My thoughts tumble. Devour. He’s hungry. And I’m a Farewitch—that’s it! Using precious seconds, I reach into my backpack and yank out a plastic container.
The hounds lunge just as I chuck the contents of the container over their heads.
Feral and starving, they pounce for the bait, stopping their attack long enough to demolish the food.
Notjustfood. Honey bourbon bread pudding. For insomnia.
One by one, the dogs stretch, yawn, stomp the grass in circles, and plop down, eyelids heavy. The dessert is harmless—I brought it in case my brain was too wired to sleep—but it worksfast. Soon, the vicious demons become fur-balls no more dangerous than Beauregard.
Our path to the footbridge is clear. For now.
The Warlock’s head falls back against my chest. “You’re brilliant.” Hands still cupped under my thighs, he pulls my legs tighter around him, like he has no intention of moving. “I admit, the dogs are a surprise.”
He’s shaking. Or I am. I press my cheek into the top of his head, greedy for the smell of soil and thyme that reminds me of the Manor. Of safety. Home.
“We need to go to the gym,” I say, breathing heavily. “Do some cardio.”
“I have a few ideas—”
He doesn’t get to finish. In a matter of seconds, my vision of the cottage and sleeping hounds vanishes in a gray cyclone swirling around us, and then my feet are off the ground and I’m spinning, spinning—
Quick as it begins, the carnival ride from hell ends.
From the air, we drop a few feet to the earth. My ears pop, like we’ve emerged in some pressurized dome. I stumble to my feet, disoriented but determined to be ready for whatever’s next. Beside me, the Warlock does the same, looking up to see where we’ve landed.
The front porch of the Widow Witch’s cottage.
That was the pop—we must be inside her own personal bubble ofwarding now. Her winds whipped us here like we’re paper cutouts. Not far off from how I feel right now, fragile enough to tear. Just as I catch my first full breath, the cottage’s front door swings open.
But it’s not the Widow Witch on the threshold.
It’s Gertha Fudge.
Well, notquiteGertha Fudge.
Same dark skin and short frame, which swims in a black kaftan dress. Like Gertha, her white hair, streaked with pearlescent gray, sits atop her head in braids. They could be twins, except the Witch’s wrinkled and sagging face is an even older copy of the already-aged church lady. Impossibly, this woman has to be generations older than Gertha.
The Widow Witch crosses her arms. “You sedated my hounds, girl.” Same voice, too, but cracked and deep. Old. Tired.
My heart pounds. “They’ll be fine. It was only a recipe for sleep.”
“Farewitches,” she sneers. Her dark eyes twinkle with a wicked bitterness that sends horripilation over my neck. “A crafty one. I’m not surprised you keep her company, Knight.” Her gaze at last travels to the Warlock.
He gives her a terse nod. I think he’s about to bite a molar in two. “Okolona.”
I suppress a gulp. This is the very person who cursed him, the Witch who is the reason he and a little boy are inching toward death. But the thought of Lazlo gives me the courage to look her in the eye. “I’m Honey Frost. Nice to meet you.”
Momaw stressed manners.
“You owe us a new foyer.”
Manners,sometimes. I don’t dare bring up the barn or church.
“If you’re going to make demands,” the Witch says, “you best come inside. I have a sonker cooking.”
“Honey is off-limits, Okolona,” the Warlock says, his voice raspy. “If a morsel of your magic touches her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? With what power? I can’t even sense your magic. Not a spark.”
