Page 48 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)
Close to hyperventilating, I shut my eyes and poured healing magic through every cell. Death’s Sword had already scoured us clean, but maybe it had only targeted one aspect of the Blight’s side effects? Using the Tree of Life might eradicate anything it had missed.
I felt healthy, totally fine except for the frayed nerves and perpetual hunger I could never seem to satisfy in this realm. Cracking open an eye, the need to hyperventilate returned in force at the sight of those butterfly tattoos right where I’d left them.
“Meadow,” Sawyer began.
“Not done with my minute!”
Slapping my shirt sleeves back into place, a modicum of calm returned with the timeless adage out of sight, out of mind .
Hugging my arms tight against my stomach—maybe pressure would make the butterflies ooze off my skin like juice leaking out the pores of a squeezed orange?
—I tried to remember the moments before I’d blacked out.
Tornado for treasure hunting. Turning around. The diadem of legend. The shadow bound to it.
It hadn’t been like the others. This one had been opaque, not translucent. No gray edges. Just utter darkness. And rooted to the diadem.
It’d been whispering too. Something in Faerish I couldn’t understand.
Had its appearance changed from a silken black shadow to that of a fae the precise moment it came in contact with my iron cuffs, or was my mind just filling in the blanks? I had seen that white ghost of a female high fae, hadn’t I?
Thistle thorns, everything had happened so fast.
With shaking fingers, I leaned forward and lifted the Jewel of the Sea diadem from the sand. Kian’s books said it had never left its lady’s head. What if… What if?—
“Sawyer.”
“Are you dying?” he bawled.
“No.” Like I’d done with every non-priority crisis in the last few weeks, I buried the emotional stress deep down to deal with later.
Much later. Best case scenario: these butterflies were a nonconsensual but harmless commemorative reminder of my time in Elfame.
Worst case scenario: their true nature and purpose would be revealed later.
And at the most inopportune moment, no doubt.
“I think this castle is not only cursed, but haunted too,” I told him.
“WHAT?” I’d given the poor cat so many frights in the last few hours—days—I bet all his stripes were white now.
“Some of these shadows make noise. It’s all soft, like whispers or murmuring or even weeping. I’m wondering if ? —”
“If the Blight bound the magic in the earth as crystals,” Sawyer thought aloud, “do you think it trapped the magic of the fae it cursed into those shadows? Or their souls?”
And shadow transparency correlated to how powerful the fae had been before the Blight?
Maybe those really had been the petrified remains of fishing boats on the beach and the shadows all clustered around them were fae caught in the act of fleeing.
All those shadows in the courtyard—had they been running away when the Blight struck?
And those sticking out of the walls—had those been fae sentries flinging themselves down from their posts at the walls and trapped halfway down?
And after what I’d witness after running into that shadow bound to the diadem… “Sawyer Blackfoot, that’s exactly what I think.”
He shuddered. “I’ll let you be the one to tell Kian.” Then he turned indignant. “And you let one of them touch you? Did it leave behind any freaky ghost goo?”
“More like butterfly tattoos on my arms.” I stole another peek up my sleeves. Yep, still there. Beautiful and dormant.
“Never heard of a ghost doing that before.”
“Run into many ghosts, have you?” Recent events had turned me snarky. I shivered again, fighting for a measure of calm.
“Listen here, witch. You need to get yourself together, for both our sakes. If you’re not up on your feet and moving yet, get going.” I could picture his black-tipped tail lashing irritably. “Do you want me to talk to Kian about the butterflies?”
Shoving up onto my feet, I answered, “Absolutely not. I’ll do it.”
I stuffed the diadem into my pack, retrieved Faebane, and (very carefully this time), retraced my steps through the bits of ruined castle to the beach.
There I paused and lifted a hand to shade my eyes as I looked out to sea.
Not a ship in sight. I wondered how much of a berth the seafaring fae gave this place.
Had any dared to come close and been gifted a glimpse of the exposed treasure trove?
Probably not. There was a scar in the ocean too, if such a thing were possible. The waters were noticeably darker, and it had nothing to do with the sun that hung dangerously low on the horizon. The waters reflected the cursed earth of the sea floor where the Blight had traveled.
Spinning around, I faced the castle and risked another tornado. Controlling an air technique of this magnitude was still tricky for me, so I sheathed Faebane and stuck the half-used tourmaline back into my bra.
I must’ve sounded like a gull with all my “Gah!” as the tornado carried me through the air.
I quickly learned that course-correcting a tornado required the same finesse as driving a boat: tiny changes had big impact.
After banging into the cliffside half a dozen times and bruising every part of my body, I finally made it to the ledge of the throne room.
At my instruction, the tornado lifted me higher.
I stayed as close to the castle as I dared and avoided the whispering shadows—souls—flapping from the windows and walls.
The ledge of the eastern battlement that hadn’t crumbled away finally neared and I wobbled over the crenelated top, landing awkwardly on the walk.
The tornado dissipated, the air lashing my hair like it was rebuking me for being such a terrible rider.
Sweeping my braid over my shoulder and smearing the brown wisps from my face, I turned to the tower on the left and its unobstructed arched entryway. Smiling grimly, I informed my familiar I would not need Kian’s directions (for now) and headed into the tower to find the Wandering Mirror.