Chapter 11

“Everyone,”I announced the next morning, sliding back the door to the hobs’ barn. “This is Grumpy, the new farm dog.”

The chickens took one look at him and screamed, squawking and scrambling for the rafters, even the rooster, Rhett.

“Lass!” Roland exclaimed, snatching up the bread knife. “Get away from it!”

The twelve hobs abandoned their breakfast and seized anything they could use as a weapon, overturning the trestle table to use as a barrier. Half of them shouted battle cries at the werewolf, the other half pleaded for me to get away from the beast and join them behind the safety of the table.

“I know, I know,” I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. “He’s a werewolf. But we’ve come to an agreement. He’s here to defend your chickens, as well as the rest of the farm.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Ricky bellowed. “You don’t make deals with werewolves! They’d rather eat you than deal with you!”

Grumpy growled. Until I thumped him lightly on the head. “Mind your manners.”

The werewolf’s ears lowered.

“Cernunnos’ Horns,” Joe breathed. “I don’t believe it. The lass has tamed a werewolf!”

Grumpy showed his fangs, but he didn’t growl.

“What’s Sawyer have to say about this?” asked Dale, who had snatched up the crock of apple butter to keep it from spilling instead of a weapon when the hobs had gone into defensive mode.

On the opposite side of me, giving Grumpy the biggest berth possible, Sawyer stalked into the sunbeam streaming into the hobs’ barn. “I’m still on the fence about it.”

“So… he won’t eat us?” Roland wanted to know.

“Not you, not me, not Sawyer, not the chickens,” I replied confidently. “There are measures in place to ensure he complies.”

“Niiice,” Ricky said, smirking. Then he shook the spoon he’d snatch up at the werewolf. “You messed with the wrong hearth witch, mister. Idiot.”

Grumpy sprang upright with a ferocious bark. Though he didn’t lunge, Ricky fell over backward, Joe scrambling to catch him.

“But I would appreciate you not antagonizing him,” I said firmly. “He’s a guest, though a working one. Let’s all try to get along, shall we?”

“That’s fine, lass,” Roland said, “but you don’t expect him to sleep in here, do you?”

“Most livestock guardian animals sleep with their flocks.”

“The hens don’t need him when they’re inside with us.” Roland didn’t need to glance around at his fellows for their input. “This is our barn.”

Grumpy snorted, as if he’d rather be caught dead then sleep in the straw with a bunch of hobs and their chickens.

“Alright. He can find somewhere else to sleep at night. Well, I just wanted to introduce you to the new farm dog—”

Grumpy growled.

“Farm wolf,” I amended. “And don’t you use that tone of voice with me, Grumpy. Come on now, time to show you the farm.”

Sawyer refused to turn his back on the werewolf, still fearful he’d be snatched from behind. Tail lowered, ears back, body low, he slunk along the grass beside me, casting furtive glances at the werewolf who paced on my opposite side. To his credit, Grumpy paid attention on his tour of the orchard and its buildings. I’d begun on the west side, showing him where the bakery stand was at the gate by the road, then to the south where the massive field and country roads passed, the very ones Cletus and Brandi had used to hex me with mushrooms and skinks, finally to the east where the forest separated me from the witch-hat house at the end of Weaver Lane.

We didn’t go into the forest. In fact, I stressed to him that he was never to enter it.

“Look, but don’t touch,” I said. “You do not leave this farm.”

Grumpy flicked his gaze from the thorn-riddled fence and back to me, as if to say he had better things to do than tangle with Nature’s barbed wire.

“The coyotes seem to come from this area the most,” I continued. “Just keep them, and any other threats, away. Alright?”

His head cocked to the side at the phrase “any other threats,” but I didn’t elaborate. He already knew about the magic hunters, but there had been that other signature my Scouting Spell had found, the supe that had blazed like a bonfire to my mind’s eye.

Most of all, I didn’t want him leaving the farm and discovering the moonflower grove.

“That’s it,” I said with a satisfied sigh, planting my hands on my hips. The werewolf didn’t look impressed. “Well go on. Patrol.”

Grumpy didn’t move, instead flicking his amber eyes from me to the farmhouse and back again. When Sawyer shrugged, I just had to guess what the werewolf was asking.

“I’ll be at the farmhouse working. What I’ll be doing there is my business, not yours. Now shoo. Dinner and antidote at sundown.”

Smacking his lips, the werewolf turned a slow circle and strode away, grumbling with every step.

