A faint smile tilts her lips. “Iknewthere was more to you, my girl. But I won’t let you waste your energy on me.” She jerks her chin toward the door. “Go. Find your precious mother. Get to the fields.”
I ignore her and try again.“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum?—”
“Go, Raina!” she yells. “Your mother needs you more than me. Go!”
Something in the tone of her voice penetrates. I don’t want to leave her here, but I can’t carry her, and she won’t let me heal her. If I drag her out, someone will surely kill her.
She shakes her head. “Do you not remember what I told you? There is no victory without sacrifice. I’m ready. Now go.”
“Iwillcome back for you,”I sign.“I swear.”
Determined to be fast, I storm out of Mena’s cottage and battle my way toward the green. With every clash of blades and every slash of my scythe, I’m reminded that my life might end any minute. Though I oweas much to every single person in Silver Hollow, death cannot come for me yet. I cannot allow it.
Like the weapon in my hands, I become hammered and honed, my movements severe as I slay with blow after blow. The fires—are they dying? And is that thunder? Rain could snuff out the remaining blazes and give us a chance.
The sight of my mother snags my gaze. She stands in the middle of the stone circle, still singing her magick. I move to go to her, but every muscle in my body seizes when an Eastlander appears in the corner of my vision, stalking through the smoke on the western side of the green. His long strides are calculated and sure. I glance at the dagger clasped in his grip and connect his line of intent.
He’s heading for my mother.
Fury courses through my veins. Gathering my skirts, I run, calling on the power of the moon still flowing within me, and climb a feasting table in two leaps. The third leap takes me off the other side, and with a downward swing of my scythe, I land a blow that sends the Eastlander’s head rolling into the embers of the roasting pit.
Relief cascades over me. Mother hasn’t moved, her gaze still cast to the sky. I saved her.
In the next heartbeat, a spear juts through her stomach from behind.
Time stops.
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
She looks down, then her eyes meet mine as she clutches the spear with both hands. An expression of confusion twists her beautiful features.
As blood pours from her wound, staining the white gown we stitched together last summer, I read a single word on her lips.No.Then, those lovely eyes of hers, with such bright light, go dark.
Disbelief rips through me, hot and raw. When Mother slumps to the ground, the scent of her coming death carries across the space between us, and a flood of deepest sorrow fills me. My mother’s death smells like her. Cloves and fallen leaves and smoky coldness, tangled with the memory of sun and warm breezes.
The killer presses his booted foot to her back and pushes her off his weapon as though she means nothing.
Then he sets his sights on me.
Idid this.Me. I could’ve saved her. Gotten her out. Gotteneveryoneout. All those children. Finn. Hel. Betha. Saira. The twins. Tuck. Emmitt. Mr. Foley. Mena.
I want to tear my hair out, pound my fists against the earth, beat the pain from my heart. Ohgods, why did I not look at the waters? Why didn’t I keep my eyes on the Witch Collector all day?
The Eastlander stalks toward me, spear in hand, a crow perched on his shoulder. With a flick of his wrist, the bird flies away. Blood splatter decorates his leathers. The blood of my people, of my mother, and if he has his way, of me.
I blink wildly, clearing the tears from my eyes and the shock from my mind. There’s something unsettlingly different about this warrior. Wisps of crimson shadow writhe around him like they’re trying to get away, growing redder and redder as he nears. His short, dark bronze hair lies swept back, neatly in place, making it noticeable when his face and eyes redden, too. Even his hands hold orbs of blood-colored shadows, like malevolence leaks from his every pore. The whole of him becomes such a sinister thing to behold that I’m certain he is evil incarnate.
I retreat and falter over my skirts, my scythe dragging on the ground. The cottage fires catch hold again, so fast and devouring, and the storm cloud disintegrates. I no longer thrum with the moon’s power or hope or even infernal rage. Instead, I’m numb with guilt and grief.
In that sliver of time, I don’t care if I live. All around me lie the dead and dying. Warriors raid the orchard and vineyards. I hear the pounding of their horses’ hooves, the fading screams of those hiding in the grove, see the billowing smoke of fires to the east, even while my village—my home—burns to nothing.
The Witch Collector rides on the fringes of the green, fighting like a devil. He is but one man, though, and he’s badly wounded. His bloody right arm dangles as he struggles to hold off a giant Eastlander with nothing more than a dagger.
Did this happen to the other villages? Is that why the WitchCollector was late? Did all the valley’s people endure this brutality? In my gut, I know they did.
I drop to my knees, swallowed by the magnitude of loss and devastation. In the swiftness of an arrow’s flight, this valley was erased.
