Mist-Torn Witches 02:Witches in Red

by Barb Hendee

  If the beast wasn’t Graham, then whoever was behind all this had changed tactics and turned someone else. That was the only explanation Jaromir could think of.

  The shouts outside grew louder, and he heard Corporal Quinn in the midst. “No! Don’t let it past the perimeter! Someone stop it!”

  A mix of unintelligible shouting followed, culminating in Quinn yelling, “Gods damn it! How could you let it pass?”

  “It’s gotten outside the camp,” Amelie breathed. “Loose in the trees. What do we do?”

  Jaromir looked at Graham. “Whenever one of these things has made it into the trees, what do they normally do?”

  “They usually go straight for the miners’ encampment.”

  Jaromir glanced at the blade in Amelie’s hand. “Cut him loose.”

  * * *

  Céline suffered a few awkward moments while Rurik clearly wondered—but was too polite to ask—what Marcus had been doing naked inside their tent, but she examined the wounds on Marcus’s chest, which were not as deep as she’d first feared. His skin was clawed, and he was in some pain, but the wounds were only superficial.

  “I need to disinfect these,” she said, starting to rise.

  “Not now. Later,” Marcus said, climbing to his feet with the cloak around his waist.

  Rurik was standing guard in the doorway, so Céline leaned nearer to Marcus and whispered, “Where are your clothes?”

  “Outside,” he answered.

  “Can you slip out that new doorway in the back and get them?”

  Before she’d finished speaking, he was on the move, and a few moments later, Amelie came running back in the front flap, rushing past Rurik.

  “It’s not Graham,” she called, looking around and then grabbing her boots. “It’s someone else. We don’t know who yet, but it got outside the encampment.”

  Céline was struck dumb by both pieces of news.

  Marcus ducked back inside the torn back of the tent, wearing his breeches and pulling on his shirt. He handed back her cloak.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “Is Jaromir all right?” Céline asked almost at the same time, finding her voice.

  “He’s fine,” Amelie answered, pulling on her boots, “but he’s moving everyone over to the miners’ encampment so we can protect those people while we start forming hunting parties.”

  Marcus was listening intently; then he glanced at the front tent flap.

  “Go,” Céline told him. “Hurry. We’ll meet you over there.” She reached down for her own boots.

  * * *

  Jaromir had both Graham and Quinn at his side as he strode through the tents, sounding a full-scale alarm and calling out orders that everyone was moving to the miners’ camp to protect the civilians.

  “We’ll need a few men to get a stretcher and carry the captain over,” Quinn said. “I left him alone in his tent. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Jaromir answered. “Use anyone you need.”

  All the Pählen soldiers responded quickly. Some had been asleep, but they were all soon running toward the path to the miners’ camp, and once again, they appeared relieved at the prospect of an officer having taken charge. So far, no one had reacted to Graham’s presence, as if they’d also come to expect the unexpected and nothing surprised them anymore. Jaromir still had no idea which of the soldiers was missing or what poor soul they would soon be hunting.

  “Jaromir!” Céline called from somewhere behind him.

  Stopping, he looked back to see her, Amelie, and Rurik jogging toward him. Rurik carried a sword. Céline wore her red cloak, but Amelie must not have bothered and wore only her blue dress and boots. He waited for them to catch up, and they all pressed onward down the path through the trees, emerging on the side of the miners’ camp. A number of Móndyalítko and miners were outside their dwellings, asking the soldiers for information.

  Jaromir briefly considered ordering them all back inside their dwellings but decided that could take too much time if they refused. He would do better to get a perimeter guard set up and then form at least two hunting parties.

  “We didn’t bring enough spears,” Quinn said suddenly, looking around, gripping a single tall spear in his right hand. “Over half the men were asleep, and they just came running when we called. I’ll need to go back to the weapons’ supply and bring more.”

  With his mouth pursed in thought, he glanced down at Amelie.

  “I’ll come and help,” she said. “You can’t carry enough by yourself.”

