He didn’t need her to understand his reasons, and he knew in some ways she never could. His power was growing and she was afraid. He had a gift that others did not, and