Chapter 18

Chapter 18

C hris and Miriam were getting ready to leave for New Haven the next morning, in the midst of the first day of magic camp chaos.

Matthew, who had been occupying the role of chef, bottle washer, and housekeeper, was under pressure from Miriam to focus solely on family research. The collection and analysis of the Proctor DNA was priority number one as far as she was concerned.

“I promised Gwyneth I’d fix her kitchen sink,” Matthew protested.

“Julie told me the sink has been slow to drain since 1982. It’s time to call a plumber,” Miriam said severely. “I want the Proctor lineage updated on a regular basis. And please use the tag system I set up, rather than each witch’s own characterization of their abilities. We need to keep the categories consistent.”

As a historian, I took immediate exception.

“But it’s important to preserve the traditional names,” I protested. “Think of the Book of Life. You can’t just update everything to modern nomenclature. You’ll lose all the subtlety!”

“I’m with Diana.” Chris glanced up from his cereal bowl. “Sorry, babe.”

“Me, too.” Matthew was weary from hours of negotiation with his lab manager. “We can categorize later. For now, let’s just collect the information.”

Miriam sighed.

“Apollo doesn’t want to wear his dog costume to camp, Mommy. He’s hiding in the closet and won’t come out,” Pip said, stomping with frustration.

I put down my cup of tea. “I’ll see to Apollo while Daddy gets you breakfast.”

“We gotta run, squirt. We’re going to see Put-Put and Lucy before we head home,” Chris said, digging once more into his marshmallow-studded breakfast.

“Hurry up, Mom!” Pip cried. “I want Uncle Chris to see them raise the camp flags!”

Despite Apollo’s reluctance and several other small hiccups, we made it to the Eastey house just in time. As we drove in, we spotted the old flags and banners gathered from every barn in Ipswich rising above the treetops, their lofty height made possible by a barrage of levitation spells and some careful wind control on the part of the Susies. The secluded meadow behind the old house soon looked like Camelot, with call flags, ensigns, pennants, burgees, and jacks fluttering in the breeze to signal that magic camp was starting.

When the Range Rover came to a complete stop, Becca and Pip ran off with their milk pails filled with lunch and their rain slickers in case the heavens opened. They didn’t cast a single look back atus.

“They didn’t say goodbye,” Chris said, glum. “Our babies are growing up.”

Matthew and I stood with the other parents, worrying about how the day would go and whether there would be tears and upset tummies later. After we convinced each other that our children were in good hands, we said farewell to our friends and returned to Ravenswood.

Julie was waiting for us there.

“My big toe is howling, and all the dragonflies have left the meadow,” Julie said, pushing a wheelbarrow laden with tools and a tub of fertilizer labeled shoots for the moon toward the barn. “More rain’s coming. If someone doesn’t take charge, the wood is going to turn into a jungle.”

“I have had one or two things on my mind, Julie.” My aunt, unused to the hurly-burly of life with two six-year-olds, was showing signs of cumulative exhaustion. She had no business pruning shrubs. Before I could say so, Julie revealed her plan.

“That’s why Diana and I will take care of everything,” Julie said, straightening her hat. “It will be just like old times. Remember when Stephen, Naomi, and I went into the Ravens’ Wood to look for toads? We wanted to kiss them and see if they would turn into princes and princesses.”

Gwyneth hesitated, clearly torn, then shook her head. “No, Julie. Diana needs to stay here and work on her hexes.”

I’d tried to hex a pail of water and had only succeeded in knocking it over.

“Diana will learn plenty about higher magic in the moon garden,” Julie insisted. “I’ll teach her how to pick a ripe baneberry without them spurting sap all over her, and where the pincushion moss hides. Diana needs fresh air and exercise, too.”

My twenty-minute yoga routines in the front parlor weren’t enough to satisfy my body’s yearning for meditative movement, and my temper and stamina were suffering as a result.

“I’ve been looking for a secondhand Alden scull for Diana’s birthday,” Matthew said sheepishly.

I smiled at my husband, touched by his sensitivity.

“If Diana starts rowing, Matthew will want to fix up the old boathouse,” Julie warned. “It will take six witches, a lot of lumber, and a vat of white vinegar to bring it back to life.”

“Why don’t we visit Gladys?” Matthew said, offering a lifeline to my aunt. “I’m sure she’ll be more comfortable talking about her warts with you than with a stranger.”

According to Gwyneth, Gladys Proctor shared the same bumpy skin affliction that had plagued all her female forebears. She could also levitate trucks and turn ordinary boats into hovercraft, but she was solely concerned with her dermatological distress.

