Page 47 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The opalescent light of the oak tree darkened to ivy green as the Tree of Life transformed into Death’s Sword.

The transformation was instantaneous in response to the shadow’s touch.

The void that threatened to consume me crashed like a raging wave against the canopy cross guard and broadsword of woven roots.

Weakened, the darkness retreated and gathered itself for another strike.

Death’s Sword was swifter.

The broadsword unraveled into its composite roots, each narrowing into a point that struck with the ferocity of a mallaithe.

Skewered in place by thousands of living blades, the Blight stood no chance against the power unleashed by the dark canopy.

Ivy-green light burst from my core and shattered the Blight into obsidian shards.

A second pulse of magic disintegrated the shards into ash and then nothingness as my magic scoured me clean.

As the ash blew away, a white specter of a fae appeared for only a moment. Lady Muriel! Her agonized face relaxed in sublime relief before she dove towards me.

She was faster than the Blight, quicker than Death’s Sword. There was an otherworldly coolness as her hand pressed against my heart, her forehead against mine.

There was a roar like thunder rolling through the mountains, then an onslaught of memories.

A brown map depicting the archipelago nation of the Bitter Isles.

Ouzel written across the stern of a galleon, its gold leaf lettering catching the sunlight as the ship cut through rocky seas.

Hot sand and a body lying half-out of tropical blue waters.

Round ears, a handsome face. A male witch from Earth.

Star-studded skies at night and dancing on the quarterdeck.

Violet eyes of a newborn child. The captain— he looks just like Ler!

—nestling the faeling into a sling across his chest.

A single pair of feet on the pebbled shore. Wind pulling at her hair, drying the tears on her cheeks. The Ouzel drawing out with the tide with her heart.

Black ink racing across the water from the east like it had a mind of its own, permeating sky and sea. Crashing against the cliff, climbing up the rock like shadowy kraken tentacles, entwining the towers, seeping between the crenelations of the battlements. So fast. The Blight moved so fast.

A desperate dash to the treasure room for something, anything ? —

I shrieked in pain, balling down with my hands clamped against my head to keep my skull from bursting apart. A soul was being ripped from a body, mine or Muriel’s, I couldn’t tell. There was just so much terror, abhorrence at the unnatural sundering of?—

“Violet’s Daughter,” a familiar voice hailed. “Hold on!”

My scream cut off as warmth enveloped me. Muriel’s memories vanished as a soothing white fog dampened everything in my mind. I could think again, feel again without fear of that excruciating pain. My surroundings swirled, and an Irish setter flowed out of the fog.

“Gwyn?” I whispered in disbelief.

The wight sat like an obedient hound and strained her neck out to wiggle her muzzle under my stunned hand.

My fingers idly scratched behind her floppy ears. “How are you here? Where is here?”

“You came to my realm first, Violet’s Daughter.”

“I-I touched Muriel’s ghost,” I realized.

“An effective method to cross into the In-Between, but one not recommended for mortals. And you must go. You cannot linger here or there. I thought I made that clear.”

“When?”

The Irish setter huffed and gave my hand a nip. “The Realm of Dreams is an In-Between, Violet’s Daughter. I found you every time you slept and brought you to your bear. We made that connection when I was trapped in the cloch, remember? The tie holds. Your dreams are his reality.”

Oh my Green Mother. Arthur had fought mallaithe, magic hunters with that frightening blue mist. It had all been real? “Show me!”

Gwyn looked like she was about to refuse. “We will be quick. You both have little time left.”

The white fog surrounding us evaporated with a soundless swirl.

I recoiled as Ossian appeared. His white teeth were bared in crazed delight, a fever dancing in his jewel-bright eyes.

The Stag Man, still wholly male except for his antlers, staggered back with five claw marks on his torso like rents in fabric.

Fleshy strips dangled, blood poured, and the high fae laughed.

With the confidence of a known outcome, he stretched one arm behind him and pressed his hand against the glittering elm tree.

Magic raced through his arm and knitted his flesh back together in seconds. Another second passed and there were no scars. The Stag Man’s shoulders were no longer slumped in fatigue, either.

The vision panned to the left, towards an old grizzly with a deep puncture wound on his side. His back legs trembled from the effort to stand and fight. Foam pooled at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t the lather of exertion.

