Page 119 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Angelica root,” I whispered. Perhaps they hadn’t been total fools.

“Be grateful it’s not iron,” came the response.

I ignored it, cursing silently. Something sharp was nudged into the small of my back, forcing me forward. My mind buzzed with every step as I realized the gravity of my situation. I had grown reliant on my magic over the last few years, never expecting to have to rely on anything else to ensure my own survival.

Survival. My heart pounded against my ribcage as the word conjured an image of my father’s face. He’d spent nearly all of his time beneath the cover of the woods hunting for his livelihood, so much so that he didn’t need a map to navigate. When I was twelve, he had dragged Jem and me, much to my dismay, into the forest for days in pursuit of a white stag. He’d taught us how to use natural markers to orient ourselves, how to navigate using the stars and track time with the sun and shadows. We never caught the stag, but perhaps that wasn’t the point.

I glanced upwards. The sun’s nascent rays warmed my back, a sign that we were headed west from where I’d arrived. My shoeless feet padded against rocks and prickly scrub brush. Whorls of pale green sage quaked in the breeze around me, the temperate air ripe with their perfume. We had to be far from Hollybrook, I surmised. In the west of Valen, perhaps, near the wide plains of Helmshath, or in the south, teetering near the edge of the Great Sea.

I counted the paces as the minutes passed. Twenty. Seventy. Two-hundred and forty by the time we came to a halt by a fence that towered several feet above my head. It was a rudimentary structure, as if someone had roped together the trunks of trees and sharpened their ends to lethal points. I frowned, coming face to face with one of the two guards who stood at the entrance, as solemn faced as the ones who’d led me here. The golden light around him confirmed that he was yet another witch. I could hardly believe it. So many in one place, when I’d been led to believe we were nearly extinct.

The gates creaked open to reveal an encampment crowded with canvas tents. The paths between them were empty, but there were hundreds of footprints in the dirt. I strained my ears, but the shuffling of our feet against the dry earth was the only sound as we passed through the gate. We walked another fifty paces before my captors ushered me into one of the tents, pulling aside one of the canvas flaps and sending me forward with a shove to the small of my back. “You will remain here until summoned,” said the leader of the troupe.

The tent was bare save for a straw pallet and a ceramic pot that I wrinkled my nose at. “Summoned?” I parroted, turning to face her. “By whom? Who are you people?”

“You’ll learn soon enough,” she replied.

“Aren’t you going to untie me?” I asked.

“The bindings stay,” she said.

“You can’t—” My protest went unheard as she shouldered her way through the canvas flaps. The light faded in her wake.

I swayed on my feet. I wasn’t sure if it was the angelica, the portal, or the elderberry wine, but I was fighting not to empty the contents of my stomach into that pot. I dropped dejectedly onto the pallet as my surroundings swam. A dull ache radiated from the back of my skull where I’d struck one of my captors. I was at the mercy of my captors for as long as I was bound. Even if they chose to untie me, though, I had no idea what enchantments had been cast upon this place.

My brow furrowed. Ivor had assured me that Hollybrook was safe. Enhart, too, for that matter. Yet I had been so sure that there was something unnatural about those damned trees. My stomach churned. If I ever got out of here, I would never let him hear the end of it.

Not if, I reassured myself. When.

I wondered if anyone had noticed that I was gone. If anyone would look for me. Even if they tried, there was no way to find me unless the portal was still open on the other end.

Sinking onto my side, I watched two pairs of guards’ boots through the gap between the canvas and the soil. They shuffled around for hours as the light that warmed the canvas brightened to amber, then ebbed away into darkness. I lay on my back, listening intently to every sound in an effort to distract myself. The sharp bark of a dog echoed through the encampment as the guards whispered to each other. But they spoke only of their sore muscles and desire to be back in their own tents.

My ears perked up at the sound of footsteps crunching against the earth. A figure approached, their silhouette outlined against the canvas by the light of the guard’s torches. I jumped to my feet, retreating as far as I could until the canvas, still warm from soaking in the sun all day, was flush against my back. The guards shuffled slightly, pulling back the flaps of the tent before they fell once again.

The newcomer had a boyish face and unblemished complexion that made it difficult to discern his age. If I had to guess, I’d say he was no older than twenty. He was dressed simply in a taupe tunic and breeches that could have been cut from the canvas that encircled us. He held a tray in one hand, upon which perched a clay cup and a loaf of bread. I willed my stomach not to whine so that I might maintain some trifling shred of my dignity. With trembling fingers, he tucked a lock of ashen hair behind his ear, frozen at the threshold as if afraid I might bite. The thought nearly made me laugh.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said stiffly. “So you can stop acting like you’re frightened of me.” I lifted my bound wrists, forcing him to see what his people had done to me.

His face betrayed no signs of pleasure at the sight of me, though. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He set the tray on the ground, handing the cup to me with a quivering hand. My wrists still bound, I struggled to lift it to my lips.

“My name is Geraint,” he said, taking the cup once I had drained it, a bead of water dribbling down my cheek.

“Finn,” I grunted.

“Forgive my sisters,” he said. “They fear what they do not understand.”

“Sisters?” I parroted. “They’re your family?”

“In a sense.”

I forced myself not to scowl. “Well I am not a threat to anyone here. So there is nothing for them to fear.”

“There is from a witch who allies herself with vampires,” he replied simply.

I scoffed. “Vampires aren’t monsters.”

“The elders say that vampires thirst for witch blood above all else,” he said. “That they would rip us apart and suck out our marrow if given the chance.”