  Jaromir turned on her and was about to order her into one of the wagons, but then he saw her face. She was staring back at him with an angry, almost hurt, challenge.

  “I can help,” she bit off.

  His mind flashed back to the sight of her swinging the butt of a spear down on the last wolf’s head—and then swinging down twice more. She wasn’t a child and didn’t deserve to be treated like one. He could give her at least that much.

  “Go,” he said, handing her his cudgel. “Take this for the trip over.”

  Her eyes flickered, but she took the weapon and didn’t hesitate to start after Quinn when he trotted back toward the path.

  Though Jaromir felt a flash of unwanted fear in his chest, along with a desire to grab her from behind, lift her off the ground, and order her into a wagon, he bit the inside of his mouth and turned back to the camp. Amelie couldn’t stand to feel useless, and he knew it.

  Besides, he had people to protect here, soldiers to organize . . . and an unnatural wolf to hunt down.

  * * *

  Trotting behind Quinn, Amelie took two steps to his one, but she knew he was in a hurry. She wasn’t afraid. He looked as strong and fast as Jaromir, and she had a feeling he knew how to use that spear. She had the cudgel, which was good for close-quarters fighting. Between the two of them, she was certain they could handle anything that came their way.

  And, though she kept pushing the feeling down, she was grateful to Jaromir for letting her take her place among the soldiers in helping to protect the Móndyalítko families and other miners.

  “Where are the extra weapons stored?” she panted, trying to keep up.

  Quinn glanced over his shoulder and slowed his pace. “Forgive me.” Then he pointed toward the provisions tent. “In racks along the east wall. It’s easier to guard the food and weapons in one central location.”

  That made sense.

  They were only a few tents away from their destination when a snarl sounded, and Quinn jerked to a stop, turning his head and gripping the spear with both hands.

  Two red eyes glowed from the brush at the edge of the forest, and the beast snarled louder. Neither Quinn nor Amelie spoke, but she held the cudgel at the ready, waiting for the inevitable charge. But then Quinn shifted positions and the moonlight glinted off the head of his spear.

  The wolf’s red eyes moved upward, focusing on the spear, and without warning, the beast dashed inside the trees, vanishing from sight.

  “No!” Quinn shouted, running toward where the wolf had disappeared. He didn’t look back, and Amelie stood rooted to the ground, but he kept running, crashing through the brush, and she realized he was going after the wolf on his own.

  Without further hesitation, she bolted, running after him, breaking through the brush herself. Out here, as she had an easier time passing through the trees and brush—due to her smaller size—she had little trouble keeping up with Quinn. Once her wool skirt did get caught, but she jerked it free, wishing for her breeches. Still, the skirt was loose and easy to move in for the most part, and this dress reached only her ankles, so she was in no danger of tripping.

  Up a little ways in front of her, Quinn stopped and knelt. “It’s bleeding,” he said, picking up a leaf.

  “Oh . . . yes, Marcus injured its throat ear
lier. But I couldn’t see how badly.”

  “Marcus? That gypsy hunter?”

  Amelie didn’t answer. Quinn’s tone sounded as arrogant as Keegan’s when he spoke Marcus’s name.

  As Quinn was about to move forward, he paused uncertainly and looked back at her. “I didn’t mean for you to follow me.”

  “You can’t fight that thing by yourself.” She hefted the cudgel. “Trust me. One good swing, and I can stun it long enough for you to use that spear.”

  Though he seemed inclined to argue further, he also seemed driven to press on before the trail grew cold, so he turned and moved forward, studying the ground and the surrounding brush. Amelie followed as quietly as she could, but she heard no growls or sounds of a large creature moving in the trees, and she couldn’t help thinking of their original mission—to get more spears for the soldiers.

  “Quinn . . . ,” she whispered, right behind him. “What if we’ve lost it? What if it’s run for the miners’ camp and it attacks there? Half the men aren’t properly armed.”

