Page 1 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
Gideon
Beneath the dome, the officer on duty casually checked his watch, then resumed his paperwork.
His kind were known by many names throughout Turkey, Serbia, and Bulgaria, but he personally preferred the one used in Greece: kallikantzaros.
Human myth painted them as hobgoblins, terrorizing children and adults alike on the twelve days of Christmas.
In reality, he felt more terrorized by the amount of administrative paperwork the past two centuries had presented.
He was a hairy, sharp-featured creature, from his nose to his ears, but like most of his ilk, his eyes were the keenest. At his best, he caught small details, the delicacies of fingerprints, and the deliberate wording of warrants.
At his worst, he did not bother to check.
However, if the officer were to break his routine of two hundred years of worst days, he would still fail to catch the figure darkening his doorway.
“Detective Inspector Balaskas?”
The shadow took form as he stepped farther into the light.
An elf of towering stature, Gideon Blackthorn was an unnerving facsimile of the late Erlking.
He was spindly, almost gaunt, pale as the moon, and cloaked in night and shadow as one would tailor velvet around themselves.
He seemingly produced a file from the darkness and held it out expectantly.
“Then I trust you have already begun the preparations.”
Balaskas took the folder with a tight-lipped smile. “Discharge paperwork is nearly ready, I was simply waiting for the official request.” He opened the file, glanced at the signatures already in place, and began signing the bottom of each page of the stack in front of him.
“Have you woken Hemlock yet?”
Balaskas froze. He didn’t dare meet Gideon’s eyes, certain he’d misheard. His mouth felt dry. “You’re here for her?”
The shift in Gideon’s expression was minute, but no less a threat; a delicate tightening of the mouth and jaw as the muscles of his face tensed.
The menacing silence threatened to choke out even the comforting patter of rain.
When at last the Archfey spoke it was softly, so that Balaskas needed to lean forward to hear him. “You confessed to receiving the missive from my office, did you not?”
Balaskas swallowed. “Yes, Lord Blackthorn.”
“And we both witnessed you signing the file I just handed you.”
He’d be fired. That was the best scenario. He could only hope to be fired. “Yes, Lord Blackthorn.”
Gideon nodded with what only a fool would mistake for friendly understanding. “Are you illiterate, Detective Inspector?”
“My lord?”
“You can read, can you not?” When the kallikantzaros failed to answer immediately, his tone softened, and the threat in the air sharpened. “You possess the skill to comprehend the written word?”
His throat was impossibly dry and he barely resisted the desperate urge to reach for his tea. “I can read, my lord.”
“Good, good.” Two sets of fangs framed the edges of the Archfey’s smile.
“I feared an egregious oversight might have marred this establishment’s reputation.
” A meaningful silence fell, and because Balaskas dared not break it himself, Gideon continued.
“Would it be correct to say then that you made the decision not to fully read either article, then? Despite one requiring you to pen your very name in oath that you had?”
Gideon could feel the inspector’s heart pound against his rib cage.
Nothing important ever came through the night shift.
For nearly two hundred years Balaskas had sat behind that desk and been so mired in routine, a quick scan and sign was all that had been required of him.
He floundered for an explanation that did not end in his imminent demise.
“I did not think to insult Your Lordship by questioning—”
“Read it.” Gideon spoke quietly—deliberately. “Now.” Archfey, though slow to anger, had a way of strangling the air with a mere micro expression.
Balaskas found it difficult to take the breath needed to do as he was bid.
“By decree of the Five, the changeling known as Avery Hemlock, charged with high treason, being given no pardon or mercy, is to be released into the custody of the Winter Court to do service for the realm and kingdom.” He swallowed.
“And it is signed by every member of the Council of Winter.”
A mirthless smile punctuated the staccato of Gideon’s words. “Validate it.”
His hand was shaking now as he pulled open a drawer, fumbling inside until he located the charm he sought: a hagstone.
3 It was small enough to fit into his palm, smooth to the touch, and at almost center was a near perfectly round hole straight through.
