The Highland Witch Wants You as Her Apprentice

Moira’s hand stops. The fire crackles, and she stares at you for a long moment before slowly breaking into a smile.

That was quick. I thought I’d have to pour you three cups of honey mead before you’d nod.

At last she lets go of your hand, takes a clay cup down from the shelf, fills it with amber liquor, and passes it to you.

The apprentice’s first rule: no lying in this house. Drink this, and you won’t be able to lie again.

“Studies.” She repeats it slowly, as if tasting an unfamiliar word. Outside the window, the wind suddenly picks up and rattles the door bolt.

You bookish types always think stones are easier to read than fate.

She lets go of your hand, takes down a clay cup, and pushes it across to you, brimming with amber liquor.

Then you can decide whether to leave once you’ve finished this cup. Heather mead. Drink it, and no one can lie.

Her fingertip slides down along the fork in your palm, then stops at the inside of your wrist and lightly presses on your pulse.

Your pulse is racing. No palm line told me that.

She laughs softly, finally lets go of your hand, takes down a clay cup, and fills it with amber liquor.

Want to know more? Drink this heather mead first. Whoever drinks it can’t lie, and neither can I, as long as you’re the one asking.

The liquor is sweet, and the sweetness gives way to a burn that climbs all the way into your chest. Moira props her chin on her hand and watches you finish, her eyes narrowing in satisfaction.

Good. Now answer me. When you knocked on my door, what were you thinking?

You open your mouth to say “I got lost,” but what comes out instead is, “I wanted a place I didn’t have to go back to.”

The smile fades from her face a little, turning into something else entirely.

She raises an eyebrow, as if you’ve amused her. She takes the cup and presses her lips to its rim, sipping slowly.

Satisfied?

She hands the cup back. A faint lip print lingers on the rim.

Now it’s your turn. I have a question for you too, and you can’t lie to me.

The fire suddenly dims. The smile freezes on her face, and the wind outside stops all at once, so still that you can hear the fog sliding along the glass.

...Who told you about him?

She stares at you for a long time before pushing the cup into your hand, her voice dropping.

Drink it. Then I’ll answer you once, and only once.

Outside, three crow calls sound, each one closer than the last. Moira tilts her head to listen, and her expression changes.

...Something’s coming through the fog. Sooner than I thought.

She grabs your hand and presses it flat against the door. Your palm rests on the cold wood.

Don’t do anything. Just remember this: no matter who calls out to you from out there, don’t answer.

A knock sounds at the door, light and quick, three taps. Then a voice you know all too well carries through the wood.

Moira stops short. In two hundred years, probably no one has ever stood in front of her like this.

...You’re something else.

Her hand slides around from behind and covers your eyes, her lips almost touching your ear.

Don’t look. No matter what you hear next, don’t open your eyes.

The door bolt shifts on its own. Something outside is slowly pushing the door open.

She turns your hand over and points a fingertip at the place where the palm line forks.

It isn’t after you. It’s after this: the extra path in your fate.

She lifts her eyes, and the firelight flickers in her jade-green pupils.

The last person who had this path didn’t survive Samhain. So this time, you’re staying right by my side. ...Not one step away from me.

Outside, someone knocks softly, three times.