Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
A shiver prickled Raff’s skin despite the lingering warmth of the afternoon. “Choosing what?”
“Whatever she desires, so it’s said.” Latham let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Some believe she looks for a man to please her for the night. It’s why the women keep an extra eye on their husbands or intended. But with so much food, drink, and merriment, it’s hard to do, so the witch has her pickings.”
“Do you have your suspicions as to who she might be, then?” Raff asked, keeping his tone even while anxious to hear.
“If I had to pick one?” Latham’s grin returned, though it was edged with wariness. “I’d say Ingrid’s mum. The woman’s a terror, and even Chafton avoids her when she’s around. If anyone could be a witch, it’s her.”
That surprised Raff and made him curious about the woman. “She doesn’t live here, does she?”
“Nay. That’s why she can’t be the witch. But there are others. Widow Elsa, for one. She never speaks unless it’s to spit a curse, and she’s always watching folk like she’s measuring their worth. Then there’s Brena. Never seen her shed a tear for her husband, and no one ever saw him buried, either. He just disappeared one day. They say she still talks to him at night.”
A hush settled over them, broken only by the whisper of wind through the half-cut stalks. Raff’s gaze drifted toward the distant cottages, gray clouds stretching over them.
“Or maybe,” Latham mused, voice quiet, “it’s someone we’d never suspect at all.”
The thought coiled in Raff’s gut, unsettling. He had spent years living by his sword, fighting enemies he could see, men he could strike down. But an unseen foe? A shadow in the midst of those he walked amongst? That was far more dangerous.
Raff crouched by the stream, cupping the cool water in his hands and splashing it over his face, neck, and arms. The chill bit into his skin, sharpening his thoughts. Above, heavy clouds gathered, their dark bellies pressing low, promising rain before the night was through. The wind had shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—a faint, unplaceable musk, like the remnants of a long-dead fire.
Latham’s words clung to him, whispering in the back of his mind. The witch walks among us… unseen, listening, choosing.
If she was real, she was no ordinary enemy. A blade could not cut her, nor could she be chased from a battlefield, many believed. She would be a shadow slipping through the cracks of the world, unseen until it was too late.
A rustling stirred beyond the stream. Raff stilled, his senses honed, a warrior’s instinct sharpening in the quiet. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
Across the water, among the gnarled trunks and creeping fog, stood a figure cloaked in black. The hood was drawn low, obscuring her face, turning her into little more than a silhouette against the shifting gloom. She did not move, did not speak, she simply stood there, as if waiting.
A cold prickle ran down Raff’s spine.
Was it a woman?
Or had his mind twisted shadows and branches into something unnatural? His hand hovered near the hilt of his dirk, though steel would do little good against a phantom.
The wind stirred again, and the figure wavered. A trick of the dimming light, or something more? Raff blinked, closing his eyes for barely a breath.
When he looked again, she was gone.
No shifting of leaves. No footfalls. Just emptiness where she had stood.
He remained still, his muscles tight. Waiting. Would she return? Or had she ever been there at all? Or had his mind, troubled with thoughts of curses and witches, conjured a specter from the shadows?
The clouds thickened, deepening the gloom. The stream rushed on, whispering secrets to the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cried, its voice sharp and knowing.
Raff rose, his fingers flexing at his sides. Real or not, something was out there. Watching. Waiting. Just like the night he and his two friends had made their wishes. Could it be the specter they saw that night? Had she returned for him?
If so, why?
Did his wish cost more than he had already given and was she here now to collect more from him?
He intended to find out and settle any debt he may have with her.
Later, as night wrapped around the village, he spotted Ingrid sitting alone in front of one of the village fires, her shawl drawn tight over her shoulders. A few embers still glowed in the hearth, casting flickers of orange against her profile. She was staring into the flames, lips parted slightly, lost in some thought of her own.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, watching her, the heaviness of the day still pressing on his shoulders.
“You feel like a man chasing ghosts,” she said without turning.