Page 68 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The ancient trees of the Cedar Haven Forest held so many memories.

Arthur’s deep voice rumbling, “Can I help you?” and tugging, for the first time, on that inexplicable tether that bound our hearts.

Succumbing to grief and igniting the dormant heart of an elm tree.

A group of Crafting Circle friends trudging through its wild places on their way to tackle a demonic half-heart with more grit and wit than magic.

A coven foraging for the ingredients that would save my kidnapped brother.

The attack of a silver fae hunting tree.

Sawyer battling the raging river’s current and the dangers within.

Ossian, triumphant, siphoning magic from the elm tree and reversing his curse.

The breath and vitality I’d sensed in this forest upon my first visit all those months ago was nowhere to be found.

It could’ve been the cold—it was past midnight on the winter solstice, after all—but it also could’ve been that strife had made its home here.

Every town, whether large or small, had seen its trials over the years, but little Redbud had never known tribulation. Until the Stag Man.

“It’s so quiet here,” Sawyer whispered.

I’d fallen out of the Rabbit Step Spell—the better to travel without attracting notice—upon crossing the southern border, so speech was possible now.

Aside from the sporadic, faraway punctuations of the fight ahead of us and the Coalition versus magic hunters skirmish happening east of us near Cody’s workshop, I had to agree.

It made every errant sound that much more startling, and I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep from yelping.

“A ley line runs deep through here,” Thistle observed quietly. “Two, actually. Intersecting ones.”

“You can sense that?” Sawyer asked.

“I can see that,” was her smug reply. “Faelene, remember? Though, they’re so deep I wouldn’t have seen them if it weren’t for the cache they’re feeding. It sits right on top of the intersection point.”

The elm tree. No wonder it seemed to have infinite magic reserves—I’d basically turned it into a spile. Instead of dripping sap out of a maple tree, it tapped magic from ley lines that should’ve remained forgotten.

Not even my witch atlas had known a ley line intersection lay beneath Redbud.

If it had, I never would’ve come here. Ley lines had a way of attracting the supernatural…

which was exactly what it had done to me, to Arthur, to the Fair Folk diaspora including Flora, to Daphne the druidess, Shari, even traveling warlocks who then made demonic deals with cattle ranchers.

In my pack, the faelene stiffened. “I smell fae. High fae. And very powerful.”

Sawyer nosed the air. “We’re still downwind of him.”

That’d been the whole reason I’d come from the south, allowing that perpetual wind that blew from west to east to keep my scent away from him.

I moved steadily forward despite the darkness, guided by the sparkle vision.

It was on my to-do list to change that technique’s name, as this world just wasn’t sparkly like Elfame, but it was way, waaay down on that list.

“Ugh.” From the way her whiskers tickled the back of my neck, I knew the faelene was wrinkling her nose. “There’s a skinchanger here too. Smells like a bear.”

Did all cats react this way to shifters, or was it just familiars and faelenes?

“A bear? Just one?” Sawyer whispered, glancing up at me.

“Two.”

Thank the Green Mother for that. I still picked up the pace.

I’d never explored this southern quadrant of the Cedar Haven Forest before and found it frustratingly hilly.

The leaf litter created by all these oaks and beeches had done wonders suppressing the undergrowth, but their size forced my path to be a wandering one.

Unless I chose to fly, but I wasn’t keen on the idea of riding a tornado again.

Perhaps I’d look into mastering the art of broom riding at a later time, if such a skill truly existed.

Glancing down, I considered the butterfly tattoos wreathing my forearms. I’d been able to see where I’d been going the last time I’d used them, and the moonlight contorting everything made it unclear if what stood before me was a shadow or a tree trunk.

Perhaps if my need was great enough, like it had been with Sawyer, I could use my sparkle vision to guide me?

A roar startled that thought clean out of my head like a bird from a wire.

“I smell the Tainted One now,” Thistle announced excitedly as the echo of the bear’s roar rolled away.

“Her name is Shari or Quills,” Sawyer said tartly. My friends were his friends, after all, and disparaging labels irked him. A callback to his own struggles at Grimalkin University where he’d been mocked for wanting to be a simple farm cat instead of a familiar bound to a witch.