Gwyneth agreed after eliciting promises that I wouldn’t let the fire go out under her skullcap tincture or forget to stir the pot of chili cooking in the embers of the keeping room fireplace. She also scribbled out a list of plants and herbs she’d depleted at Midsummer and wanted to restock.

Gwyneth requested mistletoe, meadowsweet, and milkweed as well as bee balm, foxglove, vervain, and mugwort. My aunt had also asked for marigolds, roses, every rose hip left on the bushes (she had underlined this twice), rosemary, and sage. She scribbled Rowan, Elder, Hazel across the side margin. We’d be lucky to fulfill her order by sunset.

“Our work is cut out for us,” Julie said as we approached the moon garden I’d seen on my way to the Crossroads. A seemingly solid wall of blackberry and baneberry surrounded Gwyneth’s magical herb and flower patch. “What a mess. It’s going to take us the rest of the morning just to hack through the baneberry.”

Squeaks of protest erupted from the hedge and the white berries bobbed on their red stalks, a thousand disapproving eyeballs trained in our direction. The blackberry canes writhed in distress.

“You’ll survive,” Julie told the berries, her voice severe. “This is what happens if you let your witch’s garden get the upper hand, Diana. Maintain a regular schedule, and you’ll never have to argue with a hedge.”

Julie passed me a set of trimmers with gleaming blades. I held them gingerly. Pops of alarm and bursting berries told me that the hedge wasn’t pleased.

“Diana’s going to give you a good trim, and I’ll follow up with a styling,” Julie said, clacking her secateurs reassuringly. “She’ll be quick and merciful, I promise. One sharp cut, Diana, then another. No hesitant hacking around in the branches, or the sap will spray everywhere and the garden will look like a crime scene. Cut everything you see down by two feet. With conviction.”

I closed and opened my hedge trimmers in what I hoped was a gesture of readiness.

“Charge!” Julie cried, secateurs held high.

I lopped off my first baneberry branch, and blood-red liquid dripped from the severed stalk. I made another cut, then another, until I lost count. After I was whipped on the thighs by a vicious thorned blackberry cane, Julie muttered soothing spells to keep the hedge compliant. Ninety minutes of hard work later, our efforts revealed the entrance to Gwyneth’s secret garden. Julie lowered the intricate wards on the picket fence, and I swung open the gate so that we could pass into a place of carefully cultivated enchantment.

The garden expanded and contracted around me as I took my first few steps.

In, in, in, the leaves whispered as I absorbed the scents and smells.

Out, out, out, the boughs sighed as the rare essence of a witch’s moonlight garden returned to me in the form of renewed magical energy.

Julie bent over to yank at a plant with a rosette of shiny leaves and a few faded violet flowers. It was growing at the base of one of the gateposts, and as the plant’s thick roots came free of the earth, I saw that they resembled a human body.

Mandrake —the most famous specimen in any witch’s garden.

Julie continued to pull, until the thick, twisted root turned into long, delicate fibers. At the end of the fibers was a baby carrot topped with a leafy sprout.

“Gwyneth’s going to have a good crop this moon,” Julie said, examining the roots.

“Of mandrake?” I asked.

“Mandrake and carrots both,” Julie replied. “Gwyneth’s moon garden draws energy from the sun that is absorbed by the vegetable patch in the meadow, and vice versa.”

The garden had a rechargeable magic grow light. How typically Proctor to be witchy and practical in equal measure.

“Remember to gently sever the roots when you harvest vegetables at the farm,” Julie warned. “It’s one thing to draw a carrot into the Ravens’ Wood, but another thing to pull a mandrake into sunlight. They make a terrible racket.”

Julie giggled. “I remember when Naomi and Stephen used to compete to see who could make the most noise pulling enchanted plants out of the wood and into the meadow, but Tally put an end to their games. Let’s get back to work. I’ll gather the rowan, elder, and hazel. You start on the plants.”

I took a grooved slab of foam from the wheelbarrow, the furrows created by the knees of all the other Proctors who’d labored here, and grabbed the second pair of secateurs.

Though I’d only been able to identify the most common magical plants when I arrived in Ipswich, I could now recognize dozens more by sight and scent. Gwyneth always had a botanical text and a book of shadows open on our shared worktable. Over the course of the day, she would offer me a mason jar of herbs to sniff, or a crock of salve to test on a bug bite or a patch of sunburn. It was another example of how the family wove higher magic into every day of their lives.

