Page 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

My bones hurt, crushing and grating against each other under the force of the fae king’s grip. The magic oak tree flexed its roots with a sharp rustle of its leaves, channeling strength into my hand. It lent a speed reminiscent of the Rabbit Step Spell to my legs, otherwise Ossian would’ve dragged me down the hallway.

“Ossian,” I protested.

Breathless, I couldn’t manage another word until after he’d lifted me into the saddle. Quick as a leaf on the wind, he sprang onto his own horse and checked that the two burlap bags slung behind his saddle were secure.

“Let’s go,” he told the company.

Carissa, standing with a stone-faced expression and a deep cut on her bottom lip, handed me the reins to my dapple gray before mounting her own horse. Apparently the snake she’d caught hadn’t had enough juice to heal both her legs and her face. I tore my gaze from her and stuffed my feet into the stirrups. The reins were still slack, so I had to grab on to the dapple gray’s charcoal mane to keep my seat as the horse took off without my command .

Ossian’s bay thundered across the bridge, my gray close on his heels, a Brotherhood escort of four following after us. To the east, the yellow sun winked through the bare trees and sparkled in the spray of the waterfall. The morning frost clung to the bridge like white lichen and frosted the leaves that blew and piled everywhere in glittering crystals. Overhead, the day promised to be a deep blue and free of clouds, but a fierce, bone-deep chill in the air promised an incoming storm.

My mind was reeling—first Sawyer missing, then Ossian’s dramatic shift in temperament, now this stinging cold that pricked my cheeks and the end of my nose. I’d left my fox-fur coat in my room, so there was nothing to guard against the frigid air except my cowl. Risking a one-handed hold on the gray’s mane, I stuffed the hem of the cowl into the low neckline of the woolen dress and held the hood down on the top of my head.

Ossian slowed the horses with an unspoken command as we entered the town square, and I could finally blurt out, “Did you find him?”

The smile Ossian gave me was savage. “At dawn.”

My stomach hollowed out at the same time my pulse jumped. That was a win for Redbud, but it was a blow for the elm tree.

“Congratulations,” Misty Fields said.

“It is satisfying,” he agreed, inhaling deeply as if he was a newly released prisoner smelling free air once again. “I’ve planned quite the spectacle to celebrate.”

Leaning over in his saddle, he squeezed my knee. “I do hope you’re not disappointed. It is for the best, you know.”

A tight smile was my only reply.

Our horses’ hooves clopped against the cobblestone street, circling the rotary to take the western road. A town on the verge of winter and the brink of famine-like conditions did not sleep past dawn. The shutters were open and lanterns were in the windows, beckoning customers.

Emmett’s pop-up trading post (an open-air flea market) was particularly busy, as was the Magic Brewery. My stomach growled at the smell of roasting beans, reminding me just how empty it was. I wanted to divert, to slake my thirst with a Misty Latte and indulge in something sweet and flaky—if someone had taken up supplying the brewhouse with pastry in my absence—but I refrained. Nobody was ordering the expensive lattes or cappuccinos, just plain black coffee to give a jolt to your day and some warmth in your stomach. No one could afford to, and I didn’t want to flaunt in their faces that I could. And at their expense, too. There was reason why the castle larder was always stocked and theirs weren’t.

Those folks who had canned all their summer and fall harvests had set up a late-season farmers market to see what they could sell in exchange for candles, oil, clothes, and firewood. One family of moles sold roasted crickets and boiled Buffalo worms by the jar; a family of squirrels operated a griddle and made acorn-flour flapjacks with maple syrup to order.

Cody Beecham was there, perched on top of a pile of split wood stacked sky-high and slurping from a cup of coffee. Without a wagon in sight, nor Arthur’s muscles to have helped him haul it, I wondered how he’d gotten it all into town.

“Hey!” he hailed, setting down the mug. Despite the bulk he’d acquired as a beaver, he still deftly traversed the ridiculously tall pile and made it to the ground without a single log sliding out of place.

Cody slapped his tail against the cobblestones with a thunderous clap. Every creature mid-haggle and slurp swung their attention in his direction. He pressed balled paws against his toolbelt and craned back, using his flat tail for balance .

“Cernunnos,” he hailed. “What word of the hobgoblin hunt? Or should we ask milady?”

Alec’s horse neighed as he spurred the beast forward to repay the beaver’s insolence with a kiss from his riding crop.

“There’s no need, Alec,” the Stag Man replied mildly. Without stopping to address the beaver, nor the other townsfolk, he simply replied, “All is in hand, Cody Beecham.”

“Really?” the old beaver fired back. “I find that hard to believe since Tadhg and Olive were snatched last night. With the limestone quarry’s foreman gone, the rest of the dwarves are threatening to strike, and with Olive gone, who’s going to take care of the trash?”

