5

Shane

with a growl of frustration, Shane kicked the shelf she had just finished searching. She should have known nothing could ever be easy when it came to the Lord of the Butterflies—not even finding a little mirror where he’d supposedly left another scrap of himself.

At the impact of her foot, hand-painted porcelain vases teetered precariously, and a delicate-looking glass ball rolled off its base, tumbling toward the floor. Perrin darted forward, reaching out his long arm and snatching the bauble out of the air. Shane shot him a grateful look. It was probably those dagger-throwing reflexes that made him so agile, she decided—or maybe he just stretched a lot.

The Paper Witch gave a very disapproving cough. “We may not have found what we are looking for yet, but there are still many important and valuable items here,” he admonished.

“So don’t kick ’em?” Shane guessed.

Perrin laughed. “No harm done,” he said, setting the glass ball back on its stand. “I think you just kicked loose a decade of dust.”

As if on cue, Cinzel sneezed, snuffling and smacking his jaw unhappily. Red shot Shane a dirty look.

The hidden storeroom the five of them were currently packed into looked like it hadn’t had any visitors in Shane’s lifetime, if not longer. There hadn’t been a single footprint on the silt-covered floorboards when they arrived, which was probably a good thing, since it meant no Witch Hunters had gotten here ahead of them. Shane almost wished someone had tossed the place. Finding something in the chaos left by a looter might have been easier than figuring out some batty Witch’s system of organization.

Rickety shelves leaned against the storeroom walls, filled to the brim with every trinket imaginable, from jewelry to glass baubles to stone figurines, and then more mundane things, such as brass bowls and teapots. There was even a dish full of what looked like pearls, glistening and swirling with their own inner light—though the second Shane had picked one up, the spark of light flittered away like a fish disappearing into deep water. The room’s dark corners were piled high with ornately carved chests and wooden crates, some of them bound with chains and sealed with sinister iron locks. At the Paper Witch’s suggestion, they’d left those alone.

Something had glittered tantalizingly when the Paper Witch first lit his small lamp, but it turned out to be a piece of stained glass in a frame—not a mirror at all, much less the hand mirror they were looking for, which would have swallowtail butterflies engraved into its silver handle.

Shane supposed, ungratefully, that she ought to be happy the Witches of Everlynd had been able to give them any kind of lead at all. Scouring three hidden vaults was a lot easier than searching aimlessly through the vast ruins of the entire city of Everlynd, even if Shane was starting to think that these treasure rooms were mostly just filled with odds and ends nobody could figure out the purpose for, plus sentimental junk from the old days of Andar that they just couldn’t bear to throw away.

Crystal goblets and delicate sculptures wobbled on the shelves every time she took a step, and Perrin had nearly suffocated when he was buried under a heap of musty tapestries. Red had been hanging back since the first silver box she opened turned out to be a music box, the sudden tinkling sound making all of them jump out of their skins while Cinzel snapped at the empty air. Now the wolf hugged close to his human, growling distrustfully at everything knee high. Shane herself had a line of red welts across her knuckles from a trick chest snapping closed on her fingers. Only the Paper Witch was unscathed.

The man sighed heavily, replacing the sapphire-studded lid of an empty container. “I do hope the Stone Witch’s recollection has not led us astray,” he said, guiding them back toward the sliding wall that concealed the door. Shane caught a glimpse of his worried face before he extinguished the lantern. “He was quite a bit younger when the vaults were sealed. Well, no matter—we only have one more to search.”

The ancient Stone Witch looked like a fossil forgotten for more than a hundred years himself, and while Shane didn’t doubt the solemn man’s power, she was starting to have serious doubts about his memory. She held her tongue only because the Paper Witch had already opened the secret passageway, and if she yelled or kicked something again, she might bring Witch Hunters down on them.

Since losing their High Lord and his right hand, the Witch Hunters were in disarray. The different sects that had banded together under Red’s father had severed their tenuous alliances, and infighting had broken out. Which was good, except for the part where, in the chaos, a whole mess of them had taken over giant swaths of Everlynd. From the hill above the city, with the waterfalls pounding down below them, Shane had watched the dark smoke of greasy fires rising from the ruined buildings. They were definitely not alone, and if they weren’t careful, they’d be outnumbered in a hurry.

