Ravenous (20 page)

DAWN SETS THE FOREST ALIGHT WHEN I RETURN TO THE BARN AND PACK
my meager belongings, then head out into the forest proper. It took us most of the night to finish planning. Dalen insists on coming with me. I can't decide whether I'm grateful for the company or wish he'd stay safely behind. I'm even conflicted about Stump, who swiftly becomes our shadow as we leave the barn.

Dalen's become an odd fixture in my life. Steady, constant, and someone I've grown to lean on. I don't like depending on people; too many of them leave without warning. And yet, I find myself wanting to talk to him when he's not around, and wishing for his silver eyes and funny smile.

The early-morning light filters through the trees, toying
with pollen motes. There are no feathers in sight yet, and it feels oddly peaceful. It's deceptive. I know the witch is out there, watching, waiting.

Ravenous.

The amulet weighs heavily in my pocket, and I wrap my fingers around it to reassure myself. Its odd warmth is comforting. Last night I practiced with it in the field, figuring out how Vincali used it to shoot flames. All it takes is a directed thought, and the fire lances from it to strike whatever target you seek.

It's a terrifying sort of power, one that makes me feel both uncomfortable and thrilled at the same time.

Dalen still doesn't know about the potions of Ensel's I've been using. What troubles me most is that I
want
to use them again. It's an itch at the back of my brain, hunting for an excuse to drink one more drop and feel the rush of power flowing through my blood, or seeping into my skin from my cloak or shoes.

I don't want to stop it. And that means I must.

A warm hand on my shoulder startles me from my thoughts. “Don't worry—we'll find the witch. She'll hardly avoid you now that you're so close to her deadline to deliver the cornucopia,” Dalen says.

“I'm not worried,” I lie. “I was just thinking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “About something other than the witch?”

“Yes, oddly enough. I hate that I must rely on magic to beat her. That I'm not strong enough on my own.”

“Perhaps not. But you are strong enough to stand up
to her no matter the cost to your own person. Being brave enough to use it counts for something in my book.”

I stop. “But don't you hate these magic things? They came from the wizard. He hunted down your kind.”

Surprise rearranges his face. “Hate magic? Not at all. I
am
magic, Greta. That would be like hating myself. I do, however, hate that wizard, and the people who would use magic for ill. No good ever comes of that.”

“I never thought of it that way,” I say, though now I realize I should have. How stupid I must sound to him.

We resume walking, but soon Dalen stops and paws the ground. “Look,” he says.

Not ten feet in front of us is a large yellow-and-brown chicken feather, lying innocently on the forest floor. The stench of rotting meat wafts through the trees, leaving no doubt.

“She's here,” I say, a shudder rolling over me. Beyond the first feather lies another, then a few feet after that yet another. We follow the trail, winding and erratic, over several hills, down a valley, and into a large, wide grove of pine trees. Ren, the king, and the Bryrian soldiers follow behind us by the bits of crumbled stale bread I leave on the ground so the witch won't suspect we didn't come alone. Hopefully they don't have much trouble keeping up. Especially once they find the feathers.

We've come to an understanding, Ren, King Oliver, and I, and I hope our friendship can be repaired over time. We just have to survive the witch first.

Judging by the sun, it is midmorning. Sunlight shimmers
through the trees, and the grove is covered by a thin coating of pine needles. The pungent smell fills the grove, growing stronger with every step we take, crushing the needles under our boots, and almost disguising the scent of carrion on the wind.

A strange sound echoes through the trees, making my spine stiffen in recognition. Scratching. Like a whole flock of chickens scraping at the earth in tandem. Dalen rears, and a few feet behind, Stump hoots. Moments later, the chicken hut skitters into the grove, scrabbling wildly at the ground every few steps and shedding feathers as it does. I will not be cowed.

Dalen slips his hand into mine and squeezes. I squeeze back.

Yes, depending on someone else is a strange thing. Even stranger is the knowledge that he'll stay as long as I want him to.

We're stronger together than alone. I understand better now that I can't take on the world on my own. Sometimes I might need help. From Dalen, or Ren and King Oliver.

I'll take it.

My breath speeds up while we wait for the witch to leave her hut, my heart pounding.

And then she's in front of us. No warning, no long, painful walk from the chicken hut. Just
here
.

