Gideon had been rushing since he got the message. The Danforth Keep was on the opposite end of Salem, as far away from the Citadel as one could get without breaching the city walls. And he’d had to traverse the city at first light, when every greentower was undergoing preparation to capture the scant hours of sunlight left during the autumn months. The traffic was murder, but unfortunately, there was no way to bring Danforth closer to the Citadel.
His father’s keep had been originally built to protect the Danforth family from the witches, and then later when witches and mechanics were found in the Danforth line, it became a satellite to the Citadel on the other side of town. It was widely known that Gideon’s ancestor, the original Thomas Danforth, was the judge who sent half of Salem to the pyre. Gideon supposed that his father, the current Thomas Danforth, was not so different in temperament from his predecessor. Since the trials, hanging had become the customary way to execute all enemies of the Witch State, and many in Salem had dangled because of Thomas’s dedication to rooting out the scientist heretics for the Lady of Salem.
Gideon had gotten word from Carrick that his father wanted him to come directly to the dungeons, and Gideon shivered as he descended the many steps. He hated how medieval it was down there, but he knew that the cold and dark were necessary to deplete a witch. Even the solid stone construction served a purpose, no matter how ghastly it looked in the pale glow of magelight. The naturally occurring stone of the area, good old granite, had a hefty dose of quartz crystal in it. The single, clock-like vibration of quartz acted as a buffer from the varied and mutable vibrations created in willstones. If the walls of granite were thick enough, they could keep a witch protected from the magic of another—or keep her cut off from the outside. A witch could still do magic inside a granite keep, but it was nearly impossible for her spells to penetrate its walls.
At least, usually it was. Gideon knew that a witch as powerful as Lillian could do just about anything she wanted, which was why he was rushing when normally he would have waited for the greentower farmers to get where they were going before trying to brave the gridlock. His father wasn’t a mechanic. Thomas was a politician. He had no idea how powerful this Lily could potentially be.
Gideon arrived at the lowest level of the keep. He looked down and saw a slip of a witch with short, platinum-blonde hair lying on the damp floor in front of his father. Her whisper-thin dress barely kept her decent. She shivered and shook on the ground. Tears streamed from between her shut eyes. She was mostly unconscious, but still crying in agony. Gideon had to look closely to recognize her face, but the angular features, alabaster skin, and those heart-shaped lips that were so like Juliet’s were exactly the same. She was Lillian, but not Lillian. Carrick stood over her with something gleaming in the palm of his hand. Gideon froze when he realized what he was holding.
“You’ll kill her.” Gideon strode forward and offered his handkerchief. “At least put them in silk.”
“She’s managed this long,” Thomas said indifferently.
“Carrick, put them down.” Gideon allowed a hint of malice to enter his voice as he said the Outlander’s name. Really, it was beyond the pale that a drub was allowed to fondle a witch’s willstones, let alone a drub who had gone behind his back and played up to his father. He’d given Carrick too much power by making him a captain. But he’d deal with Carrick later. “Father, a witch’s bond with her stone is much deeper than the average person’s. This could injure her to the point where she’s of no use to you.”
His father nodded quickly, not wanting their prize too damaged. Carrick balked. After a moment, he reluctantly slid all three stones into the silk handkerchief Gideon had proffered. He obviously didn’t want to give up the feeling of strength coursing through him at the touch of a great witch’s stones. Gideon knew the feeling. Even through the silk, he could feel the thrum of power reaching into him. It was intoxicating.
The girl curled up into a ball. She tucked her knees under her chin, her ribs still shuddering with sobs. The crying stopped, but she began to whimper. Gideon opened his hand and saw the three stones.
“We’ll have to move her. Get her out of the city. Lillian can never know about this,” his father was saying fearfully, but Gideon was only half listening. “She can’t stay here. I won’t risk getting caught imprisoning a witch.”
“But where? There aren’t many prisons that can hold her,” Carrick said.
“I know where we can take her,” Gideon replied testily. Lillian had just reminded him of the perfect place not six months ago, asking if it was still of use. She hadn’t explained why she needed it, but when he had checked it out for her, he’d found that it was sound. “It’s old and very strong.”
“Is she going to die?” Thomas asked.
“No,” Gideon replied. He forced himself to hold only the edges of the silk so the stones swung free of his touch. He felt the lack of her essence immediately and understood something about Rowan that he hadn’t before. “We need to discuss this, Father.”
“I should think so,” Danforth said with a satisfied smile. “The Council will have to believe us now.”
“No,” Gideon interrupted. “Don’t tell them yet. Why should they benefit when they were too spineless to back us in the first place?”
“We’re going to need support, son,” Danforth said.
“Yes.” Gideon stared at the girl, his mind turning over rapidly. “But after we figure out how to control her for ourselves.” He looked at Carrick. “Do you know how to spirit walk at all?”
The Outlander looked away and shook his head. “But I know of one who does. The shaman.”
“Find him,” Gideon ordered. “In the meantime, I’ll work with her.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” Thomas asked. “With her stones she could crush us, and without her stones she’s like this,” he said, gesturing to the girl’s prone body.
Gideon looked down at the stones in his hand again. Golden, rose, and smoke. Something clicked in his head. He had no idea what it meant that Lily had every color of willstone possible, but he knew one thing. The fact that there was more than one made him the luckiest man in the world.
“Yes, but there are three of them, father. Three willstones,” Gideon said excitedly. The idea was still solidifying in his thoughts. He removed the huge smoke stone from his palm and held it in his other hand. He looked at his father and found understanding and approval. “Divide and conquer.”
* * *
Lily dreamed of the Woven. They were chasing her through the forest. Their bodies were a jumble of fur and barely stitched-together skin. Raw bones showed through their sores, and their eyes and tongues were rotting in their heads. One of them looked like it was half human, half boar—caught in the middle of a painful transformation. The wereboar had yellowed tusks growing out of a human mouth and called Lily by name as it chased her.
Rowan told
her to climb, and Lily tried to dig her fingers into the walls of the stone cabin, but she kept slipping. She broke her fingernails down to the quick as she tried to scrabble up the impossibly high wall.
The Woven pulled her down by her ankles. They didn’t wait to kill her before they started eating her. Somewhere, Rowan was screaming her name, but he was too far away, and she was in too much pain to reach him.
* * *