Page 54 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“Don’t dally.” She brushes past us into the tunnel, her tattered shawl flowing out behind her.

As we hasten along the path, the sounds of the inn fade away, buried under thick layers of mud and wet stone. I frown, saddened to think of the horses abandoned in the stables. But there was no going back for them now. We will have to find replacements elsewhere.

“So,” Dante calls up, his voice catching strangely in the passage. “You seem to, uh, know what I am. No issue there, I take it?”

“That I do.” The old woman glances over her shoulder, weathered features both maternal and insidious in the flickering glow of the lone flame. “I’ll admit it’s been some time since one with your beautiful affliction has crossed my path. The last wasn’t nearly so agreeable a specimen.”

Dante gives a derisive scoff. “Well, agreeable and vampire don’t tend to coexist. Present company excluded, of course.”

The passage twists and turns, growing more narrow as we press ahead, boots scuffing over damp, packed earth. Soon, it’s so tight that I’m forced to file after Dante. From behind, I see the familiar, ominous stiffening of his spine, every muscle in his back pulled tight as a bowstring. Tension radiates off him, surely bracing for a trap.

Between the two of us, I’m certain we could make quick work of a single strega. But what if she’s leading us to a coven? My heart skips a beat when I recall how valuable virgin blood is to many worshippers of the black arts.

The path gradually ramps upward, an unmarked door coming into view. It opens into a cramped cellar, packed with crates up to the ceiling like a hedge maze. We have to squeeze between them to follow the witch up a stairway.

The witch sighs, giving Dante a warm appraisal as she shuts the cellar door behind us and notches a wooden beam overtop. “That’s better, isn’t it, dear?”

We’re standing in a thatched roof cottage, though looking around, I can’t remember passing such a dwelling on our ride into Terralta. The curtains are already drawn tightly—like she’s been expecting him, I think—obscuring the view outside. I mentally take note of the general direction and distance we’d traveled from the inn. We were probably near the forest, just outside of the village walls.

“The view could be better,” Dante remarks, his hand still resting atop the dagger’s hilt on his belt. “But it’s infinitely better than becoming a pile of smoldering ash, so… Thank you.”

He eyes the chaotic shelves and work tables, herbs, and what appear to be experiments across every surface. The scent of mugwort and rosemary hang heavily in the air, along with something sour—like rot.

Even still, Dante relaxes a little, his skin slowly healing in the sanctity of the candlelight.

“Excuse the mess,” the witch clucks. She sweeps up a stack of yellowing spellbooks, clearing some space at a round table by the hearth. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

A grey shorthaired cat leaps off a shelf, its ears flat as it skulks further from us.

“My short-tempered Henri,” the witch says, chuckling as the cat glares, tail flicking. “He’ll warm to you. Be at ease, dears. It’s alright—you can have sanctuary here. No one will find you.”

“And I suppose you want something in return,” I growl, folding my arms over my chest. I glance at every corner, like more witches might materialize from the shadows to ambush us.

“Perish the thought! You’ve already eliminated those nasty hunters for me. What pests they’ve been.” The witch shakes her head. “The lot of them, chasing me through the village for days on end. I mind my own business, don’t I?”

She pulls out a chair, patting the back for me to sit.

“We’ll only be here until sunfall,” I say firmly, glancing sidelong at Dante for any protest.

“If you wish.” The witch shrugs. “You have a place here as long as you need. And by gods, you look like you need it. I hope you don’t mind me saying so. Sit! Sit, and rest. I’ll fetch something for you to drink.”

She pats the chair again, smiling at me like I’m some long-forgotten grandchild before hastening into the adjoining room.

Now that we’ve stopped running, the fog of adrenaline begins to clear, making space for a self-conscious pang about the state of myself. I shift from foot to foot, suddenly remembering how exposed I am in my short, tattered nightgown. I must reek, too, splattered with both human and vampire blood in places I can’t even fathom, sweat caked on my brow and back. Even a frigid bath would be a godsend, but I can’t let my guard down in front of a damn witch.

Still, my body craves rest—it’s painful to muscle it down and stay alert.

“Do you prefer wine or coffee, dear?” I recognize the witch’s lilt, but it’s a child’s voice this time. The young girl we’d encountered earlier trots out of the kitchen, her raven hair hanging over her shoulders in silky locks. She brushes past me with a silver tray bearing a bowl of sugar and sets it on the table.

“I, er, don’t drink,” I stammer, slightly agape from the sudden transformation.

“How good of you,” the little girl says brightly. “A lady who likes to keep her wits about her. I can appreciate that.”

Dante lifts a brow as the girl returns back to the kitchen. He catches my stunned expression and shrugs, returning to his inspection of the shelf of jarred oddities over the fireplace. He’s particularly fixated on one that appears to have severed fingers suspended in amber fluid.

“How charming,” he mutters.

The grey cat—Henri—prowls near his feet, fur puffed. It hisses at him, ears flattened. Dante, without missing a beat, hisses back.