“Good. Very … good.” The inquisitor stalked toward her.
Something in the finality of his steps and in the gravity of his expression sent her heart beating wildly. “What do you mean, ‘good’? That’s not—” Semras bumped into the table. Behind her, glass hit wood, and she glanced behind to see her tools rolling off the table.
When she brought her attention back toward Estevan, Inquisitor Velten loomed over her. He was close, too close, trapping her against the table.
A sinister light lurked in his eyes. “I suppose Iwassloppy. I have never been a patient man, after all. But I am glad to hear my little feat could fool a genuine witch.”
Semras felt her blood drain from her face. Her limbs grew numb. “What … did you say?” she breathed.
It was a trap. The witch could see it now as it fell around her. It had been a trap all along. Everything. Every word. Every touch.
He laughed. The sound—so cold, so unlikehim—hurt her ears. “You lovely, delightfully naive little witch.”
The disturbing levity in his voice only enhanced its viciousness. The inquisitor’s smirk, snarling in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for innocent mirth, chilled her very soul. Semras trembled; her legs threatened to fold beneath her.
Before they could, the inquisitor pinned her against the desk. Lips trembling, Semras stared at the man she never truly knew.
He grabbed her jaw. “Something to say?”
His touch startled her, and she twisted her head away from his touch. “Madman! Murderer! Don’t touch me!” Reflexively, her hands flew up, ready to weave.
But they couldn’t. Her fingers struggled in vain against their cold iron prison. Shackle-bound, she couldn’t weave.
She. Couldn’t. Weave.
With a cold rictus, the inquisitor grabbed her wrists and slammed them backward onto the table, dragging her down forcefully. The inkpot wavered and fell, spilling its cold black liquid on the surface. From the corner of her eye, Semras watched helplessly as the void-like mass crept toward her.
Black seeped into her hair and skin, chilling her.
She struggled against the murderer. “Release me!”
Laughing, he slammed her wrists back onto the table. “Oh, must I remind you that I did not demand you wear these lovely shackles on your hands? Do not accuse me of being responsible for this.Thiswas a folly ofyourmaking. If only you had trusted me less …” He pierced her with his inhuman, icy gaze. “I found it quite endearing, you know? Your determination to make me trust you. Adorable, but foolish. You were a tool, and I told you so from the start. The one time I did not lie to you, and you did not heed my warning. No, no … instead, youchosethis.”
“You bastard, you lying bastard! You deceived me! From the very start, you—!”
“Correction, witch. You deceivedyourself. I only played along. And how could I not, with these pretty golden eyes looking at me with so much desire?” He sneered. “But really, now that all pretenses are gone … you did nottrulybelieve an inquisitor could ever love a witch, did you?” His rictus widened at the tears of rage welling in her eyes.
Semras’ jaw chattered painfully. “I’ll kill you!”
“I would love to see you try in these shackles. Come on, sweet pet, come at me. Do your worst.”
Held down, helpless, Semras struggled with all her might. It only served to amuse him. The murderer increased the pressure of his hands around her wrists.
“You cannot?” He hummed. “How sad.”
“There never was a witch I could help save, was there?”
He tutted. “I did not lie about everything. There is a witch. You. If you want to save yourself, you would do well to help me find a scapegoat to take the fall for me. Or else …youwill.” His cold sneer froze her in place. “You should have returned home when I gave you the chance, witch. Now all you can do is choose me or the pyre.”
Semras couldn’t feel her limbs anymore. Terror had robbed her of all sensation. “A … a scapegoat?”
Her horrified murmur made him snicker. “I do not fancy paying for that old man’s death, but someone needs to. It could be you. It is my word against yours, of course, but I can easily fabricate evidence and let prejudice fill in the blanks.”
The witch shuddered. He was right. Even if she told the Venator guards outside what he just confessed to her, they’d only laugh at her.
“And you …” The inquisitor seized her throat in a cruel caress. “You have such a pretty neck. Pretty enough, in fact, that I will allow you to find someone else to frame for me. Be my accomplice, witch. You can live for me, or die for me—your choice. I was not kidding about the pyre.”
“You won’t get away with this …” Semras’ voice came out hoarse, strained. And far too weak.
