Page 111 of Soul of a Witch

“Poor thing,” she said, all mocking sweetness as she kept grinding her ass back against me. “But I need to concentrate. This language, thiscode…” She glared at the book as if it had offended her. “It makes me want to rip my hair out.”

Peering over her shoulder at the lines of text, I narrowed my eyes at the strange markings. They didn’t mean a damn thing to me.

“Can’t demons understand all languages?” she said, and I shook my head.

“We can learn any language, and very quickly,” I said. “But we need a fluent point of reference. That journal has me just as confused as you.”

She groaned in despair, rubbing her head. She was so certain Sybil had discovered something important; even I suspected it, if I was to judge by the other bits of information we’d managed to glean. The old witch had been testing the reactions of various poisons on the flesh of the God. She’d been infusing weapons with experimental spell work, trying to figure out how to destroy the gods from the inside out.

In all my years of fighting those creatures, I’d never found a hidden weapon or shortcut to Their undoing. They died as any other creature did, by slowly and relentlessly being worn down, injured, bled out and ripped apart. Although They couldn’t move around very well, Their flesh was incredibly strong and They could heal themselves swiftly. In all my years of hunting Them, I’d been fortunate to only encounter incredibly weak ones.

At least, until the Deep One. Even as weak as It was, It was still the most powerful God I’d encountered on Earth.

Whether or not my and Everly’s combined power could take It down, I wasn’t sure. Everly had no issue conjuring massive amounts of magic, and that gave me hope. But the reality was her grandmother didn’t have time to give her a proper, thorough education befitting a witch like her. We were racing against time, trying to teach her all we could before we had to face the God.

Before the Libiri managed to offer another sacrifice.

Discovering Sybil’s secret weapon could give us the upper hand. The engraving on the great tree in the greenhouse was Everly’s only clue, an incomplete Rosetta Stone that she frequently referenced as she attempted her translation.

She sighed heavily, getting to her feet. “This isn’t working. I’m going to go to the greenhouse for a while and try to meditate. My brain doesn’t want to work anymore.” She pouted her lip, looking down at me pleadingly. “Will you bring me tea?”

“And peach cake?” I offered, to which she excitedly nodded.

I headed to the kitchen as she teleported to the greenhouse. The radio was there on the table, Winona humming pleasantly as a watering can hovered over the herbs in the window box.

“Any luck with the old Grand Mistress’s code?” she said, and I shook my head.

“Unfortunately not. Everly’s gone to the greenhouse to clear her mind. She’s exhausted.”

A kettle was already steaming on the stove, the house having anticipated Everly’s needs perfectly. There was a peach cake sitting on the countertop beneath a glass dome, and I took a slice for her before taking down several tins of tea and herbs. Her preference in tea depended upon her mood and the time of day. Earl Gray with a little milk and sugar in the morning when it was rainy outside, green tea with lemon if it was sunny. Black tea with cinnamon and clove if she planned on a late night in the library, chamomile and lavender with cream when she needed sleep.

Today called for something mild but sweet. Something that would awaken her mind but soothe her body.

Winona had been prattling away at me, although I didn’t hear a word she said until she gave a soft laugh. “Well, I certainly never thought I’d see it.”

Placing Everly’s tea and cake on a tray, I glanced back at the radio. “See what?”

“An archdemon serving tea to a witch.” She chuckled. “My ancestors would never believe it.”

Waving her off, I said, “You’re not the only ghost in this house; just the loudest. The other old biddies watch in silence, but they dowatch. They have no choice but to believe it.”

The scent of rain greeted me as I stepped outside, headed toward the greenhouse.

“Ah, there you are!” The Woodsprie’s face appeared from his tree, his expression perturbed. “Your witch is being strange.”

Glaring at him, I said, “What do you mean?”

“Well, I thought she fell asleep,” he said. “But she’s…talking.”

Alarmed, I quickly made my way inside. Everly’s mind could sometimes drift when she meditated, wandering a bit too close to the Veil. But I’d watched her meditate many times now, and even when she had violent visions, she had not spoken aloud.

Before I saw her, I could hear her. She was whispering rapidly, the words running frantically together. Rounding a planter, I found her kneeling before the great tree, one hand extended, her palm flat against the tree’s runic inscription.

I felt no emotion from her. When I reached for her mind, all I encountered was a cold void, like a breath of wind from a long-forgotten tomb.

Setting the tray aside, I knelt next to her. Her eyes were not closed; they were half-lidded and rolled back, only the whites visible. Her lips were moving, whispering, “Call his name, offering of sweetness, liquor and pain…”

“Everly?”

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