Page 29 of The Witch and His Crow

My jaw ached as my teeth ground together. Why did I feel the need to prove his theories wrong? His opinion meant nothing. No one’s did. And yet here I stood, power thrumming beneath my skin, facing this unbearable man. Steadying my emotions,not enjoying my inner turmoil, I forced a smile and stepped back.

Arguing with him was pointless. He was my rival. Whether or not he saved me, Arwyn would try and kill me eventually. It was the name of the game.

‘Thank you, Arwyn, for saving me the task of killing that witch. But I can assure you, I won’t need your help again.’

‘We’ll see.’

I turned my back on him, eyes rolling in my skull. ‘Yes, we will.’

Fingers grasped my wrist, holding me in place. His touch was warm, his palm smooth. I looked down at my wrist, dumfounded. His long fingers wrapped easily around me, making me feel inadequate. And yet my stomach practically summersaulted just feeling his evident strength. I could have pulled away, could have used my power and blasted the fucker into one of the bookcases. Instead I stood there, my heart hammering in my chest just at the knowledge he still held me in place.

‘I got the impression you wanted me to go,’ I said, knowing I should’ve demanded he take his hand off me.

‘Hector,’ Arwyn exhaled, saying my name as though he held unspoken regrets. Using his grasp on my wrist, he lifted my arm up and then dropped it. His touch tingled across my skin, so much so it distracted me. Then he rearranged the book he had propped under his arm and placed it in my hand.

‘Are you starting a book club now?’ I asked.

His chuckle was as smooth as silk, yet his voice rasped slightly as though he needed to clear his throat. ‘Not that I should be fraternising with fellow contestants, but I think you’ll find the topic of the book ratherinsightful.’

There were places on the red cover that were warm, and spots which were cold. Arwyn’s hand had left his imprint on thebook, just as he had on my skin. ‘No offence, but my type of novels are riddled with smut. I hardly imagine our tastes would be aligned.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

Hell, help me.

Arwyn cleared his throat as my eyes settled on the book. There were no words on the cover, nor on the spine. It was clearly well loved as the edges were frayed and the pages yellowed with time.

When he spoke again, it was as though he leaned into my ear. His cool breath worked across my skin, the scent of rosewood and pine following. ‘You heard Jonathan’s speech about the previous Grand High leaving clues to each of the trials. If you know where to look, it can help you prepare for what is to come.’

My mother. Arwyn was speaking aboutmymother. Somehow, him mentioning the Grand High made the atmosphere buzz with her presence. I took my eyes off the book, scanning the room, wondering if she had stood here as I did. Grief struck at me, silent as a viper striking from within a basket. It hurt, but not until after the fact.

Hiding my sudden shift in emotion, I cracked the book open, turning to the first page to find gold-leafed lettering imprinted upon it.

‘Open it,’ Arwyn said, so quietly I was certain the shadows spoke. ‘Tell me what you see.’

I did as he asked, tracing my eyes over the two words.

‘The Culling,’ I read aloud, drinking in the beauty of the calligraphy. Something made me trace a finger over the handwriting, as though I could imprint it in my skin. I knew I’d seen it before, on letters left on the sideboard when I was a child, or written onto my back as mother depicted stories of the great Eleanor Letcombe to help me get to sleep.

This was my mother’s handwriting.

‘Next time, try and find it before I do,’ Arwyn said, stepping back away as I lost myself to my mother’s writing. It wasn’t until he said the next words that I bothered to look up. ‘Good luck, Hector.’

‘How do you know this is a—’ I stopped speaking, aware that I stood alone in the library. Only the phantom warmth of a body at my side proved that Arwyn had stood beside me. Scanning the room, I searched every reachable place for him. But there was nothing. And yet I still felt the pressure of his gaze on me, filtering across my face, directly to the dried cut mark left from the fallen chandelier. My fingers touched the wound, covering it a second before the sensation dissipated.

By the time I looked back down at the open book, the writing had faded. The page was empty. I flipped through the following, knowing I would find nothing of importance.

Next time, try and find it before I do.

I dropped the useless book, stepping over it, annoyed at just how easily I was disarmed. Arwyn could’ve been fulfilling some need to help me, only to turn on me when I least expected. Clever—it was certainly something I would’ve done.

I understood why Arwyn had stayed away from the feast for a reason. He had the foresight to look for the first clue, and had found it. Which meant there was only one reason he could possibly be so prepared.

Suspicion reared its ugly head, just as I moved towards the door. I dared contemplate that I had just stood in the room with Jonathan’s champion. A Witch Hunter. How else would he have had access to such information?

But before I could dwell on it, a deafening sound rung out across the castle. The chime of a bell. A signal to the start of the first trial. The Culling. I’d heard it before, but the sudden shift in danger made thinking about anything but survival, impossible.

My answer came before the ringing ceased, in the form of blood curdling screams. It was the song of pain and fear.

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