The late evening air was crisp as they tramped back up the ruined stairway, sticking close to the wall. Shapes loomed out of the dark, mangled statues with char streaked down their arms and faces. The Paper Witch paused in the burnt-out husk of the entryway, little flecks of ash raining down as he gripped the blackened doorway.

“The final vault is in the very heart of Everlynd. Shane and I will go alone,” he said. “Perrin, take Red to the Reflecting Chamber at the edge of the city and keep watch there for us.”

“But . . .” Perrin started to protest. Whatever he saw in the Paper Witch’s expression stopped him. “Fine. Looks like you’re with me, cutie,” he said, tickling Cinzel under his furry chin. “And your human, too.” He gave Red a wink.

Red rolled her eyes fondly. Shane was a little jealous Perrin had been able to get a genuine smile out of her.

“Be careful,” Shane said, as Red slipped past her.

“Me?” Red quirked her lips. “I’ve got the very dangerous job of hiding. You’re the one walking straight into the teeth of the Witch Hunters.”

“Worried about me?” Shane asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just whether I’ll die of boredom waiting for you to finish your very thorough storeroom excavation,” Red said. “Yet another exciting day in the life of a treasure hunter.”

There she was—just a glimmer of the old Red. Shane laughed in relief and then smothered the sound at the Paper Witch’s reproving look.

“I’ll hurry back,” Shane promised, brushing her knuckles against Red’s. Red didn’t say anything, but her fingertips caught Shane’s, squeezing for the barest moment. Then she and Perrin ducked out into the street, heading one way while the Paper Witch led Shane in the other, her skin still tingling from that fleeting touch.

The Paper Witch pressed a finger to his lips as they crept deeper into the city. Shane nodded, unslinging her ax just in case. The overlapping shouts of Witch Hunters were growing closer, putting Shane on edge. As silently as possible, they navigated toward the center of the city, ducking between piles of rubble. Everlynd had been beautiful, with its golden buildings and overgrown gardens shimmering in the mist of the waterfalls. Now it was hard to see anything except the scorch marks and shattered windows. Some of the structures seemed untouched, while others were nothing but blackened rubble, their doors sagging from broken hinges.

Shane shook her head. Typical Witch Hunters. They hadn’t even sacked the city properly—they’d just taken what they wanted and moved on, like a roving pack of dogs.

Luckily, the Witch Hunters seemed to have settled in for the night. Shane and the Paper Witch stuck to a narrow pathway off the main roads, their footsteps echoing eerily in the empty streets. At one point, they passed close enough to a rowdy camp that Shane could hear jeers and raucous laughter rising up over the low roofs, only one stone wall separating them from the Witch Hunters’ roaring bonfire. Her lips turned up in disgust, and she spat as she passed—the least she could do to get the foul taste out of her mouth.

At last, they reached a wide building with a rounded face and at least a dozen windows stacked in two glistening rows. Most of the lower ones were broken.

“Quickly,” the Paper Witch said, motioning her inside.

Shane didn’t need to be told twice. She ducked into the crumbling building, careful of the glass underfoot. Two long tables cluttered the back of a room studded with an array of chairs. Some were overturned, and others were missing legs—probably yanked off for firewood.

“This one’s hidden under the floor,” the Paper Witch explained, peeling back a richly woven rug that had seen better days. Together they rolled the rug up, tossing it aside. Shane frowned down at the wooden floor. The boards were laid tightly, and there was no obvious seam between the planks.

The Paper Witch reached into the deep pocket of his blue robe, pulling out a handful of paper scraps so small they seemed more like dust. He closed his eyes, his blond hair almost translucent in the last rays of the evening sun pouring through the windows. Gently, he blew on his hands. The paper scraps flitted down like a gust of snow, swirling one direction and then the other and finally settling into an almost invisible groove in the floor, outlining a trapdoor.

Shane whistled, impressed, leaning down to slip her fingers into the hidden groove and pry up the door. A ladder disappeared into a square of darkness below.

