Page 22 of What Is Dark Within Me

“Good. What else? Do not lie to her and leave nothing out, or you’ll have me to answer to,” Nicolas said.

A tear slid down Thierry’s cheek. Aleja hadn’t noticed he’d been crying, but they didn’t seem like sad tears, or even fearful tears but rather overwhelmed tears. She could relate.

“There are legends of a well. An Unholy Well, in which the bones of an Otherlander were buried. It was rumored to be in many places throughout the centuries. The Crusade battlefields of Turkey. The burial ground of the venerable Dark Saint Venatrix in France. A shrine to La Santísima Muerte near Mexico City. Violet believed it was here now, in the Pacific Northwest.”

“An Unholy Well?” Aleja said. Her words slurred, as if the coffee was spiked with whiskey. She was so close to Violet. She was so fucking close, and this man might hold the compass that could lead Aleja to her.

“What else? If you haven’t told her everything, now would be a good time to avail yourself,” Nicolas said. His left wing stretched, and this small motion rattled all the glasses in the kitchen.

Aleja wasn’t sure how she felt about the fact that she and the Knowing One were currently working toward the same goal—on the same side, even. He was a murderer, a villain. But fuck it, she thought. If the only way to save Violet was to become as wicked as him, she would sink to his level.

“I swear, I wanted nothing to do with Violet Timmons. All I wanted was to find the well. I didn’t mean to hurt Agnes, but she refused to tell me where the girl had gone, refused to give me the water, and my spell… went awry. I’m dying, you see. I needed that vial of water as much as she did.”

“Oh, god,” Aleja whispered. “I couldn’t find the rest of the Society in the scrying mirror. Did you kill them?”

“No,” Thierry whimpered. “No, I swear. We were old. None of us ever managed to summon the Knowing One, and we gradually dropped away until only Agnes and I were left. It was an anniversary party. A tradition we’d agreed to hold on to until every one of us was gone, but she wouldn’t give me the water, even after she was blind drunk.”

Thierry tried to stand.

She barely understood the flurry of movement that followed. Leather and smoke. Black wings, a dog with gnashing teeth, and power rising in her. Raw, fiery power ran through Aleja’s veins, as it must have flowed through her family once. Her vision swam with red.

“Stop,” she commanded.

“What would you like me to do with him?” Garm said, breath coming out with a wisp of smoke smelling of sulfur.

“Nothing,” she stuttered. Terrifying the old man was one thing, but she didn’t think she could bring herself to hurt him, even if he was a murderer. I was fooling myself, she thought. All this time, I promised to do whatever I could to find her, but I don’t think I can make it through another sentence without throwing up.

You have to, said the voice inside her head.You wanted to be a villain? Act like one.

“Tell us about the well. You said Violet thought it was here, in the northwest. Where?” she said.

“I swear, I don’t know. Violet would only speak to Agnes. I have cancer too. It’s terminal—won’t respond to medicine or magic. Violet told me the price she paid wasn’t worth it, but I wouldn’t give up. That’s when she threatened me with the hound. But I didn’t hurt her. I’m no murderer. Agnes was an accident.”

“An accident? There was a note for my co-worker by the door. You forged it and ran here. It’s almost as if you planned for what you would do once you killed her.”

His answer was to dart for the door so unexpectedly that Garm gave a grunt of surprise. Thierry mumbled something and closed the gap before Aleja could react. She recognized the language; it was a hodgepodge of secret words from Latin, Ancient Greek, and long-forgotten Etruscan. A characteristic of the Silent Art. Dark magic.

A blinding pain hit behind her eyes. The room tilted as if the snowstorm had knocked the cabin off its foundation. She was dimly aware of Garm rushing past in pursuit and a pair of large hands on her shoulders.

“It’ll pass. A trifling spell. Your new abilities should shake it off in a moment.”

“Laurent?” she asked, trying to blink away what felt like shards of glass stuck to her eyelashes. A drunken heaviness clung to her body.

“Garm will go after him. There’s no outrunning a hellhound. Sit, Alejandra. Laurent may not be a great magician, but it was a lucky shot.”

Instead of trying for the couch, Aleja sank to the floor. She wondered if she was about to throw up on Laurent’s dirty rug, but by the time she lurched forward, her mouth no longer tasted of bile. Nicolas loomed over her, looking nonchalant as ever, even though their sole lead had not only escaped but wasn’t even the one who’d created the binding circle at all.

It had been Violet.

Use this. You threw your morals out the window when you shook the Knowing One’s hand. Embrace this new freedom, screamed the voice. If Nicolas wanted his half of the power back, he had no choice but to help her follow Violet’s trail.

Unholy Wells. Dark Saints. A society of aging magicians who liked to get drunk and talk about what they’d do if they summoned the Knowing One. It was too much to process. The dog padded in a moment later, and Nicolas’s voice was sharp as he asked, “Where is he? You didn’t catch him?”

Garm gave a low whine. “The bastard had a pocket full of ironsalts. It obscured his tracks. He was prepared for a hellhound, Nic.”

“There’s fresh snow all over the ground. He must be leaving footprints,” Aleja said.

“Ironsalts affect me profoundly in this form, and someone decided I’ve been a bad dog who needs to spend time re-learning humility,” Garm said, with a pointed glance at Nicolas. “I cannot track Laurent.”

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