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Briar stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “Is that an option?”

Marigold paused for a moment too long before laughing. “Hopefully not!”

She stepped around Briar, her smile rigid and desperate. But before she could take another step toward the cottage, she made a mistake:

She glanced up at the trees.

Wick tilted his head up and gave an imperceptible sniff. A breeze blew in his direction, bringing the unmistakable scent of lipseed in the air.

Wick surged forward and grabbed Marigold’s wrist.

Marigold spluttered. She tugged at Wick’s grip, staring at Briar in panic.

“What is hedoing?” she hissed.

Briar said nothing. She did not even look at Wick as she strolled up to Marigold, her gait deceivingly casual despite the hard edge in her eyes.

“Briar!” Marigold whimpered. She drew her staff back like she was going to hit him with it. “Tell him I’m only trying to help!”

“You’re nothelpinghim,” Briar said flatly. “You’re restraining him so you cansellme, you backstabbing, lying, void-rotted little shit.”

“That’s— That’s not—” Marigold stared at Briar with a terrified smile, stiff with shock. Then her head snapped up toward the trees. “RENAULT! NOW!”

A familiar voice swore from the treetops. Renault launched himself from the branches, coming to a rolling stop on the ground. He was battered and bandaged, but otherwise whole.

Marigold whirled on Wick, her staff raised. Not to strike him, Wick realized all too late, but to cast a spell on him.

“Nyaankhi~,” she cried.

Ice burst from the ground and surrounded him, digging into his skin. Wick released Marigold, attempting to claw the ice off, but it climbed thick over his arms and up his chest until he was frozen in place.

“Wick!” Briar yelled.

Wick grunted. The ice was sharp and painfully cold, pressing into his chin. But no further. Marigold strained beside him, her staff still outstretched.

Behind her stood Renault the bounty hunter, a crossbow raised at Briar’s heart.

“Briar,” Wick warned.

Briar gritted her teeth. Even through the overwhelming stench of ice and Marigold’s nervous sweat, he could smell Briar’s fury—hot and blazing, so overpowering it almost masked her devastating worry.

Briar unsheathed her knife and turned reluctantly to face Renault. “All alone, huh? Looks like someone killed your team.”

Renault scowled. His hair looked limper than usual. There was a bandage showing above his collar, and his pale skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Briar’s knife must have gotten him deep.

“If you don’t mind,” Renault said thinly. “I’m a little tired of our usual back-and-forth. Marigold, your coin as promised.”

Crossbow still aloft, he pulled a cloth bag from his belt. It was bulging, and it took Wick a painful moment to realize where he knew it from: this was the bag of gold he had stolen from the ritual.

Briar pointed her blade at it. “That’s mine.”

“Finders fucking keepers,” Renault spat.

He dropped the bag. Both women’s eyes fell with it, their eyes alight with want.

Renault pulled the trigger. Wick roared, ice cracking around him as he fought against the witch’s hold.

Briar leapt out of the way. The arrow ripped her shirt, leaving a line of blood on her waist before tunneling into a tree behind them.