The Witch Collector (Witch Walker Book 1)

Product Information

I begin to close the shutters, but instead, I pause and take in the view of morning in the village—possibly my last. To the west, where Frostwater Wood curves over the hills, the midnight shift of Witch Walkers moves along the forest’s edge near the watchtower, gliding through the gloom like ghosts. And in the mist, just beyond the village green, a few women appear from the east. They carry baskets of apples on their heads, surrounded by clouds of their own breath. All else is calm, for now, a village on the cusp of waking for the most dreaded day of the year.

Every harvest moon, the Witch Collector rides into our valley and leads one of us to the home of the immortal Frost King, to remain forever. When I arrive at Hampstead Loch, people scurry around the green. I lower my hood, hold up my hand, and ride through the masses. He presses a tender kiss to my forehead. “Don’t thank me, Raina,” he whispers. “Just don’t make me regret this.”You want me to hone a killing blade.” He folds his muscled arms across his chest. “That is, at its essence, what you said when you walked in here. Something to cut through flesh and bone alike. And I know you do not mean wild deer.” But he will not come for me. I, Raina Bloodgood, have lived in this village for twenty-four years, and for all that time he has passed me by. Finn and I sit for a long while, staring past the village outskirts to the valley beyond. Everyone else on the green stares too. A village holding its breath. Morning, Raina,” Betha signs. She flashes a tight smile and glances at her small daughters, a silent way of saying she doesn’t want them to hear the worries so evidently etched onto her face.

A horse, dark as night, charges into the light, hooves pounding the ground so hard that clumps of grass and earth fly up behind him. Villagers scramble out of the way. It’s as if the horse means to storm right through the green. Finn and I aren’t together anymore, not in the way we once were, but he’s still my comfort, even when he’s impossible. I don’t know how to live life without him, but I fear I’ll have to. When the moment arrives today, I’ll still give him—and his family—a choice, but if I’m honest with myself, he made that decision three years ago.” Hampstead Loch and Penrith’s watchtowers are empty because it’s Collecting Day. I’m sure that every watchtower across the valley sits unoccupied. The God Knife is a god remnant,” he answered. “God bone, fashioned by the hand of Un Drallag the Sorcerer. It harkens to the soul of the god from whose body the bone was taken. It can kill anyone and anything, the blessed and the cursed, the forever living and the risen dead—even other gods.” When I meet her stare, she pokes my side and smiles, but her wild spirit doesn’t stir, not even in her eyes.

I don’t mind this time. I agree with him. The feast hunters know our lands better than anyone. Besides, what could’ve gone wrong that all seven would not return?

She holds no faith in Father’s tales of finding the God Knife along the Malorian seashore. Though she’s kept the blade hidden away since its rediscovery, Mother still doesn’t believe in its myth and claims it has no power. To the Frost King’s credit, I’ve never known war. The Northlands have remained neutral, but our citizens—whether protecting the coast, the mountains, the valley, the Iceland Plains, or the king himself—must live according to the Frost King’s wishes, guardians above all else. I believe I have the power to change that, to end his immortal life and make us a free land governed by its people, free to live as we choose.My movements slow, my fingers relax, and I open my eyes. A dome of protection hovers above, glittering beneath the moonlight. In that heartbeat of time, I feel safe, believing that we can keep the Eastlanders from entering Silver Hollow with just our song. We’ve heard rumors from the East along the spy chain before,” I remind him. “Nothing has ever come of them.” Slowing to a stop, my smile fades. A woman stands at my side, face pale and tight with alarm. She’s the boy’s mother, I assume, and my presence is not a welcome sight. I hand over the child. Like Nephele, thoughts of my father are never far from my mind. Why he went to the fields the day he died—in the dead of winter—will forever remain a mystery, as will the question that might haunt me until my last breath: If the blade is so all-powerful, why didn’t he use it to save us? To save Nephele?

He drops into the chair beside me, and his irritated expression morphs into concern. “I also worry for you. I’ve had dreams. No, not dreams,” he clarifies, his brow pinched. “Nightmares. For a while now.” With a shuddering sigh, I toss the water out the window and steel myself for the night as quiet rage sparks to life inside me. I cling to it. Thrive on it. Mena reads palms, something I’ve let her do a handful of times. She knows I’m reluctant and doesn’t press, but she likes to tease. She’s a dear friend, so I tolerate her prying mind.I clench my fingers again. There are so many things I want to say, none of them kind. Instead, I hold Finn’s stare until he takes the knife, slips on his leather apron, and steps to the forge. I mutter a prayer to the Ancient Ones, hoping with every fiber of my being that Nephele and the others have done as Colden asked, and that it’s enough to prevent the Eastlanders from breaching the wood. I must believe they have. I know their power and determination. I know their hearts. The Witch Walkers guarding Frostwater Wood allow me passage, reconstructing the break in the boundary the moment Mannus has all four hooves on the valley side of the forest. I considered obeying Colden’s wishes about riding straight to Silver Hollow. It would be faster, and I’d avoid the coming dark that’s settling over the valley in a dusky light, but I can’t, even with Colden’s worries about my presence in the vale tonight. I’m late, and I owe the villagers the relief of knowing that—for this day at least—they’re safe from me.