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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

When I’d been a carefree young adult in Hawthorne Manor, I’d slept like the dead. Since coming to Redbud, I’d slept lightly, rousing at a strong gust of wind through the southern maple or the old floorboards popping and groaning. Last night, however, I’d barely slept at all.

Nothing like a faelight Brother sitting in the chair opposite the bed staring at you to make it difficult to drift off, even with your cat snuggled under your chin. Nothing like the Stag Man returning after midnight more male than stag and spooning you with his heavy arm imprisoning you against his side to make the process more impossible than before.

His breath stirred the hair by my ear in a steady rhythm as I watched the sky in the eastern windows lighten from navy to the pale blue smudge that heralds a new day. I would be mastering air today, but not before I’d settled the score with Ossian.

Gently so as not to rouse the sleeping fae king, I slipped out from under his arm and got dressed. And with no Shane in sight, it was quickly done.

He’d led me to believe he’d captured Wystan yesterday, but it had been Sawyer all along. He’d gained access to the elm tree under false pretenses, and since I’d been forbidden from returning to it—two Brothers were stationed there, ready to hail him with whatever magical means they employed if I came anywhere near it—I could not rectify that wrong. I could, however, hunt down that hobgoblin myself.

It was probably the last act of defiance I could get in before he restricted me to the castle grounds like Sawyer. It would also prove to the townsfolk that it was Meadow Hawthorne, and not Cernunnos, who kept her word and delivered them from the very creature that had plagued their days and tormented their dreams at night. And it would be another thorn in the Brotherhood’s side, which was just fine with me.

I hoped it all would count enough when it was time for Redbud to rise and defend itself.

Sawyer padded on silent feet beside me as I left the room. I watched the Stag Man through the ever-shrinking crack as I shut the door—he never once stirred.

Liar.

He had to be aware that I’d “snuck” out of bed. Ossian was just feigning sleep in the hopes of catching me later doing something naughty and giving him every excuse to execute the bear.

Fat. Chance.

Bending down, I scooped Sawyer into my arms as I slipped past the Brothers on duty—still no Shane—and made my way to the stables. We might not be able to communicate telepathically or verbally anymore, but he still had ears and the ability to read my lips. And he could still pinch my skin with his claws once for yes and twice for no .

“Did you see a snail on the bear’s collar yesterday?”

Sawyer gave a frustrated wiggle and angled himself so he could bite my arm.

“Thistle thorns, not so hard! I’m taking that as you want me to rephrase the question? ”

One pinch.

I chewed the corner of my bottom lip. “Did you sense a snail?”

Sawyer batted repeatedly on his ears. He’d heard it.

My heart leapt. “Was it chewing?”

One pinch.

Thank the Green Mother for that. “Good. If you see anyone start to get suspicious about his collar, you cause a distraction, got it?”

One pinch.

“Okay, I’m going to leave—”

Two pinch. Two pinch. TWO PINCH.

“Gah!” I thrust the cat away from me, holding him under his armpits. Ears flattened against his skull, Sawyer told me with a vicious hiss exactly what he thought about that.

“I’m going to get that hobgoblin once and for all,” I hissed back at him. “And you’re going to make yourself scarce while I do it. And tell the hobs and any of the other castle staff on our side what I’m up to so they can spread the word.”

He gave me one begrudging pinch.

“Use the excuse you’re feeding Bruno on my behalf if you need to. And, it actually would be helpful if—”

Sawyer thrust his paws into my face, wiggling his toes. No thumbs .

I shook my head and brought him close for a cuddle before setting him down outside the hallway that led to the stables. “Love you, little cat.”

Sawyer ceased his pouting to rub against my ankles. He still bit me one last time before scampering off. If only we could risk returning to my old room. I had to finish the layering on the hickory nuts and it would be nice to rearm myself with what remained of various potions and powders now that my foraging bag was gone. Though, where to keep them ?

Alec had pitched my bag into the fireplace, along with all the keepsakes Shari had crocheted for me. Of all of them, I’d miss the little fruit bat the most.

Sensing my agitation, the horses in the stables pawed at the straw in their stalls and banged their hooves against the stall doors. Shushing them, I moved down the aisle in search of my usual mount.