Something glass shattered outside, close enough to make Shane’s teeth rattle. She tucked her ax back into its straps and then jumped down the ladder, not bothering to climb. It wasn’t a very long drop, and in a second, Shane’s feet hit sand—soft sand. A whole mound of it.

She slipped trying to get out of the way, stumbling in the dark until she caught herself on a shelf. It shook ominously, and she had a horrible vision of something old and clunky careening down on her head.

The Paper Witch clambered down the ladder in his long robes, closing the trapdoor and plunging them into darkness.

“Watch out. The ground is . . . sand.” Shane didn’t get it out in time. The Paper Witch gasped, clutching at the ladder rungs as his feet tried to slip out from under him.

Something jagged poked into her side. Shane felt around in the dark, trying to imagine what she was leaning against. The distinctive curve told her it was most likely a stone bust of some old Witch’s head, replete with beaky nose. She ran her hand along the warped wooden shelf, her fingers sliding through piles of sand.

There was another rattle from the shelf, but this one was different, faster, almost a clicking sound. Could it be a clock, still working after all this time?

“How ’bout some light?” Shane called impatiently.

“A moment,” the Paper Witch promised.

Shane felt a strange weight and tickle on her elbow. Had a lump of sand just fallen on her from somewhere? She lifted her arm, trying to peer at it through the dark. Then light sprang to the Paper Witch’s lantern, and Shane came face-to-face with a scorpion, its segmented tail raised as it clicked its way up her arm.

Shane yelped, covering her hand with her coat sleeve and flinging the creature away.

“Shane! Above you!”

Shane’s eyes darted up in time to see a second scorpion on the shelf next to her head, poised to strike. She let out a string of curses and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a hunk of crystal carved into a swan. She brought the pink quartz down as hard as she could, crunching the scorpion under the base. Shane leapt back, statue at the ready.

And she called herself a treasure hunter! What kind of amateur went fishing around with their bare hands in the dark?

“Are you all right?” the Paper Witch asked.

Shane poked the body of the scorpion, only setting the crystal aside when she was sure it was dead. “Fine,” she said gruffly. “But I flung one more of those things somewhere, so watch out.”

“That might not be our only problem,” the Paper Witch murmured, looking around with a frown. The storeroom’s far wall was split by a long fissure, as though the foundation had been yanked in different directions. Sand had spilled in, burying at least half the room and blanketing most of the shelves.

“Can we even search it through this?” Shane asked.

“We’ll just have to try,” the Paper Witch said, sighing and rolling up his sleeves.

Shane had some unfinished business first. Ax in hand, she stalked around the room, scanning the ground for any sign of the first scorpion. Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she spun, bringing the blunt end of the ax down onto the deadly creature before it could scuttle into an overturned pot. The Paper Witch jumped at the crash.

“Scorpion’s dead,” Shane told him, returning the ax to its braces. “We should probably be careful, though. If those things came in with the sand, there could be more.”

The Paper Witch nodded, kneeling down to blow the soft grains away from the carved lid of a gilded chest. Shane went back to the shelf she had run afoul of. She wasn’t looking to pick a fight with any more scorpions, but she thought she’d seen a number of things glittering just beneath the sand.

They were silent as they searched, tension hanging over them like a held breath. Their position felt more precarious in the center of the city—and every shake, every rattle of treasure felt like it could be another scorpion. Twice Shane reached for her ax only to realize she was facing off with a painted mask or a glittering obsidian hairpiece. She felt like a fool, but she was not going to let some ugly, poisonous creature get the drop on her—not a second time, anyway.

Shane searched the lower shelves, finding only knickknacks and baubles. She paused over a little box made out of two polished shells, which held a pair of dangling ruby earrings. It was impossible not to imagine dark curls and flashing eyes. Shane was sorely tempted to pocket them until she remembered she wasn’t a looter and that she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about anything except the butterfly mirror.

All she had left was the highest shelf. Shane considered calling over the tall, reedy Paper Witch, but there was nothing she hated more than being reminded how short she was. She scowled, casting about until she spotted the overturned pot that had almost become a scorpion hideout. It might be just tall enough if she turned it upside down.

