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I turned.
“Wait.” The maiden’s voice tugged on me with its magic. I faced her.
The hag glared at her. “No!”
“Yes,” the maiden whispered. “There is no other way.”
She pushed off her couch and pulled off her hair. Her head was bald. The folds of fabric slipped from her body. She stood nude, save for the panties.
The effort rocked her and for a second I thought she would fall.
You could play the xylophone on her ribs. She had no breasts. Her knees protruded, disproportional, too large compared to her matchstick-thin legs. A conglomeration of misshapen ugly bumps thrust over her left hip, creating a grotesque, dimpled bulge of flesh.
She raised her chin. Magic streamed from her. Her voice filled the dome, invaded my ears, penetrated my mind.
“We are the Oracle. We serve the covens. They rely on us for power, wisdom, and prophecy. We keep the peace. We keep them safe. Look to the walls. You will see our bodies there, buried, secure in the womb of the tortoise. Just as we turn to dust, we rise anew in young flesh, for when one of us Three dies, a child is born to take her place.”
Her gaze pierced me, her eyes radiant. Above her the three-armed Hekate towered, black on the gray wall. “We are the knife, the craft, and the torch that banishes the darkness.”
The crone was the knife, the knowledge had to be the mother-witch, and the torch stood in front of me.
The torch that banishes the darkness…She was the one with the prophetic gift.
“I foresaw that someone would come. I didn’t know who it would be, but I foresaw the coming.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m dying. My body is full of tumors and neither magic nor medicine helps. I’m not afraid to die. When I do, within three years another witch oracle will be born to take my place. But she will take several years to blossom into her power. I’m too ill and Maria is too old.”
Within the next few years, the Oracle could be down to one witch. And could stay that way for about a decade, until the next witches revealed themselves. I looked to the mother for confirmation. She had put her hand over her mouth and was watching the maiden. Grief distorted her face.
“We aren’t trying to turn back nature. We cannot reverse Maria’s age. But there’s a way to cure me.”
The maiden swayed. “There is a potion. My very last chance. The blood of Morrigan’s Hound heals all.
You want to save a young girl? Here is your chance to save one. Save me. Bring me the blood and I’ll tell all you wish to know.”
The maiden fell back onto her couch. The mother rose and swaddled the maiden’s fragile body into the robes. The black silk, luxurious before, now gained the dreadful air of a funeral shroud.
“How much blood?” I asked.