Page 2 of Huntress

“Very well,” her mother said in response to whatever the wolf had told her. Elsie had never heard him speak. He communicated only with Santa Muerte. Her mother had forged a contract with the demon hundreds of years ago, and she wouldn’t let him out of it. She’d watched his attempts to kill her mother on many occasions, though success meant ending his own life as well.

“I cannot stay with you much longer, and unfortunately, mija, there’s something I must do before I go,” Santa Muerte said. She placed her palm on Elsie’s forehead, her fingers stretching over the top of her head. Elsie looked up to see that her mother’s skin had taken on a translucent appearance. She could see the bones underneath. When the goddess of death used magic, her true form was revealed.

“Close your eyes, Elspeth,” she soothed. Elsie did as she was told, but almost immediately opened them again, struggling to break free. Santa Muerte’s magic reached into her with such force that it dropped the girl to her knees. It invaded every space within her body and dove into the depths of the magic reservoir at the very center of who she was.

Elsie whimpered as her mother’s spell spread and overpowered her natural defenses, attacking and gathering up every last drop of her ethereal magic, delving deeper until it reached the source. Once contained, Elsie’s magic was locked tight in a box, insulated and separated from the girl’s mind.

Santa Muerte’s palm tightened on Elsie’s head as she muttered the words that would form the knot of an impenetrable seal. The goddess’s fingertips touched the base of the girl’s throat. Her fingers moved, tracing a pattern as Elsie’s skin burned.

“It hurts!” she cried, but the mother of death ignored her pain, continuing on.

“Cerrar eteria,” Santa Muerte muttered, and Elsie’s eyes widened. The pain doubled, scorching through her insides, but it was the fear and trust shattering like jagged, tearing glass that hurt the most. The betrayal twisted in her chest as her whole being filled with anxiety.

“No!” She struggled against her mother’s touch, but a pair of strong hands held her in place. Stolas had changed to his human form. There was no point in fighting him, but Elsie struggled harder than ever before. It felt like she was fighting for her life. “Please don’t do this!”

It was too late. There was a sickening, throbbing hole inside her where magic belonged. Elsie slumped to the ground, muscles weak and slack. Her stomach roiled, and bile rose in her throat. Something was very, very wrong. Santa Muerte’s hands turned to ice, and she used them to soothe the heat from Elsie’s skin.

“Be calm, mija,” Santa Muerte urged her. “It needed to be done.”

“You took my magic!” Elsie cried. Touching her throat where the burning had been the worst, she found raised marks there. She hadn’t misunderstood. Her mother had cast a sealing spell. “Why? Why would you do that?!”

“Not all of it,” her mother attempted to placate her with soothing tones, “only the ethereal. It isn’t safe for you to use it when Stolas and I are not with you. The hunters barely know how to use their own magic, so they cannot teach you to control it. You still have the white moon, and the dark.”

The dark moon magic came from Elsie’s father. Her fae magic would mature far more slowly, so she wouldn’t have access to it until well into adulthood.

“When I return, I will remove the seal, and we will resume your training. You will do great things, Elspeth. I promise.” Santa Muerte’s eyes were wide with earnest intention.

“I don’t care about being great! If I was really special, you wouldn’t be leaving me here! I hate this! How could you do this to me?!” She stomped her foot, and Stolas thumped her on the head.

“Do not speak to the Goddess like that, you ingrate of a half-breed,” he hissed.

“Be gentle, Stolas, she’s scared,” Santa Muerte said. She slid a hand over Elsie’s shoulder and down her arm to take her hand, magic slithering over the girl’s skin and down the path Santa Muerte’s fingers had traced. Healing magic flowed between their hands, and the exhaustion in Elsie’s muscles eased until it was gone.

Resentment tugged the corners of the girl’s lips into a frown. The pain and exhaustion her mother removed had fueled the anger that made her want to howl with grief and refuse to comply. It was a shield between herself and the shock of disbelief that her mother had done this.

The wolf growled as footsteps approached, and Elsie’s head jerked upward. Her eyes narrowed at the uniformed soldier with the audacity to walk toward them, a hand casually stuffed in his pocket, the stub of a cigar caught between his teeth. The wolf’s growl deepened, and the resentment on her face turned fierce.

Elsie’s imagination ran wild with impossible scenarios of the wolf attacking the stranger and stopping her mother from leaving her behind. A never-before-felt attachment made her want to glue herself to the wolf’s side and hide in his thick black fur, but she wasn’t brave enough.

The man continued approaching, and that sliver of imagined hope faded away.

Santa Muerte stood to greet him, and Elsie scrambled into a crouch, hiding behind her robe. The girl peeked out from her safe space and memorized the face of her new adversary. She clenched her fingers into a tiny fist and vowed to make his life difficult from the moment her mother abandoned her to his care.

“Welcome, Santísima Muerte. I consider it an honor that you chose us for this precious task,” the man said.

Elsie scowled at him, her forehead creasing with newly formed suspicions. Santisima was a formal title that people used when they were sucking up. People on friendly terms with her mother called her Santa Muerte.

“As you should,” her mother said imperiously, her chin tilting upward. She was a goddess, and this mortal man hadn’t bothered to bow his head in a show of proper respect.

Anger reflected in Stolas’ eyes, but Santa Muerte raised a hand, stopping him from uttering a scathing retort, or simply tearing the man apart. Patience was not a part of the demon prince’s nature. Luckily, the goddess had more than enough for the two of them.

“I’m General Arnold Mordane. I presume this is the girl?”

He was tall, with broad shoulders, though wrinkles lined his face and hands. And while his eyes had turned pale blue with age, his short-cropped hair was dark, and his dress uniform was pressed, with boots polished to a shine. Elsie knew all about men like him. They liked to boss people around while criticizing their work.

“Why else would she be here?” Stolas sneered, and Elsie’s heart gave a savage tug. She wanted to stay with her snarky teacher, and her reluctance to let him leave almost matched the grief of knowing her mother was leaving too.

“This is Elspeth Chantraine, the Daughter of Death and Kings,” Santa Muerte gave him a false last name. No one with sense gave their true name to a man with fae blood. General Mordane fingered his cigar, licked his lips, and stared at Elsie with open greed.