Page 83 of The Witch and His Crow

Romy was ready for me, knowing this would come. ‘The mausoleum is still untouched. No sign that those… things are free to roam.’

Demons. We both refused to call them what they were.

I swallowed hard, the image of those terrifying monsters flooding my mind. I thought about them constantly. Even in my nightmares, they haunted me. I’d convinced myself that the crack I’d heard when I tried to break the rune-marked stone was actually something else. Caym still hadn’t found me, nor had I heard him, which proved the shield around this place was still intact. That didn’t stop me from trying to reach him, over and over.

‘That’s because no one’s died,’ I said. ‘When the next death occurs, those creatures will be back. I know it.’

Romy didn’t tell me I was wrong. We finally had our answer to what happened to the bodies of the witches who perished during the Witch Trials. We’d seen it with our own eyes. I knew, in that moment, that if I looked to Romy it would’ve been to find her gaze pinned to Arwyn.

Neither of us said it, but we sensed his death was close.

‘There has to be something we can do,’ Romy said, her voice a breathy exhale. She sounded as defeated as I felt. ‘You survived those wounds. What’s to stop him from doing the same.’

‘Eleanor. Or the fact she isn’t here.’ She was the one to heal me. The salve she made had worked at the infection inside of me. Perhaps her grimoire held the answers, but that was currently lost in the vault. I hadn’t realised I dropped it during the struggle, until after we’d got Arwyn back here.

Without it, Arwyn was doomed.

Although reading thoughts was not Romy’s Gift, she certainly had a talent with it. ‘Don’t even think about it, Hector. I’m not having this conversation again.’

I bit down on my tongue, stopping myself from saying what I wished to. ‘Then there must be something in your uncle’s grimoire that can help.’

‘Until a week ago, I didn’t even believe demons were real. Beside with what the Witch Hunters preach that us witches are, I thought it was story and myth. No grimoire, beside the one Eleanor gave you, has mention of them.’

I squeezed Arwyn’s hand, silently willingly for him to survive. ‘Which only adds to my argument that I need that grimoire back.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Hector.’ Romy was exhausted with this conversation, but I couldn’t drop it. I felt like I had pulled every possible thread I could to help Arwyn, but this was the only onewith promise to it. ‘We barely made it out. Look at him. What’re you going to do if the same happens to you. Or me?’

‘It won’t happen to you, because you won’t come,’ I interrupted.

‘Give up, please. I’m not letting you go unless I come.’

She had me in a corner with her argument. I wouldn’t allow Romy to come with me for two reasons. One, I couldn’t cope with her being in the same situation as Arwyn. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was my responsibility. They both were. And secondly, we couldn’t leave Arwyn. Not for a moment. If another witch got wind that he was weak and vulnerable, they’d come and kill him.

And there was still the issue with Salem. He’d likely stopped killing witches, because we’d worked out who, or what he was. But he was no doubt biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Romy came and laid her hand on my shoulder. Her grip was solid and anchoring. I leaned into it, resting my head on her arm for support. Her presence and touch reminded me that she was here for me, as much as for Arwyn.

‘There are some more incantations we can try,’ Romy whispered. ‘I know it’s a shot in the dark, but if it worked on the demons, it could work on Arwyn.’

Magic. The old magic. Power that had not been accessed for generations. And yet we had used it to fend off the demons. A last-ditch effort that worked. The question was why—and whynow? I had theories. Maybe I had broken something deep in the vault, or maybe it was our desperation that allowed the spell to work. Whatever it was, we’d keep it to ourselves for now. Same with the truth that demons were real.

‘Can I have a look through your grimoire again?’ I asked, voice soft as sin. ‘If anything, it will keep my mind busy.’

Romy patted my shoulder a final time, then went to retrieve her uncle’s grimoire from the sideboard. ‘At this point I think you could recite it word for word, but if it means you have a break from watching over Arwyn, then knock yourself out.’

I nodded, forced a smile, and got up from my seat. Romy took my place, dipping the cloth back in the bowl of water to continue trying to get water into Arwyn’s mouth. My muscles ached. They were stiff and sore, but a reminder as to what was on the line. I had to do something to help Arwyn.

Maybe our incantations would only prolong his death, and nothing was truly going to be able to heal him. And there was no saying that even if I returned to the mausoleum and found Eleanor’s grimoire, that it would even hold the recipe for the salve she used on me.

But again, it was the last thread I held to. I wasn’t prepared to give up on it yet.

‘Did you get any camomile tea?’ I asked as I opened Romy’s grimoire, searching for a page I had skimmed over the day prior.

‘I did,’ Romy said, concentrating on Arwyn instead of me. ‘I made sure the leaves had stewed for a while, just as you asked.’

‘Good,’ I said, trying to calm the nerves bubbling in my stomach. ‘Want one?’

The pause for Romy’s answer was painful. How she responded would depend on if my last-ditch effort, as she put it, would work.Everythingdepended on her answer. So, when it came, I almost cried in relief. ‘Yes, pour me one. And get me one of those pastries. Hekate may be becoming my least favourite deity, but at least she conjures some good food.’

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