“Good,” I said through the bond. The cats were already so talented at keeping their voices low, stealthy creatures as they were, but I couldn’t risk Ossian’s fae ears hearing me. “And the others?” I asked Sawyer.

He relayed my query to Thistle in a series of feline chirps. She replied in the same manner, Sawyer translating, “Everyone’s here.”

Thistle seemed to know when our communication ended and nodded, her whiskers tickling the exposed part of my neck where the braid didn’t cover. “Plan C is still a g—” She tilted her head.

The tightening in her posture had me demanding out loud, “What?”

“Their pheromones. They’re not just here waiting for your signal. The fight’s already begun. Something must’ve?—”

Thistle thorns. Marten’s Revival Spell had delayed me too long. “Plan D,” I cried, breaking out into a sprint. The trees scuttled out of my way as if Mother Nature herself was on a war path.

“Ooo, I liked Plan D,” Thistle purred. Her backside gave an anticipatory wiggle. “There are more claws in Plan D.”

We emerged from the trees seconds later to find the clearing awash in yellowish-green light.

The wall of flames I’d erected to keep the elm tree safe from Ossian and his hunters burned as bright and strong as the first time I’d summoned it.

Ossian and his hunters , not my friends .

The fiery barrier that consumed nothing and emitted no heat let the two bear shifters, a handful of pixies, a wight from the Moors of Tarsaghaun, and the Crafting Circle ladies pass no problem.

Within the span of a single breath, I processed the scene in front of me.

The smaller of the two bears, but still a giant in his own right, lay prone on the ground closest to me.

Gray mottled his face, sweat or hot breath dampening the hair around his gasping muzzle to pewter.

His rear legs shook as if from exertion, but I knew it was the mallaithe venom working through his bloodstream.

The grizzly bear I’d once feared stood nearby and shattered the night air with a ferocious, desperate roar. His friend was dying, he was exhausted, and the Stag Man appeared as strong as ever.

The fae king kept his back to the elm tree as copper magic ballooned from his hands and swirled up his arms. Ossian looked exactly as I’d left him—exceptionally male, besides the antlers growing out of his copper curls, and exceptionally crazed.

He still wore his wedding clothes, that is to say, the black trousers.

His feet and chest were bare, the former stained from the oil of trampled leaves, the latter flecked with blood, both old and new.

Around his neck, the multi-stranded necklace of gemstones twinkled madly.

The blue cloch with its stolen fated mate bond nestled in the hollow of his throat.

His bared his teeth at the three pixies that zipped about his head like silver-green hornets and slashed wildly with his magic.

Dart, Flit, and Zip had already gnawed on him some—the tip of one ear was bleeding, he was missing the middle half of one eyebrow, and part of one antler had definitely been gnawed on.

Now they were embroiled in an air assault, hurling acorns and rocks at all his tender parts.

The wolfhound wight lunged to the side as the pixies distracted the Stag Man. She was a waif of her former self, no longer white vapor but a translucent specter. With an arrogant laugh, the fae king swept the pixies away and drove Gwyn back with a slash of his antlers.

Then he kicked the charging garden gnome, backhanded a blackthorn shillelagh out of his face, and snatched up Shari.

He had his arm snaked across her chest and his fingers pinching her windpipe in all of a second.

Then he laughed as he leaned back and pressed his free hand against the elm tree, absorbing its magic.

Why waste the caches in the gemstones at his throat?

His laughter continued as his eyebrow and ear grew back without even a scar.

Gwyn snarled in frustration, weakening while he grew strong.

Her wolfhound shape flickered as her control faltered.

The wight wasn’t meant for battle, but she wasn’t giving up.

Why? She was a pure spirit, a traveler of the In-Between—her influence upon the physical world was minimal at best. What purpose drove her to keep attacking him?

Daphne regained her balance and blew white hair out of her eyes.

She swung her shillelagh back over her shoulder like it was a baseball bat.

Or a cudgel. Flora, red-faced and furious enough to spit fire, lay propped up on her back by the satin doll purse she’d received in Elfame, now stuffed full.