I’d never actually saddled or bridled my own horse before, and while my dapple gray was patient with me, it was clear I didn’t know what I was doing. But I was a primal witch, a descendant of Violet with ancestral ties to Mother Nature herself, so . . ..

Pressing my hand against the gray’s shoulder, I released a trickle of magic and a request.

The horse swiveled his long neck around to inspect me with one ink-dark eye, then lowered onto his knees.

Ha-cha! Intention and politeness for the win!

I mounted and smothered a yelp as the horse lurched upright. Gripping the charcoal-colored mane, I gave the horse instructions where I wanted to go, and the gray trotted out of the stable and cantered over the bridge into town.

My solo appearance surprised the townsfolk gathering for another cold morning of bartering, sipping plain hot coffee, and doing their best to prepare for a hard winter. The sky overhead was gray from the storm I’d sensed yesterday, but it wasn’t ready to snow yet. That didn’t stop the wind from being bitter and cutting right through your clothes to frost your bones.

Cohen offered to make me my customary latte, and Mrs. Squirrel insisted I looked hungry and in need of her finest acorn-flour flapjacks. And where were my hat, scarf, and mittens, Emmett wanted to know. I should help myself to whatever I liked at his open-air trading post. And did I want a jar of roasted crickets to snack on? What about boiled peanuts? Why have boiled peanuts when Alder Ranch had beef bacon?

I dismissed it all with a firm, “I’m here to right a wrong. Where was the hobgoblin Wystan last seen?”

The townsfolk quieted, instantly understanding the subtext. When Cody, standing upon his stack of firewood, opened his mouth to berate the Stag Man and land himself in the hanging shed by way of a Brother’s manacles, Emmett hurled a wooden hairbrush at him. It clocked the beaver on the side of his head, rattling some sense into his brain.

No one spoke.

I turned the dapple gray in a circle, eyeing every face and marking those who looked away. “If you’re keeping quiet because you think you’ll be accused of harboring a criminal, or of being complicit with him, don’t be. I am not the Brotherhood. I keep the promises I make.”

“It’s true,” Emmett called out. “She got Ms. Harris, Axel, and Bensen released yesterday afternoon, just like she said she would!”

“Bensen,” the beaver muttered from the top of his woodpile.

Still, no one spoke.

“Charlotte,” Rosalie shrilled. Mayor Robert’s sister had been turned into a svelte black rabbit with the most velvety fur, and she stomped her back foot as she called out her rival. “We all know you were the last one to see the hobgoblin. Got all your gossiping hens to tell the whole town how you barely got away with your feathers. Well, speak up!”

Of course it had to be her.

Ms. Harris gave me an up-down bob of her head. Most birds lack the ability to display facial expressions other than a flare of a feather or two that most couldn’t even hope to interpret, but this egret managed it in spades. And she kept her mouth shut—I was a hussy, after all .

The silence became as oppressive as a thundercloud, until the raccoon snapped.

“She didn’t steal that birdhouse,” Emmett shouted, pounding his fists against the table and making the oil lamps jump and clatter. “It was never on layaway, and you need to find a better way of flirting or making time with gentlemen you’re interested in other than causing a scene! Or baking them scones. Half the women do that in this town. Now tell her!”

The raccoon snatched up the top handkerchief from a pile of folded ones and hastily dabbed his brow. “Oh my nerves,” he shuddered.

Abashed, the old egret resettled her wings and straightened her neck. “The gristmill on Crystal Creek.” Then she stalked off, head held high though there was a tremor to her thin yellow legs.

“Thank you,” I said, urging the dapple gray to the east.

Crystal Creek was an offshoot of the river in Cedar Haven’s Forest, flowing southeast through town and into the rocky hill country of Southern Indiana. The gristmill doubled as a canoe- and kayak-rental station, though all the boats were dry-docked for the cold season. Since the attack, someone had closed the lock on the channel that diverted a portion of Crystal Creek towards the water mill. The grinding stones were silent, but the skittering of mousy feet could still be heard.

Leaving the horse to crop the pathetic grass outside, I searched the surrounding area for a print but found no depressions in the frozen earth. Of course. My boots made hollow thunks as I climbed the worn steps and pushed open the door to the mill. Careful of where I stepped, I searched through the dust left behind by the grinding of corn, barley, and red wheat for the footprint I sought. With all the citizens of Redbud being turned into animals, it wouldn’t be hard to distinguish a small boot print amongst them. If I could just find one .

