I lean back in my chair, putting some much-needed distance between myself and the mysterious concoction. Is the witch just tight-lipped and surly, as old-as-dirt hermits probably tend to be? Or is she performing an expert bob and weave with traitorous words?
“Specifically, what will this potion do to me?” I demand.
She thumps her wizened hand down on the table, making the cup rattle and the potion fizz. “I made the brew. You paid me. This transaction is complete. Drink it, or get out of my house.”
Griffin stands and holds out his hand to me. “Let’s go.”
I glance over. “But—”
“But nothing,” he says. “You don’t want to drink it, so don’t. Trust your gut, Cat.”
The hermit turns an irate glare on Griffin. “Stay out of this, Hoi Polloi.” There’s a heavy punch of power in her voice.Compulsion?It’s not directed at me, so it’s hard to tell. It won’t have any effect on Griffin anyway, but there are never more than a handful of people alive who can compel another human being, like Mother and I can. The hermit witch just entered an entirely new category in my mind—almost certainly an Olympian one.
His features tight, Griffin doesn’t respond to what was clearly meant as an insult. I’m not as polite.
“Give me back my pearls, witch.”
She glowers at me. “Those aren’t yours.” She pushes the cup toward me again. “This is.”
Conflicted still and hating it, I look at the brew once more. I need that lightning.
“What’s in it?” I ask. I don’t want to miss a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The hermit of Frostfire is famous for making potent concoctionsthat work.
“Things that will free your magic from your body.”
Again, no lie. But the crone is definitely spinning her words, and I want to know why.
I stare at the cup. This won’t be the first potion I’ve drunk. What if I’m being absurdly paranoid? I used to think obsessive suspicion was a good thing—a survival tool—but now I’m not so sure. Trusting people has brought me more happiness than my constant wariness and paranoia ever did.
And I need the full force of my magic. To defend my people. To defend myself. To unite Thalyria. The witch’s brew could be invaluable. What’s one nauseating drink compared to the lives I could save? To what we could gain if I can finally trust my magic to work? Enemies would tremble before the mighty thunderbolt, the weapon of Zeus himself. Surrender without bloodshed and war.
The potion bubbles and reeks under my nose, and all I can think about is how Galen Tarva threatened my mother with his unparalleled Elemental Magic. He made her dance to his tune for years, and nobody but them even knew about it.Icould do that. I could show her my power and make her kneel before me. I could offer Mother her life in exchange for Fisa, and she’d take the deal because she wouldn’t have a choice.
My fingers tingle, warming to the idea. I reach out and slowly close my hand around the earthenware cup. It’s hot.
Griffin tenses by my side, and I turn to look at him. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want me to do this.
My grip loosens. He’s right. I don’t need the potion. I never have.
A certainty I’ve rarely felt wells up from somewhere deep inside me, spreading like a fast-moving tide. It fills me up, buoys me. I already have the most potent concoction around—Griffin and me together.
“I’ll unlock my magic on my own. Griffin is all I need.” I swipe the cup to the floor, and it shatters, its thick contents bubbling between the hermit’s feet and mine.
The hermit glares at me through a curtain of foul-smelling smoke. The way her head moves, the turn of her chin,her eyes…
I stumble back, my gasp barely making it into my lungs. The confidence I was just floating on crashes like a ship into solid rock.
“We need to leave.” I’m suddenly terrified but not entirely willing to accept why.
Griffin sweeps his chair back, but I stay rooted to the spot.
“You always make things so difficult.” Cruel, cold voice. Green eyes, so similar to mine. “You never did know what was best.”
Dread erupts in me and rams savagely outward through my chest. My heart beats so hard I can’t breathe.
I reel back into Griffin as the hag straightens, growing in a swirl of magic-hued green. The transition is turbulent. Horrifying. In mere seconds, the woman sheds the appearance of the hunchbacked hermit witch of Frostfire and turns into my worst nightmare. Mother.
CHAPTER 12
