I don’t move for a few seconds, squeezing my eyes shut and tightly gripping the gate, Whisper whimpers next to me.
Forcing myself to shake off the bitterness lingering under my skin, I look down and pat him. He rubs against my leg, assuring both of us that whatever happened wasn’t real—at least not in the tangible sense.
Kicking the rest of the gate open, I make sure it’s wide enough for Whisper without having to touch it. I’m not sure how that would affect him through our bond.
I slowly walk the short path and look around the front lawn. All of the plants are dried carcasses. I’m familiar with many herbs, elixirs, and potions from working in my mom’s healing clinic most of my life, but even she wouldn’t know how to make sense of this. Only a Green Witch would have the abilities to see into the depth of plants long gone.
Nothing I’ve read said the inn itself is cursed, but they’re like viruses and infect anything it comes into contact with.
The thing that stands out the most to me is the dirt—maybe it’s mud? I’m not sure.
I haven’t seen anything like it before. Different types of soil are used in many different recipes, so I am familiar with what it looks like. This dirt is thick and gunky. There aren’t any clay particles or deposits anywhere nearby, and I highly doubt this property gets consistent, fresh, organic matter to naturally produce this kind of texture.
Stopping before the porch steps, I kneel and take in the peculiar tan color. Much lighter than any mud I’ve ever seen with a faint green tinge to it, making it look almost sickly.
Barely thinking about it, I scoop up a handful.
Just as I was beginning to suspect—it’s dry and gritty like sand, but it moves in a slimy manner, slowly rolling off my hand in one long string of gunk.
“That’s weird,” I mutter and wipe my hands together.
Whisper lets out a yip of agreement and sniffs the small hole I made. After a few seconds, he loses interest, and I continue up the stairs and knock on the front door.
On the other side, I hear an unfamiliar voice yell out, “I’ll get it!” before it swings open.
I’m not sure who looks more shocked—me, or the young witch standing in front of me.
Her dark eyes widen, but she quickly schools her expression into indifference and crosses her arms.
I’d guess she was around fifteen from the haughty way she crosses her arms. It reminds me of my youngest sister who recently turned seventeen.
This young witch has long, black braids with gold cuffs throughout, and a warm, tawny complexion. Her round face looks far too youthful and inviting to take her anger very seriously, but I have three sisters, and have learned to not underestimate a woman’s rage.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a snarky tone and pops her hip out for added dramatics.
“Yeah, I’m looking—” I pause, remembering that I still don’t know her name. “I’m looking for someone, and I think she might be here.”
She has almost no reaction to what I said—no concern, no surprise. Nothing. “Hm,” is all I get as she pushes the door open, and sweeps her arm in a way that I assume should be inviting.
Stepping inside, I’m about to elaborate, maybe describe the features of who I’m looking for, but there’s a small sense of excitement knowing I can even do that now. Before I get the chance, she turns down the hallway and says, “Follow me.”
I don’t bother asking where she’s going, remembering Sybil’s advice—I’m here for a reason.
The interior is bigger than it looks from the outside, and it takes us down a couple of hallways before she pushes a swinging door open, and we stop in the main kitchen.
At the interruption, another witch turns hastily around. When she sees me, her mouth and the hand holding a large butcher knife slowly lower as her eyes grow wider.
“We have a guest,” the young witch deadpans, and I practically hear the smirk in her voice. “You always said to bring visitors straight to you, not to—”
“That’s enough, Clementine,” the older witch with dark red hair tells her in an authoritative tone. “Why don’t you go find your sister and… everyone else?”
I’m focused on the new witch in front of me, but I can hear Clementine turn on her heel and jog out of the room.
I’m a little scared of her with that knife, truthfully.
A moment later, she sets it down and steps forward.
“Sorry about all that,” she says in a soft, welcoming voice. “We don’t get a lot of visitors around here.”