After Julie and I checked off all the items on my aunt’s list, my cousin gathered supplies for her own magical needs. They were far darker than those Gwyneth required for her post-Midsummer concoctions. Julie moved among the beds with a fine pair of Japanese pruning scissors, collecting crocus and adder’s-tongue, blackthorn and sea buckthorn, moonwort and enchanter’s nightshade, and the long fronds of Solomon’s seal. These were powerful substances, and Julie kept them separate from the more common herbs and flowers for safety’s sake.

By the early afternoon, physical activity had worked its magic on my general outlook. My muscles had the heaviness that followed good exercise and the whirlwind in my mind had quieted. Julie was right; as long as I could garden, I didn’t need a seaworthy Alden scull. And if Matthew picked up so much as a tape measure to fix this mysterious boathouse, Miriam would be back from Yale and out for blood.

We tucked into the lunch Julie had packed to sustain us. Juicy strawberries, deviled egg and cress sandwiches, and a paper bag filled with Tracy’s delicate madeleines scented with orange and lemon were all perfect sources of fuel, and canteens of fresh, cold water rehydrated our bodies.

Our work revealed the structure of the garden, and Julie and I took the last madeleines with us as we strolled through its beds and pathways. There were thirteen separate sections divided by gravel paths. All were arranged around a central round bed covered in moss and low-growing herbs. There, a small apple tree decked with white blossoms and ripening fruit sent twisted limbs toward the sky.

I felt a prickle of someone watching us, and I looked around to see who it might be. Sitting in a witch hazel, her weight bowing a spindly branch covered in yellow blooms, was Cailleach.

The enormous gray owl was silent, her only movement the blinking of her brilliant golden eyes. The white crossroads between them stood out as a flash of brightness in the cool wood.

“Goddess and her train,” Julie said, amazed. “That’s no ordinary owl.”

My cousin wasn’t talking about the bird’s size—which was immense—but the waves of power that streamed from her body, making the air around her sparkle and the breeze sing.

“That’s Cailleach,” I said. “We met at the Crossroads.”

Julie, who knew the coven rules, tamped down her natural curiosity and didn’t ask for more particulars.

“Ka-lyahc.” Julie’s pronunciation wasn’t perfect, but the owl didn’t protest. She only swiveled her head toward my cousin, and back again tome.

“I’m supposed to call on her if I need help,” I told Julie, careful not to reveal too much.

“Ah. Cailleach is your higher magic guide,” Julie said. “Everyone who finds their path at the Crossroads has one. They’re not like Stephen’s heron, Bennu, or your firedrake, Corra, or Apollo—a creature who comes unbidden to teach knotters their skills. You must summon your guide if you want her help.”

“I didn’t call her, and I don’t need help now,” I pointed out, “but there she is.”

“Maybe you do and haven’t noticed yet.” Julie was more familiar with spiritual guides and guardians than I. “There’s an Owl Queen and Owl Prince in the black bird oracle deck. Maybe Cailleach wants you to read the cards.”

I had consulted the black bird oracle when I woke up, and there was not a hint of a distress call in its response—just a lot of alchemy, which seemed appropriate given how much time I was spending in Gwyneth’s laboratory these days.

Cailleach pushed off her perch and flew low and fast across the garden. She passed by in a whisper of magic and motion that left me dizzy and Julie starry-eyed, flashes of silver illuminating her brilliant aquamarine eyes.

The owl lowered her talons and grabbed the mandrake root, complete with trailing carrot, from the wheelbarrow. Cailleach circled and dropped her burden before me. Tangled in the roots was a stem with long, toothed leaves and a single lavender flower that gave off a sweet scent. Her work done, Cailleach soared off into the branches of a nearby oak.

Julie and I peered down at Cailleach’s gift.

“Is everything all right at home?” Julie asked cautiously.

“Yes,” I said.

“Hmm.” Julie was doubtful. “Are you sure? Mandrake root and green dragon weed are used in the ars veneris. ”

“Love magic?” I laughed, thinking of Matthew and the post-Midsummer uptick in our lovemaking. “That’s something I don’t need, thankfully. A good hex, yes. A love spell? No.”

“It was definitely a message for you.” Julie considered the matter. “Maybe it’s Cailleach herself who is significant. A gray owl signifies night. Trust. And balance, too, if I am remembering my owl lore correctly.”

Stumped, I shook my head and shrugged.

“I’d think about it if I were you,” Julie said. “You don’t want an owl in the house, roosting on top of the Welsh dresser and hooting at you during breakfast.”

“Has that happened before?” I asked, concerned.

