Page 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mist enveloped me.

Memories of the sluagh extending their spectral hands towards my family raised gooseflesh across my skin, but this mist was warm. Like the breath of heat exhaled by a cozy cottage when you’ve come inside from making snowmen all day.

An unseen current whipped the vapor into a swirl, ruffling the fox fur at my neck. When it cleared, the setter and I stood in the great hall.

Or rather, a barren construct of it.

The stone walls and floor were familiar, but there was nothing but a black abyss where the cathedral ceiling should be. The great expanse of windows that overlooked the waterfall ravine was missing, as was the fireplace, the throne, and the trestle table where I ate my meals.

While there was no light source, I saw the man on the floor clearly enough.

He sat with his back against the wall and his legs drawn up, arms balancing upon his knees and his chin lowered to his chest. His identity manifested in his clothes: heavy carpenter boots, khakis, a red flannel shirt unbuttoned at the throat, suspenders digging into the range of his shoulders. The knuckles on his large hands were scuffed as if he’d just finished settling a bar fight.

“Arthur.”

He lifted his head, a dull amber light consuming his hazel eyes. By rights his thick brown hair and beard should’ve been matted hot messes, but in this dream world, they were as trimmed as if he’d gone to the barber just this morning.

“Go. Away.”

The rumbling baritone had lost all its kindness, its quiet strength. Wetting my lips, I tried again. “Bear claw, it’s me.”

“It always is.”

The second volley of his flat, unaffected tone hit me like a punch to the gut. Worried, I looked to the wight for an explanation.

“The Horned One is a master of illusions,” the Irish setter said directly into my mind. “He has sent your likeness to torture this one’s dreams. Often.”

There was no word in English, Gaelic, or the limited Faerish I knew that could describe the hatred I felt for Ossian in that moment. Fae customs aside, this was beyond cruel.

“That would have been nice to know in advance,” I snipped. “As much as I wanted to see him, I was also going to use this meeting to strategize the rebellion. And now you’re telling me he has no reason to believe me?”

There was a scrape of boot against stone as Arthur rose from the floor and rolled his shoulders. His footfalls crashed like thunder. No collar or chain locked tight against his neck. “Well. Let’s get this over with.”

The lumberjack shifter had never once used his bulk to threaten violence against me, but now I knew the fear one felt when subjected to his wrath. The gentle giant was gone; only the Coalition enforcer remained .

Shrinking back a step, I scrambled for the words that would convince him it really was me in front of him, not an illusion sent to torment him. To my surprise, he stopped within an arm’s length of me and gave the air between us a deep sniff.

“You smell like her, but that’s not unusual.” Taking a step to the right, he began to circle, examining me from all sides. “And interesting change of tactics. You’ve dressed her modestly this time.”

What? That implied my likeness had appeared before him not so modestly. “Of course!” I sputtered. “I’m not a hussy, no matter what Ms. Harris would have you believe.”

He paused at that, the amber glow in his eyes flickering. Sucking in a sharp inhale, he continued prowling. “Now the only question remains is what you want to accomplish with this visit, wraith.”

My hands balled into fists and I almost stomped my foot. Almost. “Can a wraith do this?”

As irritated and anxious as I was, I didn’t summon an emerald glow to my hands nor the dark green brambles of my battle magic. Ossian knew I could do those things, had probably used the same method to rattle Arthur’s nerves already. Instead, I used my new command over the element of earth and conjured a rose.

A rambler rose.

Crimson petals unfurled to reveal bright yellow stamens and a sweet perfume. Tiny thorns dimpled the stem—easily ignored if you held it gently—and two sets of lush green leaves cupped the vibrant bloom.

It was gentle, refined magic. Beautiful for the sake of nothing else except to delight.

Arthur had remained silent during the demonstration, shoulders tensed and hands half-balled at his sides. His glowing amber eyes had not once blinked, and as I offered him the rose, they tracked it like it was a snake.

