Page 112 of Beyond the Cottage

“Watch this,” Gretta said. She crouched beside the witch, out of arm’s reach. “Damn, lady! You reek worse than your hovel. Are you the type who saves their piss in jars?”

The witch snarled. She thrust her hand, blasting Gretta with mystical energy. It barely ruffled her ponytail.

Gretta grinned at Ansel.

Expression thoughtful, he came closer and crouched beside her, hovering his palm above the witch. “I can’t even feel her magic.”

“I know, right? When you’re done with her, I need you to go through her junk. I’m pretty sure we’re looking for a jewelry box.”

Ansel studied the witch, jotting in the notepad he’d borrowed from Gretta. He mostly kept his distance, but he poked her once with his pencil, provoking another magic blast.

He looked down at himself and waved his palm above her. Then jotted some more. When he finished, he snapped the notebook shut and started searching through the junk piled around them.

Gretta sank into a musty armchair and kicked her feet up on an ottoman. She got to interrogate asecondwitch in one week.

“I hear you’ve been a busy little minx,” she said to the writhing mass on the floor.

“Fuck—”wheeze“—you.” The witch’s labored breathing distorted the words, but her voice was beautiful, musical.

Gretta reached down and ripped a pendant off her neck. “Say that one more time.”

“Fuck you!” The bitch’s real voice would make bullfrogs cringe.

Gretta held the pendant up to the weak sunlight. It was made of clear, hollow glass with yellow vapor swirling inside. When she brought it closer, the vapor brightened, casting a glow on Gretta’s face. A mournful, wordless melody played in her mind.

She put down the necklace and leaned forward. She hadn’t found Heron’s sister in the cottage, and there wasn’t much chance the witch would volunteer intel, but Gretta had to try. “I’m looking for the nereid you snatched. Her name’s Cattail. Blue hair and skin, tall, pretty.”

The witch cracked a smile that became a grimace.

Gretta flashed her knife. “Ring any bells?”

No answer, but she didn’t really need one. Her gut already knew.

She settled her forearms on her thighs, dangling the knife between her knees. “So how does this all work, anyway? Do witches have some kind of overlord, or are you freelance evil?”

“I bow. To no one.”

“Then how did you get like this? Is your species born corrupt?”

Groaning, the witch tried to sit. She collapsed, clutching her stomach.

“Actually,” Gretta said, “let’s start with the basics. Were you born at all?”

“Of course…I was born…you ignorant…sow.”

“Where?”

“Far away.”

The same useless answer Isobel had given. They may not have an overlord, but they’d gotten the same memo.

Gretta flashed her knife again. “If you tell me where you come from, I’ll end your suffering. I hear gut wounds are a bitch.”

The hag’s mouth twisted in a blood-stained sneer.

Gretta sighed. Did the answer really matter? Whether witches came from another country or another planet, they existed. And now they were a disease with preventable symptoms, thanks to Ansel’s repellent.

“Alright, you’re off the hook.” Gretta raised her knife, ready to finish it. Then hesitated. “Real quick—do you have aunties?”

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