Page 72 of To Hunt a Demon King

“Okay, then,” I said, "let's try the herbalist first.”

I dragged Carnon from shop to shop, haggling over the prices of herbs and flowers in what I hoped was an expert way. The gold that Carnon used seemed to be worth roughly the same as witch gold, and I was able to convince the vendors to lower their prices a great deal by telling them exactly where I could go to find what I was looking for if they didn’t.

Carnon looked grudgingly impressed as I filled a pack with herbs and oils and small vials of crushed gems from the apothecary. My soul began to settle with the addition of each useful item in my arsenal.

The curiosity seller didn’t have anything particularly useful, but the antique vendor had a silver athamé, tarnished from years of neglect. I ran my thumb over the handle, finding the sign of the triple moon carved within.

“How much?” I asked the seller. Carnon raised his brows, but didn’t argue when I asked him to hand over two silvers.

“I could get you a much better dagger than this, Red,” Carnon said, examining the athamé as I tried not to look too pleased with the purchase, lest the vendor charge us more.

“It’s not a dagger,” I said, stroking the blade reverently. “It’s a silver athamé. A ceremonial witch blade.” Carnon’s brows climbed even higher at this pronouncement, and I laughed.

“I wonder how it ended up here?” he asked, turning the witch blade over in his hands. “What’s it for?”

“Lots of things,” I said, taking the blade and rolling it up in the scrap of leather it had come wrapped in. “Usually to draw a sacred circle, or channel fire. Sometimes to cut specific herbs for a spell.”

“So, not for attacking a quarrelsome lover?” he joked. I tsked.

“No blood magic, remember?” I asked, rising on my toes to kiss his cheek. “And if I were to stab you, I’d do it with a properly sharp blade.”

He laughed. “I just bet you would, Red.”

Chapter 27

As predicted, we hadn’t found anything even close to a witch mirror, but I hoped I could use what I had found to cast some kind of scrying or divination spell. I racked my brain as we walked back to Cerridwen and Herne’s home, trying to remember all of the spells I could that might be remotely useful. Most required rune stones, or cards, but a few could be done with mirrors. Maybe I could improvise a little to make this work.

“So, what’s the plan, Red?” Carnon asked, his arm around my shoulders as he led me back to the house.

“I think I’m going to cast a scrying spell,” I said, chewing on my bottom lip. “If Cerridwen has a small hand mirror, I should be able to at least seewheremy mother is.”

“Will you wait for me?” he asked, stopping at Cerridwen’s door and tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.

“Where are you going?” I asked, frowning at him.

He gave me a grim smile. “I need to make us an appointment with the king,” he said, making my stomach plummet a little. “And it’s been too long since I checked in. But I’ll be back tonight.” He bent and brushed a kiss across my cheek. “Don’t cast the spell without me?”

“Alright,” I said, still frowning.

“And don’t leave this house,” he added as an afterthought.

My frown deepened. “What am I supposed to do all afternoon by myself?” I shouted, as he started off back toward the street.

He threw me a wink. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

As it happened, Cerridwen had thought of something herself to keep me busy.

“I am really not the right person to help you with this,” I said, eyeing the apron with apprehension. “My last pie was disastrous.”

“All the more reason to practice,” Cerridwen said brightly. She hadn’t bothered with the glamour today, and I was almost used to the horns and wings. I had to make sure to give her space to navigate the tiny kitchen, but eventually we established a rhythm, with me rolling out the crust and Cerridwen chopping fruit for the filling.

When Carnon returned two hours later, we were laughing over the pie, which was perfectly cooked, but looked like a small child had rolled the dough.

“Baking is not really my strong suit,” I said by way of explanation when Carnon raised his brow at us. My apron was covered in flour while Cerridwen’s was pristine, and I must have looked ridiculous with the misshapen blob of a pie.

“Tastes fine,” Cerridwen said, chewing on the massive forkful she had taken from the pie’s center. “That’s all that really matters.”

“You’re a barbarian,” Carnon said, looking aghast at the hole in the middle of the pie, which I added to by taking my own bite. He turned his horror on me, and Cerridwen shrugged, taking another bite.

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