Page 80 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

I waved my hand dismissively at him, turning so that he might not see the flush warming my cheeks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied.

“I didn’t actually say—”

“Can we refocus?” I interrupted.

“Of course,” he replied gleefully. “What color was your friend’s aura?”

I paused, conjuring the image in my mind. “Black, I guess.”

“Witches tend to have more of a golden hue.”

“How many witches have you met, exactly?”

“Three. Including you.”

I glanced up at him. So few for a vampire who had already lived a long life and traveled to the far reaches of the map.

He straightened, gesturing in the direction of the footsteps. “Shall we?”

I wound my way through the city with Enhart on my heels. Few people milled about the shops, the air thick with the scent of smoke from the fires burning in every hearth. The tip of my nose stung in the frosty air. The footsteps eventually led us around the back of a crooked building I recognized as the blacksmith’s workshop, and disappeared down through a locked cellar door. I paused, glancing sideways at the prince.

“You won’t report me to the guard for opening this, will you?”

“No, but if Mordric asks, I’m saying that you brought me here against my will.”

“Fair enough,” I muttered.

Gripping the steel padlock, I let my magic seep into the keyhole. Rivulets of ice formed, breaking the lock from the inside. It came apart in my hands and I pulled back the wooden door, revealing a dark cellar but no ladder that I could see.

“I suppose all of these little tricks you’re displaying are a sign that you do listen to me,” said Enhart, squeezing past me and dropping into the darkness without hesitation.

“Of course,” I called after him. “I take this to mean that you’re finally interested in helping me?”

His face appeared at the bottom of the opening. “Not at all, but if there are any other murderous apprentices roaming around down here, Mordric would have me drawn and quartered for letting you drop into their laps.”

I smirked. “Drawn and quartered, strung up like a lamb. Is His Majesty truly this creative in his punishments?”

“Let’s not ask questions to which we don’t want the answers.”

I blanched.

He beckoned for me to jump, but I hesitated. “I’m not going to drop you,” he insisted.

I steeled myself and slipped into the cellar, his hands wrapping around my waist to slow my fall. My breath caught in my throat as he lowered me into the dark, and when my boots touched the creaky wooden floor, I found myself mere inches from his face. For a brief moment, his lips parted, as if he were about to speak. Instead, he cleared his throat, stepping back and running a hand through his inky black hair.

I snapped my fingers and the torches hanging from the walls sprang to life, the light of the flames flicking across the small room. The chamber was littered with spare tools typical of a blacksmith. A cracked grinding stone stood in the corner, and leather aprons were stacked haphazardly on crooked shelves. The air was musty, as if the dust had been gathering for months.

“He never brought you here?” asked Enhart, eyes flicking around.

“No,” I replied. “It just looks like storage.”

“I think there’s actually more to this place than meets the eye,” he mused.

“How do you know?”

He paused. “The smell.”

I sniffed the air. “It just smells damp to me.”