Page 83 of The Black Witch

Aislinn shoots me a look of deep caution. “Damion? He makes Fallon seem like a pussycat.” Aislinn regards them warily as she bites at the side of her lip. “He likes...hurting people.”

I watch as Damion grabs the arm of a passing Urisk serving girl and jerks her backward. She lets out a startled cry of surprise and nearly drops the large basket of muffins she’s carrying. Damion smiles unkindly and leers at her as Fallon and Sylus pick out some muffins, the two of them chatting and ignoring the girl completely. Damion grabs a muffin, releases the girl’s arm and pushes her off with a manic smile.

I turn back toward Aislinn with alarm.

“Maybe you should fast to the ship captain’s son, Elloren,” she whispers, glancing over at Gareth. “Seems the safest course of action. Pursue Lukas Grey, and you set yourself up against the Bane clan. Wait too long to fast, and you could find yourself fastedto someone likeDamion.”

I’m about to protest when Trystan distracts me.

“His splint’s come undone,” Trystan remarks from where he kneels by Gareth’s leg, fiddling with the bandages.

I look over at Gareth, who seems worse by the minute. I’m about to suggest that we bring him to see the University physician when I notice Wynter shyly making her way into the hall, her black wings pulled in tight around her. It’s a shock to see her there in the light of day.

“That’s her,” I breathe to everyone. “That’s one of the Icarals.”

Aislinn, Trystan and Gareth all follow my gaze.

Wynter shuffles toward the serving tables, head bent, eyes focused on the floor a few feet in front of her. Groupings of Elves cast disdainful looks in her direction and hide their whispers behind graceful hands. The Gardnerians give her a wide berth, avert their eyes and touch fists to heads then hearts to ward off her evil.

The Icaral-Elf takes a bowl and timidly approaches one of the Urisk kitchen workers. The elderly woman sneers, then slops some bright green porridge into her bowl.

I’ve seen them preparing this in the kitchen—ground Alfsigr acorn meal. Staple grain of the Elves. There are so many odd foods in the kitchens with foreign smells and exotic spices, each culture partial to certain dishes.

Wynter turns, bowl in hand, searching for a place to sit. Spotting an empty table at the far corner of the room, she starts for it.

Fallon’s, Sylus’s and Damion’s eyes narrow in on Wynter.

Fallon whispers something to Sylus. They both laugh as they munch on their muffins, a cruel glint in their eyes. Fallon reaches over and inconspicuously slides her wand into her hand, flicking it slightly in Wynter’s direction.

Wynter trips forward, her porridge spilling all over the floor before she lands, stomach down, on top of it.

I instinctively move to get up, aghast at Fallon’s behavior, the memory of how she tripped me stark in my mind. Falling in front of all those people—it was frightening and humiliating.

But...that horrifying night, when Ariel attacked me... Wynter made no move to help...

Rafe, across the room, shows no such hesitation. He strides over to help Wynter as everyone else around her steps away. He kneels down and gently takes hold of her arm to help her up. The moment he touches her, her head jerks up and her eyes fly wide-open.

“Get your hands off my sister, Gardnerian!”

The dining hall grows quiet as an Elfin male pushes through the surrounding scholars and quickly makes his way toward them. He has backup—a younger, willowy Elfin lad, the two of them armed with bows and quivers slung over their shoulders, Elfin blades strapped to their belts.

Two Elfin archers—some of the most dangerous warriors on all of Erthia.

Worry spears through me. Rafe’s competent, to be sure, and skilled with a variety of weapons. But he’s no match for Elves.

Rafe immediately releases Wynter’s arm. She’s risen to her knees, green porridge all over her ivory garments. She stares at Rafe, wide-eyed.

“Stay away from my sister!” the older Elf snarls, the words heavily accented as he takes a threatening step toward Rafe and reaches for his knife. “Stay away from our women!”

Rafe holds his hands palms out to the Elf. “Relax, friend, I was only...”

“I amnotyour friend!” the Elf hisses through gritted teeth.

Rafe carefully steps back and bows. “I was only trying to help her. With respect.”

“Your kind don’t know themeaningof respect!”

Rafe takes a deep breath as he warily regards the Elf. He turns back toward Wynter, who’s still kneeling on the floor. “Are you okay?” Rafe asks, careful not to touch her this time.

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