Shane dragged it into place, stepping up and balancing her weight on the thick clay base. She still had to push up on her tiptoes, and the pot shifted unsettlingly in the sand, but she was high enough to peer over.

The top shelf was mostly empty—a couple of bejeweled sheaths, a set of polished wooden rods wound with braided rope, and there, in the back, something shiny with a silver handle. It could be the back of a hand mirror.

Shane stretched as far as she could. Her fingers closed around the handle. Elation surged through her. She tugged it toward herself and then sucked in a horrified breath as it flipped up to face her. It was indeed the hand mirror, and right beside her in the reflection was another scorpion, its black tail taut as it scuttled straight for her.

Shane jerked backward just as the stinger flashed out. It hit the mirror with a ping. The pot underneath her tipped, rolling over and dumping Shane into the pile of sand beneath the ladder. Her back hit the metal rungs hard enough to knock the wind out of her. The clang echoed around the room.

“Shane, are you hurt?” the Paper Witch asked, whirling around.

“Scor . . .” she tried to wheeze out, fighting against the pressure squeezing her lungs. “Scorp . . .”

“What?” the man said. He was right next to the shelf now, and tall enough to be in range of the scorpion at the top.

“Scorpion!” she managed finally, her breath coming in a surge. “Get away from there!”

The Paper Witch ducked. The lantern swung wildly as he threw himself into the sand beside her. A tense moment passed, until Shane let out a sigh, deciding the creature had better things to do than chase them down. The Paper Witch relaxed at her side.

“I’m afraid I must agree with Red,” he said, sounding a little winded. “This is a very unpleasant profession.”

“It has its moments,” Shane conceded with a grin. “But I found it.” She lifted the mirror, waving it in the air between them. The swallowtail butterflies etched into the handle flickered in the firelight.

“Well done, Shane,” the Paper Witch said, though his face said he didn’t approve of the careless way she was swinging the precious relic around.

“You really think the Lord of the Butterflies is in here?” Shane asked as she handed the mirror over, happy to let the Paper Witch be the one to tuck the legendary Witch into his shirt.

“It’s difficult to be certain,” he said. “But this is not the place to find out.”

“True,” Shane agreed, with a dirty look around for more scorpions.

They stopped at the base of the ladder while the Paper Witch put out the light. Shane climbed the rungs carefully, pausing at the top and easing open the trapdoor.

Before she’d gotten it two inches up, she was stopped by a sudden clattering of boots as someone stumbled into the room right over their heads. Shane froze, lowering the trapdoor again and listening. There was a crash, like a body being thrown into one of the giant tables, followed by raised voices and the sounds of a fight.

Shane didn’t want any trouble, but she wasn’t about to leave some innocent person to be slaughtered by Witch Hunters. With a quick glance down at the Paper Witch, she cracked the trapdoor just enough to get a view of what was going on. It was almost entirely dark now, the room lit only by the afterglow of the sun, but she could just make out two figures, one picking herself off the ground while the other cracked his knuckles. They were both Witch Hunters.

Shane was about to close the trapdoor and just let them have it out when she caught a snatch of what they were saying.

“After everything the High Lord worked to build, you would turn and serve the Spindle Witch?” The man who’d cracked his knuckles was speaking, his face twisted in disgust.

“I’ll serve any master who can pay,” the other Witch Hunter, a woman with a long braid disappearing beneath her cloak, sneered.

“I ought to gut you for that.”

The woman laughed mirthlessly. “Kill me, don’t kill me—it’s all the same. Some have gone to her already, and more will follow.”

The man let out an enraged snarl, lunging for the other Witch Hunter. A punch across the jaw sent her stumbling into the tables. The woman got up slowly, spitting blood from a busted lip. It hit the floor with a wet smack.

“Think it through, fool,” she hissed. “Whoever we’re serving, it’s a chance to keep fighting the accursed Witches of Everlynd. To get revenge for the High Lord.”

Down in the hole, Shane swallowed a curse. She had always known most Witch Hunters were no better than mercenaries. For every true believer, there were at least two vultures just in it for the coin and the blood. But they hadn’t worked so hard to fracture the Witch Hunter alliance just to send them into the arms of the Spindle Witch.

