Chapter 6

Steam waftedfrom the oven the next morning as I opened the door to extract the roasted pumpkin. Its orange color had deepened, though I hadn’t left it in there enough to get spotted with brown, just to get it as soft as custard. Scooping it into a bowl, I set it aside to cool on the open windowsill. It was still dark, the eastern horizon not even smudged with gray, and the wee hours of the November morning would make quick work of wicking the heat away. Sawyer had stirred when I’d woken to start baking, padding down the stairs after me and curling up in his bed by the hearth to go right back to sleep.

Moving to the dining room, I eased the massive amount of bread dough out onto the table—my little kitchen counters definitely weren’t big enough to handle it.

Yet as my hands cut and shaped dough into loaves, the peace I normally felt through the familiar, repetitive motions of making bread and sweet rolls was frequently interrupted by errant thoughts.

Magic hunters. White light. Beacon. My family must’ve seen it. What about the rival coven? The hellhound trackers?

They’re coming.

But the spell book is still cursed! It’ll keep sucking their magic out. And if they take me home, I’ll never be allowed in the same room as it again, maybe not even the same house!

What happens when they find me?

I smashed my fist down into the sweet roll dough, deflating the air with the same viciousness the universe was using to deflate my hopes.

There was no other choice to make: I had to try tracking that Big Nasty down whose heart fueled the curse.

Committed to my new course of action, I quickly got the apple butter cinnamon rolls filled, cut, and in the oven, plus the first batch of artisan loaves baking away in their Dutch ovens on the hearth. After filling the second batch of sweet rolls and setting them aside, I returned to the roasted pumpkin. Perhaps I took a little too much joy in pounding it into a smooth pulp—maybe mimicking what I would do to that Big Nasty who’d enslaved my family? Butter, eggs, flour, leavening, and all the warm spices that made the winter months feel more cozy went in next.

The pumpkin biscotti served three purposes besides filling the pastry gap at the Magic Brewery: using my anxiety in a productive way; finding an alternative way of consuming all those pumpkins my garden had grown this year besides pumpkin soup; and an excuse to see Emmett Trinket. He liked his coffee with allspice sprinkled on top, and allspice was one of ingredients of any good pumpkin spice blend, so it followed that he might enjoy taste-testing the biscotti.

I could check on him, see if he had any fur coats or hats for the pixies to use, and secrete the protection crystal away in his flea market.

My hands were still sticky with dough when my cell phone buzzed on the counter. In the hearth room, Sawyer raised his head from his paws, squinting. “Who’s calling you now?”

Hurrying to the sink, I washed off my hands. “I don’t—”

We both remembered at the same time the mandatory check-ins with the Crafting Circle ladies. And if someone was calling me before the sun was even up…

I snatched up the phone, accepting the call. “Flora—”

“Ha!” the garden gnome crowed. “I got me a snooper. Those wards we placed made the whole place light up like the Fourth of July!”

“But, Flora, are you—”

“Hoo-wee! Knocked his butt back twenty yards!”

“Was it Antler Tattoo Guy?” He’d seemed the boldest of his magic hunter bunch, though they all appeared formidable.

“Didn’t get a good look at him. The wards went off and I heard a howl and then I called you.”

“You didn’t check? Flora! How do you know there aren’t more of them out there?”

“M-more?” she echoed. Her confidence wavered. “Our wards got more than one zap in them, right?”

“Yeah, but there were a lot of them yesterday. And if they were talking about splitting up yesterday— Thistle thorns! They could be outside each of our houses right now!”

With Flora still on the line, I shoved the phone into my pocket and charged out of the farmhouse. Forget my coat and boots, I raced out in just my house shoes, a sundress, and my apron. Sawyer was quick to follow, staying close, but not too close that he got trampled. While the yellow-and-green flames of the hearth hadn’t flared red, nor pulsed in warning, that only meant any snoopers just hadn’t crossed the fence line yet.

Once inside the orchard, I slammed a glowing hand onto the ground and released a short-range Scouting Spell. The magical sonar ping would show to my mind’s eye anything and everything within range, but it would alert other supes of my presence too. They’d feel a tingle and know they’d been discovered. And a very good witch would be able to seize that tingle before it dissipated and trace it back to me.

But I wasn’t too far from the farmhouse. I could make it back to the safety of the hearth. And these magic hunters were humans, though I wouldn’t put it past a coven from using zealots to do their dirty work for them.

A green glow came to my eyes as the Scouting Spell took effect, my vision shifting to what was in front of me to an aerial view. I watched the ripple expand, Sawyer illuminating beside me. It passed through the hobs’ barn, all twelve of their signatures lighting up like fireflies, plus an additional thirteen duller lights for their chickens, and radiated out in a circle farther across the farm. A cluster showed the pixies in their birdhouse, mice or birds or other harmless creatures scattered around the property, and then it got to the fence. Just beyond, in the eastern forest, was a pack. Not too far away, and approaching with purpose, was the brightest signature I’d ever seen, coming from the moonflower grove.

“Thistle thorns,” I hissed, taking off into a sprint towards the forest.