Birds twittered on the windowsill, its shutters broken from when I assumed Wystan had forced his way in. From the marks on the floor, the birds had come in to glean from the floor along with the mice. At my arrival, they’d all returned to the sill to debate whether or not I was a threat. Their shadows skittered along the floor as they hopped on the sill, chattering. When my search moved me closer in that direction, they took wing. The sudden vanishing of their shadows revealed the exact print I was looking for.

Crouching down quickly, I extended my hand and pressed a glowing fingertip to the center of the boot print.

“Soft as feathers and a firefly’s light,

follow the steps of the walker this night.”

Day, night, whatever. The footprints still glowed a faint green—hard to see in the daylight, but I was going to manage. I followed them outside, remounted my very accommodating horse, and tracked them as far as they went. They weren’t fresh, so the Tracking Spell could not sustain itself, and it was easily confused by any masking sand or similar spells, but at least they pointed me towards my next clue.

And when there were no more footprints, the Scouting Spell, to some small effect. Even the Seeking Spell, as Wystan was Fair Folk with magic permeating his whole being. The Hunting Spell would’ve been invaluable here, but I hadn’t been willing to risk its and the bleached tourmaline’s discovery by returning to my old room. Not until I had to.

My dappled gray horse eventually stopped at a split-rail fence marked by a sign reading RescueLove Animal Shelter . On the other side of the split rails there seemed to be a tiny village ringed in chicken wire. Chicken and turkey coops were brightly colored with steep roofs that brought to mind the witch’s candy house from Hansel and Gretel. There were even flower boxes embellishing the windows.

A guinea pig sanctuary resembled a Dutch windmill village, ringed in faux tulip flowers. There were even little plaques above each of the doorways naming the owners of the windmills: Dozer and Punkster, Clove and Pip, and many more. Beside the village, the gray plank barn for Daphne’s nanny goats was built to resemble a miniature Irish castle. There was a little stink of farmyard manure, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Daphne had been a slave to their proper upkeep even after becoming a horse.

I assumed the other buildings had once housed dogs and cats waiting for their forever homes, but no doubt they’d been banished when Ossian had come into power. The only dogs I knew of in Redbud were the Lancaster brothers and the Alder ranchers, and of course cats were forbidden.

My attention drifted to the Irish castle as Daphne’s words from a few days ago resurfaced: The coyotes have been sniffing around the animal shelter more after my nanny goats. One of the kids got taken.

If Ossian had banished the dogs, he’d probably done the same to the local coyote packs. Dismounting with a frown, I crouched down in the center of road into the animal sanctuary and pressed a glowing hand against the gravel.

The Scouting Spell released a firm ping, and the signatures of every creature within the myriad buildings appeared in my mind’s eye. Including the bright one that had no business hiding in the hay barn.

I supposed old habits die hard. That’s where he’d used to sleep when he’d been a hob on Sweet Cider Farm.

With a jerk, I dug my fingers into the gravel.

A second or two later, all the seeds that had blown there over the course of the year sprouted to life. I’d added the magic of my aunt Peony, turning them into my own version of her dandelion helpers. Birch and autumn olive saplings grew to the height of a man and ran off towards the hay barn, blue chicory and purple echinacea and oxeye daisy helpers chasing after them.

The hens and turkeys went wild, excited for the floral prey. That set the guinea pigs off, all of whom exited their Dutch windmills in hopes of fresh greens. If the hobgoblin was alarmed, he didn’t panic. No doubt he thought that if he stayed small and quiet (very much like a hob), he wouldn’t be noticed.

He thought very wrong.

The hobgoblin emerged from the hay barn upside down with a birch and an autumn olive sapling each holding an ankle. The flower helpers pranced under him, jumping up to snatch off his hat or pull on his ears or yank his greasy brown hair. Someone had deprived him of his club and one of his shoes, and the hollering hobgoblin twisted in the air much like he had when the pixies had carted him off.

He sobered as the saplings came to a halt in front of me, his dark brown eyes widening. “Y-you!”

“Hello, Wystan. Can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Using the fence, I mounted my dapple gray and gave the hobgoblin a cold smile. “But it will be eventually. For me.”