Page 22 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After carefully removing the ink sack, which I was very much not allowed to chuck into the grass with all the other beetle guts, I held it aloft so Kian could extract a jar from his overcoat.

“Keep it right there,” he coached, for that was his role here. I was the one who was actually getting her hands filthy. Despite Kian telling Flora to back off, his only contribution to dinner was telling me how to go about it.

“I’m going to stick this quill into the sack and harvest the ink.

” Using his quill knife, he stripped the barbs off the center shaft and trimmed both ends to an angle reminiscent of a phlebotomist’s needle.

“We can’t let any fall to the ground. It’ll react with the grass and that’s the stink that will alert predators.

When the sack is drained, we’ll bury it. ”

“’Kay,” I answered nervously. I really, really didn’t want to fight off a bunch of toothsome fairy creatures, but I was also very tired from the laborious cleaning required of the ink bulb beetle after an already tiresome day.

After a deep breath, Kian stabbed the sack. The white quill flooded with color like a capillary. The ink rushed towards the end and beaded there far more rapidly than Kian anticipated. He squeaked as the first drop fell while he fumbled to get the jar centered beneath the quill.

Before I could react, a minuscule breath of air guided the droplet into the jar. The rest pitter-pattered inside with far less drama.

“You’re an air wielder,” I gasped.

“Hardly,” Kian scoffed, eyes on the dripping ink.

“Yes, you are,” I insisted.

He finally flicked his gaze from the deflating ink sack to mine.

“I can make quills dance and dry ink without using a blotter and keep a current circulating under my coat to preserve my books. But those triflings can’t earn me a position at a wielder university.

Those are for high fae with treasure vaults as large as their bloodlines are old. ”

“But what if you were gifted with an extraordinary ability? Or even not, but just wanted to hone what you had?”

“You speak as if talent or personal desire is a basis for admittance.” Kian snorted, his beautiful eyes tracking the drip-drip-drip of the liquid into the jar.

“It is not.” He gave the deflated sack the gentlest of squeezes.

Then his expression brightened as he moved on to a subject he found more fascinating.

“Did you know when this is combined with the acid from the naringenin fruit, it creates an iridescent blue ink prized for illuminated manuscripts? Oh, you can bury that sack now.”

After that was taken care of, Kian informed me the cleaned beetle was to be treated like a crustacean and steamed.

Or it would’ve been, had we water to spare and a pot.

Instead, it was slow roasted in its own shell with heat conjured in my palms. It wasn’t nearly as fun or satisfying as summoning little fire frogs, but I found the silver lining that dinner was cooking and no prairie grass was on fire.

Two marks to chalk up in the win column, if you asked me.

As it happened, ink bulb beetle flesh was like fatty, succulent pork in texture and tasted just like chicken flavored with salt and lemongrass.

No additional seasoning required. No wonder it was Fiachna’s favorite.

There was sweeter meat to be had in the legs, which were eaten just like those of a snow crab’s.

We discovered the following morning, after a sleep riddled with nightmares, that if not eaten fresh, the leg meat turned to jerky…

which only made it that much easier to travel with. Ha-cha for another silver lining!

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daphne asked gently she yawned for the fifth time in as many minutes. “We all heard you last night. Not even Stripes could rouse you.”

I rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my hands, though I’d already broken away the crust that had formed in their corners long ago.

“I was back in the Cedar Haven Forest battling magic hunters. There was this strange blue mist coming out of their hands. It burned like acid. Or cold like frostbite, depending on the hunter. Ugh, as if I’m not harassed enough in my waking hours, I get that at night.

” Bending down, I scooped Sawyer up for a quick cuddle. “Sorry I kept you up, kitty.”

His head rubbed hard under my chin, claws pricking as he kneaded on my forearm. “I felt it through the bond, like I was right there. Think of kittens before you go to sleep tonight, for both our sakes. Or of me chasing Rhett’s hens around.”

“Or them chasing you with a mealworm lure tied to your tail.”

The cat’s whiskers relaxed with a wistful expression.

“I could really go for an egg right now.” He flowed out of my arms in that liquidy way all cats move and slunk into the tall grass.

