Page 127 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Blood is a powerful magical conduit. They could use it in curses, dreamwalking, possession even.”

My skin tingled. “Possession?”

He nodded. “We need to get you back to Valnar. There’s ancient magic guarding the city, the kind reserved for places frequented by the royal family. That’s where you’ll be safest.”

“Alright,” I said. “And the portal? It’s not still—”

“Active?” he finished for me. “Gods no. I would’ve burned that forest to the ground if it was.”

I was certain that he wasn’t exaggerating.

“It seems that it was one-way, designed to close once someone entered it. Whatever enchantment was cast upon it was created specifically for you, which is why you were the only one who could sense it.”

I recalled the whispers, the force that pulled me toward the portal like a moth to a flame. “They told me they’d been watching me.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you earlier,” Enhart said, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “When you told me you felt like something was off about this place.”

My eyes snapped up to meet his. I felt an urgent need to put distance between us. When I’d landed in those woods, he’d been the first person to come to mind. Not Mordric. Shame clawed at me from the inside. “Penitence doesn’t suit you,” I said stiffly.

He rolled his eyes. “That’ll do for the evening,” he concluded, swiping the whiskey from my grasp and downing what was left in one gulp. He sauntered off toward the door. “Get some rest.”

“Wait!” I cried as he opened the door.

His eyes widened. “There’s more on the table. Relax.”

“Not that,” I groaned.

“Then what?”

“One of the witches, the old crone, said that she could sense your blood,” I hesitated. “Inside me.”

The air between us seemed to thin as he held me in his gaze. My body went rigid, nerves coiling in the pit of my stomach for reasons I didn’t understand.

He bit his lip, his green eyes twinkling. I felt suddenly ill.

“It’s true?”

My eyes widened as the prince broke out into a dazzling grin, flashing his fangs. My stomach dropped. “You practically drained me, Erramun. Of course I’m still inside you.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “You’re not. It’s not. Ugh, get out.”

“Sweet dreams,” he purred as he slipped away to his quarters.

We rode toward Valnar as if the wightgasts were snapping at our heels. Beyond the gaping maw that marked the Pass of Pelthen, summer had taken hold of the realm. The rains that had plagued us on our journey to Hollybrook had ended in the weeks since, giving way to the scraggly wildflowers that now lined the mountain roads. The air was sweet with their perfume.

Enhart insisted that we keep off the main roads, only stopping where we could be sure there would be a roof over our heads. He didn’t consider any of Mordric’s guest houses to be safe after the events at Hollybrook, so we instead sought shelter in empty houses belonging to his old friends. We encountered no one, and on the rare occasion that we did stop, it was only long enough to ensure that the horses were rested and watered, no more than a few hours at a time.

If my muscles ached on the journey to Hollybrook, it was nothing compared to the way back. My riding leathers were practically plastered to my skin, my nose and cheekbones chapped and pink from the mountain winds that pursued us south. In the rare moments that I caught sight of my reflection, I winced at the purplish shadows under my eyes.

But nothing rattled me more than Enhart. He kept one hand on the hilt of his steel dagger at all times, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for signs of an ambush. I spent most of my days silently recounting the events at the encampment in the hopes that I might remember new information that would put his mind at ease.

Some ten days after our departure, if I was keeping count correctly, we rested in an empty manor a ways off of the main road. The house was empty for the season, motes of dust flitting past my eyes every time I opened a door.

I stretched out my legs before the smoldering fire, my leathers stiff and my muscles stiffer. Pulling a strip of salted meat from my pack, I tore a piece off with my teeth. It tasted like little more than smoke, but I forced it down with a swig of water from my skein. If I didn’t, Enhart would lecture me about how important it was to keep my energy up in case of an attack, like he had nearly every night since we’d left Hollybrook.

He stood by the window with his eyes trained on the horizon, a new and unnerving habit of his. My attention drifted to his right hand, where his thumb and forefinger moved in a circular pattern, as if he was rolling something small between them. If I reached out with my will, I knew I would sense the same sturdy determinedness that had driven him since he found me in the woods. It was admirable, I thought, to never allow himself to be controlled by fear. Or, at least, not to let it show.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, breaking the silence.