Page 11 of Witch's Fate

“No. But you got silent all of a sudden, and of course you’re worried about your village.”

“You can’t be sure.” She clung to the feel of him in her mind, trying not to find comfort in his presence.

But fates, she was glad she wasn’t alone. Had he sent his wolf to her to check that she was safe? To comfort her?

Hope fluttered in her chest. Stupid hope that he still cared for her, even though she was done with him. She had to be done with him. She couldn’t take the pain again. And it didn’t even make sense that he’d care about how she felt. He’d chosen magic over her centuries ago, and now he’d gotten her into this mess.

“You’re such a bastard,” she said. “This is all your—”

Sofia’s words were strangled when she felt the familiar tightness squeezing her whole body. The High Witches were calling them back.

A second later, they stood in the creepy great hall. The space loomed even larger after their confinement in the dungeon.

The High Witches still stood in a line, watching her.

“We’ve thought of suitable recompense for your lateness,” the High Witch said. Her voice was colder than the snowflakes that still fell from the ceiling. “The Salem Coven is in possession of a Grimoire. Their Grimoire. The most valuable of its kind. It possesses secrets that even we don’t know. We want it. You’ll bring it to us.”

Sofia’s stomach dropped. The Salem Coven? She’d never met them, but tales of their viciousness and power were legendary. They’d had nothing to do with the silly witch trials that were so famous amongst mortals—that ridiculousness had been all about mortal greed and evil. The innocents who’d lost their lives in the trials were as far from the Salem Coven as bunnies were from tigers.

And like tigers, the Salem Coven had a reputation for devouring their opponents. “For next year’s tribute?”

“Within the week. It shouldn’t be so hard for the two of you. True, it’s guarded heavily. And the Salem Coven is nearly as powerful as we are. But you might manage the task.” Her grin was malicious as her gaze swept between them.

Oh, hell.

“I owe you nothing,” Malcolm said. “And I’ve little interest in tangling with the Salem Coven. Like your own coven, their numbers are great enough to be an issue.”

“True. You could abandon Sofia to her attempts. Perhaps you will. To us, it doesn’t matter. We’d like the Grimoire. But we’d also like to destroy Sofia’s village and reap all that delicious power.” The High Witch turned to hercompanions, her eyes bright. “Think of it, brethren. The burning. The screaming. Buildings collapsing and lives being sucked away. All that destruction, all that power.”

Sofia shuddered. The High Witch’s desire was all too evident. The picture she painted too real.

“So you see, Malcolm,” the High Witch said. “We win either way.”

Sofia swallowed hard. That was the crux of it. There was no escape. She either did it, or the witches would destroy her and everything she loved. Their dark magic was fueled by destruction. Not only did they draw power from the aether like normal Mytheans, they reaped great power from the dark magical energy given off by mass destruction. As the only all-Mythean village in South America, the destruction of her village and its inhabitants would provide immense magical energy.

“Is that all?” Malcolm asked, his tone bored.

“A week.” The High Witch waved her hands in a shooing motion. “Now go. Back to where you came from!”

The aether pulled at Sofia, and she had no choice but to let it take her. When she opened her eyes, she and Kitty stood on the main street in Bruxa’s eye. Sultry heat enveloped her.

Home.And it was still standing, safe and sound, lit by a nearly full moon. Even better, Malcolm wasn’t here. He must have been sent back to Scotland.

Good. She ignored the strange sense of loss, as if there were an empty place inside of her now. Being with him again had been too complex. Anger, desire, longing—it was so hard to sort through the feelings that crashed through her.

She took a moment to absorb the essence of the place she loved, trying to ground herself. To get away from the chaos Malcolm wreaked on her mind.

The smell of rain on the horizon competed with the earthy tones of the jungle. The ramshackle wooden buildings of Bruxa’s Eye crouched at the edge of the Amazon River. The screeching and cawing of jungle animals was a welcome sound, one that was replaced by the distant shouts of a crowd.

Of course. It was Saturday night and the fight ring was the place to be. The match must be in full swing and Mytheans loved a good fight.

Bruxa’s Eye was one of the few all-Mythean towns in the world. Creatures of all species could walk freely without fear of being discovered by mortals because that lowly species had no idea the town was there—or that its strange inhabitants existed outside of their imaginations.

Fear and a sense of failure crawled up her spine.

They counted on her. She protected them from the High Witches, paying off their version of a mythical mob. If people needed something, they came to her. If there were problems, they came to her. It’d been that way with her mother and grandmother as well, and the women before them. Over two thousand years of protecting Bruxa’s Eye.

And it crushed her beneath the weight of duty and expectation. It was exhausting—she was always on the hunt for new tributes or going to pay the High Witches off.

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