Chapter 9
The Eastlander crushing my throat in the crook of her elbow is as strong as a bear, but I’m slippery and quick. I spin and bring a knee to her gut, and she staggers back enough that I’m able to break free of her hold.
I stand crouched, arms wide, my body a shield in front of Mena. My old friend sits huddled behind me, chanting in the smoke-filled corner of her cottage. Powerful as she is, her magick is too weak for any weaving now.
She’s bleeding. From where, I don’t yet know. I didn’t have time to look. I only knew I had to help her when I saw this behemoth Eastlander woman shove her inside her cottage. That same woman now blocks the open doorway—and the path to my scythe.
She picks up my blade, and with a snarl, lunges at me. In the same second, she freezes, face blank. It takes a moment to understand why.
The woman crumples to her knees and collapses face-first on the slatted floor with a loud thud. Blood pours from a puncture wound to the back of her blonde head. Behind her stands Hel, bloody sword still raised, on guard.
Lowering her weapon, Hel steps over the Eastlander and throws her arm around my neck, her words coming out in a rush. “Gods, Raina, I was so scared I wouldn’t find you!”
I push out of her hold and quickly sign, “I’m right here! I’m all right! But Mena—”
Hel looks me in the eyes, her brows raised. “Get Mena and your mother and meet Finn and me at the fallow fields. I have to find the rest of my family.” She kisses my cheek. “I love you!”
And just like that, she’s gone, a flutter of blood-stained golden silk flying out the door.
I turn to Mena and kneel before her, uncertain what to do.
“Leave me.” She lifts a hand from a gash in her stomach. “My time is here.”
But it doesn’t have to be. There’s so much death in the air that I can’t tell if hers is as close as she believes or not.
Not caring if she learns my truth, I begin signing my song. “Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
These are the words for healing, for when death hasn’t crossed too near. I start to repeat the lyrics, but she grabs the fingers of my right hand.
A faint smile tilts her lips. “I knew there was more to you, my girl. But I won’t let you waste your energy on me.” She jerks her chin toward the door. “Go. Find your precious mother. Get to the fields.”
I ignore her and try again. “Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum—”
“Go, Raina!” she yells. “Your mother needs you more than me. Go!”
Something in the tone of her voice penetrates. I don’t want to leave her here, but I can’t carry her, and she won’t let me heal her. If I drag her out, someone will surely kill her.
She shakes her head. “Do you not remember what I told you? There is no victory without sacrifice. I’m ready. Now go.”
“I will come back for you,” I sign. “I swear.”
Determined to be fast, I storm out of Mena’s cottage and battle my way toward the green.
With every clash of blades and every slash of my scythe, I’m reminded that my life might end any minute.
Though I owe as much to every single person in Silver Hollow, death cannot come for me yet. I cannot allow it.
Like the weapon in my hands, I become hammered and honed, my movements severe as I slay with blow after blow. The fires—are they dying? And is that thunder? Rain could snuff out the remaining blazes and give us a chance.
The sight of my mother snags my gaze. She stands in the middle of the stone circle, still singing her magick.
I move to go to her, but every muscle in my body seizes when an Eastlander appears in the corner of my vision, stalking through the smoke on the western side of the green.
His long strides are calculated and sure.
I glance at the dagger clasped in his grip and connect his line of intent.
He’s heading for my mother.
Fury courses through my veins. Gathering my skirts, I run, calling on the power of the moon still flowing within me, and climb a feasting table in two leaps.
The third leap takes me off the other side, and with a downward swing of my scythe, I land a blow that sends the Eastlander’s head rolling into the embers of the roasting pit.
Relief cascades over me. Mother hasn’t moved, her gaze still cast to the sky. I saved her.
In the next heartbeat, a spear juts through her stomach from behind.
Time stops.
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
She looks down, then her eyes meet mine as she clutches the spear with both hands. An expression of confusion twists her beautiful features.
As blood pours from her wound, staining the white gown we stitched together last summer, I read a single word on her lips. No. Then, those lovely eyes of hers, with such bright light, go dark.
Disbelief rips through me, hot and raw. When Mother slumps to the ground, the scent of her coming death carries across the space between us, and a flood of deepest sorrow fills me.
