Page 92 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“How so?”

“Nervous, are you?”

I shot him a wry look. “If I admit that I am, will you tell me?”

He smirked. “No need. The spring term will be finished by the time we arrive, so most of the students will be gone. You’ll primarily be working with Chancellor Sorrell.”

“He’s a witch?” I asked.

“No, a vampire,” he replied. “And an ancient one at that.”

“More ancient than you and Mordric?”

“I’m not that old, you know. Nor is my brother. Even though he’s cantankerous enough to be a thousand.”

“Forgive me for thinking that someone over the age of two hundred is ancient.”

“Get used to it,” he replied. “After all, you’re likely to live nearly as long.”

I grunted. “So I’ve been told.”

“Chancellor Sorrell has worked beside some of the greatest witches in Valen’s history,” Enhart continued. “He’s recorded their techniques in tomes and compendia. His research has contributed to all kinds of innovations.”

“But—”

He shot across the garden, gesturing for me to follow. The air shimmered as I peeled it apart, stepping carefully through the portal that delivered me to his side.

“Why is it that every so-called expert on the arcane isn’t actually a witch?” I pressed.

“Are you familiar with the saying that the minstrel who hath lost his voice hath not a penny to spend?” he asked.

I snorted. “No.”

“Well then, I’ll remind you how few there are of your kind left. A dozen every generation, perhaps? Scattered across the kingdom and nearly impossible to track down.”

“Except for the one that tried to kill me in Valnar.”

“We don’t know that they were trying to kill you,” he reminded me. “We don’t even know if they’re a witch. It was just a theory.”

“Right,” I replied sardonically. “Because every blacksmith’s apprentice hides a ritual sacrifice in their cellar.”

He rolled his eyes. “The Chancellor is probably the only person alive who has witnessed the Ealdorfyre up close. Apart from your Outlander brethren, that is.”

I balked. “He’s seen it? You told me it was rare.”

“I didn’t say that he’d seen it recently. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to tell you the story.”

I bit back a retort.

“What?” he prodded. “Aren’t you glad that you’re soon going to be rid of me?”

Rain had soaked through his coat and his waves were glistening with rain drops, a curl dropping over his brow. I swallowed, avoiding his gaze. “Yes.”

“Good. Again.”

When I awoke the following morning to a sharp knock on the door and Katerina’s promise of breakfast, everything ached. I came to a seat, massaging my neck. Spring rains beat a tattoo against the window, as if whispering a promise of an increasingly miserable journey. I was unused to waking before noon after so many months, and it took everything in me not to dive back beneath the blankets. Enhart would probably drag me out without hesitation.

As I tossed aside the blankets, I stilled. There were several holes in the sheet that I hadn’t noticed the night before. Their edges were singed, as if someone had held a candle too close to the fabric. My heartbeat thrummed as I placed my fingertips over the holes. They fit perfectly. And there was a bluish tinge to the singe marks.