11. The Honeysuckle

Liath Ryan lowered herself to her knees at Andrew's elbow. Chamomile, Diana, and Sam stared at her like she was a valkyrie: hair and skin shining under the can lights, cheeks bright from the cold, eyes alight with the fury of a frightened mother.

Andrew shuddered and sobbed, "Mum? Oh. My god. Mum. I'm…how did you…"

"I can help him," said Liath. "May I?"

On the tip of her tongue, Chamomile had a rebuttal about Liath's action with Micah's blood ward. But she swallowed it with one more glance at Micah's bloodstained back and the taste of copper and tears souring her tongue.

"Please," Andrew begged, turning toward Liath. He curled up into her shoulder while she put an arm around him, holding him while he gulped in several fractured gasps, tears streaking through the blood smeared on his face. "Help. Help him. I can't…I can't lose him…" He sobbed, "Please."

She leaned over Micah. "Tell me what I'm looking at." Her brogue tugged on her gravel and bracken voice. She lifted a pair of cat-eye glasses up from a chain around her neck and perched them on her nose.

Andrew glanced pleadingly at Chamomile, stroking Micah's head, leaving streaks of red in his hair.

Eyes on her work, Chamomile explained steadily, "A month ago he was stabbed with an athame by a powerful old witch." Diana continued to wipe the blood from the wound while Chamomile covered it with herbs. The blood rushing out made it impossible to pack anything inside, so Chamomile held them in with her slick stained hands. "Two nights ago, they attacked him in a dream and woke a curse in the wound. The spell these two tried to use to lift it—"

"That's enough," said Liath. She picked up Andrew's hand, lifted it to her mouth, and bit down hard on his palm. Blood spurted under her teeth.

Andrew snarled and thrashed, trying to pull away from her, but Liath held tight, folding his arm into her chest. Shooing Diana and Chamomile out of the way—Chamomile gave her a nasty look—she pressed Andrew's hand to Micah's shoulder. Blood seeped around his fingers into the jagged tear in Micah's skin. Between them, the birchwood staff shivered and writhed, creaking as if being rocked by a storm. Green roots wriggled out of the bark and climbed onto Andrew and Micah, becoming fuzzy flecks of light that faded like the afterimage of a firework. Micah groaned softly, but otherwise remained as he was.

Ingrid reappeared in the restaurant with half a dozen Folk holding hands behind her. She jolted when she saw Liath, but then her eyes settled on the golden necklace she wore and wonder parted her lips and pushed up her slender eyebrows.

Still holding Andrew's hand against the wound, Liath looked up and said with relief, "Good, madame. We need all of you. I need a faerie circle around this pair, please, and everyone, including you three—" She nodded to Ingrid, Chamomile, and Diana. "—Hand-in-hand round about us."

A short woman with dark skin and hair under a silk wrap reached into deep pockets on an apron. She withdrew handfuls of red-capped toadstools, which a winged man with blue skin and yellow hair picked out of her hands and arranged in a careful circle. A fawn placed a small round pebble between each of the mushrooms.

Diana grabbed the nearest two salt shakers, spun off their caps, and drew a large circle that encompassed those kneeling around Micah and all the Folk that had appeared and linked hands in a circle. Inside the salt circle were the toadstools and stones, and inside those were the circle of people.

Ingrid and Chamomile, now on their feet, glanced back at Diana and both held out a hand. Diana didn't even have time to acknowledge the marvel of the act; she clutched both their fingers and squeezed a bit tighter than she meant to. But they squeezed back.

As soon as the circle was complete, Micah groaned again, eyes closed. His hand twitched on the birchwood staff.

Andrew glanced at his mother, who pulled out a white stick of chalk and bent over the floor. She began scratching thick, powdery lines at Micah's feet, resembling a tree and something more, slashed through and dotted in a furious, confident way as if she were making it all up to suit her needs at this very moment.

"Love is the most powerful curse-breaker," said Liath as she continued to draw. "It flows strongest in your blood, Andrew Phalen, to banish the death in his."

Andrew curled Micah's body into his own, leaning his head down onto Micah's clammy shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. Blood soaked Andrew's clothes, and his face, the rancid smell so overwhelming that his stomach churned. Staring down the violent possibility that Micah was about to…about to die, Andrew knew without a doubt that he could not survive his absence. Such was the powerful press of his love, so true were Liath's words that Andrew felt the ache of them.

"Love binds the wound that hate created. In this circle, death and fear are cast out to be filled instead with healing and renewal. We have all the power at our fingertips, and those who wish to harm us have none." She slashed one final line of chalk on the flagstones.

For a beat, nothing happened. But something stirred invisible beneath their feet, in the sky overhead, in the heat of their blood. All the power in the earth converged, sensing the need of Lord Heartwood and his mate, acknowledging the desperate need to remain tangibly joined as one.

