My brows lower, refusing to hear it. “You can end this,” I tell her. “But not like that.”
“He is suffering.” The words are pressed between her teeth, bitter and hated. “I did not feed to end a life quickly. If I poison him, he will waste out here, his suffering increasing until he finally gives out. I can’t do that to him, not after he’s been out here so long. If we’d found him sooner…”
The dark is obscuring her words and time has stopped. I cannotseem to comprehend what’s happening, what’s being asked of me. Bart nuzzles the side of my face, his nose slick and clammy as a fish.
“You have to do it,” she says to me. “Please, Piers.”
“No!” I scrabble back on my hands and feet. I can’t do what she’s asking. Not him, not this way. I know Ed. IloveEd. This is not what I am here for.
She takes my hands in hers, nails digging into the fleshy mounds beneath my thumbs. “He’s in agony,” she implores me. “You can end this. Please.”
“How?” I haven’t fed. I’m not prepared. This isn’t what my cycle responds to.
She swallows a sob, tries to steady her voice. “The deadly cort. It’s in the kitchen at the cabin. In the canister markedTEA.”
I jerk away from her, stumble to my feet, bracing my hands against my knees. I cannot save Ed, not his life, but I can rescue him from his pain. I can send him to the wife he misses. I can spare Myrtle the agony of watching him die slowly and miserably. I can make it quick. It is not the kind of superhero a girl dreams of becoming, but it is something. It is all I have to offer. And it’s time I stop withholding it from the world. I can do some good with this magic of mine. I can deal death where death is due. It doesn’t make me evil; it makes me powerful.
I suddenly understand men like Henry and the Saranac Strangler so much better. They’re seeking power because deep down they feel powerless.But power is not their issue. The best they can manage when they kill is control. That’s why they keep killing. Because they’re chasing a moving target—it’s always a step ahead, just out of reach. They are a poor reflection, a mirage, a copy of a copy. But the venery, the magic flowing through me,thatis the truth.
I sniff and rise to my full height. She must see the surrender in my face because something in hers lifts. “There’s just the one.”
“It will be enough,” she tells me. “For you.”
I nod, glancing over my shoulder.
She points east. “That way,” she says. “Almost a straight shot. I have my phone. I’ll keep the light on to guide you back. Go!”
The trees seem to shrink away as I dash through them, as if the forest is on our side. Bart is on my heels. He must believe Ed is okay with Myrtle there. I do my best to keep a continual line eastward. When the doubts arise—the voices that tell me I could get lost out here and never be found, that the Strangler may find me before anyone else—I push them aside. Because Ed is waiting. Ed is hurting. And I can stop it.
That’s all I know.
The cabin emerges from the black shrubbery like a beacon, windows pouring light into the woods around it. I stamp up the steps into the kitchen and snatch at canisters, ripping off lids until I find it where Myrtle said I would, a bit shriveled but otherwise recognizable. It goes down easy like pudding. In a bite or two it’s gone. I swallow the yellow wart, too, for good measure. When I turn to leave, Bart stands in the open doorway watching me. I think he knows what I intend to do. His eyes are unreadable, but he doesn’t growl or lower his head. He just stares before bounding down the stairs. I follow him into the night. He is fast but not frantic. Myrtle’s phone begins to shine before us like a fairy light. I wish that it were.
When I reach them, Ed is breathing faintly, his pulse a whisper. Myrtle scoots to one side so I can get close to him. She has been careful not to touch him, not to risk a tear splashing across his skin. Her cries are soundless. She tells him it will not be long; his wife is waiting. He tries to open his injured eye, to look at her one last time.
I kneel over him, my hair hanging to one side. He taps my knee with a finger, one arm still mobile. I turn my ear and lower it so that it nearly touches his lips. “Thank you,” he whispers.
My eyes well. I lift up and look down on him. “Goodbye, Ed,” I tell him. “Sleep well.” And then I lick my lips and place them on a gash at his temple.
THE WALK BACKto our cabin is a disheartening slog through pitch-dark wilderness. Even the cheerful glow of lamplight as the cabin looms into view doesn’t stir our spirits, though it will feel good to get warm. I reach down and squeeze Myrtle’s hand; it hangs there limply.
“In the morning, I’ll report him missing,” she says, weary, voice thinner than sheet metal with the same brisk edge. “They’ll find him within a few hours.”
I follow her up the stairs. At the door, she waits, holding it open. “Come on,” she says to the dog. “You sleep here now.”
Bart emerges from the shadows. He lifts his head sadly and peers past us into the house before tucking his tail and scooting slowly inside.
The little house is a welcome refuge after our trauma in the woods. I make hot tea and slice lemon wedges, fingers still numb from cold and dissociation. Myrtle runs a bath, washing off the blood and soil, the dank, midnight stink of the wild, the crushing grief. She comes to sit beside the fire I’ve kindled in the stone hearth, hair wet and eyes lowered, her robe tucked tightly, holding her together. Bart curls up in front of her chair, claiming his new owner.
“With any luck, they’ll assume he died of his injuries and forgo an autopsy.” Her eyes are mossy in the firelight, a green that goes on for miles, mirroring the country around her. They reach into me. “What you did for me tonight, Piers… Thank you. I only hope I can repay you someday.”
“You already have,” I tell her. “I came here with nothing, and you took me in. Despite the risks, my questionable past. Besides, I really did it for Ed, so he wouldn’t… linger. Will you tell the venery?”
She rubs Bart with a foot, thinking. “Do you want me to? It might be better if it stays between us.”
“Doesn’t it count? Wouldn’t it mean I passed their test?” I’mnot necessarily proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed either. It feels mysteriously humbling to take a life with intention this time. And the grief is swift and immediate, like blood flow after a cut, the sense of waste. More so because he was a friend. But thinking I did it tohelpsomeone makes it easier. I want it to matter, to get me off the hook with the other bane witches. Maybe because that will make it all feel less pointless. Maybe because I don’t want to kill again for a long while.
Myrtle shakes her head. “I don’t know. They want to see you move through a complete cycle. This was rushed, not really an examination of your own instincts. Besides, your mark is still out there. Your hunt is on. Soon, the hunger will set in. Would you really leave that man in the world to take more innocent lives?”
