“Your father was human. So was mine. That makes us more alike than you think.”
I frown. “I never knew my father. I imagine he’s dead. My mother was a kind, soft woman. Sometimes I wonder if she killed him…or did as you do.”
Iris smiles faintly. “I’ve met witches in love with humans. I found it beautiful. I believe all life has worth. Our differences make us interesting—make the world vibrant.”
She glances at me, her voice gentle. “May I ask…why do you call them vermin? What did your coven teach you?”
I hesitate. I don’t mention that the word came from the Nightmother herself, the first time she ever spoke to me. She doesn't like being spoken of to outsiders. Only her chosen—her children—can carry her name.
Instead, I offer a different truth.
“The rumors say we lure humans back to the coven to be slaughtered. We did perform those rites but only outside the coven grounds. Even those have mostly died out.” The unnoticed tightness in my chest loosens as I sidestep any mention of the Nightmother.
I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek. The words catch in my throat. “We discovered our own blood works better in rituals.”
My thumb finds the ring I always spin when such memories resurface; I need to ground myself. I twist it hard, chasing comfort while visions rise: the sting of a blade, the loss of strength, and the way my sisters had to carry me, limp and bleeding, back to my room.
“That sounds awful,” Iris says softly. “But I’m not surprised. Power always demands a price, and most are willing to pay anything.”
Her tone is carefully controlled—understanding—but held back. It’s as if she’s resisting the pull of her own memories.
What has she given up for power?
“I would apologize for prying,” I begin.
She cuts in with a smile. “Apologizing doesn’t seem like your style.”
“It’s not exactly something my sisters and I do,” I admit, lips twitching. “What I was going to say is…I would apologize for prying, but you’re nosey.”
The joke lands, but her smile falters when I ask, “What have you paid?”
She hesitates. Her finger traces the rough edge of the stone ledge.
“My sister,” she says finally, “she took the other half of my soul. I haven’t gotten it back.
She exhales. “My coven took my sanity too. Necromancers…when we’re practicing, we feel like gods. Iwasa god. Nothing, and no one, could stop me. I was the strongest of the younger witches. Except for her.”
Her voice drops. “I lost sight of what life meant. I turned it into a circus; whatever I wanted, I took. My hands are soaked in blood, and the worst part is, I never felt remorse. Not then.”
“The high of creation—of pulling life back from death—was too sweet. It dulled everything else. I was untouchable—superior.”
She stares into the yard below. Her eyes settle on Kalix, as if anchoring herself.
“When I stopped…” Her voice trembles, “it was like coming off the finest drug I’d ever injected straight into my veins.”
“What made you stop?” I lower my gaze to the yard below, giving her space.
“My sister,” she says. “Eden was kind—kinder than me, even. Then the elders started holding special sessions with her. She changed and started hearing voices. She became violent…paranoid. I had to get us out.”
She rubs her hands together, still staring at Kalix. He seems to anchor her—to hold her here.
“I was too late,” she says, voice breaking.
I don’t think. I just reach out and take her hand, squeezing it in mine.
“Regret and guilt have a permanent residence in my mind,” I say. It’s meant to comfort her, though I suspect our definitions of guilt are vastly different.
I don’t regret the lives I’ve taken or the rituals I’ve carried out.
