The boat dipped again with Henri’s weight, rocking slightly from side to side. “Need help with that, Vi?”

“Nope.” Violet eased past Henri and stepped onto an old wooden box. “I’m captain today.”

She pulled her mask down over her face, as though she was preparing for war, not a trip down the bayou. The boat’s engine roared, startling two snowy egrets nearby. Black smoke sputtered from the motor as Violet revved the engine a few times before reversing us away from the dock.

Henri smiled at me, lifting his brow. “Captain it is. Allons-y!” he called to her. Let’s go.

We raced across the wide Mississippi, bouncing over the choppy waves, the fine spray dampening our skin. Violet guided the boat like she’d been born to it, and I supposed she had, being raised out in the bayous and swamps of New 2. She knew exactly how to navigate us to our destination—a secluded house deep in the bayou, owned by an old man, a trapper called the River Witch.

According to Violet, the River Witch was very powerful and knowledgeable. He was not in a coven, not a member of the three main witch families that populated the city, nor was he a warlock, which was what the few male witches in existence were called these days. I’d learned in one of my classes at Presby that there was a time long ago when all magical practitioners, whatever their gender, were called “witch.”

The constant rise and dip of the boat made my stomach tight and uneasy. I gripped the metal hull with one hand, my other holding the edge of the bench, trying to stay anchored to my seat. Violet pushed the small boat to its limit, and I knew she was making up time. No one wanted to be stuck in the swamps at night.

We entered the wide channel the hurricanes had cut through Bayou Segnette State Park and Jean Lafitte Preserve. The bayou connected the Mississippi to Lake Cataouatche. Off the bayou were smaller channels, eerie dark places. Dangerous places. The perfect places for all manner of creatures to hide.

The boat slowed as Violet navigated down a smaller channel under a cathedral of moss-draped trees.

Strangely, it felt absent of temperature here. Neither hot nor cold. Just stagnant and damp, causing a film of humidity to cover my face. The smells of mud and decomposing sea life hung heavy in the air. A water moccasin slithered through the water, making serpentine waves, before curling itself around a small cypress root. Its body bobbed in the wake as we went by, and my skin crawled.

After a few more miles, Violet steered the boat into another narrow channel and slowed until we were coasting. Mist hovered over the dark water, and through it, a yellow glow appeared and a narrow boat took shape. It looked like it came from another time, another world. Made of reeds, the sides were low but the bow and stern curved high and inward to a point. A lantern hung from one of the curves, casting its dim glow over the boat. A hunched-over old man, his face partially hidden by the hood of a dark cloak, stood at one end, holding a long pole to push the boat forward.

I glanced down at Pascal stretched out by my side and muttered, “Looks like we’re going to meet the reaper, doesn’t it, boy?”

“He won’t hurt you,” Violet said softly over her shoulder. “As long as you don’t touch his stuff.”

Sebastian once told me that Violet had been raised by a trapper who lived in the swamps. “Is this the person who raised you, Violet?”

This time she shrugged. “He taught me some things.”

As we drew close enough to exchange words with the River Witch, the reed boat turned and moved deeper into the bayou.

Eventually the River Witch’s house appeared, rising from the water on short, stocky stilts. It was one story, with a porch that ran the length of the house and steps that led to the dock where we tied our boat. Wind chimes and sun catchers hung from the porch’s top frame.

“When we go in, don’t touch anything. He hates when you touch his stuff, okay?” Violet reminded us.

“Don’t worry,” Henri assured her. “We won’t touch anything.”

Single file we went, the witch leading the way, our weight creaking the boards under our feet. Warm yellow light filled each of the windows and spilled from the door as the witch opened it and went inside.

I followed, feeling a huge dose of skepticism mixed with a desperate kind of hope. So far, finding the means to unravel the two-thousand-year-old gorgon curse inside me had been like trying to find a tiny grain of salt in a desert full of sand. The only information I’d found had been in the Novem’s library, where I uncovered two stories, one Sumerian, one Egyptian, of gods cursing a human. And nothing that helped me much, other than vague references to “untangling” the curse words.

I hesitated just inside the doorway, surprised to find the front room crammed with antiquities, the sort of things that would’ve been more at home in the Novem’s library than out here in the swamp. Shields, swords, helms, statues, jewelry, chests . . . all stacked with no rhyme or reason.

Henri gave me a gentle nudge. “You moving or what?”