Her black hair spills like ink down her back, and her face is still deceptively lovely. Her eyes are piercing and yet I still cannot put a name to their color. But the smell of death that clings to her gives her away.

Panic flares. This is too fast. The Bryrian army isn't here yet, I need more time, I need to stall—

Wait. A flicker of motion between the trees. Then another, and another. The tightness in my chest eases slightly, knowing we're not alone.

“I assume either you're here for dinner, or you've brought me the cornucopia.”

“We have it,” I say. “But first Hans. I'm not handing it over without him.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see Ren climb up the back leg of the house and slip in through a window. He's armed with a contraption King Oliver's blacksmith made that can cut through steel. If Hans and the others she's stolen are in there, he'll get them out. The witch cannot be trusted to keep her word.

The only way to stop her is to kill her.

“Hans is fine where he is. I told you I would make the trade. I am an honest witch; I always keep my word.”

Dalen and I exchange a look. She'd make the trade . . . then come back for us all later when she's bored. It would never be a permanent solution.

“We need to be certain. The only way for that is for you to bring Hans with you, like we brought the cornucopia,” I say.

Her eyes brighten with interest as we mention her prize. It's in the folds of my cloak, tucked into a hidden pocket. My hand tightens around the amulet. As soon as Ren and Hans are clear of the house . . .

“You didn't think I would bring him, did you?” She
pouts. “I'm disappointed. I thought you were smarter than that. I could reduce you both to ash in an instant if I choose. But you amuse me, which is why I agreed to the trade, why I let you live.” Her face darkens, giving a glimpse of the evil inside. “Don't make me regret that. I tire of this already.”

A flash of blue and green—the colors of Hans's and Ren's shirts—along with three dots of pale brown leaps from the window of the chicken hut. They tumble to the ground, then the figure in green—Ren—helps the others to their feet. The tightness inside me explodes into relief.

Hans is free.
Hans is free
.

I reach into the hidden pocket of my cloak and produce the cornucopia, holding it out of her reach. The witch's eyes gleam with want. She licks her lips.

“Give it to me.”

“Not yet.” With my free hand I surreptitiously pull out the amulet and think one word with all my might toward the house:
Burn
.

The chicken hut erupts into flame, flaring high with an audible pop, reaching up to the tops of the trees in the grove. The witch screams, and, I think, the house screams with her. I toss the cornucopia to Dalen, and he takes off at a gallop—our plan is to get it back to King Oliver and safety while I stay here with the amulet and ensure she dies.

The witch yowls, and Dalen is yanked off his feet and launched into a tree. Stunned, I see what tossed him—three disembodied hands that have materialized in the air and hang there, seeming to wait on the witch for instruction. Her skin smokes, and her hair begins to lose its black luster,
fading fast to gray. Fine lines appear on her skin; they carve inward, forming deep ravines and folds. Her breath reeks of something I don't want to think about, and her teeth, which I expect to be chipped and rotted from gnawing on bones, are made of gnashing iron instead. She advances toward me, and I hold out the amulet, the only line of defense I have. I inch my way closer to the chicken hut.

She should be dead by now, but she isn't. Something's wrong. I must find where she keeps her heart and crush it.

“You,” she growls. “You ungrateful, stupid girl. I will tear you apart and then take my time devouring you.”

The three hands twitch and the witch screams again. Something furry and strange dashes out of the woods and latches onto the back of the witch's cloak, catching her off balance. I was wondering where Stump went.

I run. Straight for the chicken hut.

Bryrian soldiers pour into the grove, charging the witch. Arrows strike her in the chest. She stops and growls, then rips them out like they are nothing.

She separated the only human part of herself—her sole vulnerability—and hid it away. The only way to kill her is to kill what's human about her. We talked about this long into the night, and in theory, the magic shouldn't hurt whoever destroys her heart. She's a creature of nature, wild and magical, not an unnatural abomination like wizards. Dalen believes the magic should go back into the ground, just like it does when a hybrid dies.

And if it doesn't, then at least Hans, Dalen, and everyone else will be safe from the witch.

It's a risk worth taking.

The witch's floating hands pluck soldiers from the ground and toss them aside like ants. One grabs at my cloak and lifts me up. I swing at it with my sword and land a glancing blow. The hand makes what sounds like a shriek and drops me. I hit the ground running, then slide underneath the burning house. Its chicken legs stomp and scratch, and the sound it makes is ear-curdling.

