Chapter 67: Evasions
While the witch searched for whatever she was looking for, her movements frantic and desperate, Jared and I didn't dare to breathe. We were mice in a cage with a wounded, unpredictable cat, terrified that the slightest sound, the slightest wrong move, might provoke her into killing us both. But I watched her closely, my fear a cold, sharp thing in my gut. Her state wasn't as stable as she pretended. Her steps were unsteady, almost faltering, something I hadn’t noticed while she was sitting still. And she was injured. Badly. Beneath the roadmap of old scars from her torture, there were fresh wounds. Deep puncture wounds, one on her shoulder, another just below her breast, and a third high on her thigh. Some were crudely bandaged with strips of torn cloth, but dark, wet patches of blood were slowly seeping through. The unbandaged wounds were small, neat holes, just like the ones I imagined those pneumatic nail guns would make. So, the knights had hit their mark after all. She was bleeding, and she was weak.
The injuries restricted her movements, forcing her to be careful. I think Jared noticed it even before I did. When the witch had her back to us, sifting through the dead man's meager, filthy belongings, he shot me a look, a silent, urgent question in his eyes: Now? While she's distracted? She's wounded. We could take her. I gave a barely perceptible shake of my head. Not yet. It was a trap. She had released her magical hold on us, which meant she was on full alert, expecting us to try something. We needed a better opportunity, a moment when her guard was truly down. It was a gamble, I knew. A terrible one. Even injured, she could kill us with a single spell, a single thought. We would only get one chance to fight back. Failure meant death. But we couldn't bet on her letting us live, either.
“By the way,” the witch said suddenly, her voice breaking the tense silence, making us both jump as if struck. We were terrified she had read our minds. But she hadn't. She was just asking a question. “You just came in from outside. Are there peelers? Soldiers?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly, my voice a little shaky. “The streets are crawling with them. Patrols everywhere.”
“And… are they posting notices?” she asked, a new note of tension in her voice. “Are they searching for someone?” So, she had fled directly here after escaping the execution and hadn't left since. She was cut off, blind to what was happening outside, and was now trying to use us as her eyes and ears. It made sense. She had to know the Lord Mayor and the Church wouldn't let her go so easily. The city would be a hunting ground, and she couldn't risk stepping outside. I had to choose my next words very carefully. This was the real test. If I told her we knew who she was, that her angelic, yet monstrous face was on wanted posters all over the city, she might kill us on the spot to silence us. But lying and saying we knew nothing was just as dangerous. The moment she stepped outside, she would know we had deceived her, and she would surely come back to kill us.
So I chose the middle path. The lie of omission. I nodded. “Yes. A lot of peelers. They’re going door-to-door, looking for someone. We don't know who.” I tried to sound as natural as possible, a child reporting what she’d seen, with no idea that the fugitive they were hunting was sitting right in front of her. It was a warning: it’s dangerous out there. And it was also our lifeline. By proving our potential usefulness, I was giving her a reason to keep us alive. If she couldn't go out, she would need someone to do it for her.
It worked. The witch fell into a deep, troubled silence, her brow furrowed in thought. But her brooding was cut short. Her eyes suddenly fixed on a dark, unremarkable corner of the alcove, and a look of pure, manic joy crossed her face.
“There it is!” she cried, her voice a triumphant hiss. “Thank God. He didn’t take it with him!”
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