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CHAPTER FOUR

It was one thing being engaged to my enemy. It was another thing entirely to actually marry him.

“P-pardon?” I sputtered.

“Are you not pleased, love?” The Stag Man finally tore into his breakfast, devouring strips of hen and barely chewing. It was too reminiscent of the half-heart’s tentacle-esophagus that had guzzled away my elders’ magic. I looked away, repulsed.

“Only yesterday you were beside yourself with happiness,” he continued, “but now I am met with—”

I couldn’t let him finish that sentence and breathe life into a word that might later convince him I was no longer under his sway. “It’s just I wanted the fairy-tale wedding. You know, in the actual land of the fairies?” I mustered my best pout. “And what witch gets married in the winter ? Not to mention the new moon has passed us by, so we can say goodbye to that auspicious omen. And how can we plan a wedding so quickly?”

“With ease. All they entail is the female offering the male a fruit, the male wrapping his cloak around the female, and a few blessings spoken in Faerish. Fae weddings are not as elaborate affairs as mortal ones—”

“It’d better be!” I screeched, lurching upright. Green witch weddings were simple garden parties with an extra helping of ceremony on top, but he didn’t need to know that. And he didn’t know that an elaborate wedding was just the distraction I could make use of to enter Elfame without him.

“It seems I’m doing all the work here.” I paced along the length of the blue-flamed fireplace, channeling my cousin Rose when she was having a temper tantrum. I forwent her elaborate cussing but embraced all the wild arm-waving. “Bond with my magic, summon and anchor a fae portal, now charge a key with four sources of primal magic—while you tinker in your silversmithy and hunt down a hobgoblin terrorist for weeks without success and beat up on chained grizzly bears when your brother pisses you off.”

Ossian slammed his fist down on the table, making the silverware jump. “Meadow, get ahold of yourself. This is not how a fae king’s mate behaves.”

“And denying his mate the wedding of her dreams after she’s breaking her back to deliver a fae court into your hands is not how a fae king behaves! I want my fairy-tale wedding, and thistle thorns, I’ve earned it!” I stomped my foot for good measure, crossing my arms over my chest. “There shall be flowers and cake and the seeded loaf to bless us with prosperity. And music and entertaining. Is such a small thing beyond your abilities, Ossian? If so, I fear for the campaign to retake the Court of Beasts.”

I half expected him to brush away the barb—a self-assured male was confident in his abilities and not so easily belittled or goaded—but the portal must’ve rattled him more than I’d suspected. His jewel-green eyes blazed at the challenge, his shoulders trembling with anger.

My next words were soft-spoken and supplicating. “I am the key, Ossian, you said so yourself. Am I not worth a proper wedding?”

It was in his best interests to keep me happy . . . if his pride could allow it. I watched from the corner of my eye as his hand drifted down to the pouch that contained the Caer powder. We both must be wondering if it was even worth it to “reset the day” only to have this conversation all over again. And again. And again. Because no matter how many times I’d been dosed, my base personality had never changed: I wanted to matter, to be encouraged to flourish.

“If I say yes,” he began, but he didn’t get another word out.

I squealed with excitement, suppressed my gag reflex, and kissed his cheek. Then I righted my chair and got back to devouring my lukewarm breakfast. Lucky for me waffles tasted amazing no matter the temperature. “Come eat,” I said around a mouthful of food. “The sooner we finish, the sooner I start charging that key, and the sooner I get to plan our wedding!”

He gave me a patronizing smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but I pretended not to notice and returned it with an adoring one of my own. No doubt he was plotting how exactly he would drain me of my magic the moment we crossed into Elfame, just as I was planning how he would never leave this realm.

“What fruit would you like?” I asked. “For the ceremony.”

“Meadow, it doesn’t—” He rolled his eyes with a little sigh at my hurt expression. “Anything but a plum. I hate plums.”

A plum it is.

When Ossian tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, I wished I hadn’t been so thorough in wiping the apple butter from my fingers. Every visceral part of me desired nothing else than to oppose him, even if it was as petty as making his flawless skin sticky. Since he was wearing a shirt, I would’ve had to satisfy myself with staining his clothes, but alas, no sticky fingers.

I knew I should’ve had those waffles with syrup instead of apple butter .

I supposed I could sneeze on him.

“. . . learned how to tap into a plant’s life essence to help free your magic,” the fae king was droning on as he led us down the colonnade to the courtyard with the rambler roses. “But accessing that essence is not the same as understanding its true nature. It is more akin to feeling the pulse of your tree. Do you remember that feeling, before you joined with it?”

“I do.” It had been a wondrous event, hearing and feeling that wooden pulse for the first time. Then becoming one, becoming whole, as the tree of my magic and I had melded together. It’d been a peace I’d never known and an experience far too fleeting.