Home is where the heart is, they say. Something sparks in my mind. Home is also where the hearth is, and judging by the untouched square of hut above me, I'd stake my life that's where her heart lies, protected underneath the bricks of the hearth.

I leap up and grab one of the legs, holding on with all my might despite its best efforts to toss me aside. The hand returns and tries to pry me loose. I put the amulet around my neck and think toward the untouched spot,
Burn
.

Nothing happens. The fire can't get past whatever powerful barrier the witch has put there. I take my sword and, swatting at the hand again, jab the blade up into the belly of the house. I twist and turn it until one of the bricks comes loose. The house jerks and hops and the witch suddenly wheels around, a silent scream on her lips. I turn my thoughts back to the amulet, holding it in my outstretched hand, as the witch materializes before me, wailing. A trickle of blood stains her shirt; I chose the right spot. The amulet flares to life, fire pouring from it as the witch tears me off the leg of the house and squeezes her hands around my neck.

Darkness pricks the edges of my vision, but I keep my
thoughts on one thing alone:
Burn, burn, burn
. The fire is blinding, lancing into the belly of the beast house.

It explodes in a blast of fire, feathers, and blinding light. The witch screeches, the light and flames consuming her body as it turns pitch black with cracks of red fire—then nothing remains but falling ash.

In the air above where she stood is a swirling ball of light. It hovers, then races toward me. I throw up my hands defensively, terror echoing through every bone in my body.

Pain ricochets down my arm like I punched a brick wall.

But I live. No burning, no death, unless it was so fast I missed it. I open my eyes and cradle my outstretched arm.

In my palm is the amulet, my fingers still gripping it fiercely. But now it burns with a swirl of black shadows as well as the red flames.

HANS CLINGS TO MY HAND AS WE RETURN TO THE CAMP, AND I CONFESS,
I cling back. I can hardly believe he's alive, much less that he's returned to me. The witch was true to her word in one respect; he is fatter now, but better that than the half-starving boy who was taken away from me. The three children the witch stole from Belladoma are on their way back to their families already.

Dalen grins widely each time I look his way, but he keeps his distance to let us have our space. He carries poor Stump, who has an injured leg after he delayed the witch for me. She did not appreciate his efforts as much as I did.

When we reach the camp, Dalen heads toward another tent, one just for him.

“Dalen, hold on, I need to talk to you.” I turn to Hans.
“Our tent is just over there. Go inside and get warm, and I'll join you in a moment.” Hans nods and backs toward the tent but doesn't take his eyes off me until he ducks inside.

Dalen looks at me in that quizzical way of his, and I almost lose my nerve. But I'm nothing if not nervy.

“I haven't been entirely honest with you. I found something when I searched Ensel's chambers, more than the papers and crowns and the things I told you about.”

Dalen's eyebrows raise, and then he smiles. “I know what you're going to say.”

“You do?”

“Of course. I found the potions where you stashed them in the barn. I was looking for something to help me hold the map still while I held it in the wind, and there they were.”

“You don't understand. I didn't just find them—I
used
them. Several times.”

“Of course you did. What else would you do with a potion but use it? And a good thing, too. I'm assuming that the breathing-underwater one is how you got out of the tunnels alive with the cornucopia?”

I feel relieved. “I didn't think you'd be happy with me using magic from such a tainted source as the wizard. I kept thinking about them, finding excuses to use them. I should toss them in the ocean, but I can't bring myself to do it.”

“That is the nature of magic. It is a tricky thing and can worm its way into even the truest of hearts. That is, after all, how wizards were created.” His face brightens. “But you
don't have to worry about that. There's no need to destroy them. I'll take them, and keep them safe, until such time arises as you truly need them. Just be careful. You don't know what the magic could do to you. Don't depend on it too much. It might betray you. Especially if the potions were made from black magic.”

I'm rooted to the spot. I have been depending on the potions. In fact, every time I use a potion, it gets easier. I can't deny I'm a little more eager and willing each time.

Dalen places a comforting hand on my arm. I shrink back. A crestfallen expression crosses his face. “I only worry, Greta. You are not a wizard nor a creature made of magic. Humans were not meant to handle such things. It could have terrible and unexpected consequences. Why do you think King Ensel thought stealing from a sea monster was a good idea? Or that feeding it girls from a rival city was a perfectly reasonable thing to do? He was already crazy, and the desire for more power, more magic, drove him completely mad.”

