Page 3 of A Curse So Vile

The woman snatched the coins greedily, licking her lips and biting into one before shoving them into her purse.

“Now let’s get started. Ole Mother Gammy needs ta see what’s in ya blood. Now give me yer hand.”

Brenna obeyed, cringing when clammy flesh took hold of her. The woman pressed the pad of each finger until finally she seemed satisfied and pulled out a dagger.

Brenna tensed but did not pull away. She was used to this by now, as this was her fourteenth visit to a witch in the last five years. Just the fact that she had the dagger put her above half.

The hag pressed the blade to her finger, piercing Brenna’s flesh, then she pinched and pressed until a pearl of blood welled where smooth skin was but a moment ago.

“Not a fainter, I see.”

The hag brought the finger to her thin lips, sucking the tip, but as the blood touched her tongue, the hag’s face contorted in horror.

“You’re Denithian!” the crone rasped.

“You’re good and true,” Brenna said, impressed with the witch.

The witch’s lips quivered. “The curse is strong…no—savage.”

“Surely there must be something that can be done?” Brenna pleaded. “I’ll do anything. If it’s gold you want, it’s yours.”

The woman’s cheeks puffed out, her tongue working its way in and out of her mouth like a maggot. Brenna felt ill just looking at the sickly crone, but she would not divert her eyes. With so many false witches in the world, she’d gladly suffer the dastardly presence of one who’s authentic.

“Your troubles run deep—to the very marrow of your bone,” the witch said.

“Please. Everywhere I go, they tell me stupid things. I’ve drunk so many rancid concoctions. I just—I just…” She felt defeated, knowing she had so little time left, and that her best chance at breaking the curse sat across from her looking…cryptic.

Finally, the witch said, “Ye been looking in all the wrong places, girl.” She rose from her seat, gathered a few scattered jars, and set to work, throwing herbs and powders into an old, chipped bowl.

“Tell me then, where should I be looking?”

Long minutes passed as the witch toiled, ignoring Brenna’s many questions, and when she finally set the concoction she’d made down on the table, it nearly made her stomach turn over.

“Gimme yer hand,” said the crone.

She extended her hand again, and the woman pressed the cut finger until a drop of blood fell into the bowl. Then she added a reddish liquid to it and slid it across the table. “Drink.”

Brenna scrunched her nose, disguised by the foul-smelling cup, but took it into her hand anyway, choking the fluid down. She would do anything to rid herself of her affliction.

“As I said, ye been lookin’ fer answers in all the wrong places.”

Brenna forced a smile and lifted the emptied cup. “Good thing I found you.”

The witch cackled. “Yer answer wasn’t in that cup, girl.”

Brenna’s brow knit in confusion. “Pardon?”

“You’ll only be awake for another minute, so listen up. The answer lies not in what ye chant or what ye drink. It lies in a heart. The heart of a noble man.”

“You want me to eat the heart of a nobleman?” Brenna asked. “Which one?”

“No, no-no-no. Listen. You’ll find this man, and he won’t seem so special at the time, but he’s yer only hope.”

“Where is he?”

“He’ll be the seventh person ye see upon waking.”

The room shifted and whirled. Brenna grew suddenly dizzy, her head feeling like lead.