The Egg, the Note, and the Skull

Dim light trickles through the branches above and dapples the rent in the earth in front of you. With a brush of your birch broom, it disappears, the evidence gone. In your pocket, your free hand curls protectively over an egg. A scrap of paper, crumbled and damp from days of reading, brushes over your knuckles and you recall its instruction much like it had been tattooed on the back of your hand.

"If you must find the witch, do not leave traces others may follow."

It takes a moment to find the next score in the earth, yards away from the last one. You sweep the broom over it.

Ivan didn't have to follow a trail, you complain internally. Neither did Basil or Mara or . . .

You shake your head. No use complaining; if any of them had the opportunity they would have taken it. Orya had done the hard work; you were just taking advantage. Although, you wouldn't be here to begin with if she weren't so brazen as to return to the very place she stole the broom from.

The evening falls to dusk. In the remaining light, you catch a glint of metal near the root of a tree and take a closer look.

Bullet shell.

You roll your eyes. It was probably Ivan's.

For some reason, when he had shown up demanding hospitality from the witch, Ivan didn't get eaten on the spot. You don't try to understand why—it's like her decisions are based entirely on whim. The man had been asking to die.

. . . If only she was like that all the time.

Lights begin to flicker between the trees, almost like torches, and you hold the broom still. Another line from the note in your pocket comes to mind:

"When you see the lights, the gate is near."

Taking a step forward, something crunches underfoot. You think you know what it is and unease oozes over you when you look down to find—as expected—a bone. Picking it up, you raise your gaze to study the lights.

In the periphery of your vision, some of the lights hover in the air, gliding to and fro. You ignore those. As you get closer, the source of the brightness appears: skulls. They decorate a fence of bone, lighting the way to the gate with enchanted fire lit in the sockets of their eyes. Many are ancient, brown and stained. Others, though few in number, are pale and recent. One seems to hold your gaze, its face newly picked clean—and not from any carrion bird.

You open the gate, flinching as it creaks.

No curse nor drake nor green-haired rusalka confronts you and that is almost more concerning than if there had been. But, with nothing to stop you, you walk inside.

Not two steps past the fence you hear a growl. A wolf charges out of nowhere, its eyes glowing like those of the skulls'.

"Favors are paid for tenfold; be kind to all you cross."

You remember the bone in your hand and hurl it. The wolf skids to a stop, eyes locked onto the femur as it sails overhead. It turns and bounds after the projectile, tail wagging and anger forgotten.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you continue.

An extended hiss stops you in your tracks, another pair of glowing eyes staring right at you. They belong to a cat; its back arched and fur standing on end.

You hesitate, thinking of a solution. A fingernail catches the frayed edge of your sleeve and your eyes widen with an epiphany. You pull a thread loose and dangle it over the cat. Its fur lies flat and it bats at the string.