“And we always have Bart,” she adds with humor. “Though, I will say, he’s a sad excuse for a familiar.”
As if on cue, he twists away, hearing something in the distance, and bounds off into the underbrush. I hide a smile.
“There are unique gifts among us, specialties that come to light in time with care and practice, things only one or a few of us can do. Yours are only just beginning to show themselves. But you will learn. And then you will see, thisisa calling, not an accident.”
“I see things,women,in my mind. You told me when I was a kid that if I thought very hard, I would know the man I killed hadhurt someone else. And I did know. I saw her before he died, when he touched me.”
She smiles, her cheeks ruddy with life. “The sight is common among our kind. It is a kind of psychic connection with our marks. It’s one of the ways the magic has of revealing them to us, and of making sure we don’t take an innocent life.”
“Is any life truly innocent?” I mumble dryly.
Myrtle peers at me. “Yes, Piers. Whatever has happened to you, you must never forget that there are predators and there are prey. We hunt the former, not the latter.”
“I know,” I tell her, chastened. “Do you see them, too? The victims of your marks?”
“Sometimes,” she tells me, eyes scanning the forest floor. “Sometimes I hear their cries, smell their blood. It’s different with every mark, but I alwaysknow.”
“What about the ones who haven’t come to pass? The ones they will hurt or kill in the future if you don’t stop them?”
Suddenly she stands stick straight, eyes boring into mine. “What do you mean? You seefuturevictims? Potential victims?”
I nod. “With Henry I did.”
She snorts, a blast of air from her nose ruffling the leaves on the ground.
“Do you?” I ask her.
“No,” she says shortly. “No. This is unheard of.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “You mean, no bane witch has ever seen the victims their markwantsto kill, will kill, but hasn’t yet? Not a single one, ever?”
She bends over the ground. “Not a single one. Ever. Until now.” When I don’t respond, she says, “I told you, Piers. You are special. We are evolving. You are the key to our future.”
She squats beside the yellow mushroom and plucks it from the ground with a flick of her wrist, bringing it to her nose and breathing deeply. “Ican identify any species of mushroom in these woods on smell alone. Did you know that?”
When I shake my head, she goes on.
“Rose can shift her allure to make herself smell like any flower she wants. Sounds simple, but it’s come in quite handy. No need for perfume. She’s even used it to disguise her presence before. Verna can grow just about anything regardless of the conditions. I’ve seen her sprout morning glory seeds in pitch darkness. And my mother, Laurel, could make her marks see things that weren’t there. She stopped a man dead in his tracks one time by making him think an enormous tree had erupted in his path.”
“What about Azalea?” I can’t help asking.
Myrtle glances at me, a smile playing with her lips. “Azalea’s allure is so strong she can make any man fall in love with her in less than five minutes. They give her anything she wants, marks or not.”
I can’t say I’m surprised.
She turns away, pocketing the small cap before pointing out a striking copper-brown mushroom nearby. “Deadly cort,” she says happily. “Full of orellanine toxin. As bad as it sounds.” She plucks and pockets it as well, then points to a colorful patch of ear-shaped fungus on a nearby tree trunk. “Turkey tail. It’s medicinal—an excellent digestive aid. Useless to us except when used to slow our poison down.”
I want to ask how, but she’s already moved deeper into the trees, peering through the half-light, and I stumble to keep up.
She stops and points again, this time to an unassuming taupe mushroom jutting up through the moss. Its cap fans out across a slender stalk, and I can’t make out any truly distinguishing characteristics. “Tawny grisette. Another amanita, but unlike the rest, this one does not come with the annulus I told you about. And it’s not likely to kill anyone. But when dehydrated and combined with other amanita species, it can greatly increase gastrointestinal distress, speeding up expiration. The spew I’ve witnessed from such combinations is positively torrential.” She says this last bit with wide eyes, the way your grandmother might describe the size of a watermelon from the supermarket.
“Combined with other species?” I recall her mortar and pestle in the room above the café.
“You know,eaten,” she says. “Though, when I find a blend I like, I do sometimes mix them together in one of my jars for easy feeding.”
“Right.” I take a breath, my shoulders falling. “Am I supposed to remember all these?”
She watches me as she collects the tawny grisette. “Not right away. But it will help to know what’s around you. You will find the cravings come easier—”
