To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches)

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF THE MIST-TORN WITCHES

“A highly enjoyable read. . . . I very much enjoyed the milieu and the murder mystery, and I look forward to more books in the series.”

—Errant Dreams Reviews

“Riveting. . . . With its recurring characters and deepening, endless future story possibilities, this excellent series will hopefully continue for a long time to come . . . satisfies on multiple levels.”

—Bitten by Books

“A thrilling suspense mystery in a race to the finish. . . . There are so many twists and turns. . . . This is a wonderful adventurous series in an interesting world with some great characters. In all three books, Céline and Amelie are the main characters and worthy heroines.”

—The Reading Cafe

“A great page-turner.”

—Open Book Society

“[An] engaging fantasy novel. . . . Clues as to the sisters’ magical heritage, hints of romance, threats both supernatural and human, and courtly intrigue combine for a fun fantasy mystery.”

—
Locus

“A well-constructed fantasy with two likable and interesting main characters . . . a fun read.”

—A Book Obsession

“The murder mystery at the core of this book . . . will hold readers spellbound.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Hendee knows how to hook her readers with beautiful detailed settings.”

—Seeing Night Book Reviews

“Incredibly vivid . . . a must read, full of suspense, drama, and magic.”

—SciFiChick.com

T
HE
M
IST
-T
ORN
W
ITCHES
S
ERIES

The Mist-Torn Witches

Witches in Red

Witches with the Enemy

T
HE
V
AMP
IRE
M
EMORIES
S
ERIES

Blood Memories

Hunting Memories

Memories of Envy

In Memories We Fear

Ghosts of Memories

By Barb and J. C. Hendee

T
HE
N
OBLE
D
EAD
S
AGA
—S
ERIES
O
NE

Dhampir

Thief of Lives

Sister of the Dead

Traitor to the Blood

Rebel Fay

Child of a Dead God

T
HE
N
OBLE
D
EAD
S
AGA
—S
ERIES
T
WO

In Shade and Shadow

Through Stone and Sea

Of Truth and Beasts

T
HE
N
OBLE
D
EAD
S
AGA
—S
ERIES
T
HREE

Between Their Worlds

The Dog in the Dark

A Wind in the Night

First and Last Sorcerer

The Night Voice

ROC

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Barb Hendee, 2016

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.

eBook ISBN 9780698168596

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Again, for Jaclyn, who convinced me to make a pitch for the
series

C
ASTLE
S
ÈONE
, S
OUTHWEST
D
ROEVINKA
L
ATE
S
PRING

I hadn’t used the sight in over five years, having given all that up when I left my old life behind. I’d almost forgotten the scratching feeling at the back of my head when something called to me, something that needed to be seen.

With so much time having passed, I ignored it when it first began again, the scratching, scratching, scratching at the base of my neck, begging for my attention.

“Go away,” I said aloud, over and over, until the other servants in the castle glanced at me with more trepidation than usual.

It didn’t go away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep at all. Finally, I heaved myself out of bed, my knees creaking, and I sighed in resignation over what I had to do. I didn’t want to, but once the
nag, nag, nag
started, it wouldn’t stop.

Though I’d tried to deny it, that much I did remember.

With some effort, I lowered myself to the cold floor
and folded my aged legs beneath me. Then I reached up for the oil lantern beside my bed, set it on the floor, and turned up the light so that I could see the flickering orange light.

I focused on the flame, shutting out the walls of my small bedroom, shutting out the world around me.

Without speaking I repeated an old, trite litany in my thoughts over and over until everything but the single flame faded.

Blessed fire in the night

Show me what is in the sight

Show me what brings fight or flight

Blessed fire in the night

The room vanished, and mists of white and gray surrounded me. When they cleared, I found myself standing in a meadow at dusk. I knew the meadow well, for I’d spent countless summers here earlier in my life. Horses, chickens, and the wagons of year-round travelers surrounded me, each wagon looking like a small home on wheels.

I remembered this as a lovely place, with green grass and fields of apple trees and long rows of berry bushes stretching endlessly on the south and east sides.

Right away, I knew something was wrong.

The grass was brown, the apple blossoms were dead on the trees, the strawberry plants were shriveled in dried dirt, and the raspberry vines had withered.

“You were seen!” a deep voice shouted. “What were you doing out there?”

The vision sharpened, and I looked ahead past a few wagons to see a shirtless young man with his hands up over his head and tied around the branch of a tree. Blood flowed from his nose and his left eye. There were burn marks on his arms and chest.

“I wasn’t there, my lord,” he whispered, exposing bloodstained teeth. “I never went into the orchard.”

Three guards in chain armor and orange tabards stood near him, but I focused on the angry man standing about six paces in front of him.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with short silver hair, wearing a leather hauberk. Though he must be at least fifty, his face was handsome with few lines and high cheekbones. His expression twisted into dark, cold rage as he turned from the suffering young man and toward a crowd of people all watching helplessly.

“Prince Malcolm,” an aging woman pleaded. “Gallius has done nothing. The apples were still blossoms, not yet ready for harvest, and so he was with the rest of us picking strawberries before . . . before.”

“He was seen!” the prince shouted back. Then he pointed to the dying apple trees. “One of you has done this, and no one leaves this place until you tell me who it was and how to stop it. I don’t care if you all stay here and starve into next winter. There’s no drought this season, and no natural blight would kill every crop on the same day. Someone has cursed the land and the crops.”

His hand moved from pointing at the trees to pointing at the bound young man. “He was seen in that field with his arms in the air.” His voice softened. “I hate
this as much as any of you. But if Gallius has cursed the harvest, you only need tell me.”

A middle-aged man with dark hair stepped forward from the crowd. “It wasn’t Gallius, my lord. It was none of us. You search for blame in the wrong place.”

The prince’s expression shifted to anger again, and he motioned to a guard with a shaved head and a white scar running from the center of his forehead to his right temple.

“Ayden,” the prince said.

This guard wore a metal gauntlet on his right hand. He stepped to Gallius and swung hard, striking him across the face.

Without hesitating, he swung back the other direction, and this time, the blow was accompanied by a popping sound.

After Gallius’s head snapped to one side, it dropped forward at an odd angle. The guard stopped. Reaching out with his other hand, he touched the side of Gallius’s neck. “I’m sorry, my lord. He’s dead.”

The tall prince drew in a long breath. Then he turned and began striding away.

“No one leaves!” he called over his shoulder. “No one.”

He mounted his horse.

The faces of the onlookers were stricken, and more guards in orange tabards fanned out all around at the edges of the meadow.

The people inside were prisoners.