Page 113 of Mistress of Bones
Panic overtook her as she awoke in her own body. Painful gulps of air barely made it past her throat—the slits of her nose were of no use, darkness enveloped her for she had no eyes, claustrophobic silence formed an impenetrable wall around her thoughts for she had no ears. She only had that mouth, that toothless mouth, working to suck in more air, and her hands, wrinkled and attached to stick-thin arms, clawing at her throat as if they could force the air inside. This weak, sagging body that had begun its existence so many decades past. This hated bucket of flesh, good for nothing but burning with white-hot rage.
How dare De Guzmán? How dare De Anví? The rage spread through the tethers connecting her to so many of Cienpuentes’s inhabitants, spreading from her consciousness like spiderwebs. A bounty of minds prime for her taking. Masks. Hah! Her power had nothing to do with masks, and everything to do with dreams.
To enter into a contract with the Faceless Witch was to ingest a dream. The mask was simply an added point of pride. She, who had no face, would hide the faces of those who granted her the use of their bodies.
But she did not need the mask.
Triumph surged in the dark, silent box of her mind when she found De Anví. She tasted revenge as clearly as the concoctions she was forced to drink to keep her body alive.
How sweet it would be to take control of him. To use his hands to squeeze the life out of his sweetheart, to see Nereida de Guzmán’s face as the only person faithful to her committed the ultimate betrayal.
Shivers of anticipation racked the Witch’s frail, old body.
And when De Guzmán lay dead in his hands, by his hands, then she’d allow her dreams to rot the count from the inside out. She’d allow him plenty of time to wish himself dead. Yes, this she would relish like nothing before.
But De Anví’s mind wasn’t so easy to overtake, even with the tether connecting them. While sliding into a willing host took no effort, trying to get into the count was like slamming into a brick wall. The Witch hadn’t attempted the latter since she was a child and took her first body, and realized now it had been too long since De Anví last consumed one of her dreams. Punching into his mind was taking too much out of her—her eviction out of Sío de Guzmán had weakened her.
Later then, she decided, when she had recuperated some energy. Let them think they were free from retribution—their shock would make her revenge all the more delicious.
Instead, she searched for Isile Manzar. For there must be a reason Nereida de Guzmán had chosen this moment to kill her brother—if she’d wanted to, she could’ve slain him long ago—so something must have changed. She would pry the truth out of De Guzmán first. And since De Guzmán was staying at De Gracia’s, and De Gracia himself had never partaken of her dreams, who better to gain access to the household than the marquess’s dear artist friend?
Because the temptation to seek the Faceless Witch’s dreams had proved too strong for him to resist. They all succumbed to it eventually—Sío de Guzmán, De Anví, Manzar.
Manzar put up a fight, much like De Anví had, but the remains ofthe Witch’s dreams were too fresh, his mind too malleable. It was still a wall, but brittle. Breakable.
And then she was inside. Noises bloomed in her ears, smells filled her chest. She savored them, as she always did, before forcing the body’s eyes open. Victory, so close to her fingers. They would pay. Oh, how they would pay.
The tethers snapped all at once.
The Witch stumbled. She reached for the tethers and found nothing.
The web of minds linked to hers—gone. The connection to her own body—gone. She was jostled to one side by the crowd, then to the other. She tried to find the connections again—nothing. Waves of dread rolled through her. She reached a wall and leaned against it, gasping.
Without tethers, how was she to go back to her body? To any other body? Even now, Isile Manzar’s consciousness dug into the edge of her thoughts, trying to claw back into control. Sweat broke over her brow. This… this takeover was meant to be temporary.
Had her true body chosen this moment to die?
No, the Witch reasoned, pushing away from the wall and directing her steps toward De Gracia’s house. This strange situation must be due to the energy she had spent trying to force her way into De Anví and then into Manzar. It did not mean the tethers were truly gone and she was stuck in this body forever. She only needed some rest. Simply that, rest.
She repeated this self-assurance with every step, as every sight, every sound, and even the taste of smoke intruded into her thoughts, her senses unnervingly unfiltered. There had always been a layer between her and the outside world, a screen filtering everything through her host’s thoughts. That buffer was gone now. She had no way to know whether the objects around her evoked desire or hatred in her host, if the voices rising in the air were familiar or those of strangers. She had been walled off, Manzar’s memories locked behind his stubborn mind.
The Witch was left clueless.
She didn’t enjoy the feeling. She hated being disoriented as muchas she hated her own body. Gods damn De Anví and De Guzmán. At least De Anví would pay no matter what—the poisoning had already been set in motion before she was locked away from her tethers. The Witch hoped that he still had some of her dreams at hand, for when the pain got too severe and he dipped into them as a means of escape, they would only feed the sickness and worsen his suffering.
The thought put a spring into her step. Soon she was knocking on De Gracia’s front entrance and then was ushered into one of the parlors.
She hadn’t been waiting for long—and that time had been well spent imagining all the ways she would torture the truth out of De Guzmán—when a commotion arose from the front entrance: a pounding against the door, the footman’s feet, terse words she couldn’t quite catch. Curiosity overwhelmed the simmering rage in her veins, and the Witch slipped out of the parlor in time to see Azul del Arroyo charging down the corridor toward the stairs. When the footman didn’t follow, the Witch did.
Del Arroyo strode along the second-floor hallway, ignoring several doors and turning the corner. A door was open up ahead, and the Witch chanced a peek around the corner. Del Arroyo had entered one of the rooms, not bothering to close the door behind her. Soon, a ruckus followed. How intriguing. So late at night and Del Arroyo took no care to silence her actions, was unconcerned if servants became curious, lured by the noise.
Approaching the open door, the Witch could savor the mystery in every crash, every thud, every thump emanating from the room. Another door opened, slamming against the wall. Ah, definitely not her guest room, then, if there was a connecting room.
Yes, she thought once she had looked inside, this room was most definitely not Del Arroyo’s—one did not need to lay waste to one’s own property in the search for something. The girl had sought the key to the second room, the Witch assumed, glancing through the doorway. Paintings hung on the walls, and the furniture was beyond elegant. She waited for the tingle of recognition, but Manzar’s thoughts remained closed to her. If he had ever set foot in this room, the Witchcould not tell. And surely, this room must belong to De Gracia himself, so why had Del Arroyo wrecked it instead of simply asking to be shown in?
Hmm-hmm. How delicious, all these questions winding into a great knot for her to unravel. She stepped into the room and reached the second doorway.
Azul del Arroyo stood by a big desk, lost in thought as she glanced down at a series of finger-shaped things spread over a cloth.
