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Chapter One
A black cat wove around her legs. Remy released a long-suffering sigh. Now the entire tavern would know she was a witch.
A glass shattered on the floor behind her as two tavern patrons pulled daggers on each other. The sounds of their drunken brawl echoed through the room. Remy didnāt even flinch. With her weathered brown boot, she shooed the cat away. She did not fear daggers or tavern spiders or the anger of drunken men. She feared being seen. For if any one of these tavern patrons knew she was a red witch, they would all be clambering over each other to cut off her head.
How many gold coins was the Northern King paying for red witch heads these days?
She set down another heavy wooden chair in the Rusty Hatchet tavern. The smell of dirt and stale beer swirled around her. It was the smell she knew as home. A handful of other tavern workers dotted about, readying for the evening rush of locals who would flock to the tavern for its strong drinks and spiced meats.
Remy swept up after the slow trickle of midday travelers. She stole a sidelong glance toward the bar, where two of the tavernās courtesans sat, bored. Josephine and Sabine chattered away to the barman, who was listening, doe-eyed, entrapped by their beauty.
Remy looked with jealousy at their delicate embroidered dresses that flaunted their figures. She wished she could wear those beaded necklaces and teardrop earrings, wished her guardian, Heather, would let her paint her face and line her eyes with kohl. She wished she could stand out, but that was, in fact, the opposite of what they wanted with their constant efforts to keep Remy hidden. Soot stained her warm brown skin. She tied her loose black curls in a messy low bun and kept her whole demeanor intentionally unremarkable.
Swapping out the full bucket with an empty one, Remy looked up at the droplets leaking from the thatched roof. Despite its rundown appearance, the Rusty Hatchet was far better than the last tavern. Remy and her brown witch companions had been at the Rusty Hatchet for nearly a year, and it was the best tavern they had worked at in a long time.
Taverns were the only places left that would hire witches anymore. Heather insisted they move taverns every three years. They kept funneling themselves along the chain of backcountry taverns along the foothills of the High Mountains. Remy tried to convince her guardian that the ones closer to the Western Court coast would be nicer. Heather insisted that the ones closer to town would have more fae customers and it wouldnāt be worth the risk.
In their realm, fae were at the top, ruling each of the five courts of Okrith . . . well, four courts now that the High Mountain Court had fallen to the Northern Court King.
An energetic voice piped up from behind her. āScrubbing pans or scrubbing sheets?ā
She looked over her shoulder. Fenrin was the same age as Remy. She had known him since they were twelve. He was an orphaned brown witch. Both Heather and Fenrin were brown witches, the coven native to the Western Court. Heather had found Fenrin living on the streets and offered him temporary shelter. But now, seven years later, he was an inextricable part of their makeshift family.
Fenrin was tall enough to draw attention in a crowd. Eating twice as much as Heather and Remy combined, he couldnāt seem to gain an ounce of weight. Built like a stork, he was still impressively strong despite his lean limbs. He had a mop of straw-colored hair and ocean blue eyes.
āIāll serve the food.ā Remy craned her neck up to him.
āThereās lots of folks from out of town here tonight,ā Fenrin said. āBetter to work in the back.ā
Remyās shoulders drooped as she dusted her hands down her cream-colored apron. She once would have argued with Fenrin about staying hidden, but she didnāt anymore. The likelihood of one of those travelers being a witch hunter was slimāthat was the benefit of living in seedy little villages, but Remy listened to Fenrin. She had made so many mistakes over the years. Mistakes that had them fleeing towns in the middle of the night, and all to protect Remyās secret: she was a red witch.
When King Vostemur of the Northern Court slaughtered the High Mountain fae, he also slaughtered the native coven of red witches. The witches scattered across the courts, driven into hiding to avoid the witch hunters, who made a living off the witch heads they brought to the Northern King. So few red witches remained now, the only ones she knew of were the property of the royal fae who protected them from the Northern Kingās wrath, but the free red witches were either well-hidden or dead. Remy had not heard any gossip of a witch-slaying in years. Maybe she was the only one left.
āPans,ā she said with a resigned huff. She was about to get more stains on her clothes whichever task she did. These were the choices Remy made: pans or sheets, mopping or dusting, cooking or serving.
She would rather scrub grit and grease than face whatever stained those sheets. Remy had learned more about bedroom habits from washing tavern sheets than anything Heather had ever taught her. Everything else she had learned from a cobblerās son and the tales of courtesans, though Heather tried to keep Remy away from them. Witches needed to keep to their own.
The humans and the fae couldnāt be trusted, a fact which Heather reminded Remy of every day. There was a new hierarchy to their world. That hierarchy changed after the Siege of Yexshire, the mutinous slaughter of the entire capital city of the High Mountain Court. It happened when Remy was six. Now, red witches were at the bottom of the barrel.
āYou always pick pans,ā Fenrin grumbled.
Remy couldnāt help but smile. āI just know how much you love scrubbing dirty sheets, Fen.ā
The roar of drunken laughter echoed through the tavern. That black cat still mewled at the witchesā feet. Fenrin frowned at the cat.
āGo harass one of the humans,ā the brown witch said, rolling his eyes as he pushed open the kitchen door.
* * *
Remy rubbed an acrid balm into her sore, cracked hands. Scouring pans had left its mark. Luckily, Heather was a skilled brown witch. Remyās guardian had a potion, elixir, or balm for every malady under the sun. Many humans would seek out Heather in secret and trade coins for her remedies. Between their tavern work and selling potions on the side, it was enough to keep their group of three afloat and pay for their frequent moves.
āAle!ā Remy heard a deep voice shout from the front of the tavern.
Matilda, the matron who owned the Rusty Hatchet, came bursting through the swinging double doors to the kitchens.
