He strolled past the guards. The one barked at him for help and the other continued mumbling with his boot in his mouth.
Jinxton stopped. The thought of killing them crossed his mind, but he remembered Harry’s note.
“Breath mint,” Jinxton said, chuckling. Setting the box down, he picked up the boot and shoved it back in the guard’s mouth. The guard’s eyes ballooned. “Better than death, my friend,” Jinxton said. “I’ll deal with you when I come back.”
He walked down through the entrance, taking the winding, dark corridor toward the Widow’s lair. Still he heard no screaming, and that upset him deeper than it should’ve.
“My Queen?” he called before he walked into the sickly light of her chamber. He did not want to catch her by surprise.
“What?” she spat, anger in her voice, and Jinxton didn’t think it was because he interrupted her, but because Ignatius Mangood was turning out to be quite the dull captive.
Oh well, not my problem, Jinxton told himself. I got him here. Whether he screams or not, I don’t care.
“I have the Jewel of Deception, your Highness.”
“You do? My, my, Jinxton, that was fast. And the scavenger?”
“Actually, my Queen,” Jinxton said, stepping forward into the chamber.
He saw Ignatius Mangood hanging upside down from a strand of web that branched off from the Widow’s own larger one. The wizard was still wrapped in the magic-blocking rope as he swung back and forth. One eye was swollen shut and gravity brought blood rolling off his forehead, drip-dripping to the ground below. The Widow was beating him, using him as a punching bag, like Jinxton had used in his military training all those years ago, and yet the wizard made not the slightest mutter of a cry. All he did was breathe raggedly.
A leg came up and steadied the wizard as the Widow’s eyes lit up.
“Yes? ‘Actually’ what?” she asked.
“Harry brought the Jewel back.”
“Out of fear, I suppose,” the Widow mused.
‘No, not at all out of fear,’ Jinxton wanted to say. He didn’t think a mutt who made his living stealing artifacts from beings more powerful than himself was afraid of anything, but Jinxton dared not say this.
“Yes, my Queen. So it seems. Regardless, the Jewel is now yours.” Jinxton bent down and held the box above him.
“Now all we need is the music box,” she said.
Spitting blood as he spoke in an oddly calm and steady voice, Ignatius promised, “You’ll never get the music box.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that, my wizardly friend.” She swung out, catching Ignatius in the stomach. More blood sprayed—from his mouth, his nostrils, and even the corners of his eyes.
Chapter Ten
What’s our next move? Sherlock asked.
He surprised Maria by not sniffing around or chasing after any Raffins. The Bloodhound was maturing, it seemed.
On the heels of Sherlock’s question, Frieda asked, “Where shall you lead us, Maria?”
Maria, still kneeling by the bald patch of land under which her mother rested, had thought about these very questions for a long time. The answers, she was not so sure of, but there was one thing she knew.
There would be another battle, worse than the one in Ashbourne. She may even call it a war.
A war needs soldiers, she thought.
The trees swayed behind them, branches gnashing together. Leaves crunched underfoot, as odd creatures stepped to the edge of the forest and watched the wanderers with malicious eyes. Maria felt them all, but was not worried. If it were Arachnids, Maria would’ve sensed them, and Sherlock would’ve smelled them.
The first step of her plan came into place as she thought of her grandfather, and what he would do.
“Frieda,” Maria said, “are you still in contact with your tribe?”
The witch shied away from the question. Maria supposed that was not good.
Wait a second, Sherlock said, can’t she see the future in her flames? Why can’t we ask her what the hell is going to happen to us? The Bloodhound sounded scared, despite Gelbus being nearby, petting him on the scruff of his neck.
Maria wanted to answer, ‘If she can, I’m not sure I want to know. It might be a matter of knowing exactly when, where, and how we’re going to die. Sure, that might be useful, but I think we’d just worry for the rest of the time we had left—so much so that we’d forget how to live in the here and now.’
She took a deep breath.
Gotta remain calm, levelheaded. Gotta show you’re the right witch to lead this band of wanderers, as odd and underdog-ish as we might be.
She asked the witch Sherlock’s question.
“The flames do not work like that, I’m afraid. I see what the Gods intend me to see, and they do not intend me to see if we are victorious or not.”
“So you’ve tried?” Maria asked.
Frieda snorted, a guilty smile on her face. “Of course I’ve tried.”
Maria nodded. She would’ve tried, too.
Gelbus spoke up then; it seemed to have been a long time since the Gnome said much of anything. Maria knew he was biding his time, taking in the situation. He may not be a warrior by heart, but he was damn smart. Especially when he was sober and his mind was clear—his words.
“I think Maria may be on to something, Frieda,” he said. “Your tribe could possibly help us. You’ve said they don’t like the Arachnids—”
“I don’t think anyone likes those dreaded spider lords,” Frieda mumbled.
True, Sherlock added, though no one heard him besides Maria.
“But your tribe is nearby,” Gelbus pressed. “Well, closer than any other allies we may have.”
“I suppose I could try,” Frieda allowed.
“Good,” Maria replied, leaning forward and putting an arm around her. “We must hurry. Time is short.”
No, Gelbus is short, Sherlock chuckled. The Widow won’t kill Ignatius, we know that. She is using him as bait.
“Wow, Sherlock, never thought I’d hear a mostly serious response from you,” Maria said.
I even surprise myself sometimes, the Bloodhound said.
“Sherlock and Gelbus are right,” Maria said to Frieda. “We must forge as