“Oh, yes. Constance Proctor had a little owl named Minerva and when she didn’t listen to her, the creature took up residence in her underwear drawer.”

“Noted,” I said, my knees weak at the prospect of Cailleach—who was not a little owl but stood over two feet tall—doing the same.

“Pick up your magic-mail, and let’s get back to the barn,” Julie said. “My right knee tells me Gwynie and Matthew are back, and you of all people know how angry teachers can be if you’re late to class.”

Later that afternoon, I checked the status of the angelica root, which needed to steep overnight to make one of Gwyneth’s all-purpose antidotes. The mayapples simmered away over a magical fire on the distillation table, and I’d gathered the ingredients for a casting powder that promised to strengthen the boundaries of sacred circles. Redbrick dust, check. Solomon’s seal, check. High John the Conqueror root, check. Vervain and yarrow were at the ready, too. All I’d need tomorrow was a tiny amount of the dried belladonna Gwyneth kept on a well-warded upper shelf so that curious fingers didn’t ingest the deadly poison. Soon, I would be able to change out of my grubby work clothes and join the rest of the family for dinner.

I enjoyed the alchemical aspect of higher magic more than the intricate spellcraft required for effective hexes, wards, and charms. Even when I leaned heavily on the poems of Emily Dickinson for inspiration, my gramarye was not yet intuitive and didn’t perfectly match my knots. To strengthen my spells, I would need to memorize more of the poet’s work so that her words and images were so tightly woven into my thoughts they would come to mind unbidden. That process would take time.

But alchemical ideas and techniques were already part of my subconscious, and texts and images floated freely through my scholarly imagination. The time I’d spent in Mary Sidney’s laboratory was proving invaluable whenever I read instructions on how to make a magical concoction, as I knew how to lute together glass vessels so they could withstand high temperatures, and select the most appropriate glass bubble or rough clay crucible to work alchemy’s magic.

Mary Proctor’s book of shadows waited for me on the laboratory bench. It was here that I’d found the recipe for Tituba’s Red Powder, the making of which was my final task for the day. It had been handed down through the Hoares to the Proctors, and the legend that accompanied the formulary said that Tituba had perfected it using the knowledge of her own Indigenous people as well as the herbs and plants available to her in Barbados and New England. Due to the toxic nature of some of the substances in it, the recipe was accompanied by two full pages of warnings.

I lifted the book’s front cover and flipped through it in search of the recipe. The book of shadows opened instead to an often-consulted recipe for Releasing the Green Dragon. The first ingredient was mandrake root, and its end result was a veneficium— a potion used for love magic.

I carried Mary’s book over to the workbench, where I could study it more closely in the light from the high windows. Like most early modern recipes, it was part travelogue, part how-to, and part shopping list, all combined higgledy-piggledy.

For to stir the wild passions and unbridle your beloved’s wild nature, first take your mandrake root and seethe it over a fire for five hours, I read. Dry it in the sun, then slice a piece the thickness of a silver shilling and pour two glasses of wine over it. Let it steep in the moonlight along with four stalks of yarrow, two poppy seeds, and a pinch of dittany root. Strain it through your sieve. Pour your wine into two silver goblets.

I turned the page.

Over the course of five hours, sip one goblet of wine from the blossoms of witches’ bells. Cast the spent bells into your fire, and thereupon heat a wash made of vervain. Leave the other goblet of wine in a convenient place where your lover might find it, along with a single flower pluck’d from the green dragon weed that groweth in the Ravens’ Wood.

I ran my finger down the rest of the text so that I could feel the underlying structure of Mary Proctor’s spell. It was geometric, like most magic cast by the Proctors. In this case, the spell was built with two interlocking hemispheres.

When the moon is descending, enter the wood sky-clad and call the moths for a raiment. Leave a trail of green dragon blossom behind you, which sweet scent will entice your lover to follow his desires. Choose your bridal bed with care, and guard it with wolfsbane and poppy flowers. Do all of this on a Friday between Midsummer and the August Feast and you shall set the Green Dragon free and he shall lay with the Unicorn and they shall be as one.

I stared at the mandrake root and the spray of green dragon weed Cailleach had delivered to me. The cards in my pocket stirred, intrigued by Mary Proctor’s arts of love. I thought of Matthew, playing with the ravens in the wood, and The Unicorn at the center of the complicated spread of cards I’d cast weeks ago. I heard my husband’s weary voice at breakfast, and saw the fine lines that deepened around his eyes now that science and magic were intertwined at Ravenswood. Matthew was not the same man I had glimpsed that night, free and wild in the Darkness.

