Page 20 of Kill the Beast
“Magic,” Rags told him. “The Hounds’ glyphs hold a key to destroying the creatures, if you know what you’re looking for.”
“Whatareyou looking for?”
Rags hesitated, as though trying to figure out how best to explain it. “The lines that make up a glyph are characters in the Fae language. They represent the intentions or emotions surrounding the creation of a Hound. Revenge, joy—”
“Joy?”
“The joy of the hunt,” Ragnhild said, with a touch of bitterness in her voice. “As I said, the Wicked Ones delighted in killing humans, and many of the Hounds were fashioned out of nothing more than sheer exhilaration for the chase.”
“And once you know what intention or emotions surround the creation of a Hound…?”
“I can then cast the spell that will decipher its magic.”
“And the Beast’s glyph?” he asked. “What was the intention behind its creation?”
“I’m not entirely sure, yet.” Rags opened her book, the leather cover stiff and creaking, and rifled through page after page of notes and glyphs scribbled in faded walnut ink until she found the one she was looking for: the page with the Beast’s glyph drawn in spidery lines across the crinkled paper.
Lyssa sucked in a breath. It didn’t matter how many times she saw it—in her nightmares or memories or in Ragnhild’s book—it always made her stomach clench.
“It appears to be a type of revenge glyph,” Rags told him, running her hand over the page, “which means that this Hound was created to punish humans for a transgression of some kind. However, there are aspects of it that are unfamiliar to me. I hope to understand it better now that we have your claw.” She stared at him for a moment, and he simply stared back, until Lyssa elbowed him.
“The claw,” she whispered.
“Oh. Right.” He produced the velvet pouch from an inner pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the claw, setting it on the table with a soft click.
The witches leaned closer. Lyssa, on the other hand, wrapped her arms around herself as a wave of nausea washed over her. Just as it had in the parlor, the sight of the claw brought the past back to her in a rush, the feel of the sticky summer air on her skin, her tongue grainy with sugar. The piercing screams around her as everything turned into chaos.
Her breath hitched in her throat, her heartbeat unsteady, and she rubbed the scar of her oath underneath the table.
This was it. They finally had what they needed.
“It reeks,” Nadia complained, but her expression was one of grim fascination.
“What will you use it for?” Alderic asked.
“A piece of a Hound holds an echo of the magic that made it,” Ragnhild told him. “By using the deciphering spell on the claw, I’ll be able to see into the heart of that magic, to understand the essence of its making so that I can figure out what, exactly, we will need in order tounmakeit. What type of weapon to forge, for example, and which of our usual ingredients must come from a specific source. Lyssa will also use the claw in the forging of the weapon itself, binding the magic of the Beast’s creation to its destruction.”
“I see,” Alderic said, and Lyssa almost laughed out loud at the bewildered expression that belied his words.
“Come on, then, into the smithy,” the old witch said, getting out of her chair with a gentle popping of knees and spine. “It’s time we figure out how to kill the Beast.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
THE AIR INthe smithy was thick with the familiar scents of metal waiting to be worked, of old ash and iron scale trapped in the cracks on the stone floor. Lyssa breathed it in deeply as she waited for Ragnhild to finish rooting around in her apron pockets for the items she would need for the deciphering spell. Alderic, meanwhile, was looking around the smithy with obvious interest. He peered into the cold forge, then began to inspect the various tools that Lyssa kept in a wooden rack nearby, seeming particularly amused by the bellows.
“Al,” Lyssa barked when he started up the steps to the loft. “That area is off-limits.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly as he joined the rest of them at the worktable.
Ragnhild handed a stick of chalk to Lyssa, who knelt on the smithy floor and started drawing. She didn’t need the witch’s book for reference; all she had to do was close her eyes and conjure the glyph up from memory.
“How do you know what it looks like? Have you seen it before?” Alderic asked as she worked.
Lyssa stiffened, refusing to look at him. “We have a single eyewitness account,” she said as she drew the final lines.
“Is that your usual method? Eyewitnesses?”
