A harsh neigh and the clattering of hooves jolted Suzi awake. Mud caked her face, gritty against her skin, and her cropped hair clung to her scalp in uneven, sweat-matted tufts. Her clothes—if you could call them that—were nothing more than scratchy burlap rags, fraying at the edges. The room around her felt suffocating, its mud-brick walls damp and its dirt floor cold against her bare legs.
She blinked, disoriented. Her gaze caught on the small, barred window high on the wall, filtering weak light and a misting rain that clung to the air like despair. Outside, muffled voices rose in a cacophony—haggling, shouting, the sharp chop of axes splitting wood. Mixed with the earthy scent of bread baking and meat roasting was the rank, unmistakable tang of manure. The bile rose in her throat as she tried not to gag.
A rat scurried across the corner of the room, its sleek body darting into a hole, and Suzi flinched. Where the fuck am I? Her mind reached out instinctively, searching for the familiar voices in her head—Judas, Judith, Annie. Silence. The absence was deafening.
Panic flared. She ran her hands over her arms, finding angry gashes and scabs she didn’t remember earning. Her heart thudded painfully. “Hey!” she shouted, but her voice betrayed her, emerging as a clipped, unfamiliar Bonjour. Her stomach clenched. The fuck?
The scrape of wood on wood snapped her attention to the door. A small window slid open, and a filthy hand tossed a half-rotten potato and a chunk of moldy bread onto the floor. Dirt puffed up as they landed.
“Please,” Suzi pleaded, instinctively reaching toward the sliver of light, “let me out—” But her words twisted, the plea mangled into something foreign to her ears.
The reply was guttural, harsh. She caught one word: sorcière. Witch.
Her blood ran cold. Witch? The pieces didn’t fit, like a puzzle smashed together with a hammer. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to quiet the trembling in her legs as the light from the door disappeared with a heavy thud. Alone again, the room closed in, the air pressing on her chest like a weight.
Hours crawled. The sun’s rays replaced the drizzle, but the change brought no comfort. Suzi tried again and again fall into the Ether, or into Guillermo. Nothing worked. She was trapped. Every sound outside twisted in her mind: the thunk of a butcher’s cleaver became bones cracking; the bleating of sheep mixed with the delighted shrieks of children transformed into the unholy cry of some monstrous, goat-like beast. Her imagination spiraled, each thought darker than the last.
By evening, hunger gnawed at her. She shoved the potato and bread closer to the rat’s burrow, unwilling to touch them. The little creature darted out, sniffing cautiously. “Here, have at it,” Suzi muttered bitterly, her words not the same in her ears as they were forming in her head.
The pounding on the door came suddenly, breaking the oppressive quiet. Her heart slammed against her ribs as the door creaked open. Three men entered, muddy and unkempt, their heavy boots thumping on the dirt floor. The shortest of the three barked something in a language Suzi couldn’t decipher, holding out a tangle of chains.
“No,” she whispered, backing into the wall. “No, no, no—”
The man growled, tossing the chains at her. The weight of them landed hard on her head, sending a sharp, metallic sting across her scalp. “Son of a bitch!” she spat, clutching her head. Her outburst earned her nothing but a sneer and another guttural command.
Her hands shook as she fastened the shackles around her wrists and ankles. The shorter man gestured impatiently, and before she could brace herself, rough hands grabbed her arms. She thrashed, her instincts taking over, but it was useless. They wrenched her around, securing the final chains at her waist and neck before jamming a scratchy, burlap sack over her head.
They dragged her into the open air. The sting of sunlight through the coarse sack burned her eyes. Each step she shuffled was agony; the chains cut into her skin, and her stride was reduced to pathetic half-steps. She barely noticed the crowd until the first egg hit her, splattering against the sack. The stench of rot filled her nose. Then came a tomato, striking her chest with a wet slap. The crowd’s jeers rose to a deafening roar. Thousands of voices, a tide of hatred crashing against her ears.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. The sack was yanked away, and she blinked against the blinding light. The scene before her was surreal: a sea of people packed tightly into the muddy streets of a Renaissance-era city. Their faces blurred into a mass of anger and revulsion, save for one. A friar in brown robes stood apart, his gaze piercing through the chaos, strangely familiar.
A nudge from behind forced her up the stairs. Her reflection in a puddle stopped her cold. She wasn’t Suzi. She was Darcy.
At the platform’s top, the truth hit like a punch to the gut. The woodpile, stacked high and ready, surrounded the stake where she would die.
Suzi wanted to cry and fight her captors, but oddly, she was brave and calm.
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The two taller men who escorted her turned her back towards the pole in the center of the platform. The stouter man looped another chain around the pole and connected it to the band at her waist. They tested the chains and then exited the platform.
The officiant’s voice droned on, reading from an unrolled parchment, listing crimes in both old English and French.
“Heresy. Witchcraft. Dressing as a man.”
Her heart thudded painfully. This can’t be real. But the heat of the torches and the sharp stench of oil told her otherwise.
Her gaze darted to the friar. Without thinking, the words left her mouth, steady and resolute: “You! Priest! Hold your crucifix high so I may see it through the flames!”
The flames came faster than she expected. The guards’ torches ignited the pyre with a whoosh, and the heat was immediate, blistering. Smoke clawed at her lungs as the fire climbed, devouring the wood and licking at her legs. Pain ripped through her body, but she clenched her fists, refusing to scream.