Perhaps Julie was right.

Perhaps Cailleach’s message was a reminder that Matthew’s daughter was not the only member of the family able to run with wolves.

—

On Friday evening, I kicked off my shoes at the limits of the Ravens’ Wood. In my precious moments of private time in the barn, I’d studied Mary’s love potion and researched its contents. I’d scoured alchemical texts for the many interpretations of the Green Dragon and the Unicorn. And I prepared myself to ensnare my husband in a web of magic that he would never forget—and might enjoy.

I set a silver goblet on a flat nearby stone and dropped a pink, tubular blossom into the liquid so that its honeyed apricot scent would perfume the wine. Around the goblet’s stem I’d tied a tag on which I’d written Drink me, with an ensorcelled ink made of nightshade berries. I’d had no need to meddle with Lewis Carroll’s gramarye. Since he’d committed the words to paper, every witch knew that this invitation would entice even the most resistant creatures to take a sip.

A few feet farther into the forest, I removed my top and bra. A few more feet, and I slid my shorts and underwear off, leaving me sky-clad. I caught a glimpse of myself in a puddle of water, astonished by my wild coppery hair and wide eyes. My pupils were wondershot under the subtle influence of Mary’s elixir, which I had transcribed into my book of shadows as Love Potion No. 9. I’d drunk down my portion over the course of the late afternoon, dipping the foxglove flowers into the vessel and sipping down a few drops at a time. As the elixir entered my bloodstream, it brought a sense of freedom with it, washing away any inhibitions.

I made my way to Gwyneth’s moon garden, scattering green dragon blossoms behind me while fireflies flocked to my side. Nocturnal creatures—moths, bats, and owls—circled my head as I became aligned with Shadow, allowing Darkness and Light to pass through me. The blessings and strength of the goddess filled my veins with liquid silver, and the golden arrow at my heart gave off a gentle glow.

The goddess approved of my actions here tonight. Would Matthew?

I lifted the latch on the gate, swaying as the powerful scents of the moon garden threatened to overwhelm my intoxicated body. Once steady, I entered and picked up a basket of poppy flowers that had been waiting for me since early this morning. I walked the inner circumference of the garden, dropping the scarlet poppy petals as I went.

“ Through bitter sweetness and delightful pain, I fall to the center and am drawn up toward the sky, ” I murmured. “ Desire spurs me on, while fear bridles me … What straight or devious path will give me peace, and free me? ”

The powerful words were not mine, nor were they Emily Dickinson’s. They belonged to the sixteenth-century mystic Giordano Bruno, drawn from one of Matthew’s favorite passages in The Heroic Frenzies, a poetic tribute to passion.

Matthew would have received my note by now, inviting him to meet me in the wood. I wondered if he was within earshot and could hear me utter his friend’s words.

I took the path into the heart of the garden. White flowers were in full bloom under the dark sky: moonflower, white rose, lily, and jasmine. Gossamer ribbons of Darkness, Light, and Shadow streamed from my body. Threaded among them were the sparkling colors of my weaver’s cords, those associated with higher magic and those that belonged to the craft. These proved irresistible to the moths, who lit on the strands with fluttering wings, clinging to their light. I called more of the velvet creatures, until they formed a cloak that fell from my shoulders and trailed behindme.

Matthew was close and getting closer. A ripple of anticipation swept overme.

Bruno’s words had released the wild energy of the place, and with every step the moon garden became an ever-more-enchanted place, where ancient, epic forces were at play. An ashen owl wearing spectacles sat on the stump of a rowan, mesmerized by the light of a candle. The flash of a white tail streamed through the hawthorn, followed by a dull thud of hooves. A raven cried overhead, and I followed drops of blood to a nest filled with broken eggs tucked under a clipped boxwood. Toads hopped through the wolfsbane, and antlers gleamed through the spindly trunks of the staghorn sumac.

I’d chosen the soft ground under the boughs of the apple tree for our tryst. The tree was fruiting and blossoming at the same time, its gnarled branches as crooked as those on the Proctor family tree. A snake was curled around its trunk, sleeping with its head pillowed on its tail. When I stepped onto the fragrant patch of marjoram, chamomile, and moss, brilliant poppies sprouted around my feet.

“Magic is nothing more than desire made real,” I whispered to the night sky.

I breathed in Darkness, and breathed out a beacon of amber light as Shadow settled in my bones. I climbed into the crook of the apple tree, letting my fluttering cloak cascade down. An apple was within easy reach. I twisted it from the bough and took a bite, the tart-sweet flavor flooding my mouth with danger and delight.

