Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A rwyn’s skin had taken on a bruised hue in the days that followed the demonic attack. Five days and I’d hardly moved a muscle. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the seat I sat in had an imprint of my body, something time wouldn’t be able to remove. I slept in the chair at his beside, ate in it, and only got up to relieve myself when Romy reminded me. Then I would rush back to my seat, take hold of his still hands, and hold them in mine. Although Romy had tried to heal the cuts and gouges the creatures had made on his skin, her attempts were useless. Even against the poison riddled in his body, she was powerless to help him.
Veins of black, like rivers of ink, marked Arwyn’s skin like a cartographer drew maps. I was never one for geography, but by day five of his hell, I knew Arwyn’s body from the intricacies of his form, to the divots his muscles made in his shoulders. I was desperate to see his tattoos again, but every time we changed the bandages around his torso, the ink was gone, leaving only the sliced marks the demons had gouged in him.
Arwyn was laid out across the four-poster bed. The white sheets around him drew out the little colour his flesh had left. His skin had taken on an ashen hue, matched by haunting shadows beneath his closed eyes. He’d lost weight in his face, as well as other places. It was only a small difference, but I noticed. Most of the times he was quiet, unmoving, like a corpse. Other times he would moan, crying out through cracked lips, hands trembling as I held them firm in my hand. The nightmares which haunted him were a blessing, because they at least made him react, reminding me that he wasn’t dead—at least not yet.
His last episode had just finished. Romy had returned from retrieving more food from the Great Hall to find me clutching Arwyn’s shoulders, forcing his thrashing body to the bed. Even now, as he fell back into his deathly silence, his words rung throughout our room.
‘Forgive me. Forgive me. Please. Forgive me.’
I wished I could do something to help him. But we were beyond waiting for this demonic fever to pass. This was no normal flu or sickness. What was happening to Arwyn was something neither of us could understand enough to fix. Demons. Old magic.
Everything was changing around me, like a raging river, and yet I was stuck in the middle as stationary as a rock whilst everything rushed past me.
‘Here’s some fresh water,’ Romy said, offering me a ceramic bowl she’d brought with her.
I mumbled my thanks, taking the bowl from Romy. I was careful not to spill any as I laid it on the bed. Inside the bowl was a sodden white cloth that was soaked through. I lifted it out, dripping water into Arwyn’s parted lips. Slowly, I rang out the cloth. It was a tedious process, but our ensuring Arwyn drank was likely the only thing keeping him alive.
‘Any news from the outside world?’ I asked, refusing to take my eyes off Arwyn.
Romy shuffled around the room, feeling as helpless as I did. I couldn’t place why I felt so responsible for Arwyn. Was it simply repaying the favour because he had done the same for me during the last Trial? Maybe it was because he’d almost died searching for something I wanted. I should’ve refused his aid. I should’ve said no and gone alone.
Regret was a hateful fucking emotion, but it was the benefit of hindsight that truly punished me.
‘I saw no one today,’ Romy said. She knew I didn’t mean the outside world beyond the castle, but those witches still hiding in the shadows of this place. Jaz and the others, the remaining contestants. ‘Nor have there been any more recorded deaths. It seems we’re all waiting for the next Trial.’
The next Trial. Just thinking about it made me sick. I continued wringing the cloth into Arwyn’s mouth, knowing that if the Trial began when he was in this state, he would die. As much as I told myself I wouldn’t let that happen, I was helpless to change the outcome. The bell could toll at any moment, and seal Arwyn’s fate.
I pinched my eyes closed, trying to regain control of my thoughts. Changing the conversation slightly, I asked Romy the same question I had every day since the attack. ‘Did you check the?—’
Romy was ready for me, knowing this would come. ‘The mausoleum is still untouched. No sign that those… things are free to roam.’
Demons. We both refused to call them what they were.
I swallowed hard, the image of those terrifying monsters flooding my mind. I thought about them constantly. Even in my nightmares, they haunted me. I’d convinced myself that the crack I’d heard when I tried to break the rune-marked stone was actually something else. Caym still hadn’t found me, nor had I heard him, which proved the shield around this place was still intact. That didn’t stop me from trying to reach him, over and over.
‘That’s because no one’s died,’ I said. ‘When the next death occurs, those creatures will be back. I know it.’
Romy didn’t tell me I was wrong. We finally had our answer to what happened to the bodies of the witches who perished during the Witch Trials. We’d seen it with our own eyes. I knew, in that moment, that if I looked to Romy it would’ve been to find her gaze pinned to Arwyn.
Neither of us said it, but we sensed his death was close.
