Page 99 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

The horses pranced around their pen snorting and kicking up clods of dirt. I rolled onto my side, frowning as valerian-induced grogginess cleared from my mind. It was still dark, and a fine mist had appeared around the ward, enveloping us like a shroud. Peering closer, I could almost make out a figure through the gloom. My hand flew to my throat, prepared for the vampire from the inn to bear down upon me. But the figure didn’t move. And when I narrowed my eyes, I couldn’t discern the familiar blue aura. I couldn’t discern an aura at all.

Curiosity outweighed my fears. Wrapping myself in my cloak, I stood and picked my way gingerly toward the edge of the ward, coming to a halt before I reached the outer perimeter. My breath caught in my throat.

I stared into the lifeless eyes of a monster. I wondered if I should scream, or rouse Enhart to come to my aid, but instead I remained silent as my gaze panned over the corpse-like creature. Its skin was gray and shriveled, hanging off bones that were visible through its tattered garments. What was left of its tangled snarl of hair was matted and missing in some places. I’d read about plenty of monsters in Mordric’s library, but this creature was unknown to me. I’m sure I would have remembered it had I ever come across its image between the pages of a book.

Worse still, it wasn’t alone.

Two more clustered together at the edge of the ward. I stepped back, horrified, as the one closest to me opened its gaping mouth, revealing blackened gums and a row of broken teeth. My blood ran cold as it groaned, the sound like the wail of a goat that had been mortally wounded. I resisted the urge to cover my ears and dive back beneath my blankets.

“Wights,” said Enhart, startling me. “Wightgasts, to be specific.”

My hand fluttered to my chest, where my heart beat rapidly against my ribcage. I swallowed, meeting his gaze. “I always pictured wights to be more like ghosts,” I said, picturing an ethereal floating maiden with near-transparent flesh. “Not like this.”

“There are a few kinds,” he explained. “Wightgasts being the most horrifying.”

“Where did they come from?” I whispered. And why are they here?

“Most people would say that they come from the underworld. That Ferinor denied them the peace of true death because of some unconscionable misdeed they committed when they were still alive,” he replied. “Although I have my doubts.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “I’m fairly certain that wightgasts are the invention of some kind of necromancer. See how they appear almost human?”

That was generous. Although they did appear almost human, if a human had been beaten, slain, and then left out in the sun to rot. “Do necromancers have the power to do something like this?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The good ones do.”

I glanced sideways at him. I had rarely come across the topic of necromancy in my reading, and we had never broached it in our sessions. From what I understood, it wasn’t exactly a respectable discipline. There were several Valenian decrees in place, in fact, that prohibited witches from disturbing the dead in any way. To do so would be considered an affront to the gods, and punishable by both mortal and divine law. My eyes flicked back to the creatures, who swayed in the wind as if dangling from the gallows.

“Do you think someone sent them after us?” I asked.

“It’s possible. Most likely, though, they were drawn to you,” he said.

“Drawn to me?” I echoed. “Why?”

“Wightgasts are attracted to magic,” he explained. “I mean, they’ll attack anything, don’t get me wrong, but they tend to target witches and vampires more than they do humans.”

My blood ran cold. “They’re violent?”

“They might look docile now, but I imagine your ward is the only thing keeping them from clawing out our entrails,” he replied, unfazed.

“Why haven’t they come after me before?” I asked. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been outside of Valnar.”

“You may have been born with the ability to wield magic, but witchcraft is a skill like any other. It must be learned, practiced, and reinforced over time. The greatest swordsman, for example, may have natural instincts that sharpen his reaction times. That doesn’t mean he can pick up a sword and best an opponent who’s practiced every day for a year on his first try.”

“So magic is like a muscle,” I said.

“Precisely. Magic has always been present in you, but it wasn’t fully manifested. With training, though, you’ve practically become a beacon to them.”

I grimaced. I didn’t like the sound of that. But the idea gave me pause. “Just to them?”

“No.”

“Care to elaborate?”

He glanced down at me. “You’re telling me that you’ve never encountered a monster before?”

“I thought it was fairly obvious from my reaction that I’ve never seen anything like this.”