Myrtle frowns. “Beyond that. What did you see that no one else in the room could?”
“The woman,” I admit. “Bleeding. She lost her baby because he beat it out of her.”
Myrtle nods knowingly. “Thatis how I know. Our magic has a way of whispering to us. It’s not always the same for everybody, but it is never wrong. I don’t know why the Strangler is here, but I have my suspicions,” she says with an uneasy glance in my direction. “And you can never be too careful, not when you’re one of us.”
“One ofus…” I let my shoulders finally drop. “And what is that? What is a bane witch exactly?”
Myrtle’s lips tug up on one side in a coy smile. “What do you think it is?”
I rub my hands over my face. “Someone who can eat poison, I guess. Someone whoispoison.”
She flips the framed picture over in her lap. “You’re a bane witch. So am I. So was your mother and her mother and so on. Yes, we can eat poisonous plants without feeling the effects. Our magic reserves the toxins safely in our bodies until it’s time.”
“Time?” I ask. “Time for what?”
She studies me as if she is evaluating whether I can handle the answer. “Time for them to be released.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “How does that work? How is that possible?”
She purses her lips. “I’m not a doctor, Piers. I can only tell you what I know. Tonight, when you saw that man in the café, aside from what you saw, what did youfeel?”
I grip the cushion beneath me. “Angry,” I admit. “Edgy. I wanted to do something. I wanted him to hurt the way—” I pause, anxious about sharing this part of myself.
“The way?” she presses.
“The way I’ve been hurt. The way he hurt that woman.” I look down at my knees.
She nods. “What did that feel like in your body? The anger? The desire todosomething?” she asks me.
I remember my stomach turning on itself, the heat and the sweat and the tremble in my hands. Like I was barely containing the feelings. Like I wanted to explode. “It felt like pressure.” I meet her eyes. “Everywhere inside me. Like something was building. It burned.”
She nods again, slowly. “Because somethingwasbuilding,” she agrees. “You were ripe—ready to release your venom. The prey was before you and you could sense it. This is what you were made for, born for.”
“Prey?” I shake my head, confused. “Rabbits are prey. Mice. Deer. That man was an asshole. He was no victim.”
She waves a hand as if brushing my words aside. “Preyis a euphemism, that’s all. Don’t get hung up on the word. The point isyou fed before that man arrived. Something in you knew he was coming. It wanted to be ready. And your magic drew him to you, left him vulnerable, provided an opportunity, so that you could do what you were put here to do.”
“Which is?” I’m almost afraid to ask because the answer is ringing through me before she forms the word, but I need to hear her say it.
“Kill.” Myrtle watches to see how I react. When I don’t immediately freak out, she goes on. “Or protect, depending on how you want to look at it. But in some cases, our case, the two are interchangeable.”
“Protect.” The word is awkward in my mouth. I’ve never been able to protect anyone, not even myself. Henry made that abundantly clear. And yet, isn’t that what happened with Don? I protected myself in that car somehow, or my magic did.Magic.An even harder word to wrap my head around.
“Our…instincts,Piers, are carefully synchronized. It might feel random at times, but it never is. You broke into my stash the other night. Don’t deny it,” she insists when I open my mouth to argue. “I was watching you, waiting in the dark to see what you would go for. I could read the signs on you the last few days, unable to focus or be still, you were practically vibrating. I knew you were feeling it—the hunger—and if I gave you an opening, you would probably take it. But I had to be sure. When that man came into the café tonight, that’s when I knew for certain.”
Her words feel like they’re racing ahead, answering a question I haven’t asked yet. I hold a hand up. “I don’t understand. Why not just tell me? Why not explain what was happening to me? If I’d known that pica runs in our family, it would have saved me a lot of shame over the years.”
She tsks at the word. “Forget that diagnosis. You don’t have a disorder. You aren’t deficient. You are operating exactly as the magic designed. But I couldn’t know that until I saw it for myself. I just wish I’d gotten to you before you spit in his coffee.”
I recall her blocking my path on the way to make his sandwich,how she insisted I go outside and cool off. The realization is cold like ice against the skin and bright with shock. She knew then what I was capable of. She just didn’t realize she was too late. I fall against the sofa’s backrest, reeling. “You knew. You could have stopped me.”
“I did try,” she says defensively. “My timing was off, is all.”
“You think?” I spit at her. “Why let it go that far, cut it so close? If you already knew about me eating the… the… whatever mushroom.”
“Destroying angel mushroom—Amanita bisporigera.A personal favorite of mine. It’s very effective, as you saw for yourself. Though a bit messy perhaps. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. I couldn’t be certain everything was functioning normally until I observed your allure. Of course, now I’ve seen the full cycle, so there’s no room for doubt,” she explained.
The casual way she discusses the gory death I just witnessed—a death I caused—is unnerving. I push my horror aside to focus on the facts. “My what?”
