Rosemary Thorne's Arc

Chapter 8 of 24

First light came gray through the kitchen window. Rosemary stood at the door with the jar in one hand and the green book open on the table behind her. She had read the reversal spell six times. She had never cast anything. The words felt like stones in a stream she couldn't cross. Damien sat on the floor with his back against the wall. The scar on his hand was pale. His white shirt hung open and his breath came shallow. "She won't announce herself," he said. "She'll just be there." "I know." "If you stumble on a word, stop. Start again. Don't finish it wrong." He looked at the jar. "Wrong finishes me." Rosemary nodded. Her hands would not stop shaking. She set the jar down and pressed her palms flat on the wood until they steadied. A shadow crossed the salt line. The witch came in her black cloak, hood back, white hair loose. The crow was not with her. She stepped onto the stone path and her boot came down where the salt was thickest. The claw took her through the sole. She made no sound. She looked down at her foot like it belonged to someone else, then lifted it clear. Blood ran off the iron and beaded on the salt. Rosemary was already moving. She knelt with the jar and caught what fell. Three fat drops. Four. The witch's hand came up. "Girl." A small voice piped from the fence. "What she spills is not what she gives. Pour before the poured runs cold." The gnome sat there in his purple hat, a cat in his lap. He did not stay to watch. Rosemary ran back inside. She set the jar on the book. Damien had dragged himself to the salt circle they'd drawn on the floor last night — the spot where the witch had stood the night she was repelled at the threshold. He lay inside it now, shirt open, chest bare. Rosemary read. Her voice broke on the second line. She stopped. She started again. She poured the blood along the line of his sternum, one careful stripe, and spoke the closing word. Damien arched off the floor. Something under his ribs pushed outward, then folded, then went still. He gasped once and dropped flat. The scar on his hand darkened, then faded to a thin white seam. Rosemary touched his shoulder. He was warm. He was only warm. Outside, the witch was gone from the path. A smear of blood led away through the beans. The trap was empty. The alligator crawled out from under the bench and licked salt off a stone. Damien opened his eyes. "It's out of me." "Yes." He looked at her hand on his shoulder. He did not move it away. But past the door, the blood trail bent into the trees, and whatever the witch was now, she was still walking.