Page 120 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

I hesitated. What did these people know about the effects of witch’s blood on vampires? Is that why they had been driven into hiding? Out of fear of creatures they believed to be monstrous? I recalled how the people of Wealdstone had turned on me once they realized I was a witch. A lifetime of trust erased in moments. “Your elders are misled,” I said.

His lip quivered, reminding me vividly of my childhood friend, Arthur. He resembled him, I realized, with his wide eyes and timid demeanor.

“How do you even know who my allies are?” I asked, doing my best to soften my tone.

His gray eyes rounded. “I cannot say.”

He turned tail and fled from the tent before I had a chance to protest. I swore as the canvas fell into place behind him. Ignoring the meager supper of stale bread that he had left behind, I lay down on the pallet. The bindings trapped my arms in an awkward position, making my shoulders ache. Straw poked me uncomfortably in the backside as my mind burned with questions. How did they know who I was? How was it possible that there was an entire community of witches here, when I’d been told all my life that there were practically none of my kind left? Did the people of Valen truly not know about them or— I faltered.

Was someone lying to me?

I choked down the unease that crawled up my throat. Enhart wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this. And Mordric had always been clear with his intentions. I couldn’t say the same for these strangers.

I wondered how long it would be until someone returned, if it would be Geraint or some other terrified witchling. He had been raised in this tribe his entire life, I assumed. Surrounded by his own people. Closed off from the rest of the world. In a way, I envied him for his naivety.

I wondered if Enhart had realized yet that I was gone. Or if he would tell Mordric. I could picture the rage on the King’s face when he found out that Hollybrook hadn’t been as safe as it was promised.

Above all, I wondered what my fate would be at the hands of the witches.

My cheek was flush with the pallet merely inches from the earth, so I felt the vibrations of the guards’ footsteps before I heard them. I sat up, not knowing what to expect. When the flaps of the tent were pulled back, I laid eyes on the same warrior who had pointed her spear at my nose when I first arrived. She grabbed me by the front of my shift, dragging me into the night.

A band of guards led me into the largest tent in the encampment. My eyes widened as I saw that a small crowd was gathered there. The men, women, and children were adorned in linen and furs, their faces bare and solemn. If I looked closely, I could see a golden aura pulsing around each of them. More witches. They watched, wide-eyed, as I was marched toward a dais where three robed figures sat in a row. They had to be the elders Geraint had spoken of.

In the center was a woman draped in golden robes. She was dark in complexion, and her head was shrouded in a halo of salt-and-pepper curls. She straightened, flexing her palms.

To her left was a shriveled crone cloaked in black, which made her look like a vulture perched on the edge of her seat. Her skin was ashy and delicate, with wrinkles scored over its surface. A milky film clouded her eyes. Her cracked lips were parted as if she were about to speak, but no sound came out.

The third figure’s face was obscured by his cowl, the fabric as scarlet as a still-beating heart. He slouched in his seat, his posture reminding me of a schoolboy about to be reprimanded by the teacher. His hand was curled in front of his face as if he were inspecting his claw-like nails without a care in the world.

The guards forced me to my knees before the trio, my cheeks warming as I found myself level with the feet of my captors.

I thought of Enhart. He would never let anyone see his shame, let alone his enemies. Steeling myself, I lifted my chin and adopted an expressionless mask, my best impression of the arrogant prince.

“Welcome, Finwal,” said the woman in the center. “I am Lenora.”

My lip curled. “I don’t care who you are. What do you want with me?”

Her smile did not reach her eyes. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you for some time.”

“We being who, exactly?” I asked.

“Your family,” she replied, as if the answer was obvious.

I clicked my tongue as I looked around the tent for an escape route. The main entrance was crowded with witches, but there was a small exit behind the dais. I could make a run for it, but the elders were flanked by even burlier sentries than the ones who’d led me here. If they all had magic, I didn’t like the odds. “Clearly you have me confused with someone else,” I said finally.

Beside her, the hooded figure snorted. “I told you this would happen if you brought a peasant into our midst.” To me, he said, “You should bite your tongue in the presence of your superiors.”

I scoffed. “I’m the peasant? Have you seen how you live? Even the people from my village were better off than you.” Lenora raised her hand to quiet the affronted gasps that echoed around the tent. Beside her, the old crone stirred with a low moan, as if shaking off sleep. She reached a clawed hand into the ether, gesturing in my direction.

Her movements were so unsettling that I almost missed the tap, tap, tap of unfamiliar magic against my mind. Unlike Enhart’s influence, so cold and unyielding, this was somehow playful. Warm. A trick to lure me into a false sense of security.

I braced myself, but I had been rendered feeble and unsteady by the angelica root that laced the bonds around my wrists. Unable to raise my wards, I could do nothing as a stranger’s will invaded my senses. It wound its way around my mind like a spider strangling its prey in a trail of its own silk. The imprint of this magic had a thin, papery element to it, as if it were very old.

And yet, I could somehow tell it wasn’t the wrinkled crone or even Lenora who was controlling it. No, it belonged to the same witch who hid his face not five feet before me. I raised my chin, willing myself not to look away.

My defiance was short-lived.

The witch’s magic burned through my mind like a fever. I doubled over as it ravaged my senses. It was nothing like Enhart’s. This was designed to be as painful as possible.