The Faceless Woman Emma Hamm (ebook reader screen TXT) 📖

She cursed. “So it’s come to that.”

“It was bound to happen, eventually. We should go.”

There were so many things to pack. She would need all her spell books. How was she going to travel with those? Aisling could pick her favorites, but that meant the villagers could find the others. And the damage the townsfolk could do with a faerie book was something she didn't want to think about.

She raced through the hut, her heart beating faster with every passing moment. “How much time do we have?”

“Enough.”

“Enough time to get away or enough time to hold our breath and hurl curses as we run?”

Her door banged opening, slamming against the wall so hard dirt rained from the ceiling. A man raised a pitchfork and stalked inside, his eyes wild with fear and anger. “I knew you’d be too wily and have something up your sleeve, witch.”

Aisling didn’t recognize him. She knew everyone in this town, although few knew her. Why didn’t she know him?

His beard was nicely trimmed with specks of gray, suggesting he was of a mature age. His clothing was neatly pressed, almost too nice for their rural village. A white collar rose up his throat, and a gold pendant swung from his neck.

She bared her teeth in recognition. “They hired a witch hunter?”

“No one is prepared to deal with the devil’s spawn but those who have the training.”

“The training?” She chuckled and gestured at the pitchfork in his hands. “I see you’ve had all the necessary training required to catch one such as me.”

He pulled the cross from his neck and swung it wildly. “Put your back against the wall. Now!”

The man was mad. He wouldn’t know how to catch a witch if he tried. She flicked her gaze at Lorcan who loped to the corner.

“Stop!” the witch hunter shouted. “Tell your familiar to leave.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about witches, but I can’t control animals.”

“I know your ways. Tell it to leave.”

Aisling shook her head, holding up her hands, waiting for Lorcan to knock over the pot that would fill the entire hut with smoke. They had plans for every situation. Pitchforks and torches were at the top of the list. Witch hunter was a little lower.

She hadn’t expected the townsfolk to pay to get rid of her. She helped them! Love potions, spells for their cattle, charms to ward off nightmares.

Lorcan jumped onto the counter, heaved his body onto the shelves above, and touched his paw to the clay pot. Just a few moments now. She’d have to run out the front door, not the back like the children, but hopefully there was time before the mob reached them.

“You don’t give me enough credit witch,” the man growled.

She’d been staring at Lorcan or she would have noticed the witch hunter’s grip changing. He swung the pitchfork and caught her across the cheek.

Crying out, Aisling fell against the wall. She slapped her palm to the stone and blinked through the stars. Warm blood dripped down her cheek. She couldn’t focus. Her vision skewed to the side just as her body listed. He’d hit her so hard she couldn’t tell up from down.

A loud yowl slapped her in the ear.

“Now, Lorcan.” She might have screamed the words or whispered them. Either way, her faithful feline tipped the jar over, which exploded into dust so thick it made her cough. The room was spinning, but she knew where the door was. She knew this room like the back of her own hand. She could do this.

Lorcan jumped from the counter. At least she thought it was him. The heavy thud against the floor sounded familiar.

She swiped at her cheek and coughed out the smoke. Only a few more steps and the door would be…there.

As she reached the door frame, a cold metal chain slid over her head and around her throat. She pulled at it with her fingers, clawing so frantically a few nails split. But the chain was too thin, too strong, and he had wrapped it around her neck so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

She choked, wheezing as his hot breath played across her neck.

“I know your tricks, witch. You won’t get away that easily.”

“Lorcan, can—”

Something struck the witch hunter’s back, slamming them both forward onto the grass in front of her hut. The chain loosened for a brief second, enough for her to desperately inhale and roll onto her knees. Her lungs were on fire, and no manner of coughing seemed to help.

Crawling, she freed herself from the witch hunter as Lorcan screamed. Black fur surged over the man's writhing body, claws gleaming in the moonlight. He’d claw the man to pieces if the witch hunter gave him a chance.

“Quickly,” she murmured, “get it over with and let’s go.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” a deep voice interrupted. She recognized the village leader, Master O’Connell, without turning to look.

Aisling ground her teeth so hard her gum's bled. She turned on her hands and knees, leaving Lorcan and the witch hunter behind. The entire town was piled on the road that snaked up from the village. Pitchforks and torches were an understatement. This was a veritable army with hatred burning in their eyes.

They were led by a tall, thin man with a mustache that twitched whenever he was exceedingly emotional. She could gauge by its current movement that the man was bound to either lose his facial hair or wouldn’t calm down any time soon.

“Master O’Connell,” she said and coughed again. “How is your wife? I hope my potion cleared up that cough in her throat.”

“A little too well, witch.”

“And Mistress Hayes? I hope your cow is producing milk as requested.”

“Aye, she is. But she won’t stop crying in the middle of the night, as if the devil is pulling her tail.”

She met the gaze of every person who she’d helped over the many years she’d lived here and realized not a single one would pity her. They feared her.

“Now,” Master O’Connell said