salt
The witch laughed, a coarse, grating sound.
“You want your brother back, do you? Well, too bad, you fool, the dead belong to me! Although…”
Her colorless eyes racked over the girls body, taking in the dichotomy of shaking knees and a determined stare.
“You’ve shown some great chutzpa in coming here to me, quite brave, yes. I like that. Alright, a life for a life.”
She clapped her hands. An elderly man appeared in a whiff of smoke, holding a cane. The witch took the staff in his moment of disorientation and tossed it to her protester.
“A life for a life. Take this old geezer off my hands and I might be able to bring your brother back for you. It’s symbolic, really, innocent blood to pay the price for the dead. You have 20 seconds. Go.”
A fair trade, Amy thought, as she picked up the staff. Not going back empty-handed to that crying mother of mine. God forgive me.