  He was so focused on studying the ground that he barely seemed to hear her. “We haven’t lost it,” he said absently, smelling a leaf. “This trail is too fresh. I know what I’m doing. I trained with the hunters of Kimovesk, and they are the finest trackers in the nation.”

  “Kimovesk? That borders Shetâna. Were you serving under Prince Damek?”

  She asked this more out of curiosity than anything, as it was not uncommon for soldiers to sometimes move within ranks inside of noble families. But from the back, she saw Quinn’s entire body go rigid at her question.

  “You know Shetâna?” he asked.

  In that instant, Amelie realized that he’d made a mistake in mentioning Kimovesk, and she’d made a mistake in mentioning Shetâna. Quinn believed she was a lady of Anton’s court in Sèone, who would have no familiarity with Damek’s province.

  Turning his head slowly, he looked back at her, and even in the darkness he was close enough for her to see the depths of his light blue eyes. She didn’t answer his question, but she was suddenly very aware that he had not intended to give her any kind of clue that he’d ever served under Prince Damek.

  Was she alone out here with a man willing to destroy the soldiers who served under him?

  Her mind rebelled against the prospect. It couldn’t be Quinn. He was the only one here who’d even tried to assist Jaromir, the only one in whom Jaromir had placed any trust.

  But then . . . he was also the only Pählen soldier who’d known that Jaromir had been hiding in the barn watching Graham. Rurik had told her that much earlier. And . . . the beast tonight had somehow appeared inside Amelie and Céline’s tent when Jaromir had been across the camp and unable to protect them.

  Had Céline’s announcement regarding Graham proven they weren’t charlatans? Had Graham indeed been the next intended victim? If Quinn was the one responsible for these horrors, had he then decided to get rid of the two seers from Sèone?

  But if so, then why was he so determined in this hunt? He clearly wanted to track down the beast.

  Unless . . . he’d known full well that if he ran into the forest after the wolf, she’d follow him. He’d seen enough of her over the past few days and nights to realize that much. What if he’d intended for her to follow him, to help him track down the beast, so he could let it kill her and be rid of at least one sister—the one who could see the past—without calling any suspicion to himself?

  No, again, she couldn’t accept any of these far-fetched notions.

  What possible motive could Quinn, a mere corporal, have for closing down a mining operation?

  Unless . . . for some reason, Damek had wanted it closed down, and Quinn was still working for Damek.

  “You have a very expressive face,” he whispered.

  She started to back up. He’d been holding his spear flat against the ground, and he let go of it, freeing both his hands, but Amelie still gripped the cudgel. She’d always depended on the element of surprise, on letting others underestimate her until it was too late, and she had a sick feeling in her stomach that her life was about to depend on this tried-and-true tactic.

  So she kept still, waiting for him to make the first move—which would be to try to take her cudgel.

  Instead, he swung with his left fist, moving so fast that she had only a second to pull back, and he clipped her across the chin. Even then, the strength in his fist was staggering, and she was knocked aside, hitting the damp ground and rolling.

  He was on top of her in seconds, tearing the cudgel from her grip and throwing it to one side.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pinning her with his weight and grabbing her by the jaw with one hand. “You shouldn’t have come here. I’ll make it quick.”

  Was he going to snap her neck? A mix of fear and rage took hold of Amelie. How could it be Quinn? How could none of them—not she, not Céline, not Jaromir—have gotten a single hint? Falling back on the only defense she had left, she grabbed his wrist with both hands.

  Instead of pointlessly trying to pull his hand off her jaw, she demanded, “Why?”

  And in a flash, she reached out for the spark of his spirit, trying to rip his awareness from this moment, to trap him in the mists of time. His spirit was strong, and she latched onto it.

  Why?

  The first jolt hit, and she focused as hard as she could on whatever had brought him here. The second jolt hit, and they were both swept into the gray and white mists, moving backward. Again, she fought to keep pulling him along with her but to remain separate. She didn’t want to see through his eyes. She would remain an observer and allow her gift to show her what she needed to see.