Because of him.

My teeth ground together, the muscle in my jaw bulging. Mercifully, that tension did not reach the rest of my body before Ossian extracted himself to open the courtyard door. I remembered something Sawyer had said long ago about auras and released my ire with a breath. If prey could feel the gaze of a predator hidden in the brush, then surely this fae male could feel my wrath burning a hole in the back of his head.

He seemed to sense nothing, however, and gave me a soft smile as he gestured to the little courtyard. “After you, love.”

“You’re not locking me in here again, are you?” I asked, perhaps a little more bluntly than I intended. “I-I mean, Wystan is no longer a threat to me, so—”

“How do you think that hobgoblin captures magical folk, Meadow?” Ossian asked sharply. “He is on equal footing with hobs and pixies, of course, but the average hedge witch? How does he capture them? Obviously he has access to greater magic and resources than we know of, hence our inability to capture him. As powerful as you are, love, you might find yourself surprised.”

Or this is your lie to keep me subdued and fearful and dependent solely on you.

He marked the pursed lips I wasn’t able to hide and smoothed his expression. I held still as his hands cupped my face and he leaned down to plant a soft kiss against my forehead. “Forget Wystan. That creature is not worth our thoughts, not with Alec and the Brothers patrolling the village. You’re safe—”

But I knew what patrol meant now—the magic hunters doing what they did best: hunting down and capturing those with magic to feed their insatiable lord. Maybe even themselves.

I wiggled away from Ossian, suppressing the urge to peel off the layer of skin where he’d kissed me and burn it. “I don’t want your assurances, Ossian. I want to know it for myself.” I squared my shoulders. “You will not always be with me in Elfame, so I must take responsibility for my own wellbeing. Now, the key?”

Displeasure flickered in his eyes, snarled briefly in the twist of his lips, and then the King of Beasts was as calm and composed as his illusions. He gestured to the potted willow tree near the far wall—the only plant I hadn’t drained in my sessions. “We will practice here. As your primary affinity is green magic, this should, in theory, be the easiest primal source for you to master. Put your hand against its trunk, love.”

I obeyed, finding the shallow ridges of the gray-brown bark familiar under my palm. If it grew to see old age, those ridges would be fissures, deep and coarse to protect its heartwood.

Ossian’s bare feet rasped against the gray stone of the courtyard as he angled himself next to the trunk and within my line of sight. His jewel-green eyes never left my face as he withdrew the filigree key from its pouch. It was so delicate-looking, like it was fashioned out of strands of silver tinsel, yet I knew it would not break. The fae king’s fingers pinched the tip so as not to block my view of the four diamonds at its bow end. They caught the morning light and sparkled like beads of crystallized dew.

“There are four primal sources that govern Nature—the strength of Earth, the destruction of Fire, the power of Water, and the force of Air. It is these true natures you must tap and channel into the key.” Ossian twirled the key between thumb and forefinger; rainbows skittered across my face and the willow tree. “Store them like you would a cache of magic in a crystal, and when you have filled the key, the diamond will stay lit.”

When I reached for the key, Ossian strangely pulled it away.

After a mild snort, I cocked my eyebrow at him. “Don’t I need to be touching both?”

“Find the true nature of Earth first, love. Find its strength.” He replaced the key in my line of sight. “This is merely for inspiration at present.”

I kept my eyes from rolling by closing them instead. Grounding myself through my hand, I sent my perception and magic into the willow tree. It welcomed me, recognizing the presence of the one who had encouraged it to grow. My magic hummed, gliding through the willow’s capillaries up to its supple branches and what remained of its yellow-green leaves.

There was patience there. Comfort, even, in the innate knowledge the willow understood as the seasons. A time to awaken and seed, another to grow and strengthen, a third to pare down and conserve, and lastly a time to sleep. The willow knew the weak light and dropping temperature of the upcoming solstice heralded a time that was not to be feared, but to be greeted as the rest it deserved. It was strong; it would survive.

My magic withdrew from the branches and meandered down to the willow’s roots .

Tension.

That’s what I felt there. A resisting pressure from true growth by the constricting pot. But not pain, not yet. The willow was still young, still flexible. There was no frustration, just . . . patience. Endurance.

I smiled inwardly. Of course Ossian would only see the earth as strong. But it was more than that. Endurance was the true nature of Earth. It resisted the ravishes of time because it soldiered on with purposeful steps, no matter how small.

Unbidden, tears soaked the lashes of my closed eyes. I was just like this willow, this earth it represented. Resilience. Tenacity.

To my family, to the fae king, I was a bonsai tree—to be curbed and controlled and grown for their purposes alone.

