“We will do no such thing,” says the grandmother. “Not until you explain why you are haunting our coven.”
“Remove those bindings, and I will tell you everything you need.”
“Do it, or we’ll damage your plaything.” The aunt switches the magic restraining Alienor from white to red, making her scream.
A fist of terror punches through my ribcage and seizes my heart. “You would murder your kin?”
I dart my gaze to the grandmother, who glares at the aunt with her lips pursed and her brow furrowed with disapproval. She may not like the aunt’s tactics, but she remains silent while Alienor is hurt.
My jaw tightens. The only way to save Alienor is to turn the witches’ bloodlust onto me.
“What do you want to know?” I snarl.
The grandmother turns to me, her features hardening. “Are you Henry Curtmantle?”
“I am.”
“Are you the same creature who has victimized Alienor since she turned eighteen?”
“Correct.”
“How are you alive, and what do you want with Alienor?”
Memories tumble to the forefront of my mind, and I have to choke back a surge of bitterness to form the words. “I was on my deathbed, coughing up blood from one of my wife’s many curses—”
“Get to the point,” the grandmother says.
I clench my teeth. These witches hate to be reminded of their sins. “An Unseelie faerie came to my bedside and offered me a bargain. If I could give him my birthright, he would give me the magic I needed to get revenge.”
“Impossible,” she whispers. “Faeries don’t exist.”
“The Magical Council erased all knowledge about the fae from our history books,” says Alienor. “But anyone with access to the library’s restricted section can read about them.”
Klara scoffs. “That’s why she took up with the necromancer.”
“I presume you failed to get revenge on our ancestor?” the grandmother asks.
“The witches banished the faeries after I struck the bargain. I lost track until Alienor’s magic called to me from across the realms.”
“You see!” Klara launches into a string of nonsense about stolen magic and dead babies.
Many of the witches behind them break into chatter, and the magic restraining me wavers. I push against it
The grandmother ignores her outburst.
“I believed she was my wife.”
The aunt scoffs. “That little thing—”
“Klara,” the grandmother hisses.
Apparently, she draws the line of being interrupted but has no issue with Klara hurting Alienor. I ball my hands into fists. As the matriarch of the coven, the grandmother could prevent this abuse. She doesn’t because the violence against Alienor furthers her goals.
Perhaps the grandmother will be the first to die instead of the aunt.
“Why did you believe Alienor was your wife?” the grandmother asks.
“Their magic was identical,” I snarl.