The crowd roared. Somewhere, amidst the chaos, she thought she saw the friar raise his crucifix, but her vision blurred as the flames engulfed her. The world narrowed to heat, pain, and the acrid taste of smoke. Her knees buckled.
“Jesus!” she cried out. Then, darkness.
* * * * *
The cool earth pressed against Suzi’s cheek, the dampness of the soil clinging to her skin as she blinked into the dim twilight. Her fingers clenched the small golden dagger, its leather sheath slick under her sweaty grip. She sat up slowly, the river nearby a black ribbon in the fading light, framed by an old stone wall. Night had almost swallowed the sky.
A voice cut through the quiet. “Did you enjoy the view?”
Her heart leapt. She twisted around, her knees digging into the dirt. Darcy sat on a weathered bench, tossing seeds to a gathering of pigeons, her face shadowed but unmistakable.
“Darcy?” Suzi croaked, her throat raw. The phantom sensation of searing heat still lingered on her skin, and the acrid tang of smoke clung to her nostrils. She coughed, trying to shake the memory of flames.
Darcy’s expression didn’t shift. “I don’t know how you did it, but that was a good trick.”
“What trick?” Suzi asked, her voice thick with confusion.
Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Is that your ability? Or do you have a fucking twin wandering around?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How the hell did you get from my room to another without anyone seeing? Or into my room without the ringleader knowing?” Darcy’s tone was sharp, each word cutting deeper into Suzi’s spinning mind.
Suzi glanced down at the dagger, its weight unfamiliar yet comforting. She held it out to Darcy. “This is yours.”
Darcy snatched it from her hand with a scoff. “I should leave you here to fend for yourself.”
“Where is here?” Suzi asked, rising shakily to her feet. Dirt and crushed grass stuck to her clothes as she brushed herself off.
Darcy took a few steps toward a stone pathway, gesturing to a large marble slab etched with words. “Rouen, France. This is where I died.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. “Bullshit.”
Darcy’s lips curled into a smirk, though her eyes stayed cold. She motioned to the slab. “Read it.”
Suzi approached, the stone looming. She squinted at the French inscription. The letters twisted and shifted in her mind, the meaning bleeding through as if the language had always been hers:
“On this site, 30 May 1431, Saint Jeanne D’Arc was burned for heresy.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re Joan of Arc.”
Darcy’s expression tightened, her smirk vanishing. “You could shout it a little louder if you want. No one’s listening, Américain stupide.”
“Sorry, I—” Suzi’s words tumbled out. “I’ve just never met a saint before. You’re the first female military leader—”
Darcy cut her off, her voice sharp as a blade. “I was burned alive for dressing like a man.”
“You named King Henry VII,” Suzi pressed, as if the history would soften the edges.
Darcy barked out a laugh, hollow and bitter. “And he left me to rot. I gave him Orleans, and he couldn’t even save me from the flames.”
Suzi swallowed hard, her excitement souring into something heavier. “Were you the first celestial?”
“No.” Darcy shook her head, the golden dagger twirling between her fingers. “One of the last, actually. Until you showed up.”
“Oh.” Suzi hesitated, remembering Bear had mentioned Dr. Everett had been around at least a thousand years. “I’m sorry I took your knife.”
Darcy waved the apology away. “I’m sorry I left you in limbo. How’d you escape?”
Suzi shifted uncomfortably, the memories of that place clawing at the edges of her mind. “I’m not sure you’d believe me. I’m not even sure I believe it. It was hours—maybe days—of agony. I had to find you. When I did, you were sleeping. I touched you, and… it pulled me back.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You pulled yourself out of limbo by touching me?” She didn’t wait for an answer, muttering to herself, “Never heard of that.”
“It was excruciating,” Suzi admitted, her voice quieter now. “Does it hurt for you?”
“Pain’s part of life,” Darcy replied with a shrug. “But no. It’s simple for me. Like breathing.”
Suzi looked down, her hands trembling. “I can’t imagine how you survived that place.”
Darcy’s gaze softened just slightly. “Now, you don’t have to. You experienced it firsthand. And now, I get to relive your last day before I can relive mine again.”
A chill ran down Suzi’s spine. “What do you mean, that you get to relive my death?”
Darcy’s smirk returned, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “The knife shows how you died. That’s how it works.”
“But I’m not dead,” Suzi said, her voice rising with panic.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “You must be. Our human life ends so our celestial one can begin.”
Suzi staggered back a step. “No, it’s not possible. Unless… it was when you shot Dr. Adamson?”
Darcy’s smirk faltered. “That was you behind him, wasn’t it? I’m surprised you died from that. You were still breathing when I pulled him off you.”
“I wanted to blame you,” Suzi admitted, bitterness creeping into her voice. “But… my life’s been more interesting since. It nearly cost my husband his life, though.”
“Relationships never last,” Darcy said coldly. “Love always ends in heartache, one way or another. Let’s go.”
Darcy extended her hand. Suzi hesitated but took it. Darcy stepped forward, and the world folded in on itself. Limbo roared around them, a chaotic blur of cities, mountains, oceans, and endless void. Suzi clung to Darcy’s hand, her stomach churning as the Atlantic flashed by, then the familiar skyline of New Your City, then Chicago as they slowed.
They landed with a jolt back in the dim room where Suzi had first awakened. The reality of the space pressed down on her. Suzi barely made it to the corner before emptying the remains of her chicken quesadilla into a dented can.