“A nice fatty yolk, deep yellow…” His ruminations died out as he scented the wind. Then he rolled his eyes. “Still there.”

Our little stalker, whatever it was.

It continued to follow as the sun rose over our next day through the Summerland Prairies.

Since it didn’t attack or seem to get any closer—I still couldn’t pin it down with my second sight—we just ignored it.

Sometimes Daphne sang a little tune, always softly, sometimes the men spoke of the projects they were looking forward to tackling when they got home.

Ordinary things in a foreign land that gave us a sense of normalcy, however tenuous it was.

We drank sparingly from our canteens and snacked on beetle leg and discarded the shells right into the grass.

Whereas the exterior shell was oil black, the inside was like abalone and twinkled like bits of the night sky fallen to earth.

Daphne saved the larger bits for her dream catchers.

Sawyer, supremely satisfied with himself for providing us with a such a tasty dinner and breakfast, trotted at our party’s head with his tail held very high.

Behind him, Kian had a little more swagger in his step, even though he’d only coached me through the ink removal and cooking process.

That swagger faltered every time a shadow passed overhead.

As we drew closer to the Fire Grove, the details of the aptly named forest revealed themselves.

The larrea trees had bark black and tacky like recently dried pitch and narrow leaves like candle flames.

They were never green—the yellow leaves of spring darkened to orange in the summer, then the cardinal red we saw before us now for autumn and winter.

Kian explained for just a week before the warmer temperatures of spring returned, the entire forest would shed its leaves overnight.

The bare branches would scrape the sky like the charred remains of a wildfire, then the trees would bud out with flame-blue nubs and the entire forest would be once again awash in color just a few days later.

“It’s truly fascinating,” Kian concluded, releasing a wondrous sigh.

Life in the Summerland Prairies changed nearer the Fire Grove.

Sedges took root amongst the tall grass, adding texture and color.

Fork-tailed swallows appeared and buzzed the swaying prairie in search of small insects.

It was these darting creatures Kian flinched from, though he assured us they were nonaggressive.

“The éan sídhe can hold a grudge,” he finally explained. “They love jackrabbits. And squirrels. And all birds. So if you try to eat their friends ,” he told Flora specifically, who ignored him, “it would be in their nature to harass you for, well, however long they liked.”

The garden gnome cracked her knuckles. “If it wants another knuckle sandwich, I’ll be happy to serve one up. With or without a side of fries.”

Daphne chuckled and shook her head. Then she craned around and called, “How’s it going back there?”

Kian’s old tow rope was now my tow rope. It guided me far more gently than it ever had the fae male as I practiced summoning beads of water to my fingertips.

“Oh, you know,” I replied with a sigh. “Only one of you needs to be imperiled so I can draw enough water to fill our canteens. Any volunteers?”

We’d found no water out here in the grasslands.

At least, no sources we could risk diverting to.

Kian told us of a lake to the west, but it was a common watering hole and we’d be noticed for sure.

The jackrabbits and beetles stayed hydrated by collecting the dew from the grass every morning, but that didn’t stop Sawyer from using my borrowed sparkle vision to track them and see if there was a hidden spring they visited.

We’d rationed the water, but these winter months were drier.

The ever-present wind sucked it out of our skin and robbed it from our panting mouths without giving anything back.

If we didn’t find water in the Fire Grove, we’d be in a world of hurt before this quest had truly begun.

So far the Redbudians were holding their own—Emmett wasn’t even on the verge of a heart attack, which was a vast improvement over yesterday—but I still worried.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Sawyer said, his mischievous tone resounding clearly through our bond. “I’m staying hydrated plenty by eating all these bugs.”

“Bugs . . . or dragonflies?” I asked dryly.

“They’re amazing, Meadow,” the cat gushed. “They’re juicier here than they ever were in Redbud, and no bitter aftertaste either. Like those tuna treats you make me—crunchy on the outside but meaty on the inside.”

I couldn’t see him or hear him, but I just knew that little cat was smacking his lips. “Don’t let Kian catch you.”

“What Kian and his stuck-up possum don’t know won’t kill ’em. Especially when they have no problem eating the beetles I bring in for supper.”

“We’ll need another one tonight if we’re going to keep our stores in reserve. Think you can find another one?”