Page 139 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

The flame, urged the voice.

An image of cobalt-blue fire flickered behind my eyes. I froze, willing the Ealdorfyre to come to me, but my thoughts were as uncoordinated as my movements, and it would not come when I called. Instead, I conjured a dizzying mist, wrapping it around myself like a cloak of invisibility. Enhart called my name, blinded by my magic.

The knife, the voice reminded me. Before it’s too late.

Any sense of resistance had been wiped away by the stranger to whom the voice belonged. I dropped to my knees, searching frantically for the blade. My fingers skirted over stones, clods of dirt, and clumps of wildflowers that had been dislodged in the struggle, but the dagger was nowhere to be found.

I cried out as Enhart threw himself headlong into my side.

“No!” I shrieked, writhing beneath the prince like a fox caught in a snare. I flailed my arms, clawing at Enhart’s exposed skin. He grunted, pinning my arms to the earth beneath his own.

Failure, mocked the voice. I howled as a sharp burst of pain clawed its way through my bones, as if whoever commanded my body intended to rip me apart from the inside.

A chorus of frantic voices caught my attention. As the mist dissipated, I spotted the Master at Arms and a dozen of his soldiers out of the corner of my eye. They surrounded us, their crossbows aimed at me. At the center of the group was Mordric, his eyes wild as he took in the scene before him.

Wrenching an arm from Enhart’s grip, I pulled a stream of orange flames out of the air, flicking it like a whip toward the company. A soldier yelped in surprise, loosing a bolt from his crossbow with a twang. It flew so low over the top of Enhart’s head that it ruffled his hair. The flames grew, writhing like snakes until Enhart and I were ensnared in a fiery ring.

“Hold your fire!” shouted Mordric. “Hold your godsdamn fire!”

The voice cackled in my mind. When he discovers what you’ve done here tonight, he’ll be begging them to loose their bolts.

“Let me go!” I shrieked.

“Finn,” Enhart gasped, his grip unrelenting. “This isn’t you.”

As quickly as it had begun, the pain vanished, leaving me gasping for air in the prince’s arms. The soldiers’ barking grew distant. My skin and hair had grown damp from the heat of the fire. The delicate fabric of my gown was plastered to my skin.

When my lips parted, the words that slipped from between them were not my own. “You’re right, princeling. It’s not her.”

In my mind’s eye, I could see the one who commanded me. A figure cloaked in scarlet at the end of a crude dais. His voice was deeper than it had been when we first met. A wisp of ashen hair fell from beneath his cowl as he lifted his chin, leaving me staring into his boyish face.

“Geraint,” I croaked.

A pall of understanding flitted across Enhart’s gaze. “Witch,” he snarled, his grip tightening. “Release her.”

Cruel laughter echoed in my ears. “Are you certain that’s what you want?” Geraint hissed through my lips. “Imagine what could happen between you if I didn’t.”

My hand was forced upwards as if on a string, running along the sharp line of Enhart’s jaw. The prince faltered for the briefest of moments, his breathing shallow, pain flickering in his eyes. Snarling, he seized my hand, pinning it above my head. “Enough. What do you want with us?”

“I want many things,” sighed Geraint through me, as if bored. “Things that I’ve been trying to achieve for many years.”

“Spit it out,” Enhart snarled.

“I want this kingdom to burn, for one.”

A witch born of flame and fueled by the blood of vampire.

Enhart snapped his jaws inches from my nose. “You’re not burning anything tonight.”

A shiver coursed through me as I watched the witch in my mind’s eye. He leaned forward, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “Perhaps,” Geraint conceded. “But I am a very patient man.”

And then, my brain was on fire.

I wailed in agony as the witch loosed his wrath upon me. Blood poured from my nose and ears. Enhart’s voice was panicked, but his words were indiscernible. I bucked at his touch, as if he had taken a hot iron to my bare skin. Blood spurted from my lips onto the prince’s chin. It spilled down the back of my throat, threatening to choke me. As my vision blurred, the ground vibrated with the tread of heavy boots. Then I was plunged headfirst into darkness.

When I opened my eyes, it took me a moment to recognize the crimson canopy of my prison above me. My head ached so violently my ears rang, and my throat felt as if I had gone weeks without a single drop of water. Rolling onto my side, I ran my tongue over my lips, the taste that lingered on them strangely familiar.

The memory of last night slammed into me. Hazy images of the blood that pumped steadily down Enhart’s chest. The fear in his eyes as I fought him for the only weapon that could kill him. I shivered as I recalled Geraint’s voice, seeping into my mind and commanding me like a puppet. I’d nearly killed him, I realized.