Chapter 124

Mort chuckled when she staggered through the tomb door. “Witch Slayer, are you? Another lovely title to add to your repertoire.”

“How do you know about that?” she asked, setting down her candle. She’d already burned her bloodied clothes. They had reeked as they burned—reeked like rotting flesh, just as Yellowlegs had. Fleetfoot had growled at the fireplace and tried to herd Matilda away by pressing her body against her legs.

“Oh, I can smell her on you,” Mort said. “Smell her fury and wickedness.” Matilda peeled back the collar of her tunic to show the little cuts where

Yellowlegs’s nails had pierced the skin right above her collarbone. She’d cleaned them out, but had a feeling they would leave marks, a necklace of scars. “What do you make of those?”

Mort winced. “Those make me grateful I’m made of bronze.” “Will they harm me?”

“You killed a witch—and you’re now marked by a witch. It will not be the usual sort of wound.” Mort’s eyes narrowed. “You understand that you may have just l
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