Every word he says is another knife in my gut.

The strange joy that leaps in my chest each time I touch one of the potions. The sores that have broken out on my arms, and get worse with every potion I use. The same ones Vincali had. The magic is wheedling its way under my skin.

Thank goodness Dalen will take them away. I'll no longer be tempted. There's just one problem.

I draw a circle on the ground with the toe of my boot, a little sheepish and now a little scared. “I do have a need for one more first. Then they're all yours.”

“All right,” Dalen says. “One more. Then I'll take them away.”

“But how will you keep them safe? What if I'm determined to steal them from you?” If black magic drove Ensel mad, why not me, too?

He laughs. “Don't you remember? I know more than a few hiding places around here.”

I laugh with him, yet uneasiness fills me as I pull the blue potion from the box in my satchel and slip it into my pocket. Soon, this and the others will be hidden away, too well for me to find.

But this one will allow me to do what needs to be done to protect this city. My mother's city. Maybe even my city.

I hand the box to Dalen, his kind face and silver eyes gazing back at me happily. “You'll keep them safe as long as I need you to?”

He smiles. “As long as I live, I promise. I won't let you use them again unless there is a very great need.”

I smile back, grateful he understood the question between my spoken words. The one I couldn't quite bring myself to ask.

He'll stay. He won't let me give in to the weakness Ensel and the mercenaries fell victim to. He'll be here to stop me.

Now that Hans and I are safely ensconced in a tent for the evening, we can finally talk. The scent of smoke and burning meat clings to us both, but it will fade over time.

I may never eat chicken again. And I doubt Hans will either.

We curl up on the pillows near the fire and he stares at the flames. Belatedly I wonder if the fire is a good idea at all considering what he witnessed today, but then he speaks and chases all those fears away.

“I knew you'd come back for me, Greta,” he says, a smile on his chapped lips. I was worried he might have forgotten how to smile. “And I'm glad you killed the witch. She taunted me, you know. That you'd never come back alive. That I was almost fat enough. She was planning to take the cornucopia from you if you found it, then eat me anyway and save you for dessert.” He lifts his wide gray eyes to meet mine, dark lashes framing them. “But I knew she was wrong. Even when she started taking more children. Other people don't always return, but you do. You did when you got sick and the wizard sold you to Ensel, and I knew you would this time, too.” He stares at the fire again. “It's better this way. Now she can't hurt anyone else.”

He's so serious, my brother. He's grown up by leaps and bounds in the past year, but he's always quiet and serious. Sometimes startlingly so.

His fingers, plumper than I remember them being, pry my fist open. I gasp at the stone in my hand; I'd nearly forgotten I still clutched it close. It felt like an extension of my arm. But now Hans pulls the amulet out of my palm, holding it and its swirling red and black insides up to the light.

“What do you think its purpose is?” Hans asks.

I shake my head. “All I know for certain is that I'm lucky it took the brunt of the magic. It seems to be a container of magic, but it can be used as a weapon, too.”

His brow creases as he studies it. “It looks like ink rolling in red water.”

I take it back. Best not to let him fixate on magical things. Or perhaps that's the overprotective part of me. Though he isn't wrong. That's exactly what it looks like now, though before it was just red.

“Hans, I need to tell you something.”

He raises an eyebrow warily.

“It's about Mama and Papa.” I pull the folded letter from my pocket. I've carried it with me ever since I found it, unable to let go of it, unable to let go of
them
. “I discovered what happened to them. Mama was King Ensel's stepsister. She fled Belladoma with Papa years ago, before we were born. Ensel tricked them and captured them. And then he—he—” Suddenly my throat is too dry to form sounds, and I helplessly hand Hans the letter instead.

He fixes me with a solemn gaze. “He killed them, didn't he?”

I can only nod.

He reads the letter, silently squeezing my hand. His eyes shine with tears, which stick to his lashes before they fall to the pillows beneath us. When he finishes reading, he doesn't say a word. He simply folds it back up and presses it into my hand, then curls his arms around my middle. We hold each other tightly, the only family we have left, in front of the fire until we fall asleep.

Someday, I'll have to let him go. But for now, I'm grateful he needs me too.