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Khalstorm tried to ignore the conversation happening right outside his cell, but the instanthername came up, he was immediately consumed by two contradictory emotions: boiling-hot rage and burning-hot desire. The former was welcome. The latter? Not so much.
Rayu and Orik, both high-ranking officers in the king’s guard, and dragon shifters like himself, had been demanding information from him for the last hour, wanting to know where the white-haired witch was. Jessie, a foreign witch from a planet called Earth—and Orik’s unlikely mate—stood patiently to the side.
Khalstorm knew of the white-haired witch only as Xanthia. She’s been haunting this dungeon like a specter for weeks now, had arrived in a terrible fright one seemingly average evening, and after a duration, had simply made herself at home . . . as if this subterranean lair under the castle was some kind of refuge, rather than a rank dungeon.
It was strange to see a witch sauntering around dragon territory as if she owned the place, none but the inmates any the wiser—kept silent about her presence through bribery. Though she came and went as she pleased, it was clear she was trapped here, same as them. But unlike the bars of the prisoners’ cells, made of unbreakable metal, hers seemed to be self-inflicted. She was hiding from something, but he’d never asked from whom or what. He didn’t care. She was a witch, and witches were contrary, manipulative, and, more often than not, evil. But then . . . so were many of his own kind. Dragons could be just as manipulative and conniving.
If this witch planned to make havoc for his jailers, who was he to intervene? Especially when there was nothing in it for him?
For their silence, she brought him and the others stolen treats nearly every day; pies and pastries and little cakes with flaky crusts stuffed with fruit filling. No better way to buy the loyalty of men forced to consume slop for every meal. Even though most of his fellow inmates hated her kind as much as Khalstorm did, none would have given her up without a damn good reason. Never had there been a better-fed lot of prisoners.
Yet still she was discovered. Her own fault, really. Just a few nights ago, she revealed herself to Jessie during a brief stay in the cell adjacent Khalstorm’s. It seemed Xanthia was about to break Jessie out, but something spooked the white-maned witch at the last second, making her vanish like a ghost in the darkness.
Later that week, all the prisoners had been interrogated for information about Xanthia’s whereabouts. But even were they inclined to talk, none had a clue of the witch’s whereabouts when she disappeared. She could have melted into the walls for all they knew. That was exactly what Khalstorm told Rayu and Orik this very evening, when they’d commenced with their annoying inquiry yet again.
But then, mere moments ago, in a surprising turn of events, Xanthia had revealed herself, popping into the dungeon like a damn genie summoned from a lamp.
Rayu was the first to react, unsheathing his sword.
Xanthia hadn’t appeared worried, though. She’d stood several feet out of reach and could just as easily pop away again if Rayu advanced. Witches called it sifting, the ability to move from one place to another in a near instant. The power to sift is what made fighting witches so frustrating. He recalled the disorienting sensation of stabbing out with a blade expecting to meet bone and gristle, only to meet air instead . . .moonlight filtered into the darkened room. The haunting image of blood pooling under a cooling body. Her eyes trapped in a blank stare. He beat back the hated memory.
Facing Xanthia, Orik wrapped his hand around his sword’s hilt, preparing to draw it. To Khalstorm, the potential carnage was a welcome distraction. Not a lot of entertainment down here in the dungeon. He leaned back, eager for a show, but Jessie stepped forward and defused the situation with a decisive swipe of her hand.
“Thank you for showing yourself, Xanthia,” said Jessie. “We mean you no harm.”
Xanthia’s dubious gaze traveled the length of Rayu’s sword. “Uh huh.”
Jessie cast Rayu a sharp look and he begrudgingly sheathed his sword, scowling back at her as he did so. Orik, too, forced himself to visibly relax, but Khalstorm knew the man quite well, and he was anything butrelaxedin the presence of a strange witch. For most his life, his policy on witches was to strike first and ask questions later. Khalstorm was in total agreement with that sentiment. He may have an uneasy truce with Xanthia inside these walls and behind these bars, but there was no way in hell he’d ever trust her on the outside.
He'd once made the mistake of trusting a witch.
Never again.
“I know what you want from me,” Xanthia said to Jessie.
Jessie glanced down at the glowing blue mark on her hand. Khalstorm didn’t know the details, but understood it was a hex. A tracking spell of some kind. Scorched into her flesh by a nefarious male witch whom she had inadvertently encountered.
Jessie sent Xanthia a hopeful look. “Can you remove it?”
“I can, but . . .” Xanthia hesitated.
“But what?” Jessie pressed.
“I need something first.”
“What’s that?” Jessie asked.
“My sister is being held in a dungeon much like this one and I need help rescuing her.”
“Who are her captors?”
“My old coven.”
Orik let out a low grumble. “You want us to risk all our lives for that of one dangerous witch?” As a young boy, Orik had been captured and tormented by a small group of witches for what had to be a hellish year. He’d barely escaped with his life. Understandably, he’d despised their kind for most of his adult life. Jessie being the exception.
“She’s not dangerous. She’s innocent.”
