Witch Born(6)

Senna turned to watch her mother in the small orb of lantern light. Sacra cocked back the hammer of the pistol and glared into the darkness. Hoping Coyel was right, Senna hurried to catch up with Chavis.

When they moved into the uninhabited quarter of Haven, Drenelle glanced at Senna askance. “What were you doing here?”

Senna’s mouth went dry, and she had to swallow several times before the words would come. “I couldn’t sleep.”

After a few minutes of blundering around, she stepped on something hard and oddly shaped. Her veins aching with dread, she stopped to pick it up. She turned it over in her good hand a few times before she realized what it was. A slingshot. Her head seemed to throb in response. “Here.”

Chavis pulled out her pistol. “Prenny and Coyel.”

Prenny handed her musket to Drenelle, who held it away from her body like it might sully her white chemise. Then the older Witch pulled out four glass vials. “Ready?”

Coyel crooned to the wind.

Wind, spread these Nips and blow them straight

To any who may lie in wait.

Wind gushed down on the tops of their heads, swelling away from them when it hit the ground. As Coyel continued the song, Prenny circled them and tossed the contents of each vial into the air. The wind caught the powder, billowing it outward.

Even with the currents blowing it away from their packed group, the Nips made the back of Senna’s throat itch and her eyes smart. She held her cloak over her face and squinted through watering eyes.

Coyel stopped singing and rested a hand on Senna’s shoulder. “Anyone the powder touched would erupt into a helpless fit of coughing.”

The Witches strained, listening. But there was no sound.

Chavis stared into the shadows. “We’re not going to find anything on a night like this. Best lock ourselves in and wait till morning. We can do a thorough search then.”

“Whoever it was, they’re either gone or dead,” Prenny said in obvious relief.

Coyel stared into the dark depths of the forest. “Don’t be too relieved, Head. Someone brought them inside, which means we still have a traitor on the island.”





3. Pendant





After setting her healing kit on the table, Sacra poured a measure of medicine into a cup. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

Senna’s hand shook so badly she could barely keep from slopping the medicine over the brim. She threw back the bitter stuff, gagging at its strength.

Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the bass’s gasp as she’d slipped the knife into his guts. She could still taste the metallic fear on her tongue. Her body seemed to store the impression of his arms wrapped around her, the licorice smell of his mouth. A tremor coursed through her body, and the mug slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.

Her mother glanced up. “You’re starting into an apoplectic fit.” She grabbed another potion from the shelf. She held it to Senna’s mouth and helped her drink it before wrapping her up in a blanket. But the shudders just kept getting worse.

“Senna, listen to me. You have to calm down.”

Senna half shook her head. Without the frenetic rush of fear to hold her emotions at bay, they came crashing down on her. “I just—I wish Joshen were here.” She needed him to hold her and reassure her that all would be well.

A hurt look crossed her mother’s face. “Slow your breathing. Come, breathe with me.” She inhaled slowly and held in the air.

Senna mirrored her until the dizziness passed.

Soon, Senna noticed the edges of her vision softening. Her eyes went unfocused and she tingled everywhere.

“Good. The potion’s beginning to work. Just concentrate on breathing.” Her mother relaxed a bit. “You’re going to be all right.”

Senna hissed through her teeth as her mother gently poured salt water onto her wounded hand. Blood welled into the lines of her palm. They formed dark, curling patterns that swirled in the water like incense smoke shifting with the breeze. It was almost pretty.

“What happened out there tonight, Brusenna?”

She only wanted to forget, but her mother needed to know. Senna had repeated her account so many times her head spun with it. Each time, it seemed more dreamlike, less real. With a sigh, she recounted it again.

Her mother held her curved needle over a candle flame. She waited for it to cool before threading it with thin strips of sheep intestines. “The cuts aren’t wide, but they are deep. It should only take five or so.”

Senna glared at the needle.

“Hold out your hand.”

Shutting her eyes, Senna turned away. The needle dug in. She gasped, but it would be worse without her mother’s herbs. She squirmed and fought the urge to clench her hand and pull away.