‘There has to be something we can do,’ Romy said, her voice a breathy exhale. She sounded as defeated as I felt. ‘You survived those wounds. What’s to stop him from doing the same.’
‘Eleanor. Or the fact she isn’t here.’ She was the one to heal me. The salve she made had worked at the infection inside of me. Perhaps her grimoire held the answers, but that was currently lost in the vault. I hadn’t realised I dropped it during the struggle, until after we’d got Arwyn back here.
Without it, Arwyn was doomed.
Although reading thoughts was not Romy’s Gift, she certainly had a talent with it. ‘Don’t even think about it, Hector. I’m not having this conversation again.’
I bit down on my tongue, stopping myself from saying what I wished to. ‘Then there must be something in your uncle’s grimoire that can help.’
‘Until a week ago, I didn’t even believe demons were real. Beside with what the Witch Hunters preach that us witches are, I thought it was story and myth. No grimoire, beside the one Eleanor gave you, has mention of them.’
I squeezed Arwyn’s hand, silently willingly for him to survive. ‘Which only adds to my argument that I need that grimoire back.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Hector.’ Romy was exhausted with this conversation, but I couldn’t drop it. I felt like I had pulled every possible thread I could to help Arwyn, but this was the only one with promise to it. ‘We barely made it out. Look at him. What’re you going to do if the same happens to you. Or me?’
‘It won’t happen to you, because you won’t come,’ I interrupted.
‘Give up, please. I’m not letting you go unless I come.’
She had me in a corner with her argument. I wouldn’t allow Romy to come with me for two reasons. One, I couldn’t cope with her being in the same situation as Arwyn. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was my responsibility. They both were. And secondly, we couldn’t leave Arwyn. Not for a moment. If another witch got wind that he was weak and vulnerable, they’d come and kill him.
And there was still the issue with Salem. He’d likely stopped killing witches, because we’d worked out who, or what he was. But he was no doubt biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Romy came and laid her hand on my shoulder. Her grip was solid and anchoring. I leaned into it, resting my head on her arm for support. Her presence and touch reminded me that she was here for me, as much as for Arwyn.
‘There are some more incantations we can try,’ Romy whispered. ‘I know it’s a shot in the dark, but if it worked on the demons, it could work on Arwyn.’
Magic. The old magic. Power that had not been accessed for generations. And yet we had used it to fend off the demons. A last-ditch effort that worked. The question was why—and why now ? I had theories. Maybe I had broken something deep in the vault, or maybe it was our desperation that allowed the spell to work. Whatever it was, we’d keep it to ourselves for now. Same with the truth that demons were real.
‘Can I have a look through your grimoire again?’ I asked, voice soft as sin. ‘If anything, it will keep my mind busy.’
Romy patted my shoulder a final time, then went to retrieve her uncle’s grimoire from the sideboard. ‘At this point I think you could recite it word for word, but if it means you have a break from watching over Arwyn, then knock yourself out.’
I nodded, forced a smile, and got up from my seat. Romy took my place, dipping the cloth back in the bowl of water to continue trying to get water into Arwyn’s mouth. My muscles ached. They were stiff and sore, but a reminder as to what was on the line. I had to do something to help Arwyn.
Maybe our incantations would only prolong his death, and nothing was truly going to be able to heal him. And there was no saying that even if I returned to the mausoleum and found Eleanor’s grimoire, that it would even hold the recipe for the salve she used on me.
But again, it was the last thread I held to. I wasn’t prepared to give up on it yet.
‘Did you get any camomile tea?’ I asked as I opened Romy’s grimoire, searching for a page I had skimmed over the day prior.
‘I did,’ Romy said, concentrating on Arwyn instead of me. ‘I made sure the leaves had stewed for a while, just as you asked.’
‘Good,’ I said, trying to calm the nerves bubbling in my stomach. ‘Want one?’
The pause for Romy’s answer was painful. How she responded would depend on if my last-ditch effort, as she put it, would work. Everything depended on her answer. So, when it came, I almost cried in relief. ‘Yes, pour me one. And get me one of those pastries. Hekate may be becoming my least favourite deity, but at least she conjures some good food.’
I did as she asked, plating up the cinnamon-coated pastry beside a cup of stewed camomile tea. But my focus was on the page before me as I stirred the tea clockwise three times, then anti-clockwise another three times.
From what I’d learned about old magic, it was rooted in intention. The stronger the intention, the more potent the desired outcome was. And regardless of me not knowing if this would work, my desire for it to was powerful.
I pinched my eyes closed, burying down the brewing guilt as I put all my will and intention into the mug of brewed tea. The stirring focused me until all I could think about was the outcome I desired. Eleanor’s grimoire explained that spells were used to focus an intention. A coven would recite spells aloud, like we had done in the mausoleum, to narrow the focus and strengthen the collective intention of a group of magic users. But a solo witch didn’t need to speak a spell aloud as long as their desire was clear and unwavering.
