Page 79 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“If you didn’t know me, you might act the same,” he replied stiffly.

I rolled my eyes, wondering if that might be true.

My boots splashed in the snowmelt as we turned into another alley. Since the night of the attack, I had returned to the city only in my nightmares. The sight of the path ahead set my teeth on edge. As we approached the familiar spot where Ewan’s life had ended, I came to a halt, my eyes trained on the cobblestones before me.

“Now what?” Enhart asked, fixing me with a stare.

“Look for clues?” I posited, coaxing a snort from the prince.

“I’m starting to think your seneschal friend had a point. You don’t have a plan?”

My brow creased. “What do you mean?”

“Your hushed conversation in the corridor some weeks ago?” he offered.

“You heard that?” I asked, bewildered.

He gestured at his ear. “Vampire, remember?”

My cheeks warmed. Who knew what else he’d overheard. Forcing the thought from my mind, I squinted at the scene in front of me, rubbing my temples as an idea formed.

I’d read about trace magic some weeks ago, first invented in times of war to help track down escaped prisoners. I’d never tried it, but it didn’t seem that difficult. I just needed to concentrate on what I wanted to see.

Magic thrummed behind my eyes, three pairs of golden-hued footsteps appearing before us. I smirked at Enhart, who rolled his eyes in response. When I examined the trail, it wasn’t difficult to determine whose footsteps were whose. Mordric’s, the largest pair, were planted squarely in front of a tangled mess of Ewan’s and mine. Suppressing a shudder, I traced our footsteps backward to where they diverged. I had entered the alleyways from the direction of Adele’s home. Ewan, on the other hand, had approached from the Artisans’ District to the east.

“Which one of you was running like an oaf?” asked Enhart, frowning as he peered down at the haphazard pattern of prints.

I scowled. “Do you really have to ask?”

He raised his eyebrows at me pointedly. “Ewan,” I said. “There was something strange about the way he moved that night. It was as if he was being propelled forward by strings.” The hairs on my arms stood up as I recalled the nearly imperceptible moment when he’d lowered his blade as I pleaded with him to come to his senses. I could have sworn that I had seen the briefest pall of consciousness flicker across his gaze.

“What else do you remember?” he asked.

“The air,” I said finally.

He cocked his head. “The air?”

“There was this air around him,” I said, gesturing to the empty space around my head.

“Like an aura?”

“What is that?”

“It’s a sort of energy that surrounds magical beings. You have to focus to see it, but it’s what makes it easy to discern between us.”

I stared at him blankly.

“I said focus.”

I groaned, but did as he said. If I narrowed my eyes, I could discern the slightest tinge to his silhouette. It was barely perceptible, but I could tell it was a cool blue, like a delicate film of ice stretched across a pond. I glanced down at myself, unable to distinguish anything even when I squeezed my eyes tight.

“Could Ewan have been a witch?” I wondered aloud.

“You don’t think he would have told you that?”

“We didn’t talk much.”

A wicked grin spread across Enhart’s features. “Well, well, well.”