Wet, red leaves sprouted between Andrew's fingers. They unfurled and then withered and fell. Disbelief made Andrew's mouth fall open as he snatched back his hand and leaned to inspect the athame wound, which wept fertile vegetation.

More small leaves grew beneath those that fell, the red stains progressively fading into green, still withering and rolling down Micah's back and piling on the flagstones beneath him. Trembling, Andrew's bloody fingers curled over the healing injury. The cascade of leaves slowed. Slower. One final leaf sprouted, withered, and drifted off Micah's back. Tar-black necrosis flaked off to reveal pink, new flesh like charred earth after a fire, and the red slash of the athame wound thinned, thinned, and sealed up into a pointed, scaly scab. Andrew touched it lightly with a finger. Crusty scales crumbled off. Silky petals unfurled beneath and a delicate pink honeysuckle blossomed, only its shivering stamen were blood-red instead of yellow.

Micah moaned, his brow creasing, his lips regaining a rosy hue as he fought to form words. A shudder shook his core, goosebumps rising on his skin. The birchwood staff trembled where it leaned against his chest, glowing softly like a firefly blinking on a summer afternoon. Sage eyebrows lowered in consternation and bewilderment as Micah reached a heavy hand toward his shoulder. "Huh?"

Ingrid swallowed a small sob of relief.

"Don't move—there's a flower." Andrew plucked at the honeysuckle, but it was fused into the shiny pink scar. A green sunburst radiated from it, as if the infectious red lashes had inverted themselves and left a tattoo. Twisting it gently, Andrew nipped the bud off Micah's skin and cupped it in his hand as Micah gave a sighing, garbled exclamation and opened one eye, a plum-purple iris glittering like a gemstone beneath the can lights. He blinked several times, shifting against Andrew's arm, reaching up to touch the Auburn Knight's cheek.

"Micah." Andrew's voice was muffled by disbelief and exhaustion. "You're alive."

"'Course I am." Micah beamed. "I had you protecting me."

Fresh tears burst from Andrew's eyes as at last he allowed himself to feel relief. At last he allowed himself the thought: Micah was alive.

The ring of Folk released each other's hands and erupted into cheers and applause. Ingrid peeled free of Diana's hand and dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around Micah and crushing him to her chest, showering the sweaty crown of his head with kisses.

He groaned and tried to escape as a child would, an arm flapping over hers as he wheezed, "Red! Can't breathe! Red! Leggo!"

Andrew sat back hiccuping on shallow breaths, trying to wipe the blood off his hands using his jeans. He watched Micah move and laugh and paw at the draft blowing across his bare back, but some petrified part still didn't believe it. Andrew swiped his cleaner sleeve across his face, lifting his eyes. Liath stood on the perimeter of her blessed circle, wringing her hands, her jaw working as she ground her teeth. She looked up, and suddenly their eyes were locked.

Gulping, Andrew clambered to his feet like a fawn standing for the first time. The honeysuckle was still safe in his cupped hand as he reached for Liath and crushed her in his arms. He thought they were through, and he thought he'd been happy with that. But Micah would be dead if he'd been right. "You saved him," Andrew whispered into her hair. "You saved me. I owe you everything."

"You owe me nothing," hiccupped Liath, gripping him so tightly he could feel her bony fingers in his ribs. "I'm your mother."

Andrew moved her back, his hands on her shoulders bloodying her jacket. "How the devil did you find us?"

She pointed toward Micah and said, "He kept calling me. Every day. He…he asked me to come. For—for your wedding."

"He…he did what?" Andrew turned to pass his incredulity toward his fiancé, who was buried on the flagstones beneath the Folk, Ingrid at their core with her arms stubbornly around Micah's neck. Exhausted though he looked, Micah's eyes glittered as he patted Ingrid's elbow under his chin, gazing up at Andrew with a faint smile. Noticing their attention, Ingrid released Micah with a dignified sniff as she wiped at her damp cheeks. She tousled his sweaty hair and then rose to her feet, approaching Liath with a regal nod.

"Your reputation precedes you," said Ingrid softly, making Liath flinch. "But what a wonder you performed today. You saved my brother's life. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Liath didn't trust herself to speak, managing a simple weak-kneed bob as the Ruby Daughter named her debt.

The other Folk around Micah helped him rise unsteadily to his feet, small hands on his hips and elbows, helping him use his staff to stabilize himself. Andrew peeled away from Ingrid and his mother. Micah opened his arms, and Andrew curled into him like a wayward knight finding his way home. Gathering him up against his chest, Micah held Andrew's head against his shoulder as he felt skinny arms slide around his waist and grip him with a ferocity that made him catch his breath.

"I almost lost you," whimpered Andrew. He let Micah hold him until he could breathe again, until his heart stopped quavering like a leaf clinging to its branches during a tornado.

"I'm okay. We're all right, babe," said Micah, leaning Andrew back with a gentle grip on his chin. "Look at me." He wiped away Andrew's tears, smiling gently, taking the honeysuckle from Andrew's fingers. "Wow. Look at you. Look at the magic you performed."

