Page 5 of The Witch's Pet

I take two unsteady steps before I have to stop and catch my balance.

Beneath the haze and swirling ash, my body tingles. I rake my fingers through my hair, which is unusually tangled, then down my throat, where my pulse beats rapidly. I continue downward, running my palms over my white blouse, feeling my chest rise and fall, then down over my bodice and hips.

I’m all here.

A wintry wind makes my cloak flap against my calves and my hair whip around my face. I curl my toes. Beneath the hem of my brown trousers, my bare feet are on hot, dry ash, looking pale in the gathering darkness. Wet grass surrounds the ash.

Did…did someone attempt to burn me at the stake?

My hands fly back to my waist, checking for burns, for rope marks, for any evidence of what was done to me.

But no. There’s no stake. Just me standing in crumbling debris.

Indignation tightens my chest.Whereare my boots? Andwhyis my hair in this untamed state instead of its usual chignon? As a cold breeze sweeps over me, I tug my cloak shut and fasten the button to reclaim some control.

Heavy breathing comes to my attention, and it’s not my own.

The back of my neck prickles.

I snap my gaze to the source and raise my hands, ready to defend myself.

A young woman stands strides away on the grass—and if I thought I was dressed improperly, she puts me to shame. Her hair, the warm-gold color of autumn leaves, is so disheveled that I’m surprised birds have not taken up residence in it. And her garments! The fabric is like nothing I have seen, the material clinging to her legs as tightly as a second skin. She’s pretty in a delicate, breakable way, with soft features and a pale, freckled complexion. Her pink lips are open as she stares at me, her blue eyes wide with terror.

I curl my fingers, ready to feed. But my magic can wait a moment. Getting answers is more important.

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice surprisingly strong.

“I—I was going to ask the same!” Her words come out high-pitched and tremulous. She huffs and clenches her fists. “What are you doing in my yard?”

She’s inching backward as if she thinks she can sneak away.

I raise my hand, summoning my magic so I can stop her and force her to talk. “Leaving already?”

I ask the ground behind her to rise and bring her closer, but my power is sluggish, the effort of moving even a bit of dirt sending black spots across my vision. I create no more than a bump in the grass, which she trips over.

She catches her balance and looks down. “What the fuck was that?”

Hot frustration wells inside me, and I ball my fists, snarling. “What spell have you cast upon me?”

Her face is pale with fear, and she continues backing toward the house. “Nothing! I was just burning some stuff, and…”

I pause, searching her face. The tremor in her voice and her genuine confusion tell me she’s being truthful. She’s certainly no witch, and she’s fragile even for an ordinary human. I could snap her like a twig.

But my power is so weak I can barely feel it. It’s like my veins are filled with broken glass, each heartbeat sending shards through my body. My entrails have been replaced with a hollow ache as my essence cries out for sustenance. Every breath feels thin, like drowning in air.

I need a life force to feed on, and soon.

“This is not the Fort.” I take in the plain, gray houses all lined up. They’re strangely uniform, with excessively bright lights that sting the eyes.

Where is the riverbank? The wall?

A distant hum I cannot place nags at my ears, like harsh wind or a roaring sea. Even the air is unfamiliar, foul-smelling and sour. It burns my throat and makes my stomach queasy.

I gesture at everything and nothing. “Where am I?”

“My house?” the girl says uncertainly.

“Yes, but where?” I bark, the hunger making me snappy.