Page 32 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Only when they’re scared,” he said.

“But Jem got stung and Mama made him sit in the stream for hours,” I whined. “It’s cold in there.”

He smiled, ruffling my hair. “Your brother got too close to a hive. The bees were protecting their family. Just like your mama and I protect you and Jem.”

I considered it. Papa was usually right. Still, I remained suspicious of the bee as it nestled between the petals of a daisy, dancing a jig on its fluffy yellow center.

“Why does it have to steal my flowers?”

Fine wrinkles sprouted from the corners of my father’s eyes as his smile widened. “I think the bee would be happy to share if you let him take what he needs first. Look,” he said, as it took off, its furry body thoroughly coated in yellow pollen. “Now the bee has what it needs, and you can take them home to Mama.”

I eyed the daisies warily.

“How about I carry them?” he said, sensing my hesitation. He tucked the flowers through a buttonhole on his worn shirt.

“You look pretty, Papa,” I said, but my voice sounded different. Grown up, like Mama’s. I stared up at him, a chill going down my spine as my father froze in place. Something about this was wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I reached for him and my surroundings rippled.

“Papa?”

I shivered as the temperature plummeted. My knees buckled and my palms met granite as I braced myself against the cold stone table. I blinked the moisture out of my eyes as the courtyard slowly came back into focus.

“Pathetic.”

Another image formed in my mind. I stood on the crest of a hill overlooking the capital. My lips were dry and cracked, my boots worn nearly to the sole. But I was here.

No, I reminded myself, I was not. I shoved the feeling aside and stood, swaying slightly. The skin above my lip grew wet with sweat as I fought to stay in the courtyard.

“Better.”

I touched my finger to my nose, wincing as I pulled it away to find it coated in blood. The prince and I had been at it for days, each session worse than the last as what little patience he had dwindled. Steeling myself against psychal attacks was like growing a callous, and Enhart was only too happy to be the friction that thickened it.

I was exhausted and yet I was barely sleeping. Instead, I spent nearly every hour that I wasn’t training back in my new chambers leafing through endless chapters on psychal magic. The texts were written in an old form of the common tongue, difficult to read for someone who hadn’t studied at university.

Enhart insisted that they would strengthen my skills, and yet, no matter how much I studied, I could barely drive him out of my head. Meanwhile, the prince spent night after night parsing through my most private thoughts and memories in an effort to force me to build a ward, as he called it: a barrier against those who sought to invade my mind. It wasn’t working.

“Can we take a break?” I asked as an earsplitting headache bloomed between my temples. The nosebleeds were becoming more common with every session. I wiped the sleeve of my cloak across my lip, leaving the fabric stained with a streak of crimson.

“No,” he replied coolly. “How do you ever expect to learn if you’re not challenged?”

“This isn’t a challenge,” I snapped. “It’s just brute force.”

He cocked his head. “This is brute force to you?”

I pointed at my cloak, the sleeve dark with dried blood. “What else would you call it?”

He shrugged, wrapping his tendrils around my mind once again. The wards were difficult to erect, like weaving together a tapestry of wriggling serpents. Maintaining them, though, was even harder. Even if there wasn’t a vampire trying to force their way through, any loss of concentration, any second thought, and they would crumble away into ash.

As I squeezed my eyes shut, images formed one after the other.

I peeled off a leather boot that was worn almost to the sole, grimacing at the mangled flaps of skin hanging off my blistered toes.

Ewan stared at me with empty eyes, a bloody, gaping hole where his throat should be.

I ran my thumb over a stone lifted from the banks of the creek behind our house. Carefully, I placed it on a cairn with a hundred others.

A blond boy tumbled into the deepest part of the creek behind our cottage as my own screams echoed in my ears. He can’t swim.

There was a snap around me, and the ground seemed to give way beneath my feet. This time, though, it wasn’t in my head. My eyes flew open as I hurtled backward through thin air. I yelped as I hit a body of water with a resounding splash.