We left the city of Greenbell weeks ago in search of the legendary witch of the Whispering Woods.
As children, we grew up hearing fables of a woman who built her house out of sweets to lure naughty children in and eat them. I never once believed the tales, but Gerrit fell for them every time, convinced this witch would get him the moment we stepped into these woods.
Because of these stories, we have long avoided the woods, choosing not to explore the land further.
Until now.
“What could a witch possibly smell like?” I wonder aloud, picking at the meat I have skewered on a stick.
He shrugs, taking another deep inhale of the forest air clouded with smoke from our fire. “She smells like sweetmeats.”
My laugh shakes some birds from the limbs of the trees. “Get off it, Gerrit. You still believe those childhood tales?”
“Why wouldn’t I? If we’re going to her to ask for help, and we truly expect to find her, who’s to say she isn’t exactly who we think she is?”
He has a point, though I am loathe to admit it. “If she is real, we still don’t know if she will help us,” I murmur.
Having finished his meal, Flint comes to me and puts his head on my thigh. It’s a comforting gesture, but as I look down, I see the glimmer in his eyes that heralds his desire to speak to me.
I hold up a finger to pause Gerrit and feed my hands through Flint’s fur. With my skin firmly anchored on him, I can feel the magic between us flow more easily. While I could hear him without touching him, it is like trying to listen to a quiet conversation in a crowded room. If I can connect with him physically, the process is much easier.
“I still worry this witch will be unable to help you, Master.”His voice is deep, carrying centuries of knowledge.
I ruffle the fur around his neck. “I know, boy, but we still must try. She’s the only hope we have of saving Father.”
Flint whines, and I hear it with my ears instead of my mind. He’s as upset about what’s happening to Father as Gerrit and I are.
Flint joined our family when I turned fourteen, and the first glimmers of magic began to show in me. A familiar is not like a normal animal. He is made of magic. A familiar does not die. They simply choose a different vessel to inhabit. While rare in Greenbell, magic feels very much alive in the Whispering Woods, and he seems to thrive here.
Whether fortunate or un, I have been blessed with powerful, unexpected magic. But it alone is not enough to heal father/
And thus, the search for the witch.
“Big Boy is correct. You are nearly at her doorstep.”
I snort at his nickname for my brother. “His name is Gerrit, Flint. Not Big Boy. And how do you know?” Gerrit narrows his eyes at my familiar.
“The creatures talk. They fear her.”
“Rightfully so, I would imagine.” Let’s hope the rumors about the witch detailing her consumption of children were incredibly far off from the truth.
“Hey, asshole, I’m still here, you know,” Gerrit complains, pulling me out of my trance with Flint. Flint grumbles a weak growl towards Gerrit but curls up in a ball at my feet.
“Flint says we’re nearly there. We need a plan.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I have one.”
Chapter2
Hungry Like the Wolf
BRIAR
Ifucking hate gardening at night.
It’s something I will never stop complaining about.
Not that anyone hears me.
