Claire watched him go into the bedroom, the door closing behind him, and the small smile bled from her face. She refused to look at the boy. If she did, she wouldn’t do what had to be done.
She returned to the kitchen and took a wooden box down from a high shelf. Every healer, witch or not, had a cache of poisonous herbs, not specifically for killing. Many herbs that were poisonous could be used in small doses for good. In fact, the small bag containing deadly nightshade she now drew from the box she sometimes used for patients with eye problems.
It didn’t take long to make the tonic. The plant worked as a narcotic and prevented spasms. It was the best chance at a painless death but, just to be sure it would work, Claire added a heaping spoonful of saffron to the cup. She didn’t know how much of the boy’s—the thing’s—body had changed and she wanted to take no chances.
Poisoned cup in hand, she left the kitchen and began to head toward the cot.
♘—The boy’s fever was on a constant climb as his new magic forged the boy’s soul into a new formation. One of power and molten lava that created nothing but obsidian and ash. His breath came in shallow pants, and his head stirred restlessly on the pillow. When she would touch him, his eyes would flutter open, a weak light throbbed in his irises as his eyes rimmed with tears. “S-so cold,” he whimpered, barely audible.