“He’s the old bear from my dreams,” I whispered. “He’s been infected with mallaithe venom. How is he not dead?”

“Like a snake, the mallaithe expends the majority of its venom with its first strike. Your bear and his ally were smart, draining the hunting tree before engaging.” Her voice turned sad.

“But not wholly. The old one’s strength wanes, as does your bear’s.

They have known only one fight after another since you passed through the veil between worlds. ”

“ What are you still doing here?” I asked suddenly. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I find I am not satisfied with the Horned One’s fate. It is not enough for me to return to the moors or pass beyond the mist while there is breath left in his body. A pure spirit should never know the weed that is revenge, but I do all the same.”

The white fog enveloped us again, severing my connection with Arthur.

No! I didn’t get to speak with him! Or somehow communicate that I was there, that I hadn’t forgotten about him. “Gwyn ? —”

“Go!” the wight said crossly. Anxiously. “Go that you might return and stop this suffering.”

The Irish setter morphed into the wolfhound and clamped her jaws over my hand.

The sharp startled pain shattered this dream world only to return to the one I had left. The fae specter—Muriel—had vanished, but Death’s Sword still raged. It was not convinced the intruder had gone. Its power hurtled outward, prepared to destroy anything and everyone around us.

No , I commanded, seizing control. I would not let this vestige of Violet’s wrath consume me. Wield me. A Hawthorne had control over both aspects of Nature; she was not controlled by them.

I was the master of my magic, just as I was the master of my life. The only yoke of responsibility I bore was the one I chose.

The heart of the oak tree burned bright with Sawyer’s spirit, a beacon in the darkness.

Focusing on that unwavering light, I remembered myself and pressed a firm but gentle hand against the raging oak tree.

It only wanted to protect us, to keep us free from ever being chained to another’s will again.

Thank you. That’s enough now.

The ivy-green light of Death’s Sword dimmed then vanished as the Tree of Life returned in all its wondrous glory. My entire perception was full of that glittering light, that warm magic. Deep in its heartwood, the Sword slumbered. Obedient.

“Meadow,” Sawyer’s voice was faint but growing stronger with every heartbeat. “Meadow!”

Was that Sawyer’s voice? It sounded too high, too feminine. My eyes fluttered open.

“Meadow!” the faelene screeched, buffeting my face with the wind of her wings. Her green eyes darted in search of a safe place to land and found none to her liking. “Pangur’s Teats, wake up !”

“I’m up,” I replied groggily, clutching my head. “What are you doing here, Thistle?”

“You’ve been unconscious for over a day!

” the faelene snapped. Dimly, I wondered if she wouldn’t be so abrasive if she wasn’t so exhausted.

“Sawyer said you lost consciousness, but somehow it was worse than that, and he drained himself trying to help you to the point of passing out! So I went to look for you, obviously. And now that I’ve found you were just napping ?—”

“I wasn’t napping. I?—”

I hinged upright from where I’d fallen on the sand. Between my feet was the Jewel of the Sea diadem, shadow free. The petals the shadows always released were gone, but the butterflies…

“Oh no,” I whispered, lifting my hands.

Black butterflies swept across my forearms from wrist to elbow. I rubbed at them with my hands, but they did not smear away like ink or soot. They were permanent.

“Wait.” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “You said I’ve been out for over a day? What about Ler’s deadline?”

Thistle hissed, showing off white fangs. “He came and took the druidess as punishment. The mares are furious. He spared the rest of you because Sawyer convinced them you were still alive, just incapacitated. That fae will be back tonight. And so must you be. Do not keep our Sawyer waiting.”

She didn’t give me a chance to respond, just whipped around with a slash of black tail. With labored wingbeats, she rose into the sky and banked inland towards the trefoil meadow.

No sooner had she left, and the shocked adrenaline of Daphne’s kidnapping diffused from my veins, another voice sounded to berated me.

“Meadow!” Sawyer wailed. His voice was raw and tired, as if he’d just woken and went right back to panicking.

“I’m here, kitty. Thistle found me. She’s coming back with the news.”

“They took Daphne,” my little cat sniffled. “We couldn’t fight them without hurting Lori and Shari. You should’ve been here! What happened?”

“I ran into a shadow,” I told Sawyer numbly. “My magic saved me, but, but…”

“But WHAT?”

“I don’t know. I need a minute!”