Page 122 of The Witch Queen

“Come on,” I say, gesturing for them to follow. “This is only the start.”

Memories wash over me as we descend the curved staircase into the former High Priest’s lair. The light from our torches seeps outward, illuminating the worktable with Ignatius’s instruments. The bookcases crammed with his stolen grimoires. A few jars of ingredients survive, one with various species of eyeballs floating in a yellowish substance. I shudder, recalling Marion’s tuneless song as she glided along thoseshelves, the mirror sheen of her sightless eyes. Pale spots line the walls, where Ignatius’s mirrors used to hang. Roland came and took the glass back to the Mines a long time ago. But I can still see the room as it was. A draft stirs and I can almost hear the click of Nox’s claws on the stone. See myself, huddled in a corner, alone and afraid and certain that I would die.

Malum stirs behind my breastbone and I lean into it.

“Spirits,” Jacquetta murmurs, taking it all in. “This was down here the whole time? How did you discover it?”

I hesitate. I haven’t shared the full extent of the events that occurred that awful night with anyone. Not even Joan. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how heavy the memories have become. How much I’ve needed to relieve myself of the burden. And, ignoring that insistent voice inside me that warns me to keep it inside, I do.

As briefly as I can, I explain about sneaking back into the palace and discovering Queen Sybil’s private writings, including the centuries’ old illustrations of Ignatius. How the High Priest captured me and dragged me here. About Marion and Nox. Ignatius’s insidious offer of power. Rhea. I press my hand to the wall when I speak of my sister, wishing that she could appear like she did that night, even if only for an instant. That place on my palm prickles.

For obvious reasons, I don’t divulge Callen’s fate. Nor do I mention my control of the shadows, as I don’t need Blodwyn’s opinion of me to sink any lower. But my story was clearly shocking enough on its own. By the time I’m finished, Jacquetta is sitting on the first stair, her lips slack. Even Blodwyn’s expression appears a bit softer. Not quite sympathetic, but less like she’s determining the best way to murder me in my sleep.

“So Ignatius,” Jacquetta says at last, “was a…witch?”

“I wouldn’t call him that,” I reply, bitter. “He was rejected by the covens. Whatever power he found he stole from the witches during his quest for revenge.”

He’s not the only one who stole,that pesky voice goads.

I shove it down, refusing to meet Jacquetta’s gaze.

“In any case, Ignatius is dead,” I go on. “All that matters now is that we learn how to banish that creature.”

With that, I head toward the shelves and set to work.

—

It’s all but impossible to keep track of time this far below the palace, but I suspect a few hours pass in relative silence. Blodwyn peruses the shelves at her own pace, keeping her distance from Jacquetta and me. Occasionally, I hear her muttering what sound like curses. Otherwise, I focus on my own pile of books.

It’s not the first time I’ve studied these texts. I returned to this place a few times during the early months of my reign, seeking answers about my fledgling power. I didn’t find much, though. And so I left the books down here to rot. They reminded me too much of the High Priest. Even now, I can almost hear his awful voice in my head through his spidery handwriting.

My revulsion only deepens when reading the context of the texts. I find a section in a journal explaining how Ignatius crafted his medallion with the Bloodstones, one runed to siphon power from the witches. There are also logs detailing various members of court, including the queen and Marion and even Callen. Not simply their movements, but their tastes and preferences. Aspirations and fears. And these are the least sinister of the volumes.

Others contain macabre rituals that make the forbidden books at Stonehaven seem tame. Experiments Ignatius conducted in his attempts to bind hearts to a mirror. Recordings about how humans react to certain kinds of magic or even poisons. Servants and Order girls seemed to be Ignatius’s preferred victims, as they were least likely to be missed. Anger smolders inside me, realizing just how lucky Jacquetta and I were to have escaped the High Priest’s clutches.

“Ayleth”—Jacquetta nudges me—“look.”

She slides her book in my direction. It’s one of the grimoires, opento a page depicting what appears to be a human heart, rendered in painstaking clarity. The arteries are severed and there are spots of what might be dried blood spattering the page, leading me to wonder if the heart was illustrated from life. But my attention is fixed to the center of the organ, where Ignatius has included an additional chamber. One filled, inexplicably, with gold.

“What is that?” I ask.

“From what I can gather, Ignatius believed it was an ingredient of some kind,” Jacquetta explains. “One that could be extracted.”

My brow furrows. “Extracted?”

A grisly image resurfaces—the creature ripping out the Follower’s heart. Blood running down her face as she tore into the muscle with her teeth.

“Could that be what the creature is doing?” I ask.

“I wondered as much, too,” Jacquetta agrees. “Maybe this is how she’s binding herself to our world. Her anchor.”

It’s not a bad guess. “But then how—”

“Is that why she wants me?”

We both jump at the voice. I’d been so engrossed in our theory, that I didn’t hear Blodwyn approach. I immediately move to close the book, but the princess has already seen it. She steps nearer and runs her fingertips along the drawing of the heart. Despite everything between us, my own throat tightens at the fear I know must be churning through her veins.

“It could be,” I say.