Another ripple of Darkness passed through the wood, alerting me that Matthew had found the goblet of wine. A throaty chuckle told me that he had read my second message.

My limbs were liquid with yearning. I hungered for Matthew’s touch, for his wildness.

For his Darkness.

The soft air played on my flesh, foreshadowing Matthew’s touch, sliding and slipping over my body with maddening lightness. My brain felt addled, my hearing and sight unusually acute as the elixir pounded through my veins.

I did not have to wait long before Matthew appeared, naked as I was under the moon. He had followed my trail of garments, the silver goblet pinched between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes swept over me, lingering on the places he knew and understood so well.

“And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Matthew murmured. “Surely not the virgin huntress Diana. Alice? Eve? I believe your cousin has already claimed the role of Titania.”

“What about Lilith?” I let my free foot drop toward the earth.

Matthew’s eyes went to the shadowed valley between my thighs, then took a leisurely trip over my hips and breasts until they fell on my lips. The tension between us rose.

“Did you like my love potion?” A moth flew from my cloak and alighted on my nipple, maddeningly light compared to Matthew’s firmer touch. “It was a special formula, designed just for you.”

“You needn’t have bothered with the magic.” Matthew glanced down, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. “I was aroused from the moment I found the note on the kitchen counter telling me you wanted me to join you in the wood.”

Matthew’s responsive body had not escaped my attention. The ache in my breasts spread lower, and my fingers followedit.

“The potion you drank unleashes the wildness of the Green Dragon,” I replied, my fingers playing in the sensitive folds between my thighs.

Matthew’s nostrils flared slightly as he detected the scent of my desire.

“I’ve been sipping it all afternoon. With your metabolism, it shouldn’t take you long to catch up.” My eyes narrowed like a cat. “Do you trust me, Matthew?”

“Not entirely,” Matthew replied, his breathing faster than usual.

“Good.” I drew my fingers from hip to knee, leaving a damp trail on my thigh. “I don’t entirely trust you, either.”

Matthew growled. The wolf was wakening.

I slid down from the branch and landed, soft as an owl’s feather, releasing scents of chamomile and marjoram into the air.

Matthew’s fingers tightened on the goblet’s stem.

“Becca isn’t the only female in the family who likes to play with wolves. Or fire.” I crept closer until the tips of my nipples brushed against his chest. I bit into the flesh over his heart, blowing gently on the red crescents left by my teeth. They sparked into moons of flame. The toothmarks would be quick to fade, but the dark traces of witchfire would remain for some time.

Matthew’s pupils, already enlarged by the love potion, widened further.

“Or Darkness.” I drew a thorny branch across my wrist and blood beaded along the fine lash. I carried it to my mouth, sucking my vital essence from the wound. “Do you want some?” I asked, drawing my wrist away from my mouth.

Matthew’s lips tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“You had your chance.” I snapped my fingers and Cailleach swooped down on Matthew with a warning cry.

My husband, who was rarely taken by surprise, ducked to avoid a head-on collision with the owl. While Matthew was distracted, I loosened my cape of moths and lowered myself to the forest floor.

Then I ran.

It was something Matthew had warned me never to do. Never drink his blood. Never run from him. Never bait the wolf.

A growl filled the night. Cailleach hooted, and I dashed into a thick clump of hemlock, hoping the scent would mask my presence. I’d been doing more than researching plants and alchemical symbolism and picking poppies over the past several days. I’d done a deep dive into the hunting habits of wolves, using the work of one M. Clairmont. Sight and scent were a wolf’s greatest assets; I suspected the same was true of vampires.

Matthew loped into sight. He stared into the thicket where I hid, holding my breath. His attention moved away, and he trotted off in the other direction.

Taking my cue from the ravens, I flew at my husband’s naked back. His hearing would pick up my footfall so I skimmed the ground, hoping that magic would enable me to reach him before my scent did.

It worked. My teeth sank into his hip and he howled in fury. Matthew had explained in one of his articles that this was how wolves brought down their prey—by attacking its vulnerable flank.

“Diana,” Matthew growled. “Don’t—”

“—bite,” I said softly.

Matthew lunged at me, and I shot heavenward, rising above the trees. I was beyond his reach, no matter how high he climbed or how far his long legs and strength might carry him.

“You’ll grow tired before I will, ma lionne, ” Matthew said in that throaty purr that was half warning and half invitation.

“I know,” I replied, somersaulting in the air, copper hair tumbling over white buttocks. I was tantalizingly close. “I’ve learned a lot from one of the world’s leading experts on wolves. They expend as little energy as possible in the chase, wearing down their prey.”

