Page 45 of Traitor Witch
I emerge into a cluttered office. It’s the sort of room where every surface is covered in multiple layers of junk but in such a way that there is some order evident amongst the chaos. The walls are plastered in maps, charts, and shelves full of complex nautical instruments I can’t identify. On one side, a set of double doors undoubtedly leads onto the deck, while opposite them a wall of sloping windows, bordered with stained glass waves, allows the occupant to look out into the vast emptiness of the ocean.
I quickly pull my gaze away from the terrifying emptiness of the horizon and back into the cabin.
Nothing here really surprises me. It makes sense that Val is a good navigator after Goddess-only-knows how many years he’s spent bonded to this ship.
But the layer of dust covering everything is unexpected.
Val himself is lounging on an overstuffed armchair behind a huge desk. His feet are propped up on top of a pile of papers, eyes fixed on me in a silent challenge.
“You can carve it there,” he says, pointing at a spot on the floor beside him.
I start shaking my head before he’s even finished talking. “It won’t work if I put it there.”
“What’s the difference between there and your doorframe?” he snaps. “My ship, my rules. It goes there.”
“Placement is as important as the sigil itself. The only thing a protection sigil on the floor is good for is protecting your boat from a leaky hull. You want defending from attackers? Then it has to go by the door.”
Val’s eyes narrow. “TheDeadwoodis a ship not a fucking boat.”
I just roll my eyes at him.
“Fine,” he spits. “Get on with it.”
I draw the hidden blade from my boot, ignoring his pointed look, and turn toward the door, uncomfortable with giving the mage my back.
I hesitate before the metal can make contact with the wood.
This spot will do, but if he wants the sigil to work best, it needs to be in a room with some emotional attachment to the owner. If I was tattooing Val, it would go over his heart. This office, with its dusty papers and clutter, isn’t one he uses regularly. He certainly doesn’t treat it like a space he cares for.
He won’t listen if I tell him.
He’ll probably try to snap my head off for trying.
Still, I have to try.
“You know, it would be more effective in a room you actually gave a shit about.”
The temperature of the room drops. The hairs on the back of my arms stand on end.
I feel his breath on my nape a second before he says, “Do you want that gold or not, witch?”
The threat in his words is a challenge, and I whip my head around to answer it.
He’s already gone.
“Carve the fucking sigils.”
I give his disembodied voice the finger, then curse myself.
I’m supposed to be playing the part of demure Solar. How am I supposed to keep my identity a secret when every word out of the asshole’s mouth makes me want to stab something?
I turn back to the door with a sigh. Speaking of stabbing…
I start carving.
I don’t feel guilt as I strike the knife into the wood and begin the first sigil. Nope. Not at all.
I hope the stupid captain feels every cut.
