Page 80 of A Game Cursed and Deadly

I turn the book toward Tei. “Is this what a grimoire is supposed to look like?”

He frowns. “Not a finished one. This looks like she was still building it when she died.”

Nausea claws up my trachea. “Why would that be?”

Tei shakes his head, grabbing the book from me and flipping the pages. “We can’t be sure. But it’s fairly safe to say that if your family has an ancestral grimoire, we won’t find it here.”

Does that mean this entire trip was for naught? I fight against tears stinging the back of my eyes.

Tei’s free arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest. “It doesn’t mean this book won’t help us, Es.”

I curl my fists around his shirt. “I know, but…”

The sound of metal grinding drowns out my words. The rose mechanism on the door turns.

Tei looks back to Mei.

“Go,” he orders, and the ghost disappears in a puff of dust and smoke. Then he pulls me away from him and pushes me behind him, his body between me and the door. I wish my heart didn’t skip at his gesture.

When the door finally opens, a short woman stands on the other side, only her silhouette visible against the darkness of night. As she steps into the crypt, the light from the oil lamps illuminates her golden skin, the wild black curls on her head, the green of her eyes, a much more hazel version of my own.

“Intrusos,” she hisses, her eyes traveling from me to Tei. “Què fas aquí?”

chapter 38

uninvited guests

teizel

The woman standing at the entrance of the crypt is most definitely a witch, and though she’s about Esme’s age, she’s far more experienced. She squares us both head to toe, eyes traveling from one to the other, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Even without Mei hanging around to strengthen the speculation, there’s no question in my mind that she suspects we’re not human, though it seems she’s never met one of my kind before — or else, she’d know on the spot. Instead, she watches us, as if the truth could reveal itself if she only searches hard enough for it.

“We mean no harm,” Esme says in Catalan, side stepping me with her hands held up high. I take a step forward, determined to keep myself between the two of them for some cursed reason.

“How did you get past the wards?” the witch asks, one hand on her hip where she keeps a small pouch, no doubt filled with spelled objects she could use to hurt or contain us. Or attempt to, at least.

From this distance, it’s hard to catch her scent clearly. Esme’s is just so much more potent. Despite that, if I focus hard enough on the second witch, I catch whiffs of orange and bergamot. It does remind me of Esme’s, but it’s far less sweet, less bright. At best, it’s a muddy reflection of my little witch.

Esme is more powerful than whoever this relative of hers is. She just has no idea of how to use her magic.

“I pricked my finger on the thorn,” Esme says, unilaterally deciding honesty is the best policy here. “It let us in.”

The other witch’s eyes widen to full circles. “I don’t…”

“My name is Esmeralda Parella.”

The other witch sucks in a breath. She steps closer, her head tipped to one side. Esme goes to step toward her as well, but I hold her back.

“It’s fine,” she reassures me. I don’t know if she realizes she spoke in Catalan to me, too, but it clenches my chest to see how at ease she is doing so. As if she was meant to all along.

I fit my arm back tightly by my side. Esme steps ahead, meeting the other witch halfway. The woman grips Esme’s chin in her hand, twisting her face side by side. I growl a warning, but neither of the witches pays me any attention.

“You’re Borja’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”

Esme nods. “And you are?”

“Merda,” the witch swears under her breath. She lets Esme go and runs that same hand over her face. “Marta Parella Joya.”

I don’t need to see Esme’s face to know she’s smiling. I scent it in the way her perfume brightens, smelling of sugared apricots. “It’s nice to meet you.”