“What is it?” Sawyer cried, racing beside me.

“I don’t know. It’s not like the signatures are color-coded. But there’s a bunch of somethings in the east, and an even bigger thing coming behind them.”

“I’ll sniff it out!” The tabby tomcat put on a burst of speed and darted away.

Supes always illuminated brighter than humans or other mundane creatures, and that solo signature had been nothing short of a bonfire. Could that be the creature Flora thought was glamoured?

Despite the possibility of danger, I did not summon my magic. This was recon only, as my dad would call it. If these were the magic hunters, or worse, a coven of witches, I couldn’t give myself away any more than I already had with the Scouting Spell. When I hadn’t been “pinged” back, I doubted the signatures were witches, but now was not the time to make assumptions. It was time for caution, and preparedness.

And find out who’d discovered my secret moonflower grove.

“Misty, abort mission,” Sawyer shouted, turning tail at the fence. “Coyotes!”

Sawyer sprang up the nearest apple tree as a coyote lunged, his needle-like claws scabbering against the bark. Three more wormed their way through the split-rail fence, snapping after my tomcat, after me.

I didn’t stop to ponder why a pack of coyotes had thought it a wise idea to attack a human. Rolling to the side to avoid some teeth, I righted myself on my knees and slapped the ground with two glowing hands.

The earth leapt, undulating like waves and knocking the beasts off their feet. Tree roots sprang from the soil next, lashing and raining stinging slaps against tender paws and flanks. Yipping and yapping, the coyotes scrambled to their feet and raced away from the punishing strikes, wiggling through the fence and back into the wilder country beyond.

“And stay out,” Sawyer shouted after them.

The green glow faded from my hands, and, out of habit, I glanced down at the tourmaline crystals adorning my wrist. The three stones of the parasite bracelet weren’t even glowing. That was a relief, at least. But my small measure of satisfaction was short-lived. Coyotes weren’t normally pack hunters, unless they were working together to take down larger prey. Though they lived in family group, there wasn’t a den nearby. Maybe they were in the process of establishing one here because the prey was so plentiful?

That simply would not do.

And where had that big signature gone? It hadn’t shown itself during this little skirmish; was it still lurking in the woods?

“—is-TAY!” came a muffled shout. I heard my garbled name one more, the sound emanating from my pocket.

Flora! I hadn’t ended the call, and neither, apparently, had she. I dug my cell phone free and pressed it against my ear. “Flora!”

“Jumping hop-toads, cider witch! What was all that ruckus? Sounded like I was caught in a wind tunnel!”

“No, just my pocket. I had to check— There were coyotes here. But there’s something else in the woods, something by the moonflowers.”

“Well go look!” she shrieked.

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” I asked, literally swinging my legs over the fence to drop down on the other side. “I’ll call you with an update soon.”

“I’ll call Daph in the meantime. Be safe!”

Putting my phone on silent, I slipped it back into my pocket and prowled into the forest. There was a little light to see by now, but the fog clinging to the gaps in the trees still felt too cold for comfort. I was regretting not wearing a jacket now, hugging my arms to my chest for warmth. The grove was still a little ways off yet, so I removed my apron and slung it across my shoulders. Was it as fashionable as Daphne’s shawl? Not in the least. Did it provide a meager amount of insulation? You betcha.

“Misty,” Sawyer whispered.

A soft hum was my only reply: What?

“I smell something.”

I slipped behind a tree, pressing my palms against the coarse bark of a black walnut tree. The presence of the black walnuts meant I was close to the elderberry grove, but it also meant we’d have to be extra careful going forward. Black walnut seeds were the size of tennis balls that could roll your ankle, or, when those outer husks had turned from a firm green to a mushy black, make you slip and then roll your ankle. They were, however, delicious if you could break through the extra-hard shell, and I realized I had the perfect excuse to come out to the moonflower grove more often, especially in the dead of winter.

Whiskers quivering and ears pricked, Sawyer stared straight ahead. “I don’t know what it is. I’ve never smelled it before.”

“Is it still fresh?” I breathed.

His pink nose quivered; he took a quiet step forward, sniffing some more. “No,” he said, relieved. “I mean, it’s passed on.”

“Good enough.” I hadn’t wanted to send out another short-range Scouting Spell and alert the supe—for no human had ever had a signature like that—that it was being pursued.

Shuffling forward so a walnut seed wouldn’t take me unawares, I ventured deeper into the woods until the air began to noticeably warm—the anti-frost wards. Calling magic to my hand for the light, I slid through a gap in the elderberry bushes, careful not to rustle the stems, and took a look around, my breath held in my throat.

The moonflowers were fine.

Whatever had passed through must have gone around them.

Releasing a relieved breath, I called to Sawyer, “Do you see any tracks?”

He shook his head. “They’re all muddled with the coyotes’.”

“Alright, let’s go home. We’ll have to come back when it’s lighter out and take a better look.”

“Yeah, after you remake that batch of bread. It’s probably burnt, right?”

Burnt and stinking up my house something fierce. Thistle thorns!