Chapter 70: The Witch's End
The witch, her balance already unsteady, stumbled and fell under the full, desperate force of my lunge. A sharp, searing pain shot through her hand as my teeth found their mark.
“Bastard! Let go! Ah!” she shrieked, the pain overwhelming her ability to cast a spell. She tried to shake me off, to beat me away, but I held on with the tenacity of a bulldog, my jaw clamped shut with a strength that was not my own. And then, her blood filled my mouth. It was not the coppery tang of blood I expected. It was sweet. An intoxicating, cloying sweetness that ignited the monstrous hunger within me. The beast, the void that lived inside me, roared to life. It didn't just want food. It wanted to devour her.
“Cough, cough!” Jared, having recovered from his collision with the wall, scrambled to his feet. He saw us tangled on the floor, a grotesque wrestling match between a witch and a feral child, and immediately lunged for the fallen dagger.
“Get off!” the witch screamed, finally managing to summon a sliver of her power. An invisible hand slammed into my side, a blow of irresistible, bone-jarring force. I was thrown across the room, but even in my agony, I did not release my grip. A chunk of flesh tore away from her hand, and I landed in a heap against the far wall, the sweet, terrible taste of her blood still on my tongue.
Dazed, my head spinning, I looked up just in time to see Jared, his face a mask of pure, cold fury, raise the dagger high. The witch tried to raise her own hand, to cast one final spell, but her body was wracked with a sudden, violent convulsion. From my perspective, I could see a great gout of red mist burst from her body—a spell backfiring, her stolen power turning on her. Whatever the cause, her last chance was gone. Jared’s arm descended, and the ornate, silvered dagger plunged deep into her chest. He gave her no chance to recover. He pulled the blade free, slick with her blood, and plunged it into her again. And again. And again. It was a frantic, brutal, rhythmic butchery, his arm a piston of death, his face a blank mask. One, two, three, four, five, six… He stabbed her more than a dozen times, her blood fountaining from the wounds, soaking his hands, his face, his new cloak, until he was painted in a glistening, garish crimson.
“Jared! Stop!” I finally managed to cry out, my voice trembling. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed his shoulder. The look in his eyes, the frenzied, mechanical motion of his arm… it terrified me. My voice seemed to cut through his bloody haze. He slowly, reluctantly, lowered the dagger.
“She’s… she’s dead,” I stammered. “You can stop now.” To be honest, I was terrified. This was the first time I had been so close to a killing, the first time I had been a part of one. But it had been her or us. There had been no other choice. I forced myself to check, my hands shaking. The witch was gone. Her chest was a ruin, her eyes were open and empty, and there was no breath, no heartbeat. The woman who had held an entire city in her thrall, who had commanded magic and death, had been killed in a filthy sewer hovel by two starving children.
Just then, I heard voices from outside, the curious murmurs of the other slum-dwellers. The noise of our struggle had attracted attention. Damn it. If they came in, if they saw the body… the consequences would be unimaginable. The Inquisition would be called, and they would not care about innocence or guilt. They would torture anyone and everyone connected to the witch’s death. Even as I trembled, a cold, clear part of my mind, a part I didn't know existed, was already calculating. The body was a problem. But it was also an opportunity. The bounty… we could tell them where her body was. While they fought over the corpse, we could dig up the gold and flee the city. With the ability of these peelers, they basically couldn't find us once we were out. We could disappear into the countryside, find a small village, and start over. I could even, perhaps… learn to use the whispers, the magic, for myself.
But Jared, calm as you please, simply walked to the entrance of the alcove. He stood there, drenched in her blood, the ornate dagger still dripping in his hand, and faced Bartholomew’s men, who had gathered outside.
“It’s nothing,” he said, and his face broke into a serene, almost beatific smile that was the most terrifying thing I had seen all day. “Nothing to worry about, gentlemen.” Covered in blood as he was, how could he possibly say nothing had happened? Was he mad?
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