Page 157 of Bedeviled

I don’t bother to peer around or wander farther into the house, not when I spot the open trapdoor in the floor of the entryway, the same one I descended into the last time I visited this place.

I turn to Nero to share another look, but the little traitor is already heading down the steps.

I have got to talk to him about plunging headfirst into subterranean spaces.

I follow after him, the smell of earth rising up to meet me the deeper I descend.

As soon as the subterranean room comes into view, I see the high priestess is already waiting for me. She sits at the far end of the space, her white raven perched on her shoulder.

She’s still as beautiful and strange as I remember, with her feathery white hair and dark, piercing eyes. The kind of eyes that hold power.

“You’re wondering why I’ve asked you to come,” she greets me as I enter the room. Nero is already waiting for me by an empty wooden chair.

I don’t bother asking how the high priestess knows what she does. She has that spooky crone thing going for her. Even as our bodies age, our magic strengthens, and Henbane’s high priestess has been steeped in magic for Goddess knows how many decades.

I give a small nod in answer to her question.

“I will tell you all in good time.” She gestures to the plain wooden chair across from her. “Sit.”

I take a seat, my hand moving to Nero’s head. My panther stares at the raven, and he has the audacity to lick his lips.

The high priestess tilts her head. “I can hear them, you know.”

The animals?

I draw my brows together. “I’m sorry? I don’t under⁠—”

“Sugapva amage,” she says.

Ancient queen.

I stiffen, going cold all over at the sound of the Sarmatian words falling from her lips.

“The Hungering Ones?” I breathe.

“Mmm,” she responds, which I’m taking for yes.

“They don’t talk to me,” she continues, “not really, but sometimes I hear them whispering. It’s mostly nonsense, but they’ve been louder and more restless as of late. It seems they are looking to reclaim something they lost.” She raises her eyebrows, her look meaningful.

I swallow.

“Though they have their tricks,” she continues, “it is worth knowing that they cannot simply take what they want. They are bound by rules older than even our magic—what they yearn for must be given to them. Blood, bodies. Souls.”

“Is this why you called me in?” I say, my voice pitched low.

She gives a subtle shake of her head, those pensive eyes of hers fixed on me.

“You have been causing all sorts of mischief since you arrived,” she states.

“I’m sorr⁠—”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize. We witches are mischief makers. It is in the blood.

“Besides,” she continues, “you’ve helped far more than you’ve harmed. That is more than I can say about many of our sisters as of late.” She leans forward, almost conspiratorially. “You’ve helped unravel quite the knot of bonds.”

She knows about that?

The look she gives me is sly. “Your mate is still untangling it, from what I hear.”