CHAPTER 1
Dark whispers hissed secrets, slithering up Brygida’s arm and to her ear like serpents. There is another, they whispered. Another has arrived.
Yet another. With a grimace, she set aside the pestle and bagged the red raspberry leaf, lemon balm, and chamomile tea for her latest patient, then removed her apron and rolled down her sleeves.
The black crescent mark on her palm throbbed, its darkness and whispers seeping from her skin like smoke. She curled a fist, a tight one, and strode across Anita’s small cottage to her altar, where the Scythe of the Mother rested on its two hooks. With a frustrated huff, she retrieved it.
Standing there before the altar, she listened—really listened—tightening her grip on the scythe’s snathe, closing her eyes. Speak to me.
Maybe this time she