But I had always obeyed Violet’s command, even when I hadn’t known it. I obeyed the one rule that governed Nature itself: growth . And that growth was strong, insuppressible, enduring above all else.

The quiet solitude I’d experienced with the willow vanished at Ossian’s sharp inhale. I cracked open an eye to find the first diamond growing a pale green. I wasn’t even touching it and it could sense my discovery.

“Give me the key,” I whispered, fearful I would break my connection with the willow and lose the tap on the essence of earth.

Ossian snorted. “Oh, Meadow, it’ll take more than a simple willow to charge this. It is not just the true nature of the primal source you must harness, but its power too. This tree is nothing.”

Nothing? If this tree was allowed to root in good soil, it would grow eighty feet. Over the decades of its life, it would provide shade for hundreds of beasts and homes for thousands of birds. Those beasts would go on and become food to sustain others, those birds to spread seed to repopulate forests and meadows. This willow’s fallen leaves would return nutrients to the soil. Its roots would delve deep in search of water, aerating the ground and keeping it from becoming too compact for the all the worms and insects that added to its diversity. This one tree could do all that. One life wasn’t ever nothing .

“We need a bigger source,” he continued. “Were you a fae, maybe you could use your own power. It is tied to physical strength, heritage, and decades of training, love, which you simply do not have.”

Excuse me? I was Violet’s true heir and I’d trained in magic-wielding and physical fitness since I could walk.

His patronizing tone released a forgotten memory, that moment when he’d pinned me to the ground after we’d fought in the atrium: ‘No witch, Violet’s daughter or not, can ever fell me.’

The heart of my magic tree blazed hot and molten, the golden-green leaves shivering with rage.

“We’ll go to the farms south of town,” Ossian announced, “somewhere unpolluted by that Unseelie half-heart. A forest in the height of spring would be better, but everything is dormant now, and you’ll need to dig deep. There is still plenty of potential in those corn- and soybean fields, the hay ones too, but you’ll have to take it all.”

“Take it . . . all? Won’t that kill those fields?”

“Yes.”

How could the self-professed King of Beasts, a high fae who supposedly believed in the balance of the natural order, be so willing to destroy hundreds if not thousands of acres? This wasn’t a simple harvesting process he was talking about—I was to suck the very life out of the land. Its thousands of burrowing creatures, its millions of insects, every scrap of life sleeping away in roots and awaiting the rebirth of spring—gone.

“I’d be killing the future food source for the entire population here,” I protested. “Not just for next year, but every year after that.”

“But nature will recover,” he assured me. Unconvincingly. “Probably. And why do you resist, Meadow? This is not your home. It’s in Elfame, with me.”

No it certainly was not!

My adamant refusal wasn’t something I could mask—my face revealed everything. Ossian took a step forward, squaring his broad shoulders and attempting to cow me into obedience with his physical presence. Warm and cozy feelings coursed down the stolen bond, trying to seduce my compliance.

I felt my anger beginning to wane and rebelled. Imagining that stolen bond as a straw, I pinched down on my end to restrict the traitorous sensations.

“You will—”

“Give me the key,” I ordered, the sudden power in my voice and the green glow of my eyes daring him to disobey.

Taken aback, the fae king couldn’t react quickly enough. I plucked the key from his startled fingers. The moment I touched its silver filigree, the diamond blazed green. It pulled at me like the fae portal had, but this drain on my magic wouldn’t claim my life. I knew what it wanted, and I could give it.

I didn’t draw from the earth—there was none to be had with the cold stone underfoot. I didn’t even draw from the willow, though my hand had never left its bark. The tree was still connected to me through my magic, but like a friend with a supportive hand on my shoulder.

It was my own magic I offered the key, my life as a green hearth witch, my heritage as Violet Ní Dara’s heir. I had brought untold hardship upon Redbud, first from my own assumptions about the cursed grimoire and second by a destiny I had never known was to be mine, and I would not kill a third of its arable land. I would not leave this town destitute. I would repay it for the shelter and kindness and friendship it had so selflessly given me. Protect it.

The process was easy—I was a green witch who easily understood the true strength of the earth—but the strain was intense. I felt like a spring discovered by a creature dying of thirst who would not stop guzzling. Either the creature would burst of a swollen stomach or I would run out of water. Maybe this fae magic was more uncontrollable than I’d thought.

Internally, the magic oak tree’s roots glowed bright green, just like they had in Violet’s vision. It was like watching neurons fire, bursts of light along glowing threads, all racing from the tips of the roots to the trunk of the tree and back again. Externally, the willow tree warmed against my hand, offering its life essence. It gave it so freely, perhaps understanding exactly why I was doing this. To save its future home.

I didn’t need its help.