“I bet he’s a real charmer when he’s human,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“I believe the term is alphahole,” Sawyer said, following me back to the farmhouse. “Ame says the audiobooks Shari listens to are full of them.”

At the mention of Ame and Shari, I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent the Crafting Circle group chat a text that all was well on Sweet Cider Farm and that the new farm dog was working out so far. I left out the part that he was a werewolf—no need to alarm them just yet. According to the group chat, Flora hadn’t encountered any more trespassers (much to her disappointment), and all was quiet at Daphne and Shari’s house.

My phone pinged again with another message, but this time, it was Cohen: Misty! Those biscotti are bomb! I’ve already sold out. Want to make more? PLEASE?!

Maybe I would. Crafting a new spell to hunt down the Big Nasty would take time, especially since the parasite bracelet would be guzzling away my magic. Baking would be a therapeutic way to fill that time as my core replenished itself.

I texted back: I’ll see what I can do.

Inside the hearth room, I placed the cell phone on the nearest shelf and hung my jacket up on the peg by the door. Then I retrieved my notebook and sat down by the hearth, lobbing another log onto the fire to feed it for the spells to come.

Wiggling the honey-locust thorn clasp free, I carefully opened the notebook, thumbed to a fresh page, and began to write.

Seeking Spell – must be placed on magic item and “pulsed” to trace magic back to its source/spellcaster

Scouting Spell – magical sonar ping; active; can be traced back to origin of ping

Tracking Spell – marks the tracks/trail, not the thing leaving the tracks/trail

Well, there was certainly no way I was going to place my hand on the grimoire’s emerald and keep in contract with it while it took however long to locate the owner of the half-heart. It might decide after all this time that I was an acceptable magical food source. The Scouting Spell was no good on its own either—if I pinged the Big Nasty, it would know I was looking for it. It would know to prepare for my coming, or worse, seek me out first before I was ready. And the Tracking Spell was useless unless I had a trail to follow.

But… maybe if I wove the three together? If I could find a way to make the Scouting Spell passive, that was, not revealing myself as the one doing the pinging, and had the Tracking Spell trace the ping while the Seeking Spell took that ping directly to the Big Nasty…

“And bind it with a locator rune!” I exclaimed aloud. The same rune I’d placed on Jakob Tabrass’s wagon! It would need constant fueling to remain active, usually a direct connection to my magic, but I’d been getting pretty good at using crystals as batteries lately.

But how to keep myself untraceable as the spellcaster? That was the trickiest part. And the most valuable. Learn how to do that, and I could cast any spell on any witch or coven and wreak havoc without them ever knowing it was me. Thistle thorns, that’s exactly what had happened to us!

“Sawyer!” I exclaimed, lurching to my feet with my epiphany.

“Gah!” The tabby cat nearly fell off his perch on the hearth mantlepiece, lost in his studies.

“Maybe I don’t need to track down the Big Nasty. Maybe I can just use my spell to find the coven who cursed mine!”

“And then what? That doesn’t free the curse from the grimoire, doesn’t free your family. You’d be going up against the rival coven alone.”

I groaned. He had a point. Even if I found them and cornered them, I was no match for a full coven, even with my parasite ring off. What was I going to do, plead with them to remove the curse? No doubt they would claim they couldn’t, but I knew otherwise. To every spell was a counterspell, but they were just far more difficult to perform. It was akin to breaking a friend’s trust: easy to do, but much harder to undo. Not impossible, though many weren’t willing to put in the time or effort.

I could threaten them, perhaps. Tell them I’d sell the very spell I’d used to track them down to their enemies so they could do the same. We witches weren’t governed by a council or any type of government, but an agreement made long ago kept us from outright warfare. That could change if covens could prove others were backstabbing and sabotaging them.

A Coven War.

Okay, okay, Meadow, reel it on back. I didn’t want to start a war, but I wanted my family free. Perhaps Sawyer was right.

“Guess I’m going to fight a Big Nasty then,” I sighed.

“That’s not what I said!” the tabby tomcat protested.

“Either way, I need to create this spell, for whomever I use it to find.”

But first things first: I had to solve that problem of keeping my identity as the spellcaster hidden. Meandering to my shelves, I searched the various bottles and jars for inspiration. Then my gaze fell on the pint-sized Mason jar of beige granules.

Ha-cha! I snatched up the masking sand, spinning around to give Sawyer a massive grin. The tabby cat cowered on his perch. “I don’t like that smile,” he whimpered.

My grin only got bigger. “I think this is really gonna work!”