Page 46 of Silver in the Bone

Merlin’s Cave was smaller than I remembered it being; then again, the last time I’d stood here, I’d been smaller myself.

The cave itself was really a tunnel, one carved by ancient waves or some great beast burrowing into the mountainous dark rocks. To access it, you had to take a winding path down from the ruins above and enter through a small, rocky beach.

The sea held back its foamy fingers as we trudged across the sand and pebbles. The nearby waterfall was loud enough to drown out the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

I stopped at the entrance of the cave, only for Septimus to shove me forward again. The damp air was heavy with the scent of brine and decay. Condensation turned everything slick, making it difficult to continue when the sandy beach turned to a field of jagged scree. The walls were sharp and forbidding around us, each its own warning that this was not a place for mortals.

Several Hollowers turned on their flashlights, guiding the way in when the new moon failed to.

Nash used to say that humans were nothing more than sparks falling into the fire of time, but I was no spark, and there was no heat here. Just a whispering chill, its cold lips moving against my skin, speaking unknowable secrets.

“Here,” Septimus said once we reached the midpoint between the two ends of the cave. “This will do.”

I caught Neve’s gaze briefly, and it was enough to see what she wanted to do. Fight. Run. The idiots hadn’t taken her fanny pack, likely thinking it was too small to hold anything useful or dangerous. Even with her hands bound, she’d still be able to get to her wand.

I shook my head in reply. We were outnumbered. We’d have to find a way to escape once we were in Avalon.

Neve was clearly unhappy, but she seemed to accept it. She glared at Septimus as he passed by. “You really should be extra careful when we go inside—I’ve heard hags prefer the taste of pompous numpties to even that of the common idiot. Something about mushier brains.”

He raised his arm as if to backhand her. Both Cabell and I lunged, trying to block his hand, but it was Emrys who stopped him.

“Mr. Yarrow,” he said, all pleasantness as he held up the bottle containing the offering. “We should continue.”

Septimus sneered. “Fine.”

Cabell tried to edge closer to me, only to be blocked by a Hollower.

Emrys walked out to the front of the group, pulling the heavy cork from the bottle and setting it down on a dark stone.

“Hag of the Mist,” he said, his voice rough. “Mistress of mists, born of the land of ancient shadow. Servant of none, taker of all, heed these children, answer our call.”

The Hollowers gasped as, all at once, their flashlights and LED lanterns went out like smothered flames, leaving the cave in boundless shadow.

A rattling hiss of laughter rose behind us.

My head had hollowed out again, of thought, of feeling, of anything other than the knowledge of the presence looming behind us like a gathering storm.

“Do you ... do you accept this offering?” Emrys asked.

“I accept,” the hag hissed, her voice like snakes sliding against one another. “What is it you desire?”

There was a sound like the flutter of leathery wings, and the air shifted behind me.

“We ... ,” Emrys started, then cleared his throat. “We seek passage. To and from Avalon.”

“Ahhhhhh ... ,” the hag breathed out, “so you seek that which is denied to you. The sword of legend, the sleeping king, the tower fair ...”

Emrys’s voice echoed against the stones. “What would you ask in return?”

“What do you mean?” Septimus interjected. “You gave her the offering—”

The creature reeked of infernal decay and rancid bile. My stomach turned violently as my back burned with awareness of her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pale, withered hand reaching out as if to cup my face.

My body vibrated with terror as something—a finger, a claw—drew down through my hair and along the ridge of my spine, cutting through the tangles and knots, like a mother combing a child’s hair.

“For a sole journey into Avalon for your party, and one passage in return,” the hag continued, “I ask only for a lock of this hair.”

Her hand, her claws, returned to stroking my scalp, lifting a few strands here and there until I thought I would vomit or scream.

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