What I did need, however, was its support when I sagged against its trunk. Cupped in my hand, the filigree key shone brightly with one colored diamond. I barked a laugh in relief, then lifted my gaze as the beam of sunlight illuminating the other three diamonds turned to shadow.

The fae king loomed over me, and for a moment, I didn’t have the strength to choose between reality and glamour. His chipped antlers seemed to pierce the puffy white clouds overhead, and his face . . ..

There was fear there. Anger, too, and shock, but so much fear. He hadn’t expected me to do that, to be powerful enough in my own right to charge the key and not drain myself dry. Already my magical core was replenishing itself, spurred by the contact with the willow.

In a flash, he wiped his expression clean until only angry concern remained. Thistle thorns, he was so good at masking or obscuring his emotions and expressions that I wondered if anyone had ever truly known him at all. The sun caught and blazed in the gold mist of his glamour as he doubled-down on its influence, and I squinted to relieve the irritation in my eyes.

Weak, I had no defense against the stolen bond, either, immediately succumbing to its demand for obedience. Swindled into thinking that I would give, and receive, pleasure and love if I just submitted.

As much as it killed me, I offered the charged filigree key to my enemy.

“I think I’m done for the day,” I wheezed.

Ossian swiped the key from my hand, stuffed it into his pouch, then seized me by the shoulders. He gave me a shake that rattled the teeth in my head. “You stupid witch! You might’ve bonded your magic, but you are not fae! You cannot draw on your own source or you’ll burn out. That’s why we practiced with the tree! It could be days before you’ve recovered.”

Afraid of losing your ticket back home?

“But, yay, Redbud gets to eat another year?” My weak attempt at a joke didn’t land in the least. The fae king really didn’t care about anything else but his own insatiable obsession to return to Elfame and rip the court from his brother’s grip.

He growled his frustration, yanking me into an embrace that I knew now to be cold and unfeeling. It was just what was expected of him. “Don’t ever do that again, Meadow. You will take from the source I order you to, do you understand me? You are as much the key as this piece of silver in my pocket, understand? If you break, so does everything else.”

“Then stop being so rough on me,” I mumbled against his chest.

Squirming, I managed a little space between us and realized that I wasn’t as weak as I was a moment ago. Either the willow tree had donated some of its life essence without me noticing, or I was just that quick at recovering now. That was something to examine later, that’s for sure.

Then, dutiful to my charade, Misty Fields reached up and cupped his cheek. “Well, I’m off.”

He startled, his head rearing up like an alarmed stag’s. “What?”

“Well I don’t have another key-charging session in me, and Mrs. Bilberry doesn’t know what kind of wedding cake we want, nor what to serve at the feast, and I’m kind of starving, so, um, bye until dinnertime?”

“Meadow!”

But I was already moving toward the courtyard door (the fae idiot had left it open, which only aided the speed of my egress) and there was no way I was going to stay here a moment longer with Ossian and just . . . visit. Not when I was so vulnerable to that stolen fated mate bond.

“Mrs. Bilberry is an excellent cook,” he called after me, still flabbergasted. “She can handle it without y—”

“Yes, yes. But she must be instructed first,” I threw over my shoulder. “Honestly, Ossian, after charging that key, what did you expect us to do with the rest of the day? Cuddle?”

He used that fae speed to catch up to me, twirl me around, and shove my back against the nearest pillar of the colonnade. His hands pinned my wrists above my head, and his jewel-green eyes gleamed with a predatory light. “Yes. After a fashion.”

The look I gave him could only be described one of two ways—unimpressed or at the end of my patience. “Not until the wedding. You know that. Now let me go. Honestly, you’re worse than a rutting stag.”

“You have no idea.”

His crooked smile glinted like a freshly sharpened sickle, and I turned my head away so I wouldn’t have to endure his lips on my mouth. He had a truly lovely mouth, his lips full and soft and ever so warm, but it chilled me that a monster like him might make me forget Arthur, even for a second, with his kiss.

The Stag Man’s lips and teeth met that part of my neck he’d bruised only an hour ago at breakfast. The hiss I released was one of disgust, but he easily mistook it for pleasurable pain. When he was done branding me with a hickey like some overenthusiastic high school jock drunk on his own ego, he released my wrists and I swept my braid down over my shoulder to hide the mark.

“No, let them see you’re mine,” he said, brushing my hair back. “And you are mine, Meadow Ní Violet, body and soul.”

For now.

With effort, I clamped down on the stolen bond, stifling the flow of docility he was channeling. With a smile that revealed nothing, I shimmied through the gap left between his body and the pillar and hurried off to find Mrs. Bilberry.

And maybe a shot of whiskey. Ugh, make it the whole bottle.