One by one, symbols began to glow up and down the dumpstreet. One, seven, twelve—he lost count. They were surrounded by the green glow of magic. Until suddenly, they weren’t. The light snuffed out, leaving them in the dark of the dumpstreet.
That was when the bodies began to rise.
38
Nes
Magic was unbeatable. Magic was unpredictable. Magic was uncontrollable.
These were the facts Nes had recited her entire life. They had been her mantra as she trekked out to the woods and held herself in the freezing cold of the river’s edge. They were the reminders she held close whenever she wished someone dead and her magic jumped at the chance to please her. They were how she’d survived undiscovered all these years.
But this girl, Damari—who was no older than Nes herself—had defied the rules. No, she hadn’t just defied the rules.
She’d rewritten them.
Corpses filled the dumpstreet. Some men, some women, a few small enough to be children. Together they stood, ready to fight. And in their center was Damari.
Damari, who controlled these corpses with magic, who controlled magic with nothing more than a few well-placed lines on skin.
Nes had never wanted to wring someone’s neck as much as she did now.
Envy curled like an orange peel inside her, coiling tighter and tighter the more she took in this false Witch. The more she saw how Damari controlled the uncontrollable. She wanted to throw herself on top of the girl and demand she tell her how she did it. How she’d learned to control magic.
Nes had always known what she did was not control. It wasn’t even close. What she did to her magic was like putting a stopper on a bottleof sparkling wine and hoping it didn’t pop. But hope never changed the fact that, in time, it always did.
There was no time to question Damari. Corpses were everywhere, all of their attention directed at Nes, Toran, and the three who’d followed her out here.
She could feel her magic stretching and spreading inside her. Roots taking hold, readying to sprout.
She swallowed, only saliva coating her throat. She’d already finished her flask. Even if she had another full one, it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t enough anymore. It had been too long since she’d relinquished some of her magic. Too long, and now the magic had gathered its strength, feeding on her emotions these past few weeks, and had built an army inside to strike everyone down.
She bit her lip. A little longer. She just had to hold it back a little longer. Help Toran capture Damari, and then she would be free to live in peace. She could let them think Damari was the Witch. The girl had killed so many men. She could let them take Damari in her stead.
She had to. For her father, who hadn’t seen a sunrise in four years. Her father, who had never deserved his sentence, who’d only wanted to protect his daughter.
It was a simple exchange. Hand Damari over as the Witch, and her father walked free. She walked free. Then the two of them should be beyond the Walled Prison before dawn. Gone before Damari was drowned. Should be gone—except, there was still Toran.
The Nes of a month ago would have left Gadore without a second thought. Left Phineas, left Mikaud, left Suri. But she wasn’t the same girl as that Nes. She now knew she valued a life filled with love far more than a life based solely on survival. And as much of a risk as it would be, maybe it would be worth it to stay with Toran.
She snatched her daggers from each of her boots, tossing one back to Suri before stepping forward and squaring her shoulders. The handle was sticky in her palm, dried blood from the first corpse coating her hand.
The dagger wouldn’t help her much in this fight. It wasn’t long enough to chop off limbs or pierce the heart. But she didn’t trust herself to fight with any other weapon. She barely trusted herself to fight at all with her magic twisting and twining around her organs.
“This is the Witch?” Genna asked, her sword already removed from its sheath. Behind her, Quint had done the same, steel gleaming even in the low light.
Damari pinched her lips, confusion and dirt in every crinkle of skin. Damari wasn’t the Witch, but only she and Nes knew that.
Toran signaled for them to spread out. Nes took three careful steps to her right while Suri took two to her left and Toran one forward so the five of them were a little more than two arms’ lengths apart. Damari would have to go through one of them if she wanted to escape.
Genna glowered at Damari. “He tried to drown me because of you. You’re the reason I nearly died.”
“She’s the reason hundreds of innocent girls have died,” Suri whispered, but her eyes weren’t on Damari. They were on Nes. Under her breath, Suri began listing names. “Marnie Sorphel. Tatiana Zar.” The names of the girls most recently drowned as the Witch. “Harriel Vecenta. Edin Brandt. Nasha Forin.”
Suri stopped, but Nes kept going in her head. She knew every name. There were hundreds of them. Hundreds of lives she’d allowed to be claimed so she could live.
She felt the guilt. Felt it every damned day. But her need for survival was stronger. She didn’t believe she’d been born this way just to be killed. It was selfish. But she would let one more girl die in her place. For her father. For Toran. For herself.
The dumpstreet was still. And then the bodies came alive with movement.
