Chapter Thirteen Simran #2
“We didn’t use our magic,” said the blue-eyed witch.
Simran turned away from the fire to look at her.
She stood at the entrance of the grotto, cross-armed, radiating smugness.
She clearly thought she was the master of this place, or close enough to it.
“We had a great lady to grant us the power to summon them, and her ritual will give us more power still. I know that other witches you may have met in the past prefer to hoard their power, but that isn’t the way of us here.
It’s a pleasure to get to be generous. You’ll see. ”
She was implying that Simran was exactly the sort of witch to hoard magic for herself. Maybe that was fair. But Bess was the one who’d taught Simran long ago that too many witches meant trouble.
They’ll say they’re helpers, siblings, family, Bess had told her. But family can be dangerous, and no person hungering for magic is kin to you. Put too many hungry witches together, and they’ll eat the world.
But you’re a witch, Simran had replied. You help me.
No, Bess had said. I’m not helping because we’re witches. I’m helping you incarnate to incarnate. It’s different.
“I’m interested,” Simran said. “What does this ‘great lady’ want in return?”
“Gifts,” said another witch. She gestured at the far end of the grotto, where the darkness was thickest. Simran looked toward it—and realized the darkness was not dark alone, but a shroud hung from hooks in the stone.
She rose without thinking, and crossed the grotto. Here, the spirits were even thicker. She pulled back the shroud, and found the bars of a prison.
Behind them huddled a group of people. Living humans, some young, some old, dirt on their faces, their expressions terrified. Simran’s stomach dropped. They’d clearly been taken from the forest and imprisoned here—as Simran would have been, if she hadn’t been a witch.
“What fine gifts,” she said casually, letting the curtain drop back into place. “Is your great lady some kind of human-eater, then? A vampire?”
Nervous titters of laughter. The blue-eyed witch frowned. “Nothing so crass as that,” she said shortly. “You dare—”
“Oh, let her see, Sarah,” the red-haired one said. “I like their natural reactions when they see the lady, don’t tell her. She’ll be properly contrite once she understands, I’m sure.”
Sarah’s frown deepened. “Fine,” she said grudgingly. “You’re a wet pudding, Cora. But fine.”
“I didn’t mean to upset anyone,” Simran said, frowning in return. She wasn’t going to simper at them and apologize. If they were smart, and had the measure of her, they’d read that as false. And then she’d be in real trouble. “I guess I’ll see your lady when I see her.”
Was there any way she could warn Vina? It was only a matter of time until Vina followed her, and then they’d both be in trouble.
Simran, at least, could be a witch, and conceal herself in the general hum of eldritch magic swimming around her.
But Vina would shine like a sword in this hubbub: obnoxiously bright and unmistakable as a threat to be put down.
“We have fresh prey,” an older witch said merrily. “Come out, come! The lady will be here soon.”
Simran drifted outside.
One witch was dragging forward a corpse—she dropped it unceremoniously, disgust in the twist of her lips. Even from a distance, Simran could see the black clothes, the unmistakable hat. A witch hunter.
A faint memory came to her—of the witch hunter outside the roadside inn speaking about his kind converging in the forest. Had the witches been gathering here for weeks? More?
There was no helping the corpse. Simran looked beyond it to the other new arrivals.
Five people were being dragged forward, hands in chains.
The fact that the witches had found five people in one night, in this vast and strange forest, was impressive.
Perhaps the ancient forest was a little like London—so tale-rich that it drew mortals inexorably into its grasp.
Stories, after all, needed people to feed upon.
At first the people were too far for Simran to easily discern their features. But as soon as they drew closer, being dragged toward the grotto, she bit back a curse.
Vina was among them. There was no mistaking her. Her sword was gone. Her head was lowered. But as Simran sucked in a breath, Vina turned her head, and their eyes met for one electric second before Vina deliberately looked forward, as if she hadn’t seen anything at all.
All the witches gathered, jostling together.
Someone elbowed Simran sharply in the back.
Simran turned, ready to blister the witch’s ear with curses—and realized she was being faced with the witch who’d defended her from blue-eyed, brown-haired Sarah.
Freckled skin, curly red hair tied into a bun it was violently trying to escape from.
There was a dab of blue ink, barely discernible on her hairline.
She shoved a charm roughly into Simran’s hands. Woven wood, and pansies, and the faint, cloying smell of magic drawn from deep waters—maybe a well, or a river deep within a cave.
“A charm of heartsease,” hissed the woman.
She crushed Simran’s palm around it. “Place it in your clothes. In your shoes works, or in your hair if you can’t do better.
Quickly now! You’ve got a handful of heartbeats, and then she’ll be upon us.
It’ll hide your scent from her for six nights and no more, you understand? ”
Her blood ran cold. How had the other witch realized what she was? Before Simran could even think to threaten or ask questions, the redhead was gone, stomping back to her stew pot, her shoulders hunched.
Simran held the charm tighter. It hummed in her grip—soft-smelling, sweet. It didn’t feel cursed. And anything that could keep her incarnate nature hidden was worth having.
She hurried away to a corner. Unlaced her boot just enough to make a gap, and placed the charm inside it.
Just in time. The sound of bells, silvery and high, filled the air.
A fae woman rode into the clearing on a white horse.
Her hair was long and black, liquid ink pouring in ripples down her back, long enough to pool on the ground around her.
The fact it didn’t trip up her horse was more proof than her beauty that she wasn’t human, Simran noted, with some grim amusement.
Nymphs walked along the ground alongside her horse, their hair braided with narcissi, their eyes wide and wet.
Around her stood a retinue of ghostly horses, glowing like moonlight, their riders spectral.
The wild hunt, a voice whispered in her head. Maybe it was Isadora’s. In a way that made it her own.
“Such lovely gifts I have!” The fae’s voice was crooning, as she examined the five who were her “fresh prey” from her high perch. “I will dine tonight under moonlight, little sisters,” said the fae, a merry smile on her luminous face. “And I will examine my new foxes. You’ve done well.”
Her words were infused with the weight of her fae magic, all glittering enchantment. They settled like gentle, healing hands on Simran’s heart. Be glad. You’ve pleased me. Contentment and elation threatened to wash over her.
Simran shook the feeling away. She and false, soft contentment had never been good friends. Her ankle was pulsing where it touched her new heartsease charm.
It occurred to her that she could slip away from the coven and the spirits. She had a charm of protection. And she had her compass to the green library. She could go now, as she’d wanted to all along, and save Hari without the knight’s help.
She looked at Vina’s face under moonlight. How calm Vina looked; how utterly unafraid. What would she do without Simran to save her? Die, surely, in some ludicrous and noble manner. That couldn’t be allowed.
She wasn’t going anywhere until she’d gotten Vina back.