Matthew swore.

“But I’m not weak, or sick,” I said. “If you’re going to catch me, my love, you’ll have to do more than toy with me. Drop your civilized veneer, Matthew. It’s like Apollo’s disguising spell: uncomfortable and wearing thin.”

“It’s hard-worn—and hard-won.” Matthew prowled back and forth. “So that’s your game? You’ve put a spell on me that will force my Darkness into your Shadow?”

“You’re under a spell of your own weaving, not mine.” Tears fell from my eyes, and white lilies bloomed where they splashed to the ground. “Ysabeau’s blood was all it took to put you to sleep, like a princess in a fairy tale.”

My tears fell on Matthew’s upturned face. He tilted his head back, catching a drop of moisture on his tongue. When his eyes met mine, they smoldered with dark intent.

“Sleeping Beauty was freed with a kiss,” Matthew murmured. “Kiss me. If you dare.”

If I wanted to prove that I was the lion to his wolf, I would need to accept the challenge.

I landed before him, feigning an attitude of indifference even though my desire was strong. The pulse at the base of his throat suggested that Matthew was caught up in the same divine madness.

Bruno was right. Passion was indeed the most heroic frenzy.

I pressed my lips against Matthew’s chest, light as a butterfly. I walked around to his right shoulder and pressed my lips to the taut muscles there. I stood behind him, and Matthew’s breath caught. I brushed my teeth and tongue across his spine.

“Do you trust me with your wildness, Matthew?” I stroked his back, lingering on the strong planes of his shoulders and sweeping down toward the small of his back where his trim hips rounded into a swell of flesh. I found the mark I’d left on him, and fluttered my right thumb across the red, sensitive skin.

Matthew’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move.

“Let me tell you a story.” I conjured wolfsbane and belladonna into bloom. “Once upon a time there was a prince named Matthew.”

It was a version of my mother’s bedtime story, the one that had given me ribbons that I could follow to Matthew.

“He was tall and proud, straight and strong, darkly beautiful—a good man, with a soft heart,” I continued. “But he was taught to hate his Darkness, and cast a spell so that he would never taste its sweetness again. The longer hate held him in its thrall, the hungrier the prince became. He needed the Darkness to sustain him. Without it, he was nothing but Shadow.”

Seeds of wolfsbane and belladonna, green dragon weed and yarrow, floated through the garden. When they fell to the ground, the seeds blossomed into a carpet of dark indigo, maiden’s blush, white, and yellow flowers.

“One day a witch found the prince, sleepwalking through life. He was a ghost of his true self.” I drank in the sweet scent of the moon garden. “The witch had Darkness in her, too, and was learning to love it. The prince was still afraid.

“And so, the witch decided she would do everything in her power to release him.” I faced Matthew. “But she would not do it by hiding from Darkness. She would be hard-worn and hard-won.”

“Is this where your story ends?” Matthew said, advancing on me with lethal languor. “Here, in the hortus conclusus ?”

I held my ground, and Matthew threaded his fingers through my hair.

“The maiden’s bower.” Matthew tugged me closer, his hand cupping the back of my neck. “The garden of earthly delights.”

I relaxed into his fingers, letting him bear my weight. Matthew held me effortlessly, my body suspended in a bow from my toes to the crown of my head.

“The home of the legendary unicorn,” Matthew continued softly, “held captive for the hunter’s pleasure.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Matthew’s kiss swallowed my words. When we parted he shook his head in warning.

“It’s my turn to tell a story. Once upon a time there was a beautiful witch,” Matthew said, nipping at my fingers to claim my attention. His lips moved down the curve of my neck, his teeth leaving a ribbon of pain against my flesh, soon gone. “She ruled over a magical land, filled with wonders.”

He had my undivided attention now.

“Among the wonders of her kingdom was a creature who survived on blood and dreams.” Matthew’s hands cupped my buttocks now, massaging the flesh as he brought the curve of my body into contact with his.

“Soon the witch learned how to walk among the creature’s fantasies, his nightmares—the secrets of his mind and heart—until she felt at home. The witch told the creature that she would never leave those dark places,” Matthew continued. “She claimed them as her own, and planted the flag of her kingdom there.”

Matthew’s head lowered, slowly, slowly, until his lips and teeth found my breast. My body tingled with the love potion that coursed through our veins.

When his eyes met mine again, my breasts were flushed and rosy, and Matthew’s lips were pink.

“But the creature could not be so easily conquered,” Matthew said. “The beast in him was too strong. He howled with fury, and the witch cried with frustration.”

