The corners of his lips curled up with smug confidence. “The exact nature of the poison matters little. I need confirmation that a witch did not make it.”
With slow, measured movements, the witch poured herself more tea. She was stalling, she knew it. Her mind swirled with confusion, begging for time to digest what he’d just said.
If that was what the inquisitor wanted from her, then it could only mean one thing: he strongly suspected a witch, yetdidn’twant her to be the culprit. It made no sense.
The surface of the pale, translucent tea reflected no answer back at her. Still, one improbable, ludicrous possibility came to her. “Do you mean to …” She paused, hesitating, “… acquit a specific witch, perhaps?”
“The details of the crime do not concern you. However …” He threw her a sharp glance over his cup. “If it makes any difference, a witch of Yore is indeed suspected, but I doubt her guilt. So I shall ask this only once: will you assist me with this investigation?”
Yore. That was her Coven, her sisters. This whole affair had indeed turned personal.
Semras downed her second cup, regretting with each gulp that she had chosen tea instead of alcohol. “If I’m doing this,” she said, “it is only for the benefit of my coven sisters. I know them. They couldn’t have done something so heinous. I’ll help clear their name.”
The inquisitor’s eyes brightened. “Good. I would expect nothing else from you. We have a deal then.”
Eyeing him, she raised an eyebrow. “You need to offer something in return if you want a proper—”
The front door crashed to the floor with a thunderous boom.
Semras jolted from her chair as Venator sword-bearers poured into her small abode. In mere seconds, the men swarmed her, weapons raised toward her throat. Uncoordinated shouts ordered her to back away from the inquisitor, show her hands, close her eyes. The cacophony rang in her ears, and she froze. By reflex, her fingers curled, seeking the familiar comfort of the Unseen Arras.
The sound of shattering clay cut through the air. Silence filled the hut. Neck stiff from rattled nerves, Semras turned her gaze to the inquisitor.
Beneath his clenched fist, her favourite cup lay in pieces. Blood slowly seeped from the punctured thin leather of his gloves, almost invisible against the red colour of their palms.
Nausea threatened to overtake her.
The inquisitor’s black gloves hadred palms. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now that she did, she couldn’t wrench her gaze away. She knew of these wretched things and what they implied.
Inquisitors earned these infamous marks of distinction by taking a life—with blade or bare hands—in the name of their god. This man had blood on his hands, and he had beenrewardedfor it.
She had grantedxeniato a killer. Under different circumstances, this ‘visit’ could have taken a very different turn for her—just as she first feared.
And now, he looked furious, ready to kill. Furrowed brows pulled his face into a snarl, and rage-filled eyes glared past her. For the first time since he had entered her home, the inquisitor wasn’t looking at her.
Semras followed his gaze to the Venator guards. They shuffled on their feet, glancing nervously at each other.
Then the inquisitor rose and stepped between her and his men. In front of their superior, the guards lowered their swords. “Inquisitor Velten?” asked one of them in a small voice.
So that was his name, Semras registered faintly, still dazed by the realization she’d been drinking tea with amurderer.
“I recall, and I do recall correctly, asking you all to waitoutside. This, here,” the inquisitor waved around, “is decidedlyinside. Where you all now stand. I would ask you to explain this curious fact, but I am now certain you simply have no cognitive capacity to do so.”
“M-My lord Inquisitor, we’re only obeying the orders of the cardinal. He told us to protect you from—”
“I do not care to hear it. The cardinal is not here, which means I am the highest authority. You will obey my orders, not his. Lower your weapons and retreat outside.Now,” he said, voice low. “This woman is under my protection.”
His protection. The word shook Semras out of her stupor. His protection—yes, he didn’t come to her home to kill her. He came because heneededher.
Bowing deeply, the guards filed out of her hut one by one. Some glared at her as they left, and she held their gazes until they disappeared past the doorframe.
One man lingered next to the exit, waiting with crossed arms while the sword-bearers exited her home. His long burgundycloak and black brigandine had turned him into a sinister shadow against the pale plaster wall.
Semras sucked in a breath. This one was no mere common sword-bearer, but a Venator knight. Had he come through her door instead of the inquisitor, she’d have run right away. Even now, his presence brought a shiver down her spine.
A single Venator knight, clad in the cold iron that was anathema to the Fair Folk, could decimate a coven in a single night. They existed for one reason only—to wage war against the servants of the Night, in all the shapes and forms they took. Even if that shape bore no guilt beyond the circumstances of its birth.
The last of the sword-bearers left her home, and the knight followed them outside wordlessly.