  He was fighting back, trying to break free, but she held on. In here, she was the stronger one.

  Why?

  The mists cleared.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kimovesk: One Year in the Past

  Amelie found herself in a vast windowless room with walls of stone. Small braziers lined three of the walls, providing a good deal of light. Spears and crossbows lined the fourth wall.

  It took her a moment to take in the scene before her. Only three people occupied the open space, and all of them stood near a long wooden table. She noted Quinn first . . . but he was wearing a black tabard over his armor. Next, she saw a middle-aged woman with long silver-blond hair. Her face showed signs of fading beauty. She wore rings on all her fingers and was dressed in a robe of purple silk.

  At the sight of the third person, Amelie tensed inside the memory. He looked to be about twenty-five or twenty-six, handsome and slender. His hair was long and dark. His skin was pale to the point of being white, and he wore a sleeveless embroidered tunic. He looked like Anton—only with darker, longer hair. But his eyes were cruel as he gazed downward at the table.

  Prince Damek.

  Strangely, Amelie had never seen him in person, but she’d seen him in another memory and knew his face.

  Then . . . her own gaze moved down to the tabletop, and the scene took on an unreal quality. A dead, naked man lay there. He had a mass of black hair, dusky skin, and a silver ring in one ear. His head lay at an odd angle, and his right arm hung down off the side of the table. His wrist had been cut open, and his blood was draining into a bowl.

  At his feet, also on the table, lay the body of a dead wolf with a crossbow quarrel still protruding from its rib cage. The wolf was brown with a white chest and one white paw.

  Amelie couldn’t imagine what any of this meant.

  Damek paced, appearing almost anxious. “Lieutenant,” he said, “you swear he was in wolf form when you killed him?”

  “Yes,” Quinn answered impassively. “I broke his neck, and he changed back.”

  Damek touched the side of the table. “No one else has been able to do this for me,” he whispered. “No one.”

 
“I told you I could.”

  Amelie wanted to gasp as several facts hit her at once. First, Quinn was not a corporal. He was an officer in Damek’s forces. Second, Quinn had hunted down and murdered a Móndyalítko shape-shifter.

  To what possible end?

  Amelie lowered her gaze back to the bowl on the floor, as it was now half-filled with the shape-shifter’s blood. The woman picked up the bowl.

  “Now I’ll need blood from the wolf,” she said, “and its fangs, its eyes, and two of its claws.”

  Damek nodded at Quinn, who pulled a dagger from his belt and started toward the dead wolf.

  Fighting nausea, Amelie looked away and saw a burning hearth—large enough to stand in—at the other end of the vast room. An iron hook had been set over the flames, and a small metal cauldron with symbols etched around the outside hung from the hook.

  Damek reached out one hand toward the woman. “Lady Saorise, let me carry that for you.”

  She handed him the bowl with an imperious nod. Amelie had no idea who this woman was, but she focused harder on trying not to look at Quinn as he obtained the requested parts from the body of the dead wolf.

  A few moments later, all three of them walked toward the blazing hearth.

  Upon reaching it, Lady Saorise stood in front of the cauldron. Damek stood on one side of her and Quinn on the other. Amelie saw a cup with a lip and handle and a metal flask on the floor.

  Without hesitation, Lady Saorise took the bowl of blood from Damek and poured it into the cauldron. The liquid hissed as it hit the bottom.

  “Now the wolf’s blood,” she said, “and its teeth, eyes, and claws.”

  Amelie allowed herself to look at Quinn now. His face was utterly emotionless, but he was holding a bowl of his own. Carefully, he reached out and poured the contents into the cauldron. These additions made less sound.

  Lady Saorise pulled at a chain around her neck and lifted a small bottle from the neckline of her robe. She opened the stopper and poured the contents of the bottle into the cauldron.

  “Thrice-purified water,” she told Damek, “to help the elixir to be absorbed.”