And mine was as bright as the sun.
My stirring shifted to a different movement as my focus was on my outcome. Then, with the spoon, I drew the symbol for sleep. It was one of the symbols within the hand-drawn table in the grimoire. It was complicated, with swirling curved lines, diagonal slices and dotted marks around the left side. But it was meant to be, because when you drew it, the magic user thought of nothing else.
When I was done, I was certain I could taste the magic in the air. Like thick particles of dust, but sweet like candy, or sharp as the ash of a burning bonfire. I hoped Romy didn’t notice as I poured myself a mug of tea, but skipped the same process I had just completed in hers.
‘Here,’ I said, offering her the mug and pastry. ‘Drink up.’
Romy stopped trying to get Arwyn to drink and took the mug with a tired smile of thanks. I tried not to watch her as she took a bite of the pastry then washed it down with the tea. I was so sick with nerves, I couldn’t eat. I’d hardly touched more than soup and bread in the days since Arwyn had been unwell.
I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare do anything but focus on the outcome I needed. Romy was halfway through the mug of tea, and I believed I’d failed, that my attempt at betraying her was for nothing. Until Romy’s eyes grew heavy and her posture shifted like she was drunk on vodka.
‘Hells,’ Romy giggled, half panicked and embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Are…’ My throat was dry. I took a swig of my tea as I watched her. It tasted odd, as though the camomile had a sharper taste than usual. ‘Are you okay?’
Romy opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Her head lolled forwards, followed by her body as she slumped over the side of the bed. The mug and plate crashed to the floor, tea puddling amongst the ruins of the broken ceramics.
My heart stopped for a moment. I waited, silently waiting for her to get back up. But Romy didn’t. Soft snores emanated from her mouth, matching the pace of Arwyn’s breathing.
It had worked.
It had fucking worked .
Guilt and shame soon turned into hope as I put my mug down and sprang to standing. There was no telling how long this would work, or why it did in the first place. But that mystery was for another day as I took the key for the room from Romy’s pocket, whispered an apology, and left.
My heart was hammering in my chest, my hands shaking with unspent nerves as I locked them inside. I searched the shadows beyond the room, making sure no witch was lurking to strike when I left. But I wasn’t about to use old magic to get this far, and not try one final thing.
As I locked the door, I closed my eyes and focused on my intention. The air fizzed with power. My tongue tasted the thick sweetness to the air as I forged the lock with what I desired.
This spell I did speak aloud. The words didn’t rhyme, but I found it easier to truly focus on what I wanted by saying it to the universe. It helped me imagine Hekate listening and heeding my desire.
‘Keep them safe. Keep them safe. Keep them safe.’ To really drive home what I wanted, I finished it off with a witch’s full stop. ‘So mote it be.’
I left the room, running through the castle’s darkened belly. My Gift rose to the surface, ready as a coiled viper after days of rest. In case I needed to use it, it was ready. But Romy had been right. By the time I got to the graveyard at the north of the castle grounds, I’d seen no one else. It was as if we were the only ones left, although I knew that wasn’t the case.
Mist clung to the ground, slithering around the outside of the mausoleum like reaching hands. I kicked through the mist, closing in on the stone formation before me. In five days, it was as if mother nature herself had already reclaimed it. Vines had regrown over the door at an unnatural speed. But then again, nothing about this place was natural.
If only Caym were here. He’d sweep me up in his shadows and protect me from the darkness I was to face. But then again, how could I fear something I had grown so accustomed to?
I held onto that confidence as I broke the chains on the door and entered the waiting dark. The daylight eased into the mausoleum, offering little light for me to navigate. This time I didn’t have Arwyn’s fire to guide the way, nor his presence to calm me. I was alone. But that didn’t frighten me as much as it should.
I climbed over the vault, refusing to allow fear to overcome me. The stairs stretched beneath me, silent and still. There was no sign of demons, no shuffling of bodies or scratching of claws.
There was something else. The hint of a flower growing out the cracks of the steps. I was confident they’d not been here before. I knelt down, plucking one of the vibrant purple stems and brought it up to my nose.
‘Thistlebane,’ I said, the single word echoing around me.
It was growing in places that shouldn’t be natural. I took as many steps as I could before the outside light gave over to darkness. The deeper I got, the more thistlebane grew until some steps were completely overridden with it.
Strange. But that wasn’t what I was here for. At the precipice of shadow, I reached out with my Gift, searching the expanse for what I came for. It was a shot in the dark, literally. But with my invisible hands, I combed the stairway, searching for something which didn’t belong.
