“One night, when I was busy with other things, she left the house. She didn’t come back. I looked, but I never found her. I know he killed her.”
“How could you know?”
“Teyolloquani, they make their magic with blood. They drink the blood, they eat the heart. If someone is favored, the blood is potent, and my Elena had the gift, too. He ate her heart raw.”
“I know Arturo—”
The woman smirked. “You know the pretty mister in his suits. You don’t know the warlock that turns his enemies into animals. Or maybe you simply don’t want to see him clear.”
She slowly lifted one of the hands she’d kept in her lap, under the folds of her long shawl. Three fingers were missing from the hand, the stumps ending at the second knuckle. She remained serene; she was like a saint exhibiting the wounds of her martyrdom.
“After Elena went missing, I tried to kill him. I failed and nearly paid with my life for my failure.”
“Your fingers…he couldn’t have done that.”
“Bitten off. By a wild animal. Just like a wild animal bit the throat of your friend.”
“Arturo is not a monster.”
“He can make monsters.”
“But he isn’t—”
The saint gave way to a woman who spoke in a hoarse voice, balling her hands tight. “He smells of carrion if you wash away thecologne. You have a gift; you know I speak the truth. Maybe you’re as foolish as Elena, or worse than her.”
Alba squeezed her eyes shut. Neither one said a word, not for a long time. When she opened her eyes, the woman had hidden her hands away again.
“Someone told me you tie a rope; you tie it, and you speak—”
“He’s stronger than that. Words don’t bind him.”
“Then what can stop a sorcerer?”
“Nothing. Take your pistol and leave. I warned your brother back when it might have done some good. I told your brother to send him away, and maybe he might have gone. Now he has the scent of blood, now he’s tasted prey.”
“But there are stories of how to subdue a witch. Bullets! Bullets that are blessed!”
“You’ve seen what he did to me. No bullets will nick his skin. Certain tricks will work on lesser warlocks, but not him.”
“Valentín, he told stories, and the knots worked! They did…the…I killed…so something else…something must be possible,” she said, and then she couldn’t speak because the memory of her dead brother, of the mess of feathers and flesh that dissolved between her fingers, was too powerful.
She pushed her chair back, grabbed her pistol, and stood up, yanking aside the thin curtain that led to the entrance. She looked back at the woman, who sat with the shawl pulled tight against her body.
“Tell me, if only for the sake of the child you lost,” Alba said.
They stared at each other. The woman shifted in her chair.
“There is one story,” Perpetua said, and her voice was a murmur. “It’s about a young woman who finds herself under the spell of a sorcerer. He flies into her room each night and bites her on the neck. For six nights this happens, and her family is distraught, because each day she grows weaker and sicker, but on the seventh day her brothers consult a wisewoman.
“The wisewoman tells them to burn a painting of their mother, who loved the girl and has died. Mix the ashes with salt and thecrushed wing of a moth and place them in a cup filled with wine. Whisper to the wine, telling it to protect the young woman. Then have the girl drink the wine and open the window to the chamber so that the sorcerer may fly in. The wisewoman tells them the sorcerer will drink from the girl, but the blood will be like a slow poison to him. His veins will be filled with the drugged wine and he will fall asleep. Then, when he is unconscious, the brothers must walk in and cut off his head.
“They do as they’ve been told and burst into the room. They find the sorcerer asleep and cut off his head. But when they turn to their sister, they realize her body is cold and dead.” Slowly, Perpetua pressed her hands against the table, her eyes fixed on Alba’s own. “That is the story I know.”
“Thank you,” Alba said.
Then the witch nodded and extinguished the candle.
—