He held it up to his left eye before peering down over the page.
He did not expect to find forgeries or glamours, but he felt compelled to take his time.
Perhaps in this he could find redemption.
Perhaps he might lose his job but keep his life.
He checked twice, searching for any glimmer or hint of magic—any complex or well-hidden charm that could be responsible for what appeared to be the council releasing a traitor to probation.
No matter how he scoured, moving the hagstone in and out of his line of sight to assure no changes to wording, he found nothing.
These documents were official. A decree with the force of all five representatives of the courts on this side of the veil, and notarized by the Council of Winter.
He turned the stone’s gaze on Gideon himself.
Nothing. Though the mere terror of his presence gave little doubt, the hagstone confirmed he was all he appeared to be.
Balaskas lowered the hagstone and forced another smile. “All in order, Your Lordship.”
“Do not permit hearsay that so much as suggests otherwise.” The words were like a knife to Balaskas’s throat. “Hemlock will be under the direct reign and protection of the council. She is not to be meddled with; she is outside your jurisdiction, do you understand?”
He grasped the Archfey’s meaning, but Balaskas couldn’t confidently say he understood.
“You will honor your government, Detective Inspector.”
The kallikantzaros nodded so vigorously his ears wobbled.
Gideon outstretched his hand expectantly, gloved fingers uncurling slowly.
An open palm had never felt so much like a loaded gun.
Shaking, Balaskas retrieved an intricately designed key from his desk and surrendered it, not daring to look up.
“Will that be all, Your Lordship?” When silence answered, he took a deep breath and lifted his gaze from his desktop, but the Archfey had already gone as imperceptibly as he had appeared.
Inexplicably still employed and, even more surprisingly, still alive, Detective Inspector Balaskas sank into his chair with a deep exhalation.
The guards along the hallway straightened as the Archfey approached, some holding their breath until he had strode several paces beyond them.
No one dared speak to him, and he, to everyone’s relief, made no effort to alter that.
The key balanced between his fingertips in an idle fashion, bouncing lightly to a rhythm that kept time with the clipped echoing sound of his steps.
As he approached the large, barred door at the end, his grip on the key tightened as if it were a stiletto about to be plunged into an attacker.
He did not need to look at the guards on either side of him.
He barely needed to speak the command for them to go before they scrambled away as quickly as their legs could carry them.
He waited, listening, hearing those two guards collect the group behind him, and so on until the hallway had cleared itself of prying eyes.
Only then did Gideon’s grim disposition shift to something far more trepidatious.
The door before him was capable of bringing up any prisoner in Blackthorn, should one hold the key, speak the name of the prisoner, and know the proper incantation.
Like all magic, the chant came in many languages, both fey and mortal, but the words roughly translated always meant the same: Bless the wretched, the crimes they make, the world of weeping, and the tolls they take.
Gideon spoke it in its original melodic tongue, the language of the Aos Sí, which to mortal ears was more song than spoken.
With each note, the key in his hand began to hum and glow.
He hesitated only a moment before inserting the key and turning it fully counterclockwise.
“Avery Hemlock.” The key continued to turn of its own accord, getting further and further embedded in the door like a screw, and when the bow was flush with the lock and unable to burrow further, it dematerialized, having fulfilled its purpose.
There was the sound of something large shuffling behind the door, rooms reorganizing to accommodate the summons until the door raised to reveal a single cell composed of stone coated in black tourmaline.
There was no light save for a simple lamp of Brigid’s Fire hanging from the center of the ceiling.
It cast a warm dance of illumination along the black stone and the sole creature within.
Lying on a low natural pedestal was a pale young woman dressed in a full suit of armor, her hands clasped at her abdomen and tied with a black ribbon.
Gideon’s brow furrowed, and he carefully removed the black leather glove from his left hand. Pale fingers splayed and reached forward, iridescent strings of magic lighting up briefly as he made contact before vanishing from sight again.