Page 53 of Traitor Witch

The crazed witch is staring into space, apparently bored by the horrible way my life is fracturing. But she must be here for more than that. My eyes take in the athame still in her hand and her subtle, yet confident stance.

I’m looking at my executioner, I realise. If I refuse, Alletta will kill me.

I stand no chance against a witch of her age, insane or not.

“Her Shadow obeys,” I whisper, because what other choice do I have? “I will find the person or persons who murdered Glenna and Felicity and bring them to justice.”

“You will accept her marks?”

I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, and I’m a little too numb to think about it, so I just bow my head in answer. “As the Moon Mother commands.”

“Alletta, you know what you must do. Nilsa… safe travels.”

I know I should, but I can’t meet her eyes as the glow of the water fades. I can’t meet Alletta’s either. I won’t while my own are still wet with unshed tears.

Opal’s tiny, furry head bops at my leg, offering me comfort.

I clench my jaw, blink away the evidence, and turn my best glare on Alletta.

But the other witch is already moving, snatching leaves and flowers from nearby plants as she goes. It’s not until she uproots a whole yarrow stalk that I put together what’s about to happen.

The marks the Goddess wants me to accept must be sigils.

I wince, remembering how the last ones hurt. I have thirteen in all and each one was agony. The coven sigil witch forced the Mother’s magic under the surface of my skin and bound it there with the blood and ink mixture.

Sigils inked into a witch’s body provide a magical shortcut, enabling us to perform spells without the words, prayers, and ingredients that are otherwise necessary. It’s a hundred times more painful for a witch to receive a sigil than it is for someone like Val. A thousand times worse than a human tattoo—or so I’ve been told by the Lunars who chose to decorate their bodies that way as well.

“How many?” I ask, hating the tremble in my voice.

“Oh, just enough for now.” Alletta smiles as she stops picking plants and leads me to an open piece of tiled roof beyond the planters, already laid out with a sheet and the inks.

My hands don’t shake as I unhook my cloak and start on the buttons of my shirt. This is my path now. I’ve borne this pain before. All that’s left to do is bear it again.

The shirt slips from my shoulders, and Alletta raises her brows.

I grimace and pull off my boots, checking that Glenna’s athame and the ring are still hidden inside before taking off my trousers as well. I don’t stop until I’m completely bare under the light of the rising moon. Opal hops up onto the planters and curls up, settling in for a long haul.

“Tell me something,” I say, lying face down on the soft sheet. “How did you call both Goddesses? The coven always said the power of both would kill any witch who tried.”

Alletta hums under her breath but doesn’t answer. She sets an incense cone burning in the dish beside us, the sweet fragrance of sage chasing away the spirits which might interfere with her work. That done, she adds her herbs to a bowl and crushes them, mixing them into the inks a little at a time and murmuring the prayers as she works.

It’s easy to forget how soothing the first stages are. I’ve almost dozed off by the time she takes up the traditional stick with its barbed silver end and dips it into the ink. She takes my head and turns my face away from her, pulling my hair back and exposing the space behind my right ear.

The first touch of silver against skin is like fire. The ice of moonlight burns as it sinks into my skin and I fist the sheet in an effort to remain still.

The second poke is worse, and I bite my lip to stay silent.

If I distract her or focus on anything other than shaping the magic with her, the sigil won’t take and will need to be done all over again.

“The first will let you understand spirits,” Alletta sing-songs.

“Understand spirits,” I echo, adding my will to her own, shaping the moonlight as it tears pathways into my soul.

It takes her ten minutes to finish, but she doesn’t grant me a reprieve. She slathers a herbal balm over the sigil, cooling the agony to bearable levels, then starts another just below it.

“Speak to spirits.”

I dutifully echo the words, though the last part is a groan as it begins all over again.