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“I’m Broca, the ancient one.”
I roll my eyes at the old hag’s dramatics. She likes hyping herself up, which isn’t going to win her any points here.
“I don’t like witches,” Tori says.
“Good thing I’m not a witch then,” Broca tosses back, which only makes Tori look more nervous. She glances at me, but I don’t bother trying to explain Broca. No one can.
“Besides,” Broca goes on, studying the map of veins across Tori’s face and throat, “I don’t like anyone with darker magic than me, so I guess that makes us even.”
“You can sense dark magic on me?” Tori asks.
“In you,” Broca corrects. “I sensed it from a mile out. In here, it’s practically choking me.” She moves toward the bed, and Kendall stands, blocking Broca’s access.
“Get out of my way, halfling,” Broca says.
“Not until I know you’re here to help,” Kendall says.
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already,” Broca tells her, a sharp edge lacing her words. The air around her crackles with power, but Kendall doesn’t back down.
“Give me your hand.”
Broca rolls her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“Give me your hand, or leave.”
Broca casts me a glance, but I remain silent. The girl has a right to protect her own.
To my surprise, Broca merely scowls and places her hand in Kendall’s. Almost immediately, the crone’s face morphs into that of a woodland spirit followed quickly by a young woman with cascading red hair and smooth, youthful skin.
Kendall’s eyes narrow.
Tori gasps.
Broca rips her hand away, but her latest form remains. A young woman with unmarred skin and bright green eyes glares at Kendall accusingly. “What are you?” Broca demands.
“A halfling,” Kendall says with a smirk. “You said it yourself.”
“You have the sight. A powerful?—”
“She’s not going to hurt you,” Kendall tells Tori.
“You’re sure,” Tori says.
Kendall shrugs and steps back. “There’s a one in fifty chance but…” Kendall’s gaze flicks to me. “She won’t get far.”
I consider her meaning as Kendall steps back and Broca approaches Tori. The glaistig perches on the edge of the bed and reaches for Tori’s gloved arm.
Tori recoils. “You can’t.”
I expect the glaistig to ask why, but she only says, “Will your gloves protect me?”
“Yes, but…”
Broca takes Tori’s gloved hand in her own. “Hmm. What happens when you touch someone?”
“They die,” Tori says.
Broca pulls away, frowning. “How?”