Before my time in Redbud, Olive McKatt had run an underground gambling ring in her basement. After Olive’s arrest, Ms. Harris’s Talk of the Town had run an exposé on the impropriety of such a thing in such a quaint little town, but I’d come to learn from the Crafting Circle ladies that the gambling ring wasn’t all it was made out to be.

In addition to cash, you could use basically anything as a buy-in, especially anything metal. Think cast-iron pots, old copper cookware, a burnt-out toaster that had finally singed its last piece of bread. Codrin Alder even used an old pick-up truck one time. Turns out, Olive was an alchemist, and she turned all that metal into gold. Which she then traded in for cash, donating large portions to Daphne’s RescueLove Animal Shelter, Redbud’s Beautification Association, many after-school programs, and the town library, basically paying Paige Tomeson’s entire salary.

While her gambling ring had been busted, the local authorities had been persuaded to be merciful. She was, after all, keeping a large majority of trash out of the local landfill and was funding the constant upkeep required by the town. With Olive gone, the trash would pile up and the town would slip into shambles.

“The arrest was made earlier this morning, Cody,” I answered quickly. “Cernunnos assured me himself.” And celebrated by mauling my mouth . I caught myself mid-gag and quickly smoothed my expression.

“Well?” the beaver demanded. “When do we see him strung up by his toes? And what of Ms. Harris, Axel, and”—Cody visibly swallowed, as if clearing his throat of something sour—“ Bensen ? Your boys took them the other night because apparently they can’t hold their liquor and take a jab on the chin like the rest of us can without whining to daddy about it.”

The Stag Man flicked hard emerald eyes at Alec and said nothing. But his clenched jaw and white-knuckled fists on his reins spoke volumes.

The Brotherhood hadn’t told him about the altercation or the arrests, or even what it had all been about. Normally Ossian wouldn’t have concerned himself with such things—that was the point of delegating, trusting your subordinates to carry out tasks they were capable of—but when it came to the integrity of the illusion and his influence with the townsfolk, that was a different matter entirely.

They were losing faith in him. They were losing their fear of him.

Red-faced, Alec snarled, “They were disturbing the peace, beaver. And they struck members of the Brotherhood.”

“After you threw the first punch!”

“You punched Ms. Harris?” I exclaimed, deliberately mishearing.

The townsfolk who’d only heard rumor of the brawl in Patty’s Pub instantly buzzed with whispered speculation. Words like shameful and pathetic were tossed around, riling the Brothers .

Ossian looked unamused but unruffled. Despite his earlier display of annoyance, his positive mood was unflappable. And what could shake it? By apprehending Wystan, he’d earned access to the elm tree.

“She’s an egret , Alec,” I pressed, “and one older than the hills. What kind of threat could she have possibly posed to you?”

“None, of course! But what she was saying—”

“Ugh. Sticks and stones, Alec. Grow up.” Addressing the crowd, I said, “They’ll be released this afternoon with our deepest apologies.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, milady,” Cody said stoutly. “You weren’t part of their snatching.”

“And I’m sure with Wystan in custody, it’ll only be a matter of time before Cernunnos finds where the wretched hobgoblin has imprisoned his victims and sets them free.”

“Thank you, milady!” the dwarf Dessa, Tadgh’s wife, called from Emmett’s tables, waving a pair of red knit mittens.

“And the criminal himself?” the beaver pestered again, his question aimed at Ossian. Cody Beecham made a fabulous beaver, but I wondered if he should’ve been a pit bull with his dogged tenacity.

“Will be held accountable,” was the Stag Man’s cool reply.

With that, he put his heels to his horse and left the square via the western road. My dapple gray cantered after them, again obeying a silent command from the fae king.

There was a mild commotion behind us, and when I threw a glance over my shoulder, Ossian said, “Pay no mind to that, love.” The side-eye he gave me could only be described as chiding. “You’re making a lot of promises of late.”

“Our people need reassurance,” I replied. “Releasing a few innocent townsfolk could go a long way smoothing some feathers.”

“No one is innocent in this town, Meadow. Still, I’ll instruct the Brotherhood to obey your command. The egret, ferret, and hog will be released.”

“Thank you.”

His side smile felt patronizing. Like he was giving me this little win out of charity in the wake of losing my complete authority over the elm tree.

Then the Stag Man twisted around and untied one of the burlap sacks behind his saddle. He handed it to me, indicating I shouldn’t wait to open it. With no need to hold the reins since my horse was following other instructions, I wiggled the ties loose at the top and pulled the bag open.

Breakfast.

Hastily wrapped in beeswax cloth, too. Poor Mrs. Bilberry was probably muttering curses as she washed all those platters that she needn’t have bothered dirtying. At least the excess food would go to Arthur.

“Eat up,” the Stag Man said, picking up the pace. “You’ll need all your strength for what comes next.”