Andrew hiccuped. "I didn't—"

"Babe. Your love brought me back to life." Micah shook his head patiently. "I'm back. It's okay."

As hard as logic and reason fought Micah's words when they burrowed into Andrew's ears, his eyes were on Micah's side. A rosy glow had returned to Micah's apple cheeks; his eyes were bright and warm. His grip on Andrew's shoulders was firm—with his left hand, the one that couldn't so much as hold a coffee cup that morning. Andrew allowed himself an unsteady but deep breath, swallowing, nodding faintly.

Wrapping his arms around Andrew's neck, Micah pressed his lips against Andrew's and kissed him until all the fear was gone.

"It looks deserted inside," said the sergeant. "You sure you saw a woman with a knife?"

Red Rabbit's manager was dressed in black and had streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. "Yes, sir. She was holding a girl by the hair."

Three squad cars lined up on the curb, red and blue lights flashing. Saint Paul police officers conferred with heads bowed; one man, a sergeant with bright blue eyes rubbed his chin and peered through the windows. Enormous next to the small manager, the sergeant turned toward the dark doors of the restaurant as they silently slid open.

A woman with burgundy hair pinned over her ears met the sergeant's gaze with unsettling eyes red as a stoplight, raising her chin—which was smeared with blood, he realized with alarm—and shaking her head. He'd seen her before, a few times, and the old woman Eda had warned him about her. The scarlet-eyed woman was…not to be trifled with, and not to be ignored.

As her gaze pinned him in place, the sergeant felt his muscles grow warm for a moment as he cleared his throat and drew the attention of the other officers. "I'm sure there's no threat," he told the manager, who blinked in surprise. "You know how paranoid people are these days. We'll clear the scene and catalog the damage, but I'm sure the restaurant can reopen in…a few hours, don't you think? You can make sure the staff that decides to stay will be compensated for the trouble."

The officers raised eyebrows at him and muttered into radios clipped to their shoulders. The burgundy-haired woman led her group onto the sidewalk, away from the restaurant, confidently not looking back. Two men coated in shining, fresh blood followed her. The shorter of the men wore no shirt, and his back was marred with some strange green sunray scar on his shoulder. The taller man shrugged out of his pea coat and draped it over his companion.

As they departed, the group drew no attention from the lingering diners or wait staff. As if they stepped into some pocket only the sergeant was allowed to see. Abruptly he knew they were being cloaked in magic. He also knew he'd seen something like it before…but he couldn't remember right now. As if they were spelled to avoid curious eyes, stepping into the shadows beyond streetlamps and dissipating into nothingness.

Sam skulked by himself behind Andrew, Micah, Liath, and the faerie women. He tucked his jacket tighter around himself, glancing up as Diana split off from the group. She slipped past a stop sign and opened the door of a black pickup truck idling at the corner, a small man with glasses and a beanie behind the wheel leaning over and kissing Diana's cheek. Then the truck raced off, and Sam looked back at his sneakers.

Green Uggs came into his line of sight. He snapped his head up just as the goblin Chamomile snatched his elbow and twisted it behind his back. Yelping, Sam folded into some perverse yoga pose with spine curled and knees bent. Her fair heart-shaped face drew close to his, their noses touching as fury creased her features, violence flashing in her eyes.

"The only reason I'm not going to slit your throat right now," growled Chamomile, "is because I don't want to argue with Andrew about it."

Sam gulped.

"You are a traitor, no matter the details," Chamomile went on, still with her small nose hot against Sam's. "You are the only one who could have gotten Micah's blood ward to that blonde bitch."

He stammered, "I'm s—"

Reaching into the bag on her shoulder, Chamomile pulled out Andrew's crossbow and stuck the cold loaded bolt into the flesh of his chin. Her green fingertip curled around the trigger as her eyes lit up with wicked anticipation.

Sam's knees buckled, but Chamomile held him up by his elbow.

She said, "I'd love nothing more than to murder you and make it look like you killed yourself. Slit open your wrists. Fling your limp body into your bathtub." She bared her serrated teeth past rosy pink lips. "Nobody would question it. It would be delightful."

Tears sprang into his eyes at the gruesome picture.

"That's enough."

Sam stole a glance to the side. Andrew hadn't moved from the middle of the sidewalk, his arm around Micah's shoulders, his expression carved into cold indifference as he gazed back at Sam and Chamomile.

Andrew said, "Leave the stranger here, Chamomile. Let's go."

Snapping her teeth, Chamomile let go of Sam's elbow. She slammed the shaft of the crossbow into his chest and shoved him. With a cry, Sam landed in a snowbank, arms and legs splayed, glasses falling off the tip of his nose.

Fixing his glasses, shaking snow off his palms, Sam lifted his head just in time to see Andrew turn and walk away.