Never before had my Gift ached when I used it. Even after days of rest, it still hadn’t recovered.
I reached deeper into the belly of this place, until I found an outer limit to my power. A dribble of blood oozed from my nose as sharp agony ruptured my skull. Frustration hissed inside of me, fangs ready to strike. My fingers trembled, my arms tensing until my muscles burned. This felt like punishment. But for what, I wasn’t yet sure.
I was about to hit the wall, my body swaying as more pain assaulted me, when my Gift stumbled on what I was looking for. In my thoughts I could picture the grimoire, laid open, pages face down on the ground at the end of the stairs. I focused on it, lifting the grimoire and calling it to me. My fingers fisted, nails digging into my palm, just to keep my focus locked on my Gift.
‘Come on,’ I hissed, urging it to listen to my command. ‘Come on.’
The second the grimoire reached me, my Gift severed. I dropped to my knees, clutching the book to my chest, breathing heavily. With the back of a hand, I cleared the blood from my nose, feeling the rush of relief unfold across my skull.
I tried to reach for my power, but it had retreated. I couldn’t even conjure enough of a force to shake the dust from around me. The last time I had felt so severed from my Gift was when Jonathan had made me ingest thistlebane.
Was it because so much grew around me? I’d never heard of the weed having effects, as it wasn’t a pollinating plant. Then again, my body was reacting as if I’d ingested it
My eyes snapped open at the realisation. The tea. The taste. I didn’t clock it before, my focus solely on the intent to spell Romy to sleep. But it was poisoned. Someone had poisoned it, even before I had spelled it.
With the Gift-dulling plant.
I got up and ran .
There was no time to lock the mausoleum up. There was no time to care whether there were demons at my back. If what I thought was happening, I had far more to worry about than the shadow creatures we’d faced.
There was only the need to get back to our room. I grasped onto the grimoire so tight I likely spoiled the leather-bound cover. I blinked away panic, forced myself not to contemplate what I had done.
‘Romy!’ I screamed as I began racing up the stairs to our room. ‘Romy, wake up!’
The castle was silent. Too quiet. The shadows had eyes, but this time it wasn’t Caym or Arwyn watching from the dark. Because as I got to the floor of our room, rounded the staircase and got view of what stood outside our door, my greatest fears were confirmed.
‘Ah, Hector,’ Jaz said, grinning like the cat who got the cream. Around her stood three witches, faces I had seen before but didn’t recognise. Although, from the way they regarded me, they knew exactly who I was. Part of me searched for Salem amongst the group, but he was nowhere to be seen. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Breathless and without my Gift, I stood at a distance, glancing between the still closed door and the coven before it. ‘Can I help you all with something? Because if I’m honest…’ My breathing was rushed and uneven, forcing the words out awkwardly. ‘I’m not in the mood to host a tea party today.’
From Jaz’s widening of her eyes, I could see that my hunch was right. The tea was poisoned, and she was to blame.
‘Yes, actually.’ Jaz paced a few steps towards me. ‘We do want something. But not tea. Never had a taste for it.’
‘Then what do you want?’ I spat.
Jaz pointed behind her, towards my room. ‘The door seems to be jammed. It doesn’t budge. Care to be a darling and open it for me?’
If I wasn’t so focused on the pack of wolves before me, I might’ve felt relief. The spell had worked. One look and I could see the door handle had been torn out the door, and the wood around it marked by burns. They’d tried to get in but failed. Lock or no.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think I will.’
Jaz cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing as a ring of emerald flared around her iris. ‘Everything okay, Hector? You look… terrible.’
I feel fucking terrible , I thought but dared not reveal it.
‘Have you eaten something dodgy? Or was it something you…drank?’
There it was. The confirmation I needed. Jaz had poisoned the tea with thistlebane, and I knew where she’d found it. Which meant she had been watching, waiting for the time to act. Jaz had removed our gifts in the hopes of getting into our room and killing us all whilst we were vulnerable. Dread shifted to terror which morphed quickly into desperation. I couldn’t speak, knowing I was facing a coven of Gift-blessed witches with no power to resist them.
But, as if the grimoire had a living presence, it seemed to grow heavier in my hand. The sleeping rune, the incantation to protect the room, it had all worked.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.
‘It’s part of the competition, silly.’ Her answer was clear as day and spoken with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. ‘For you to die.’
‘I’m not going to allow that to happen,’ I said, mocking her confidence with my own.
‘And what are you going to do?’ Jaz circled me. ‘Bash me to death with that book?’
I smiled because I didn’t feel powerless at all. ‘Something like that.’