Page 118 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

I flushed, bowing my head. I should celebrate. I knew that. I had traveled halfway across Valen for this exact purpose. Although I hadn’t mastered the Ealdorfyre by any means, my efforts today were a marked improvement. I chewed on a stuffed tomato, its juices bitter on my tongue.

“I’ve written to His Majesty,” Agnes informed us. “I’m sure he will be most pleased to hear of your progress.”

“Of course there’s still some work to do,” said Ivor. “The solstice is a little over a month away, so Finn needs to focus now on honing her power.”

I repressed a groan with great effort. It was still the month of Elios, which meant at least another fortnight here at Hollybrook. Training with Enhart every day. Hundreds of miles from Mordric. My stomach churned. What I’d felt the moment before I summoned the Ealdorfyre had been only the briefest whisper. Imperceptible, almost. I tried to convince myself it was nothing more than the fondness one might feel for a close friend, but I feared that would become harder to believe with each passing day.

“Let her celebrate, won’t you?” said Enhart, winking at me. The wine had stained his lips a faint shade of amaranthine. I flashed a tight-lipped smile, my fingers clenching the stem of my goblet.

When the carafes were empty and the plates clean, Enhart and I walked in silence to our quarters. I kept to my side of the corridor, practically rubbing my sleeve against the cold stone wall. He glanced at me sideways. “Are you alright?”

I nodded. “Just tired.”

“You deserve a good night’s rest. I can’t imagine that was easy on you.”

We entered our suite, Enhart hovering in the space between our doors. “I wanted to say that I’m proud of you.”

My fingers curled into fists. If he knew what I had been thinking when I summoned the Ealdorfyre, he’d be appalled. Repulsed, maybe. Thankfully, he didn’t press me any further. Instead, he offered me an awkward pat on the shoulder before retreating to his bedchamber. “Sleep well,” he said before closing the door.

I ducked into my own bedchamber, throwing myself onto the mattress. I stuffed my face into a pillow to stop from screaming. You have to stop drinking around vampires, I chided myself.

I tossed and turned in bed for hours, an ache pounding between my temples. The dormitory was quiet save for the pitter-patter of some small creature scurrying down the hallway, and outside my window, a violet dawn had begun to creep across the sky.

Restless, I rose in search of fresh air. The telltale whispers buzzed in my ears as I padded down the corridor, my footsteps muffled by thick woolen socks. This time, though, the din that had haunted me for so many days was pleasant, as enticing as a siren’s call.

I paused as I stepped out into the cold morning air. The whispers came from the forest. Perhaps it was worth investigating. Squaring my shoulders, I marched toward the gnarled copse of trees. As I grew close to the tallest one, my fingers twitched. As if my body knew something that I did not. Before I could think twice, I placed a hand upon the gnarled bark of its trunk.

And I was swallowed by the dark.

I heaved, drawing air into my empty lungs. My hands and knees stung with the impact of my landing. I cursed under my breath. I recognized the familiar sensation of being squeezed through space and spat out at the other end, only this time, the portal was someone else’s doing.

I groaned. It had to be some kind of test of Enhart’s design. My brow wrinkled as I glanced down at the space between my hands. My eyes traced the symbol carved into the dirt around me, a circle with a cross struck through it. “How strange,” I whispered. I pulled myself to my feet, brushing clods of dirt from my nightgown. As I lifted my head, I froze.

The tip of a spear hovered just inches from my nose. On the other end stood a woman clad in linen. She was tall and broad, her face painted with soot in the shape of a mask. Two men and a woman flanked her, all of them dressed alike and armed to the teeth. Power stirred in my fingertips as I pictured the cobblestone path leading up to Hollybrook’s massive front door and prepared to open a portal. The air shuddered around me, but I remained rooted to the spot. The group’s leader tutted as she lifted her spear.

“You are standing upon a rune. Your magic is useless against it.”

I frowned, the word unfamiliar to me. “Who are you?” I asked indignantly, missing the weight of my dagger against my hip.

“We are like you,” she replied.

I inhaled sharply, glancing between my captors. There was a faint glow in the air around them. A shroud of gold. Just like Enhart had said. “You’re witches.”

She nodded.

“And you lured me here,” I accused. “Why?”

The witch shrugged. “Our brothers and sisters are eager to meet you.”

“Your what? Hey!” I cried as someone seized me from behind. I threw my head back, earning a satisfying grunt from my captor as my skull collided with theirs.

Their leader scowled, unspooling a skein of damp twine and wrapping it around my flailing wrists. Air hissed between my teeth. My skin burned beneath the bonds, turning an angry red.

“What is this?” I demanded.

“Something to subdue your powers once you step out of the rune,” she replied.

I inhaled a peppery scent that reminded me of an herb that some of the more zealous villagers of Wealdstone used to hang in sachets around their necks. They claimed that it was protective against evil spirits. And witches.