The moon slipped out from behind the clouds. The man staggered back in surprise, staring at the dark hood of the woman’s cloak. “You . . .” he breathed out, so low Shane barely caught it. “What happened to your eyes? They’re glowing.” He reared back, snatching for his sword. “This is witchcraft—”

There was a sudden wet noise. The Witch Hunter’s words cut off into a gurgle. A heartbeat later, his body slumped to the ground, a knife embedded in his chest to the hilt.

“Pity you noticed that.” The woman planted the toe of her boot into the fallen man’s jerkin, her long fingers wrapping around the bloody dagger. “No matter. I’ll find someone more receptive to my message.”

Her . . . eyes? Shane’s head jerked back. She’d never heard of magic like that.

Someone or something was up there recruiting for the Spindle Witch. She could let it alone—report what she’d heard to Everlynd and hope for the best. Or she could handle this herself, right now.

Shane surged out of the trapdoor, rolling fast across the glass and lurching to her feet. The woman’s head whipped around. Her eyes were silver—a color Shane had never seen before—and they seemed to glow malevolently in the dark. Shane sucked a breath in through her teeth.

“What are you?” she growled.

A strange smile stretched across the woman’s face. “Right now?” she asked. “I’m just some nameless Witch Hunter. After that? Who knows.”

Shane felt a prickle on the back of her neck. What was that supposed to mean? She hated creepy Witch riddles—especially from silver-eyed murderers apparently loyal to the Spindle Witch.

The huntsman unslung her ax, hefting it between them. “I guess I’ll just have to end you right now, then, nameless Witch Hunter. And after that, you can be a corpse.”

The woman tipped her head back in a guttural laugh. Then all at once she jerked the knife out of the corpse and flung it at Shane, forcing her to scramble out of the way. The blade hit the wall in a spray of red. A broken chair hurtled past Shane’s head. She swore, throwing herself down as splintered wood pelted her arms.

The woman was fast—faster than Shane had expected—leaping at her and stabbing viciously with her saw-toothed sword. Shane flipped over and slammed her heel into the soft part of the woman’s knee. She felt the bones crunch. In one move, she swept the woman’s legs out from under her, smashing the nameless Witch Hunter to the floor.

Slivers of glass from the shattered windows stabbed into the woman’s arms. But her sickening smile never faltered, not even a flicker of pain crossing that leering face. That definitely wasn’t normal.

Shane heaved herself up, her hands tensed and ready around her ax. The Witch Hunter uncurled slowly, staggering as she tried to stand and her knee bent at an unnatural angle. The woman scowled and leaned heavily against the wall.

“So fragile, these little bodies,” she lamented. “And they wear out so quickly.” Her head tipped back, silver eyes gleaming greedily as she studied Shane. “Though yours looks nice and sturdy.”

Shane’s guts gave a sickening lurch. “You’re some kind of ghost possessing that body, aren’t you?” she accused, trying to remember any of the signs her grandmother had taught her to ward off evil spirits.

“Ghost?” The woman wheezed out a chuckle. “How deliciously superstitious. I’m just a Witch, and this is nothing more than a little trick. I know all about you—Shane, the huntsman—but I had no idea you’d be so amusing.”

“So you know me,” Shane said through gritted teeth. “But I would definitely remember if I’d met a body-snatching creeper like you.”

“Would you, really?” the woman asked. “I’ve been so many people. Maybe I’ll try on your skin next.”

Shane shuddered, imagining her body acting on its own while some Witch crawled around in her head. “Come and get it,” she dared.

“I’d love to,” the woman said, flashing a hint of teeth. “Unfortunately, I have other priorities tonight. But I’ll see you again.” Those uncanny eyes glowed like tiny moons in her shadowed face. “Tell Red she’s a fool for betraying the Spindle Witch. And that her days are numbered.” Then the Witch Hunter slumped down the wall, crumpling into a boneless pile in the remnants of the broken chair.

Shane’s heart surged into her throat. She kicked the splinters of glass aside, lugging the trapdoor open and heaving the Paper Witch up.

“What was that?” the man asked, clearly shaken.

“Bad news,” Shane muttered. “We’ve got to get to Red and Perrin.”

She just hoped they got there first.