The mysterious Eastlander approaches. I want to tell him that killing me will haunt him, that he will see my face in his nightmares, but a disturbing glimmer sparkles in his eyes, and he smiles, rolling the spear in his hand.
“What’s your name?” He tilts his head, studying me with a curious stare.
Something clenches inside me, some instinct that screams for me to get up and fight.
But it’s too late. He’s so close. Close enough that I spit at him.
He laughs and wipes his face. “Fiery little thing, aren’t you? Pardon the play on words. I couldn’t resist.”
What a despicable creature. He isn’t the kind of man who will be haunted byanyof the lives he’s taken.
“Pity to kill such a fighter,” he adds. “But much as I’d like to see you in chains, I fear you’d only be a distraction.”
A shiver chases across my skin as he rears his arm back and takes aim. I inhale a deep breath and glance beyond him, needing one last moment with my mother. Her face is a blank mask, her eyes empty of life, but…
Her face, neck, and hands are covered in witch’s marks, glowing with soft light, like nothing I’ve ever seen, especially on my mother. I must be imagining things.
But…no. The marks are there, and her stare is fixed on me. And her mouth…It’smoving. Her effort is weak and waning, but she’s chanting magick. If even a faint whisper of life remains, I know I can heal her wound and bring her back to the light.
Just as the Eastlander thrusts his spear toward my heart, I summon enough strength to swing my scythe one last time and blunt the death-end of his weapon. The dulled tip strikes my breastbone like a siege engine pounding a castle door, knocking me across the green.
The wind leaves my lungs until I manage a stinging gasp of smoky air that forces me to double over and cough around the shocking pain.
Through the amber and gray haze filling the night, Isee the Witch Collector. He now stands between me and my attacker, his back turned, his sword sheathed because he cannot wield it. His right arm hangs limp at his side, blood pouring down his fingers and dripping to the ground. He still holds that dagger in his left hand.
“I won’t let you have her.” He lunges and maneuvers his blade in a swift, wide arc.
The Eastlander jerks back and dodges the attack. “Well, hello to you, too.” He laughs, and this time it’s an awful sound—low and deep but shadowed by faint high-pitched shrieks, like demons live inside him. He tosses what remains of his spear aside. “And I don’twanther,” he says. “Not really. I want tokillher. Very different things.”
The Witch Collector moves closer, blade ready, but in a flurry of that black cloak, he’s suddenly facing me. The Eastlander—with the help of his shadows—holds the king’s right-hand man ensnared. One arm is folded tight around the Witch Collector’s neck, while the other now clasps his stolen dagger. The move happened so swiftly that I didn’t even see it.
The Eastlander grins like a sick bastard. “Now what? I get to kill you, too, old friend? It’s been so very long.”
A perplexed look passes over the Witch Collector’s face. “We arenotfriends, you nameless son of a bitch.” He grits out the words, jaw clenching as he strains against the shadows.
“Right you are, which means I don’t have to be nice, now, doesn’t it? Let the fun begin.”
The Witch Collector stares at me with eyes so green they shine through the caliginous night. “Run!” he yells, just as the Eastlander plunges the blade into his side. Once, twice, with a twist between the ribs.
Crying out, the Witch Collector slumps to the ground—just like my mother did—and again, the Eastlander comes for me. This time, there’s no sick, playful gleam in his eyes. Only wrath and determination.
I force myself to my feet and dart around him, barely missing the swinging edge of his stolen dagger.
The Witch Collector is kneeling, resting the dying weight of his body on one hand, blood beginning to trickle from his mouth. His gaze is still on me, bewildered as I charge him and rip his sword free from hisbaldric. The weapon, lighter and sleeker than I imagined, feels good in my hands. Summoning my hatred, I rage forward and drive the blade toward the Eastlander’s chest. I hope I gore his black heart.
Wearing that evil smile, he explodes into a gust of crimson smoke, and I run right through him. Or whatwashim.
Stumbling, I fall to my hands and knees, the sword’s hilt bruising my palm when I land. A strange feeling cascades over me. A release, like some unnatural pressure—one that feels like it’s been with me always—lets go. A surge of power rushes through me, heavy and consuming and altogether foreign.
My hands. They look like my mother’s. Covered in witch’s marks that I’ve never had before. I blink, gasping, sure that I’m dreaming. That I’ve dreamedallof this.
But also because, right there in the grass, right within my reach, lies the God Knife, as if Finn left it here on purpose.
A presence at my back makes the hair at the nape of my neck rise.
“Miss me?” The Eastlander’s words flit across my ear.
Grabbing the God Knife, I flip over, slashing at the air, praying I catch any part of him on the end of this blade.