My voice was soft. “I learned a new grounding technique with the help of this rambler rose—the one that gave me my freedom. I want you to have this one. My promise to you.”

Arthur finally tore his gaze from the rose. There was a mixture of caution, confusion, and stubborn resolve etched into his features. His reply was blunt. “In the land of dreams, anything is possible.”

Well, that was frustrating. But it demonstrated I was—so far—unlike any other Meadow he’d encountered here. “I am Meadow Hawthorne, and I’ll prove it to you.”

Arthur snorted. “There is nothing you can say that can convince me. Your master has seen my every memory of you—there is nothing sacred anymore.”

“No nugget you’ve locked away tight where he can’t find it?”

His beautiful mouth twisted into a snarl, his canines lengthening. “As if I would tell you.”

The fact that he was presenting himself in the shape of a man with clean clothes and trimmed hair and not the beaten, bruised, and heartsick wretch he had every right to be, let alone a bear, spoke to the strength of his mental fortitude. Especially since his greatest weakness—me—had been used so continuously against him. There had to be a memory of me he’d secreted away, a truth to compare all the illusions to.

“Well, it’s not that time in the bedroom with the belt,” I said, dismissing my fear of him and beginning to pace. The wight dutifully stepped to the side, giving me ample room. “Or that time under the maple tree. Or when you found me in the woods after the mallaithe fight. Those memories are too big, too charged. It would have to be something subtle. Like the time we shared shortbread cookies on my front porch.”

A low growl rose from his throat .

I waved the shortbread idea away with a sweep of the rose, ignoring his warning while I was at it. The petals bounced in time with my step. “Meh, we barely knew each other then. What could it be ? When I got loopy on rabbitfoot clover tea and gave you that big hug at the First of Fall Festival? No, no, it would have to be more visceral than that.”

“Stop.”

“It might not even be a memory we share,” I realized. “It could be something you simply observed that I was unaware of. Like the time in the corn maze or all those visits to Cedar Haven and the Magic Brewery.”

“ Enough .”

No, that wasn’t it, either. He wouldn’t treasure a simple observation—he was too much of a romantic for that. No, this was something we shared. It had to be.

“Make haste,” the wight counseled me. “This is his dream, and he can eject you whenever he wishes. Or the Horned One might come.”

Closing my eyes, I breathed in deep his scent of old-growth forest and remembered Arthur . Not his touch—though those memories were indeed thrilling—but every moment when his heart had reached for mine. It showed in his thoughtfulness, his compassion, his vulnerability. It showed in the myriad ways he’d put himself at risk to protect me. I filtered through them all and lingered on the time in the alley behind the Magic Brewery. We’d had a falling out and yet he’d still put himself between me and the magic hunters’ tracking fiáin. That protection instinct was undeniable, instinctual, but it had evolved and strengthened from another event.

Scrunching up my face in concentration, I drifted through the eddies of memory trying to pinpoint the exact moment where, at least for me, I realized—

“The rodeo,” I breathed, eyes fluttering open.

Arthur’s face was white, his jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grinding. The amber light in his eyes was no longer dull, but bright with tightly reined fury.

And fear.

Swallowing thickly, I waded through the emotions of that memory and whispered, “I’d just seen my first warlock. Jakob Tabrass. It was . . . terrifying. And you. You had your hand on my knee. It was so simple a touch, but it anchored me. I could control that fear because you were there. I, I clung to you because, even though I was afraid to admit it at the time, I knew I was safe with you. More than safe. Protected. I think it was then that I started to fall in—”

“I said stop ,” Arthur roared.

His strike was blindingly fast. It was an open-handed blow, fingers splayed wide as if to dissipate smoke from a burning pan. I could barely throw up an arm before his hand caught me on the side of the head, knocking me straight to the ground.

There was no arcing through the air. No strange distortion in this dream world where I floated away like a balloon. One moment I was standing upright, the next, pain exploded through my hip, elbow, and shoulder as I hit the stone floor.

The rose burst as it struck the ground, petals splattering like paint.