Page 77 of A Legacy of Poison and Lies

An old woman sat opposite, thick grey curls falling over her shoulders, her dark green dress hugging her petite frame in mismatched pieces of knitted fabric. Crystal-adorned jewels sat heavily around her neck and on each finger, and every hair on Zylah’s arms stood on end as ancient, primal power bled from the woman, wrapping around the space, pushing and poking at Zylah as if it were a living, breathing thing.

She schooled her expression to remain blank, silently scolding herself for not turning back and leaving the shop the moment she’d set foot in it.

“Just in time,” the woman said, her voice far lighter than Zylah had expected.Deceiving.“The tea’s just finished steeping.”

Zylah had no control over her legs as she sat in the empty chair, but she didn’t reach for the tea. Even without her knowledge of plants, she’d had too much first-hand experience with poisoned drinks to take something from a stranger, let alone someone who seemed older and more dangerous than anyone she’d ever met. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her fingers twitching to move against her will as she said, “I’m not much of a tea drinker. But thank you for the gracious offer.”

The woman’s lips turned up into something resembling a smile, but it was cold, empty. “You’re the first customer to step into my shop with half a brain for some time.” She assessed Zylah with cool grey eyes. “But it will help your ailment. It certainly soothes mine.” She took a sip from her cup, but Zylah still wasn’t convinced. The old woman could have built up a tolerance to whatever was in the tea and used this as part of her ploy to make others drink without hesitation.

But…Your ailment. If alarm bells hadn’t already been sending Zylah’s heart pounding in her chest, those two words had her casting a glance over the woman’s shoulder again for any sign of a hidden exit, despite having already looked twice. She resisted the urge to reach for a dagger—for all the good it would do—twisting her sweaty palms in her cloak instead.

This close, she could make out the flicker of a deceit that settled over the woman from head to toe, only there was no trace of what it hid beneath. She let her magic tug at the invisible veil, only to feel unseen claws rake at her attempt.

Zylah pictured a wall of vanquicite, imagined herself holding it in place before whatever this woman was.

She was no human, that much Zylah knew.

The old woman smirked, but no trace of humour shone in her eyes. “I saw your soul the moment you stepped into my shop, little fly,” she said, as if she knew precisely what Zylah had attempted.

Zylah said nothing.

Willed the colour not to drain from her cheeks as she held the woman’s gaze. There would be no running; her feet still weren’t responding, her thoughts swirling into each other as if they were under that layer of oil.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” the old woman said. “Your grandmother’s, too.” There was a trace of emotion in her voice, but Zylah couldn’t pinpoint what.

And no matter how much her heart soared at the words, the mention of her family, she didn’t take the bait.

If the woman was trying to catch her in her web, what better way than to reel her in with lies about those she’d lost?

“Oh, I know more about you than just your family, Zylah. I know everything about you. I know you’re searching for Malok’s key in the hopes of securing his army. I know you’re slowly dying from the vanquicite lodged in your spine. I know all about your little bargain back in Kerthen. I even know who your m—”

“That’s enough.” Zylah levelled her with a stare, willing herself to think of nothing else the old woman could latch on to, to find a way out of this that didn’t end up with parts of her in jars along the shelves. She didn’t want to remind herself about the bargain she’d made in Kerthen when she was desperate, how she’d so recklessly agreed to the terms laid out for her. “What do you want?”

“Don’t you want to know who I am?”

Something about her seemed familiar, but Zylah couldn’t pinpoint what.

For a heartbeat, she saw a hint of pointed ears beneath the deceit, but they were gone as quickly as Zylah had seen them. “If you were going to tell me, you would have already.” The words were difficult, and she clenched her jaw around the magic’s hold. “What is it that you want from me?”

The woman drained the last of her tea, settled her cup on the small table between them and gave the slightest of shrugs. It was a strange movement. As if it came from whatever, orwhoeversat beneath the deceit, as if it were not a gesture belonging to the woman speaking. “I want what you want. To find Malok’s key.”

“Then you know why I seek it.”

“Yes.” The woman sighed, spinning an emerald ring on her finger. “Marcus has become a bit of a thorn, hasn’t he? Men usually overstay their welcome, and he is no exception. His time of playing king is over.”

“And I suppose you’ve a replacement in mind?” Zylah tried again to tug at the deceit, more carefully this time, feeling for snags as if it were a fine fabric.

The woman was quiet. “You won’t be able to pull back my deceit, little fly. Though I must say, it irks me that I cannot pull back yours.”

“I don’t—”

“Not intentionally, no. But one exists, nonetheless.” She rose from her chair, crystals swaying across her chest. “As for the key. I wanted to know whether you were truly capable of retrieving it.”

Because of the vanquicite. Because Zylah didn’t know how much time she had left, and somehow, something told Zylah, this woman did.

You told me once you have nothing to lose. Do you still feel that way?

No.

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