SNIFFING THE CHALICE AGAIN, MORGANNA smiled. “Ah, the potion is ready.”

With a snap of her fingers, the bottomless bag opened and two small flasks floated out. Chased in silver, the slim objects were fluted with a bulbous base. Settling into her waiting hand, she put one aside and picked up the chalice. Upending the vessel, she poured a measured amount into it.

Amber liquid, thick and viscous, dripped in a syrupy rope into the flask. Morganna studied the dribbling stream, inhaled the aroma once again, and savored the bouquet like a master chef. She stoppered the potion with a cork, then repeated the process with the other flask.

Eyes bright, the coven leader could barely contain herself. “Not one but two decanters of the morlaga potion. And the potency! Just the scent caused my senses to sharpen!”

Morganna turned to Argatha. “You picked our donors well. A healthier brace I have rarely seen.”

The junior witch flushed with pride. “They were so ripe for the picking. The lovesick fools wandered alone into the gardens during Baron Ralstaff’s engagement celebration for his son. Half of the Baron’s guests were already drunk, so it was easy to slip away under my guise as a serving girl and bewitch them.”

At this, Morganna’s ears pricked up. “Were they part of the Baron’s entourage?”

Argatha shrugged. “What difference does it make? They fit our needs, a young male and female pair—perfect donors for the morlaga potion.”

“I told you to pick donor’s from among the serving staff—peasants whose absence wouldn’t cause a stir or spur an immediate investigation into why they were missing.”

“I chose donors who suited our purpose. You said so yourself. Why is this so important?”

Morganna reacted as if pricked by a knife. She cast about and spied the pile of clothes and belongings stripped from their victims lying on the rumpled bed. She jumped to the mound and began to dig frantically through the clothing until she came upon a ring taken from the young man. Her hand went to her mouth, and a gasp escaped her lips.

She grabbed the young witch by the back of the hair, pulled her close, and held the ring before her eyes. “Do you see this?” she hissed. “It is a signet ring. Do you see the sigil embossed on the crown? It is a coat of arms. The coat of arms for Baron Ralstaff’s family. You brought us the Baron’s son and his betrothed!”

Screeching, Morganna hurled Argatha across the room. The apprentice witch crashed into the wall and slid to the floor.

She staggered to her feet, her face twisted with pain and confusion. “Wh—what have I done wrong, sister?”

“Don’t call me sister, you stupid bitch! You have imperiled all our lives with your impetuous act!”

Morganna’s rage filled the room. Ozone filled the air as lightning crackled about her, her features metastasizing into a creature with razor-sharp incisors and talons. Pointed ears grew from her head, her eyes becoming catlike slits. Argatha cowered, her back grinding against the unyielding wall, while Morganna’s other protégé, Tressalayne, retreated to the safety of a far corner, relieved it was not her who chose the donors.

With great effort, the coven leader regained her composure. Slowly, her features softened and returned to a human appearance.

Through gritted teeth, she said, “The Baron will leave no stone unturned in the search for his son and future daughter-in-law. When they are not found, he will suspect something nefarious has occurred. Those of noble blood are a suspicious lot, constantly infighting, so the Baron will reach this conclusion in short order. Then there will be an investigation, a thorough investigation, one which will reveal that a servant girl—you, Argatha—are missing as well.”

Calmer now, Morganna paced back and forth talking as much to herself as to her protégés. “The court wizard will be summoned, your steps retraced. At some point, the wizard will inspect the gardens where the residue of your bewitching spell will be discovered. The Baron will know witches were involved, and he will summon the best Hunters his gold can buy.”

Morganna stiffened, her face twisting in dismay. “Lockstone!”

At the mention of the name, the younger witches cried out. Among the Hunters of the realm, Lockstone was feared above all. Corpses of sister witches—having met their end at the hands of the great witch hunter—were scattered across the kingdom.

“Pack everything up. We’re getting out of here now!”

Whirling, Morganna froze. Her sharp ears detected a noise outside the thin walls of the tavern.

The clatter of hooves.