The garden gnome had to flail like an overturned turtle to right herself, and when she did, she sneezed. And wiped bloody snot from her nose.

“That all you got, Antlered Arsehole?”

Ossian’s green eyes glinted with hubris and hatred in equal measure, the muscles in his arms tense as he wrangled Shari close.

The quiet crafter was as limp as a rag doll, presumably from fear.

But Ossian couldn’t see her face, otherwise he would’ve questioned why someone so afraid would scrunch up her forehead in concentration.

“Just you?” he sneered at my friends. “Just you pitiful few to champion this pathetic town? What did she do? Abandon you to my wrath after she restored her coven? Is that where she’s gone with my key, back home?”

With one long stride, I stepped through the wall of yellow-green flames. “I’m right here, Ossian.”

“Violet’s Daughter,” the wight sighed into my mind. She was so weary as she floated over to me, she drifted low to the ground like fog. “I must get to the tree. Help me. I can’t make it on my own.”

When her head rested against my shin, understanding passed between us. Her purpose was clear, imperative, and the consequences were risky. I agreed without a second thought. Which was just as well, for my attention was gravitating towards the towering grizzly with an unstoppable need.

The bear swung his head towards me with a surprised grunt. His liquid eyes were dark and unfocused, unrecognizing. Mostly. He could still distinguish me as a friend, not his enemy. The hollow in my heart remained.

“He’s still in there,” Sawyer said before I could spiral. “I saw that thread that binds you two. It wouldn’t be there if he was only a bear.”

My heartache snuffed out in the peals of the fae king’s laughter. It was so spiteful. So heartless.

“The errant witch returns,” Ossian jeered. He gave Shari a shake to draw my attention to his hostage. “So, Meadow, are you here for another bargain? My key for your friend’s life? I’ll even heal that old bear of the mallaithe venom?—”

“I don’t need you for that.” Not anymore. If I could heal an immortal horse, I could burn out some venom and heal a puncture wound.

Gold sparks fizzed from the opalescent palm I laid against the old bear’s shoulder. He shuddered as pure primal magic, wild yet nourishing, diffused through his body. A small mean part of me wished it was Arthur I was healing with my low reserves, but my bear was not actively dying.

The old bear shuddered, health returning. Wood sorrel sprouted from the ground around him, spreading clover-like leaves and unfurling yellow flowers into the night. With a groan, the beast succumbed to exhaustion and slipped into unconsciousness.

The magic winked out with a little crackle of gold sparks as I closed my hand and brought it back to my side.

Shock flickered across the Stag Man’s face only for an instant. His sneer returned as he manhandled Shari, reminding me of his strength and the perilous position my friend was in. Her eyelids flickered in annoyance.

“You owe me, Meadow. If it weren’t for my tutelage, you never would’ve unlocked your full potential. You’d still be a scared little witch masquerading as a homesteader with your pathetic sourdough starter and vegetable garden, playing with magic and forces you could never comprehend on your own.”

Rude.

And I would have believed him—once. Not anymore. Everything I had learned here in Redbud, I had earned through trial, sacrifice, and friendship. With that foundation, that tenacity, I would’ve realized my potential eventually. All he’d done was speed up the process, at great cost.

My arched brow and unblinking, ivy-green stare told him just how swayed I was by his reasoning. Not. At. All.

“Then I can swear to leave Redbud and never return,” he pressed. “Just give me the key.”

Tempting. If I were a fool.

“No.”

My one-word answer infuriated him.

“Why not?” he snarled. “You have your brother, you have your coven, and your wretched bear is still alive. This could all be a bad dream—I could make it so. I only want the key, Meadow.”

I shook my head slowly. Knowingly. “No, you don’t. You want all this key can give you. But you can’t have it, Ossian, disgraced heir of the Court of Beasts. Not when you owe so much to this realm, to this town, to every woman you ever abused.”

“Including this one,” Shari choked out past the crush on her windpipe. Her eyes few open, the brown irises ringed with red, and flung up a hand of boiling hellfire.