My mother’s death smells like her. Cloves and fallen leaves and smoky coldness, tangled with the memory of sun and warm breezes.
The killer presses his booted foot to her back and pushes her off his weapon as though she means nothing.
Then he sets his sights on me.
I did this. Me. I could’ve saved her. Gotten her out. Gotten everyone out. All those children. Finn. Hel. Betha. Saira. The twins. Tuck. Emmitt. Mr. Foley. Mena.
I want to tear my hair out, pound my fists against the earth, beat the pain from my heart. Oh gods, why did I not look at the waters? Why didn’t I keep my eyes on the Witch Collector all day?
The Eastlander stalks toward me, spear in hand, a crow perched on his shoulder. With a flick of his wrist, the bird flies away. Blood splatter decorates his leathers. The blood of my people, of my mother, and if he has his way, of me.
I blink wildly, clearing the tears from my eyes and the shock from my mind.
There’s something unsettlingly different about this warrior.
Wisps of crimson shadow writhe around him like they’re trying to get away, growing redder and redder as he nears.
His short, dark bronze hair lies swept back, neatly in place, making it noticeable when his face and eyes redden, too.
Even his hands hold orbs of blood-colored shadows, like malevolence leaks from his every pore.
The whole of him becomes such a sinister thing to behold that I’m certain he is evil incarnate.
I retreat and falter over my skirts, my scythe dragging on the ground. The cottage fires catch hold again, so fast and devouring, and the storm cloud disintegrates. I no longer thrum with the moon’s power or hope or even infernal rage. Instead, I’m numb with guilt and grief.
In that sliver of time, I don’t care if I live.
All around me lie the dead and dying. Warriors raid the orchard and vineyards.
I hear the pounding of their horses’ hooves, the fading screams of those hiding in the grove, see the billowing smoke of fires to the east, even while my village—my home—burns to nothing.
The Witch Collector rides on the fringes of the green, fighting like a devil. He is but one man, though, and he’s badly wounded. His bloody right arm dangles as he struggles to hold off a giant Eastlander with nothing more than a dagger.
Did this happen to the other villages? Is that why the Witch Collector was late? Did all the valley’s people endure this brutality? In my gut, I know they did.
I drop to my knees, swallowed by the magnitude of loss and devastation. In the swiftness of an arrow’s flight, this valley was erased.
The mysterious Eastlander approaches. I want to tell him that killing me will haunt him, that he will see my face in his nightmares, but a disturbing glimmer sparkles in his eyes, and he smiles, rolling the spear in his hand.
“What’s your name?” He tilts his head, studying me with a curious stare.
Something clenches inside me, some instinct that screams for me to get up and fight.
But it’s too late. He’s so close. Close enough that I spit at him.
He laughs and wipes his face. “Fiery little thing, aren’t you? Pardon the play on words. I couldn’t resist.”
What a despicable creature. He isn’t the kind of man who will be haunted by any of the lives he’s taken.
“Pity to kill such a fighter,” he adds. “But much as I’d like to see you in chains, I fear you’d only be a distraction.”
A shiver chases across my skin as he rears his arm back and takes aim. I inhale a deep breath and glance beyond him, needing one last moment with my mother. Her face is a blank mask, her eyes empty of life, but…
Her face, neck, and hands are covered in witch’s marks, glowing with soft light, like nothing I’ve ever seen, especially on my mother. I must be imagining things.
But…no. The marks are there, and her stare is fixed on me. And her mouth…It’s moving. Her effort is weak and waning, but she’s chanting magick. If even a faint whisper of life remains, I know I can heal her wound and bring her back to the light.
Just as the Eastlander thrusts his spear toward my heart, I summon enough strength to swing my scythe one last time and blunt the death-end of his weapon. The dulled tip strikes my breastbone like a siege engine pounding a castle door, knocking me across the green.
The wind leaves my lungs until I manage a stinging gasp of smoky air that forces me to double over and cough around the shocking pain.
Through the amber and gray haze filling the night, I see the Witch Collector.
He now stands between me and my attacker, his back turned, his sword sheathed because he cannot wield it.
His right arm hangs limp at his side, blood pouring down his fingers and dripping to the ground.
He still holds that dagger in his left hand.
“I won’t let you have her.” He lunges and maneuvers his blade in a swift, wide arc.