Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,82

idea how long I’ve been waiting for you, Amarrah.”

Thanks to the dream-walking, I do have some notion, but it’s unsettling to contemplate. I wrap my arms around his neck as he slides me down his body. My knees will barely hold me, but we’re almost there. I need to rest a few days before the final battle, but once I recover my strength, we’ll finish this.

For three days, I bide my time, eating well, doing the bare minimum in housekeeping and tending to the goats. I sleep a lot.

On the fourth day, I slip out of bed, crawling over Njål in the process; he spends his nights with me now instead of on watch in the east wing. Either he trusts me fully or he doesn’t think there’s any risk of the baron or baroness getting out. I wish I knew which it is.

It’s time. I will never be stronger or readier than this.

I fetch the heavy kettle I’ve been using for laundry and build a fire in it. Then I drop the grimoire into the flames, and the book screams as it catches, twisting and writhing as if I’m charring a live creature. The leather pops and sizzles, but it does burn. I tend the fire until ashes remain. Those I set aside in a ceramic crock.

To me, it seems reasonable that these ashes might weaken the baron and baroness. Certainly losing their anchors hurt them; even without checking the spirit realm, I sense their access to the tendril web has lessened. But I imagine throwing the ashes on them, watching them scream and writhe as if stung by a thousand wasps. I don’t know if anything will happen, of course, but at worst, I pelt them with proof that I diminished their power.

As I’m about to tackle the necklace, Njål steps into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing?”

I step back. “You can do the honors. The mallet is over there. Don’t hold back.”

He snags the meat mallet and strikes the fang with a blow so thunderous that it dents the worktable. The tooth explodes into shards and dust; I rake the debris into the kettle and drop the leather strap after it. That accomplished, I build another fire and leave Njål to tend it while I go milk Agatha.

It takes ages for bone to burn, and the kitchen smells horrendous. But eventually, I have a second container of ashes. There’s no way I’ll be able to eat until the smell fades, and my nerves won’t let me put the confrontation off for another day.

“It’s time for me to visit the east wing,” I say quietly. “Get the ritual dagger.”

“You already know, don’t you?”

I touch his cheek, stroking the strong ridge of his cheekbone. “You’re not that good at keeping secrets.”

“What’s your plan?”

“You fight them physically. Use the ritual blade. It’s imbued with their vile energies, and those wounds should be more debilitating. Use the ashes as well. I don’t know for sure what good it’ll do, but it can’t hurt.”

“And you’ll be . . . ?”

“Battling in the spirit realm to free you from this place. Guard me and destroy their bodies if possible. I’ll do the rest.” I hope I sound confident, for Njål’s life depends on me.

“Amarrah, I lo—”

“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You’re not telling me about your feelings now. Say it when we’re both safe, understand?”

He leans down to kiss me. “Perfectly. It’s a promise.”

“Another one? Apparently I collect them like seashells.”

“I’ll keep them all, every last one. Let’s go.” He tucks the dagger into his belt and picks up the two ash crocks.

Njål leads the way to the east wing, a wretched place I’ve only been in my dreams. When he throws open the forbidding double doors, a draft of fetid air sweeps over me. Something here is wrong, deeply wrong. My flesh crawls as we move over the threshold. Here, the preserving magic has faded or never took, because the wood is rotten and the stones are crumbling away. There’s evidence of mice and spiders, webs and droppings, and a terrible, unearthly rasp fills the corridor, like something immense breathing through disease-riddled flesh.

He pauses just outside a chamber, and the smell, dear gods, the smell. The door is open, and I see why he’s not worried about them leaving. They cannot.

I have never beheld such a monstrosity. The baron and baroness have grown together, all entwined in vines of flesh, some rotting away, others tumorous, and they are rooted

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