“Yeah,” I said, distracted by what I saw and wondering just who the River Witch was and how he’d come by all those things. He wasn’t a simple trapper, a simple witch. That much was obvious. Wariness crept up my spine and tingled the back of my neck as I moved through the room and entered the large kitchen.

Herbs hung from exposed rafters. Mortars and pestles of different sizes lay on the countertops along with rocks, eggs of varying sizes, and jars of preserved animals and reptiles.

Violet crawled onto a high stool at the wide island, and spread her hands over the smooth slab of white marble as a cat jumped onto the counter, arched its back, and hissed at her.

Violet hissed right back.

I smiled. Thatta girl.

“So,” the River Witch started in a roughened voice. He removed his hood and took up position across from us. His was an old face with prominent bones under paper-thin skin, wrinkles, and age spots. He had a proud-looking nose, long and straight, and sharp green eyes that studied us for an uncomfortable moment.

“The gorgon and the shifter come to call. You are without the Mistborn, I see.”

We’d waited as long as we could for Sebastian to take the trip into the bayou with us. But he never showed. If we’d waited any longer our daylight would have been compromised. And we only had the boat for today.

A low, scratchy chuckle came out of the River Witch. “A rocky start. A rocky road. And maybe a rocky end. You prepared for this, gorgon?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you are. You’re young. Foolish. Think you can do anything, you and your friends, you and your Mistborn vampire.” He made a sarcastic flourish with his hands. “Romance . . . ,” he sneered before grabbing a ladle from the counter behind him, muttering under his breath. “Nothing but trouble. Heartache that lasts millennia. Violet, bring me that jar of oil behind you.”

Violet went to the shelf and lifted a fat glass jar, bumping an adjacent clay jar. A tiny, muted squeak erupted, followed by scratching and scrambling, like a bird trapped in a chimney. Two other jars next to it, both clay, both secured with lids, began the same kind of racket. The witch shouted an irritated command, and they stopped as Violet hefted the jar onto the table.

“Special gorgon,” the witch said, taking off the lid. “God-killer. Powers before your time. Powers to do what others could not. That is important. So important.” He dipped the ladle into the oil. “This . . . Hmm. This is the good stuff.” He laughed as though his words were a joke. His head lifted. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

He returned to his task. “Not long then. Not long until you turn gorgon for good. That’s why you’re here. To find out if I can lift your curse.”

“Or if you know someone who can,” I said, trying to keep the skepticism from my voice.

His shoulders shook with more laughter. “Oh, no doubt about that. I know them all.”

The curse would change me forever on my twenty-first birthday—the same age Medusa had been when Athena had cursed her. That left me three and a half years to figure out how to not end up like my ancestors, who’d chosen suicide rather than become a snake-headed horror, or who’d hidden themselves away from civilization and from the Sons of Perseus, hunters Athena had ordered to slay each successive gorgon.

Fate played out with each generation. Somehow the line continued, despite Athena. Despite the hunters. It was a cycle that never broke.

My father had been a hunter. And instead of killing my mother, he fell in love with her. So the cycle was breaking. It had begun with him, and it would end with me.

It had to.

The witch lifted a large ladleful of oil from the jar and dumped it onto the marble. It spread out slowly. “Give me your blade,” he said quickly, shoving out his hand.

I hesitated.

“Hurry. Give it to me.”

I withdrew the new blade Bran, my teacher, had given to me and handed it over, grip first. The witch snatched it and sliced his palm. Blood drizzled into the oil as I took my blade back, wiped it on my jeans, and returned it to the sheath at my thigh.

Violet propped her elbows on the counter, rested her chin in her hands, and watched the blood mix with the oil as though watching dough rise or cookies bake.

The witch’s blood began to swirl in the oil. The hairs on my arms stood as small blood symbols began to take shape.

“This is a form of divining.” Henri moved closer, fascinated. “You’re going to read the blood in the oil. The same way others read bones or entrails.”

“Correct. But this is not just any oil, shifter. This oil is from the olives of Athena’s first tree. The one she created to win the city named in her honor. Athens.”

“How did you—” I went to ask.

“Hush, gorgon. The how is not important.” The River Witch hunched over the oil with concentration.

I disagreed. The how was very important. The witch. His words. His connection to Athena, the artifacts piled in the front room . . . How could he know about us, have raised Violet, and be in possession of oil from Athena’s first olive tree? That in and of itself was astounding. Why did I suddenly feel like a tiny game piece on a huge game board? The witch was definitely a player, but whose side was he on, and what was his motive?