“The witch’s name is Brian,” I said. “It delights in taking the form of loved ones who’ve passed in order to infiltrate their homes and rob their families blind.”
Aveen let out a whimper, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “He’s lying. My name is Lady Aveen Bannon.”
Trust me, I wanted to shout. Instead, I reached into my bag and used far too much magic to falsify a death certificate for Aveen. “According to this death certificate, Lady Aveen Bannon died last March.”
The magistrate waved me forward, taking the false document as if he were admitting it to evidence instead of barely glancing at it and tucking the thing into a drawer to never be seen again. He never questioned how the hell I had gotten my hands on a death certificate with only a day’s notice. And why would he, when my statement had solidified his argument?
“What are the charges against the witch?” I asked.
The old man looked down his nose at the documents on the desk. “Murder.”
“Murder, you say?” I could imagine Aveen committing theft, perhaps, if she were desperate. Butmurder?
A nod. “The witch murdered a young man named Robert Trench.”
Feckin’ hell. My little viper had finally given the bastard what he deserved. I stole a glance, finding her glowering at me. “And how has it pleaded?”
“How do you plead, witch?” the magistrate grumbled in a tone that made it clear he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Just what you wanted from an “impartial” judge.
She shot to her feet, chains banging against the floor. “He tried to force himself on me! He attacked me! He slammed my head against a wall and tried to—”
Her accusations rang with truth. Not that the vicious crowd, pointing and shouting at her, noticed. A fresh wave of rage crashed over me. That this innocent woman had been assaulted, and these fools—these feckin’monsters—were more concerned with seeking “justice” for the man who had committed the crime.
The pounding gavel echoed through my mind as the magistrate demanded order. The stack of papers beside him fell to the ground. I caught sight of my dagger hidden beneath them, blood staining the blade and handle. How in the hell had they gotten my feckin’ blade? Had Aveen stolen it before she left the castle? No. That couldn’t be the case. I’d used it to carve up Madden. What the hell was going on?
“And I will have justice!” Aveen hissed. “I have a right to defend myself. I have a right to—” Soldiers caught her arms, forcing her down on the stool. I committed their faces to memory. Neither would be alive to see the sun rise.
And Robert . . . he was lucky she had killed him, because if I’d found the bastard—
“The punishment for murder is death,” the magistrate announced. “Tomorrow at dawn, you will be brought to the gallows and hung by the neck until dead.”
I cleared my throat, waiting until the magistrate’s narrowed eyes found me. “Yes, emissary?”
“With all due respect, hanging isn’t the most effective way to execute a witch.”
“And what, pray tell, is the most effective way to execute a witch?” the magistrate sighed.
“Beheading.”
* * *
First, I located the witnesses from Aveen’s trial. Although they hadn’t given testimony, their addresses had been listed on the court documents. I left them drowning in their own blood at their dining room tables. Next came the soldiers who’d manhandled Aveen at court. They deserved a more gruesome death, but I didn’t really have the time for creativity. Finally, I returned to the prison, glamoured to look like the one I’d left at the bottom of a staircase with a broken neck.
No one stopped me from entering the jail. I found a few guards playing cards in a room off the hallway, leaving only one guard on a chair across from the cells. A simple sleeping spell left him snoozing away like a cat on a sunny afternoon.
Aveen sat curled in the corner of her cell, holding her knees to her chest, staring blankly at a dish of bread. I dropped my glamour before kicking the doors. “What a mess you’re in,” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice steady.
Her dull eyes lifted, then fell back to the straw-covered floor. “Go away.”
“Ah, here now, you’re not nearly as fun when you’re melancholy.” I gave the guard’s foot a nudge with my own. “Do you care to tell me why these eejits believe you’re a witch?”
“They don’t think a proper lady is capable of murdering a strong, powerful man.”
What a feckin’ joke. Some of the deadliest creatures I knew were women. “And how do you explain this?” I showed her my dagger, found at the scene of the murder, that I’d commandeered along with the documents.
“I can’t.” When she shifted her hold on her knees, I heard a faint hiss. That’s when I noticed the red welts covering her wrists.
I fell to my knees. “Let me see your wrists.” She held her hands toward me, and my stomach clenched. What had they done to her? “Feckin’ hell . . .” I touched the edge of the manacle just to be sure—dammit. Made of feckin’ iron.