The Necromancer (Amber Lee Mysteries Book 3) by Katerina Martinez Read Free Book Online

shadow and darkness swallowed whatever figure lay beyond the threshold. I watched, heart thumping in my ears. Lub-dub. Lub-dub . Then, as if manifested from the darkness itself, a dark woman stepped out of the cottage like a specter out of a tomb.
    An instant passed, something fluttered nearby, and from the trees came the crow, rushing down from the skies to settle on the shoulders of the beauty wreathed in black. She was wearing an old fashioned black dress that came down to her feet and had a high neck line. Her skin was pale, but I noted a distinctly olive green hue to it. Her lips were full and red, her eyes dark and heavy with liner and shadow. But she seemed sunken, too pale, and the purple bags under her eyes gave away immense tiredness.
    Lub-dub—lub-dub—lub-dub!
    I stared, perplexed, and swallowed. “W-who are you?”
    The lady in black curtsied and said “It iz an honor to finally meet ze red witch.”

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 6

     
    “Do I know you?” I asked.
    “Not yet,” she said, “And yet a part of you does.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “But you will.”
    She was French. I had spent enough time around the French to recognize the accent. And if her voice didn’t give her European heritage away, her olive skin surely did. Here was a girl who, tired as she was, was absolutely stunning. Her features were soft and sharp in all the right places, eyes piercing and intelligent, and her lips full and pouty.
    I was drawn, pulled in like a fly to a trap.
    With a simple wave of her hand she broke me away from my own thoughts and urged me into the cottage she had been living in. The inside was quaint and cozy, but by no means comfortable. Broken furniture was strewn about the place, tables and chairs lost to the ravages of time, and no bed to speak of. I wondered how she was living here at all, if you could even call it living.
    At least there was a fireplace for the cold, and the cottage was warmer for it.
    We stared at each other from atop the remains of an old, crooked table. It had lost one of its legs and lay dilapidated on its side like, the corpse of a soldier left on a battlefield. Neither of us said a word until, finally, I found the right thing to say.
    “I know you,” I said, from the part of me that acted without thinking.
    “As I know you,” said the French girl.
    “How do we know each other?”
    “Through our dreams. You have dreamt about me, oui?”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “And I have dreamt about you. The red witch. The purifying flame that fights the darkness.”
    “I don’t know who you think I am but—”
    “You are ze red witch,” she said, advancing. I jerked back a pace. “I will not hurt you,” she said.
    “I’m sorry, I just don’t even know your name.”
    “Collette.”
    “Collette, thank you. My name is Amber.”
    “Amber. A fitting name.”
    I took a breath. A beat. “So, we have been dreaming about each other,” I said, “Fine. I’ll accept that. Now, could you tell me why you’re here and why your bird has been off killing things?”
    Collette sighed and gestured to the only set of thatched chairs ready to sit on. I approached the seat and checked it for structural flaws by giving the backrest a good shake, but it seemed sturdy enough so I sat down. The French girl sat opposite me, displaying the pinnacle of ladylike manner in her posture; back straight, hands at her knees crossed over each other. Boarding school, probably. I straightened out my own back.
    “From the top, please,” I said.
    Collette nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I am a witch, like you.”
    A new witch ! Part of me hummed and beamed, excited, but I contained it. I nodded.
    “A few months ago,” she continued, “I started having dreams about a red witch. She always appeared to me wearing a cloak—a red-hooded cloak—wreathed in fire. Ze red witch never spoke, but she was always my enemy; battling the darkness I was wreaking upon her land.”
    “Sounds