Page 121 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

Memories flashed behind my eyes, just as they had when Enhart and I had begun our training. Except here I had no defenses, and not even a pathetic surge of panic or rage could expel the foreign magic from my mind. It searched endlessly for something, but for what I could not tell.

If I had been able, I would have cursed the witch to the depths of Ferinor’s kingdom. Instead, I was unable to utter a word of protest. It was as if my tongue had been bound as tightly as my wrists.

By the time it was finally over, the dirt floor had begun to look awfully comfortable. I had become a stranger to this feeling—the discomfort of having your mind invaded against your will. I straightened, my breathing labored as the final image burned into the backs of my eyes. The curling of cobalt-blue flame around my fingers. The witch had studied it for some time.

“You’ve been practicing,” Lenora observed. “In only a few months you have nearly mastered the three tenets.”

I glanced at the robed figure. Was he feeding them information through his thoughts, the same way Enhart and I sometimes communicated?

His lip was curled into a sneer. “There are children here who have mastered the tenets. She’s nothing special.”

Lenora cocked an eyebrow. Beside her, the crone opened her sunken mouth, revealing a handful of graying teeth. “He has tasted her,” she whispered hoarsely. “Their king.”

A chill ran down my spine. Her eyes were on me, but they were so unfocused it was as if she saw beneath my skin.

“I could’ve told you that without having to be in her mind,” said the robed witch, stretching like a cat in his chair. “He is a vampire, after all.”

My hands curled into fists.

“And yet, I sense that the blood of another courses through her veins,” continued the crone, unfazed by the interruption. “How peculiar.”

“I’ve heard the vampires like to share,” he interrupted again. “Meals and otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I interjected, tiring of their ghoulish scrutiny. Although my mind had been ravaged, my voice was steady.

“So naive,” he said. “The perfect plaything for a couple of vamps.”

“Enough,” said Lenora.

She rose swiftly to her feet. She was an impressive figure, towering taller than any woman I’d ever seen. Her voice echoed around the tent. “Mother Catrin, your words are unnecessary, however insightful.”

Mother? My eyes flicked to the crone. They didn’t look related.

Lenora turned to her left. “Brother, if you please.”

The witch sighed as he climbed lazily to his feet. I wondered if he was enjoying the sight of me like this, bound and powerless. He approached me, lingering too far away for me to peek beneath his cowl. A faint, musty stench reached my nostrils. I jerked backward as his hand snapped out, his fingernails slicing across the skin of my cheek. Blood rushed to the surface, spilling onto the earth beneath me.

“Good girl,” he purred.

To my horror, he unsheathed a silver athame that had been hidden until now between the folds of his robes. I flinched, but he did not raise it against me. Instead, he caressed the blade with bloodied fingers until it shone crimson in the dim light. His touch was tender, almost perverse. It made the hair on my arms stand up.

I watched, bewildered, as he handed the knife to a guard. She disappeared between the folds of the canvas while the witch retreated to the dais. I raised my bound hands to my cheek, bewildered as blood seeped between my fingertips.

What in Letlas’s name?

“Our thanks to you, Finwal,” said Lenora, her voice echoing around the tent. “Take her away.”

The guards wrenched me unceremoniously to my feet. Blood trickled down my cheek as I struggled in their arms, hurling a litany of my finest Outland curses at them as they dragged me backward. On the dais, the cloaked witch smirked. Lenora leaned toward her companion, whispering something that made the old woman nod.

Outside, the camp was dark and deathly quiet. When we arrived at the tent where I’d spent the night, the guards nudged me through the canvas flap without another word. A pair of them stood on the other side, their figures shadows against the canvas. I dropped onto the pallet, my head resting on my bound hands. My mind whirred. How long would I be their captive, drained of blood for whatever nefarious purpose they had in mind?

There had to be some way to break my bonds. Once I did that, I could phase from this place. Unless …

I swallowed. Unless it was protected by wards. Or runes.

“Fuck,” I muttered, picturing the rune that had trapped me when I first arrived. Of course this place was protected. I inhaled a shaky breath. The dried blood on my cheek itched, and I resisted the urge to scrape it off against the twine wrapped around my wrists.

The rustle of canvas caught my attention and my gaze flicked toward the entrance of the tent. The guards hadn’t moved, their shadows watching me through the fabric. I jumped to my feet, spinning away from them, searching for the source of the noise. My eyes widened as fingers peeled the bottom edge of the fabric at the back of the tent upward. Geraint shimmied through the gap, putting a finger to his lips once inside.