A whisper from the dark said, “Foolish Scylla.”
“Hello?” Her hand went to the dagger on her hip. Being confident in one’s security did not come with carelessness. Since she’d nearly died so many years ago—which was the way all witches discovered their magic—Scylla had carried at least one weapon on her at all times. It felt foolish some days, but not today.
Scylla looked around and saw nothing but shadows. “Is someone here?”
Had she imagined that whisper?
Her hand stayed loosely on the hilt of the dagger she wore on her right hip. All she’d used it for in years was cutting an errant branch or bit of twine, but she, like most witches in Crenshaw, was increasingly aware of the conflict between the two political factions—the New Economists who wanted witches to return to the nonmagical world and the Traditionalists who thought that was a terrible plan. To date, that conflict had mostly been petty magic and angry words.
There was the rift, of course, with its seeping ooze of poison into their home, but noindividualhad been targeted. If one witch were, the common belief was that Prospero—the most vocal of the Traditionalist witches—would be the logical target. Perhaps Walter, acting chief witch, would be targeted. Lord Scylla, the head of House Scylla, had no reason to believe that she was a likely mark.
But within the next few steps, something caught her around the ankles. In the next moment, Scylla was trussed at the ankles, suspended wrong side up over the forest floor and clutching her dagger with the intent of sawing through the snare currently cutting into her skin.
“Utter bullshit,” she muttered. Louder she said, “A bad idea. That’s whatthisis.”
A hunter’s trap ought not be in the woods near the barrier. The guards could be injured or—
Wherewerethe barrier guards?
“Hello?” she called out, trying to remember which members of the community were on patrol.
Is it better to saw at the snare or prepare to defend myself?
Scylla gripped the hilt of her dagger, peering into the darkness for the whisperer as she spun in almost a full circle from the rope around her ankles.Is this more pettiness or is there an attack forthcoming?
Someone would come to her aid. She just had to stall until they found her. Louder now, she yelled, “Who’s on patrol?”
As she tried to recall the roster, she twisted on the trapline. No one had appeared or spoken, and since bound women were easier targets than she had any intention of being, Scylla decided that freeing herself was the wisest next step.
With a strain she felt in every inch of her abdominal muscles, she folded nearly in half, bent upward in the most unpleasant sit-up ever, and sliced the rope around her ankles.
She rolled to her feet as she dropped to the forest floor with awhump,scattering leaves and other detritus. She had several spell-loaded stones in one hand. They weren’t fatal spells, just more of the sort she’d tossed at the badger. In the other was her dagger.
Scylla scanned the dimly lit area. “Show yourself.”
Several witches appeared: the town stoner, Jaysen, stood beside Agnes. Slightly in front of them was a witch, Jenn, who hadn’t the sense that God gave a turnip. She was one of those perpetually unhappy people who complained nonstop about everything. In reality, she was the exact opposite of the perpetually cheerful Jaysen, who always seemed to either be getting high or sleeping off his highs.
“Agnes… what are you doing?” Scylla stared at the witch she’d traded barbs with at Congress for decades.
Agnes looked uncertain. She glanced behind her at a witch who remained hidden. Then she told Jenn, “Just do it.”
“Do what?” Scylla glared at them. As far as she could recall, Jenn and Jaysen were both so low-level in magic that they could be returned to the Barbarian Lands easily. She met both their gazes. “Go home. All of you.”
Aggie said, “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
“Hey, Scylla?” a raspy voice said. A fist hit her from behind. “You should’ve stayed up there until we left.”
She turned, and hot fire speared through her back and into her belly. She felt the pain before she heard the rifle. A bullet lodged deep in her gut.
“Youshotme?” Scylla managed to say. Pain radiated in so many directions that she couldn’t say where she’d been shot.
Neither Jenn nor Jaysen held the gun. Aggie didn’t either.
Who pulled the trigger?She struggled to find the witch responsible. Owning or using guns was unheard-of in Crenshaw aside from the guards, who only carried them at the barrier, where they watched for any cougar or bear that might wander into Crenshaw. Animals saw through illusion in a way that humans didn’t. Sometimes, that meant needing to carry a weapon for safety on the rare occasion that magic wasn’t deterrent enough, but shooting anotherwitch? Not in Crenshaw. Not ever in the history of the town.
Until now,Scylla amended, trying to push to her feet.
“You picked the wrong side,” a voice—Aggie—said. The head of House Grendel had her trusty staff in hand, and Scylla cried out as it slammed into her stomach. The impact of the club-like stick added more agony to the waves of pain already rolling over her. “Stay down.”
