The Wicked Within

Violet hissed right back.

I smiled. Thatta girl.

“So,” the River Witch started in a roughened voice. He removed his hood and took up position across from us. His was an old face with prominent bones under paper-thin skin, wrinkles, and age spots. He had a proud- looking nose, long and straight, and sharp green eyes that studied us for an uncomfortable moment.

“The gorgon and the shifter come to call. You are without the Mistborn, I see.”

We’d waited as long as we could for Sebastian to take the trip into the bayou with us. But he never showed. If we’d waited any longer our daylight would have been compromised. And we only had the boat for today.

A low, scratchy chuckle came out of the River Witch. “A rocky start. A rocky road. And maybe a rocky end. You prepared for this, gorgon?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you are. You’re young. Foolish. Think you can do anything, you and your friends, you and your Mistborn vampire.” He made a sarcastic flourish with his hands. “Romance . . . ,” he sneered before grabbing a ladle from the counter behind him, muttering under his breath. “Nothing but trouble. Heartache that lasts millennia. Violet, bring me that jar of oil behind you.”

Violet went to the shelf and lifted a fat glass jar, bumping an adjacent clay jar. A tiny, muted squeak erupted, followed by scratching and scrambling, like a bird trapped in a chimney. Two other jars next to it, both clay, both secured with lids, began the same kind of racket. The witch shouted an irritated command, and they stopped as Violet hefted the jar onto the table.

“Special gorgon,” the witch said, taking off the lid. “God-killer. Powers before your time. Powers to do what others could not. That is important. So important.” He dipped the ladle into the oil. “This . . . Hmm. This is the good stuff.” He laughed as though his words were a joke. His head lifted. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

He returned to his task. “Not long then. Not long until you turn gorgon for good. That’s why you’re here. To find out if I can lift your curse.”

“Or if you know someone who can,” I said, trying to keep the skepticism from my voice.

His shoulders shook with more laughter. “Oh, no doubt about that. I know them all.”

The curse would change me forever on my twenty-first birthday—the same age Medusa had been when Athena had cursed her. That left me three and a half years to figure out how to not end up like my ancestors, who’d chosen suicide rather than become a snake-headed horror, or who’d hidden themselves away from civilization and from the Sons of Perseus, hunters Athena had ordered to slay each successive gorgon.

Fate played out with each generation. Somehow the line continued, despite Athena. Despite the hunters. It was a cycle that never broke.

My father had been a hunter. And instead of killing my mother, he fell in love with her. So the cycle was breaking. It had begun with him, and it would end with me.

It had to.

The witch lifted a large ladleful of oil from the jar and dumped it onto the marble. It spread out slowly. “Give me your blade,” he said quickly, shoving out his hand.

I hesitated.

“Hurry. Give it to me.”

I withdrew the new blade Bran, my teacher, had given to me and handed it over, grip first. The witch snatched it and sliced his palm. Blood drizzled into the oil as I took my blade back, wiped it on my jeans, and returned it to the sheath at my thigh.

Violet propped her elbows on the counter, rested her chin in her hands, and watched the blood mix with the oil as though watching dough rise or cookies bake.

The witch’s blood began to swirl in the oil. The hairs on my arms stood as small blood symbols began to take shape.

“This is a form of divining.” Henri moved closer, fascinated. “You’re going to read the blood in the oil. The same way others read bones or entrails.”

“Correct. But this is not just any oil, shifter. This oil is from the olives of Athena’s first tree. The one she created to win the city named in her honor. Athens.”

“How did you—” I went to ask.

“Hush, gorgon. The how is not important.” The River Witch hunched over the oil with concentration.

I disagreed. The how was very important. The witch. His words. His connection to Athena, the artifacts piled in the front room . . . How could he know about us, have raised Violet, and be in possession of oil from Athena’s first olive tree? That in and of itself was astounding. Why did I suddenly feel like a tiny game piece on a huge game board? The witch was definitely a player, but whose side was he on, and what was his motive?

“She’ll come.” The witch studied the oil, as though assuring himself. Then he raised his head. “They’ll both come.”

Wait. Both?

“She already came and left with a blade buried in her chest,” Henri said. “Athena is either dead or wishing she was.”

“No, shifter. She is not dead. Nor is she finished with the gorgon or this city. You have seen but a fraction of what Athena is capable of. You all”—he gave us each a long, measured look—“will soon discover what it means to stare war in the face. You must sacrifice your fear on the altar of protection,” he told Violet, giving her a nod she seemed to understand. “And, you,” he said to me, “you must find the Hands of Zeus or you will lose your family, your friends, your city. Athena will heal and rise again. She will make her twin hurricanes of years past feel like a summer breeze. Find her greatest desire and you, we all, just might survive.”

His words made my pulse pound. I drew in a deep breath to steady myself. “You know what the Hands are?”

“Athena’s child, frozen in stone like the hands that hold it, yes.” The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. “And no, I don’t know who the father is.”

“So I find the Hands. Then what? Turn them over to Athena so she spares us? She knows what I can do. She’ll want me to resurrect her child.” And then she’d kill me afterward. Letting a god-killer run loose was a risk she wouldn’t tolerate. I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the marble countertop. “I need to find someone who can undo the words she cursed me with now.”

The old witch’s stare collided with mine in a contest of wills. His eyes glinted. I could almost see his mind calculating. Finally he shifted. “Of course you do. Of course. You find the Hands, return them here to me, and I will lift your curse myself.”

I blinked, immediately suspicious. It was too easy. “No offense, but how do I know you can?”

He straightened, his chest puffing out as if I’d pricked his ego. “I trained with Hecate herself, a goddess older than the Olympians and far more powerful. Doubt me if you must, young gorgon. You bring the Hands to me or give them to Athena. The choice is yours.”

I didn’t like the River Witch, though I couldn’t exactly pinpoint a specific reason. He’d raised Violet, which was a point in his favor, but he was also cunning and obviously kept his secrets and motives close to his heart.

“I don’t know where to start,” I finally said, but my guess was on Josephine Arnaud, Novem council member and head of the Arnaud family of vampires. She had either hidden them in the vast dimension of the Novem’s library, placed them somewhere else, or destroyed them.

“You must look to the knowledge of the Novem. You must ask yourself why the Bloodborn Queen cares so much. What is she after? What does she hope to gain?”

Bloodborn Queen?

“Josephine is a queen?” Violet asked, intrigued.

The witch chuckled. “Josephine Arnaud.” He stuck his pointer finger into the oil and swirled it around in a circle. “There was a time, long ago, when vampire kings and queens ruled their kind in Europe. Unknown to humans, of course. Long, long ago. The Arnaud family once ruled the vampires in France; they once held human titles and lands, immersing themselves in the affairs of the country. Josephine’s grandfather was instrumental in