The white-haired, heavyset woman groused to herself, cursing whichever patron had screamed. She chucked a rag over her shoulder and grabbed a tray of clean, dried glasses, hefting it easily. She tilted her head to the four plated dishes on the kitchen table.
āRemy, can you give us a hand?ā she asked, exasperated. āThose plates to the loud assholes in the corner booth.ā
āYes, Matilda,ā Remy said.
Matilda sagged with relief, as though Remyās response was an act of kindness and not obedience. Remy liked Matilda. She was the nicest matron Remy had met so far. Matilda gave her staff fair wages and fair breaks. Remy was off for the night after the pans, but she heard the bustle of a full tavern and decided to help, ignoring Fenrinās warning. Staying on the good side of the tavern matron was worth the extra few minutes of work.
Remy grabbed all four plates, balancing two on her left forearm and one in each hand. Using her hip, she pushed open the wood door.
Clamorous banter and the merry tunes of a fiddle and drum greeted her. She made her way past the bar full of cheery, drunk locals. Pushing her way through the throng of standing patrons, she did not let a single pea roll off the four plates she carried. Remy had been serving boisterous crowds in taverns since she was a child. She passed the musicians, casting a sideways glance at the fiddle player. He wore a dark tunic over his broad shoulders and a cap that covered his red hair. Like most of the people in this town, he was a human, not a witch or fae. There was no visible difference between humans and witches, apart from when the witches wielded their magic. The eerie glow of magic gave them away, each radiating with the colors of their home coven: blue, green, brown, and red.
The fiddle player gave Remy a wink, a blush creeping up her neck. She was glad Heather and Fenrin had already retired to their attic room so that she could enjoy the fiddlerās attention. Though Remy had learned many times over the years that the affections of a half-intoxicated man meant nothing.
She moved toward the far corner booth below the stairs of the Rusty Hatchet. The hair on her arms stood on end. Her face chilled in an invisible breeze. A thread of power hung in the air; there was magic in the tavern tonight. With enough time and stillness she could probably discern which people they were, but Remy was too tired. She wanted to serve this table and then go to her bedroll in the attic above the stables.
The lamp that normally shined above the booth was dark. The candle on the table did not flicker with life either. The four men in the corner sat in darkness. Remy could only just make out their shapes. It was not unusual, this sitting in darkness. Many a secret deal happened in back booths. Perhaps they were politicians and thieves, or sheriffs and scoundrels. She did not care to know their business, and she would not attempt to peer under their hoods.
āYour food, gentlemen,ā Remy said, serving their plates.
As she backed away from the table, a hand snaked out and encircled her wrist. A jolt of lightning buzzed through her veins at the warm touch. The man who held her wrist flipped it over and placed two silver druni in her palm.
Remy looked down to the waxing and waning moons printed on the witch coins. The currencies of Okrith were all muddled together, but each race had their preferences. Fae preferred gold pieces, humans preferred coppers, and witches traded in silver druni. Perhaps these men were witches.
āWe asked for ale,ā another man spoke out from under his hood. She expected a deep, gruff voice, but it was rather lighthearted for someone hiding under a hood.
Remy didnāt take her eyes off the shadowed face of the man who still held her wrist. She clenched the coins in her palm, trying to stare through the darkness to his face.
āIf you want your ale, then you should tell your friend to release me so I may fetch it,ā she said through gritted teeth.
The man who held her wrist leaned forward, bringing his torso more into the light. With his free hand he grabbed his hood, pulling it back to expose his angular face, golden sun-kissed skin, and wavy chestnut hair that fell into his gray eyes. He was the most handsome man Remy had ever seen. Unnaturally so. Remyās power buzzed through her again. The magic wasnāt witches in the tavern, it was the power of a fae glamour.
Remy froze.
Before her sat a fae male glamoured as a human. Here. In the Rusty Hatchet. The humans of this town didnāt take kindly to fae being amongst them, but the humans didnāt sense magic the way that witches did. To them, these were merely human travelers and nothing more.
Remy looked to the other three hooded figures, allowing her eyes to peer deeper into the darkness. She suspected the other three must be fae too. Remy bit back the gasp that wanted to escape her throat. She schooled her face, hoping they could not scent her fear.
āApologies,ā the striking fae said, releasing her hand. āI only wanted to tell you . . .ā He paused to swipe one long, tanned finger across her cheek. It took everything in Remy not to flinch.
He showed her the soot smudge on his fingertip. She rubbed her cheek.
āI thought youād like to know.ā Remyās eyes snagged on those lush lips pulling up at the corners. He was watching her, looking at her mouth. Gods, she blushed when a fiddling human winked at her, but this . . . this fae was something else. It was hardly her fault she wanted to ogle him.
Remy couldnāt hold his stare, though. Those depthless smoky gray eyes promised to entrance her.
āThanks,ā she said, looking to the floor.
āMy pleasure.ā The maleās voice was a deep rolling wave that made Remyās toes curl in her boots. āHave a good night, little witch.ā
Curse the Gods. He knew.
The fae male knew she was a witch, at the very least, and if she lingered much longer this infuriatingly gorgeous problem might discern what kind of witch she was.
This was the difficulty with the fae. This was why Remy avoided the sneaky, charming bastards like the plague.
His cunning face missed nothing, though Remy refused to reveal she knew he was fae.
āY-you too,ā Remy said.
It was not a crime to be any other kind of witch . . . only a red witch. Heather claimed to be her mother, so as long as Remy did not linger with these fae, she should be okay. She looked toward the shadowed male who spoke before. āIāll fetch your ale at once.ā
Spinning, she disappeared into the crowd. Sh...
