“And who are you?”
I swallowed. “Someone who’s wondering why a bunch of witches—you are witches, right?” I asked as the blotches started to resolve into a semicircle of halter-clad women.
“Aye, we’re witches. But not the kind that consort wi’ demons!”
The speaker was an older woman, who frankly looked a lot like a witch. Or the common perception of one. She was missing the pointy hat and broom, but the hooknose, the wild black and gray hair, and the eye patch were perfect. Which made me wonder what the heck she was doing here.
I wasn’t trying to be unkind, but “sex slave” was not the first description that came to mind.
Of course, that went for the rest of them, too. There didn’t look to be one of childbearing age. Although I might be misjudging, since there also wasn’t one without what looked like battle scars: a missing eye, a chipped front tooth, a literal scar bisecting a cheek, deep enough that it must have hit bone—twenty years ago.
“Well, maybe that’s why you’re still locked up,” I said, continuing to evade the advancing throng. There were seven, maybe eight of them—it was still hard to see, especially in the corners—and I didn’t like those odds. Not when the kindest-looking one also looked like she could take on a pro wrestler—and win.
“You watch your tongue, girl!” That was from a large woman with faded red hair and a belligerent expression.
“That might be prudent,” Rosier said softly, into my ear.
“There’s a time and place for prudence,” I said. “I don’t think this is it.”
“Listen to your creature, girl,” the redhead advised.
“Or what? You’ll hurt me? Maybe kill me? And then what?”
“Then ye’ll be dead! And your creature wi’ ye!”
“And you’ll still be stuck here, half-naked and defenseless—”
Someone hissed.
“—about to be auctioned off like cattle—”
“Have a care!”
“—or no, not like cattle,” I amended. “Like sheep. Cattle at least try to escape—”
“And if we don’t kill you, how does that change?” someone asked quietly, from behind me.
I whirled, because I hadn’t noticed anyone there.
My vision was a little clearer now, probably as much as it was going to get, considering that the only light came from small rips in the tent fabric. They sent tiny fingers of dust-filled firelight stabbing across the space, one of which bisected the face of the first young woman I’d seen. And the first who didn’t look like a witch.
She was pretty, with delicate features and a cascade of pale blond hair that almost reached her knees. And what might have been dark gray eyes that were leveled calmly on me. She didn’t look like someone who was about to be auction fodder. She also didn’t look like she was planning to stab me in the back the first chance she got, especially since she’d just had it.
“Give me a moment,” I said to her, and closed my eyes.
I only had one question, since there was only one option I could see. But before I did anything, it would be nice to know if I was about to screw up the timeline.
You know, again.
But my power was doing the metaphysical equivalent of humming absently, with no apparent opinion one way or another. There was no sense of doom and gloom, but also no enthusiasm. If I had to use a word to describe the overall response, it would have been “meh.”
We’re going to have to work on our communication, I told it grimly.
“I have an idea,” I said to them, opening my eyes. And found the witches looking at each other, like they thought I might be nuts. “But it depends.”
“On what?” the blonde asked warily.
I pulled the items I’d picked up off the ground, and that my little chameleon had hidden for me, out of a fold in my skirts. “On whether these wands belong to you.”