“What happened next?” I said as Matthew dipped his head once more.

“You’re the witch.” He paused in his descent, his breath cool on my flesh. “You tell me what the future holds.”

I kicked out, freeing myself. My hands were balled into fists, and I pummeled them against his heart.

“Goddamn your control. Why won’t you let me in?” I screamed. “Why won’t you let yourself out?”

Matthew absorbed every blow, the impact not registering as a bruise. His eyes were haunted with longing and hunger, along with a dark, terrible vulnerability.

It was then that I knew Matthew’s true nature was not the wildness I’d seen in the wood, when he’d played with Becca and the ravens. He was this wounded creature, who needed so desperately to be loved that he couldn’t bear the suffering that might accompany that joy. He could withstand the Darkness, and rejoice in the Light, but could not survive the liminal kingdom of uncertainty that lay in between.

“Fear and desire,” I murmured. “Oh, Matthew. I am your greatest terror—and your deepest longings—made flesh. For I am Shadow, and neither your Darkness nor the world’s Light has dominion over me.”

“You want my Darkness?” Matthew grabbed my hands and held them between his. He raised my wrist to his mouth. “Then you shall have it, witch—when I choose to share it. Darkness is my realm, and you cannot command me there.”

His sharp teeth lanced into my flesh and I gasped in pain. Matthew silenced the sound with a ferocious kiss that left me breathless, and I could taste my blood on his lips.

I sank my teeth into his shoulder in response, drawing Matthew’s vitality into my mouth, tasting the cold fire of his vampire blood. It was syrupy and seductive, but it burned my throat and left an aftertaste so bitter it brought tears to my eyes.

I drew the tip of my tongue across my lips, savoring the strange, alluring flavor.

“I can taste the magic in your veins,” I said, burrowing my head in his neck. “Can you taste it in mine?”

Matthew’s answer was to carry me into the center of the garden. He laid me down under the apple tree and nestled himself inside me.

My muscles tightened, an effort to keep him there.

Matthew had other ideas and glided from my body.

There was a nibble on my cleft, a delicious swipe of his tongue. Goddess help me, I thought, dizzy at the prospect of the pleasure in store from Matthew’s soft lips and agile tongue.

My husband surprised me once more, lapping instead at the soft, satin skin that covered the hollow between my pubis and my thigh. He sank his teeth into me a second time, close to the femoral artery. I saw stars as he drank, trembling as he closed the wound with a bead of his own blood, my fingers gripping his head to stop the world from spinning out of control.

Matthew drew my fingers away and crossed my arms at the wrists. He lifted them above my head, pinning them to the ground with one hand. The fingers of the other delved into me. He kissed me, his fingers stroking me inside and his tongue teasing my mouth.

I tasted salt and iron, the unmistakable elixir of life. I cried out as ecstasy came within my reach.

My wolf was in no hurry, however, and his gentle strokes and soft kisses drove me to madness as I sought release.

When I couldn’t endure the exquisite agony a moment longer, Matthew answered my plea, filling the space he’d made ready for him. My eyes widened as my passion released, the pleasure acute.

I held on to Matthew for dear life, not wanting the waves of my climax to end, praying they would continue forever. I cried my ecstasy into the night, as sharp and raucous as the ravens who haunted the wood.

Our dance was as timeless as the battle between the Oak King and the Holly King. Darkness bled into Shadow, Shadow lengthened into Darkness, until we were caught up in the Light of mutual passion. Sated, we lay entwined under the apple tree.

Matthew’s fingers smoothed the skin on my collarbone, but he made no move to drink from the blue ribbon of my heart vein. Neither of us had held anything back this night, and there was no need for reassurance. Our bodies and minds were replete with the knowledge of what had happened in the Ravens’ Wood.

“A parent’s love for their child is so simple,” Matthew said, “and wholly unconditional. You mistook its purity for freedom, mon coeur. ”

I lifted my head from the notch of his shoulder, but the expression in his eyes stopped me from answering.

“What lies between us, vampire and witch, man and woman, is a love of terrifying complexity.” Matthew’s accent softened toward his native French. “We are both caught in its tangles and knots, sometimes the hunter, sometimes the hunted. And sometimes, we are so lost in love’s magic that we neither know nor care whether we are predator or prey.”

“Do wolves and owls ever play together like this, in the wild?” I asked, drowsy with satisfaction.

Matthew chuckled.

“No, my love,” he said, brushing his lips against mine. “Wolves and owls have far too much respect for each other to do so.”