Page 85 of Witch Undecided
Her voice seemed to echo in the silence. The woman winced with her eyes, as if the sound of Sloane’s voice was painful.
Sloane put her finger to her lips and mouthed,Sorry.
I leaned in and whispered, “How do you know her name? I thought they didn’t speak?”
“I don’t. I just call her that. She loves it.”
The woman frowned, then turned her back on us and hurried away down the corridor.
“And now we follow,” Sloane whispered.
The silent sister led the way down a narrow stone corridor. Sconces lit the way, flames turned low, but even with the fire, the air was chill and damp. The silence was heavy and complete. My heels made no sound as they connected with the flagstones, and every breath was muted. The place was a maze of closed doors emblazoned with glowing silver runes. Each door had an eye hatch and brass plaque with a name etched into it. Names I didn’t recognize until…
Penelope Grimswood.
I stopped and pulled open the hatch to peer inside. A figure sat cross-legged on a bed, staring straight ahead with milky white eyes.
Penelope.
Except this wasn’t Penelope.
This figure was gaunt and had no irises.
What the fuck?
Sloane gently pulled me away from the door and closed the hatch. She shook her head and then slid a glance toward the silent sister, who was glaring at us, obviously pissed.
“What’s wrong with her?”
The witch winced again, and then turned on her heel and strode off.
Sloane sighed. “Probably should have said do not touch anything.”
We jogged to catch up to the witch, the sound of our footsteps being swallowed by whatever spell was on this place.
The silent sister led us through an arch, then up a flight of worn stone steps. She pushed open a wooden door at the top and hurried into a large room saturated in sunlight. My eyes stung for a moment as they adjusted from the gloom.
We were in a circular chamber with a domed glass ceiling. The sun shone, liquid light, down into the room through a gap in the angry clouds. A gap that looked like it had been punched into the sky by a ginormous fist.
Thirteen women sat at a long table in the center of the room, faces tipped back to soak in the sunlight. Their hands were on the table in front of them.
They dropped their chins in unison as we entered the room. Sloane stepped closer to me in a protective gesture. God, she was sweet, but I could handle myself. Just fine.
I scanned their faces, dark-haired, pale, brown-eyed, all except one—a redhead with startling green eyes that looked unreal. She locked gazes with me and then raised a hand to beckon me forward.
“Go on, cupcake,” Sloane said softly.
I walked toward the table and stopped a meter or so from it. “Hey. How you doing?”
Silence greeted me and then a tingle spread across my body. “What are you—"
An invisible hand gripped my throat, cutting off my breath and my words with it.
“Cora?” Sloane’s voice was a distant thing, and then I was no longer in the room.
The world was gray and silver mist rose up around me, thick and viscous.
I turned on the spot, scanning the thick mist. “Hey? What the hell?” The air was thicker, heavier, and my body felt detached and grounded at the same time. “This is the kind of shit that makes me stabby.”
