“I’m afraid,” they repeated. “The world is dying, and I don’t know what to do. I need your help.”
“I have helped. And now you owe me.”
“Don’t you care that the world is in danger?”
“There is no safety in this life, youngling.” The leaves of an aloe plant brushed their cheek. Tav shivered from the contact. Don’t run, they told themselves. Don’t panic. “Only winners and losers. Living and dead. Which side of that battle do you want to be on?”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“I said I’ll get it for you. Just not yet.”
“I hope I can trust you, youngling.” The Hedge-Witch’s eyes swirled yellow-white and muddy black. Staring into them made Tav dizzy. “You had so much potential once. But now you’re very close to becoming a traitor.”
They woke on the sofa drenched in sweat. Sun still streamed through the window — it was hard to believe it was the same day they had failed. The same day they had lost Cam. They squinted into the light and thought about the dream. Was it a dream? Or was it a message?
Traitor.
Tav almost laughed. They were definitely a traitor, but sorting out which loyalties they owed would take some time. Did they owe their allegiance to the humans? The human world that only half claimed them, that had made them who they are, forged in fury and pain? To the family that birthed and raised them? The family that adopted them? To the magic world they had barely seen? To Eli?
Tav had already let down the one person they owed loyalty to.
Who cared about anyone else?
It’s someone else’s turn, they thought. I’m tired. I don’t want this anymore. They squeezed their eyes shut and wished their magic away. Give it to someone else.
They rolled over, pressing their forehead into the back of the sofa, and fell back into a sickly sleep, as light and distressed as a worn-out T-shirt.
Twenty-Six
THE HEIR
“Your army is growing,” said Kite. “The unnamed daughters have reached out to their contacts. More assassins are fleeing their mothers to join you. The daughters will strengthen your numbers.”
“It’s not enough,” sulked Clytemnestra, a paper crown askew on her brow. The flimsy hat had been pulled from a Christmas cracker. The smell of sulfur still lingered in the air.
But the party was over.
“Greedy child,” said Kite.
“You’re a child, too.” Clytemnestra held a party horn to her mouth and blew half-heartedly, the stream of air rippling along the metallic ribbon.
“Yes,” agreed Kite, eyeing the shiny material.
A gleam shimmered in Clytemnestra’s eyes, the whites thinning to show a blueblack galaxy underneath. Then the whites thickened again, and the doll’s eyes returned, with painted irises and dilated pupils.
She adjusted her crown. “You missed the celebrations, but I saved you a party favour.”
“A whirligig?” Kite guessed. She recognized a game when she was in one.
Clytemnestra started chewing on the horn. She shook her head.
“A used Band-Aid?”
Another shake.
One more guess. Kite studied the witch girl: Clytemnestra was nibbling eagerly on the plastic toy. Her eyes kept thinning to the consistency of raw egg whites. Kite opened her mouth and let her tongue explore the air. She tasted old blood.
“Something that doesn’t belong here,” said Kite.
“Yes!” Clytemnestra spat out mangled plastic and giggled. “Just like you, Heir.” She waved her hand and the air thickened, swirling around her wrist. Before it was fully summoned, Kite could smell the death and hurt, a heavy stench that made her eyes water. Kite leaned over, choking on the smell, and tadpoles fell from her eye sockets. When she sat up, wiping the slimy trail from her face, there it was.
A sword. An ancient weapon stolen from the moon. Older than humanity. Older than Kite. A malicious creature, its memories long and deep and sharp.
A sword that would turn on its wielder.
No, it did not belong here.
Kite went down on all fours and crawled closer to the magnificent piece of weaponry. Unknown alloy. Alien magic. As she neared the curling, twisted metal spikes and gears that grew from the main blade, the sword spat out a handful of red sparks that smelled of stale blood. One landed on Kite’s damp hair, sizzled, and went out.
“Shhh, baby,” she crooned. “I won’t hurt you.”
Some things never wanted to be found. Kite could feel in the hum of the sword how much it longed to be lost, how much it missed the obscurity and comfort of the junkyard.
The best key hungered for its lock.
A sharp pain, but slight. Kite twisted to look up. The Warlord had a handful of bluegreen hair in her hand and was tugging cruelly. Black eyes, comets streaking across the surface. Stars like flames where pupils should have been. A single canine protruded past the small mouth, yellowed and curving to a wicked point. Clytemnestra was beautiful. Clytemnestra was a monster.
The witches stared at each other for a long moment. One royal, one royalty. Both strange, even among their own kind.
When Clytemnestra spoke, her words echoed as if she spoke with a thousand voices.
“You will build me an army that will tear the roots of the Coven from bedrock. You will bring back the discarded and unwanted. The old magic.” The paper hat caught fire. The flames danced around her head like the halo of a fallen angel. “It’s time for the lost things to be found.”
Without meaning to, Kite found herself bowing, pressing her forehead to stone.
Twenty-Seven
THE HEART
“Up for a ride?”
The helmet landed on Tav’s lap. They had fallen asleep on the sofa. When Eli had rematerialized, she had hovered over Tav for an awkward minute, wondering if she should get a blanket or not, wondering if she should wake them and ask why they were muttering and turning so fiercely. Wondering if she should hold them. In the end, she had done none of those things. She hadn’t wanted to draw attention to Tav’s vulnerability.
It’s what
