Chapter 7

I was going to be late.

Sleeping in wasn't a habit of mine, but getting home last night had been rough. It would've been worse without the druid's concussion treatment, which had begun working within minutes of downing it. By the time I'd returned to the Whitby farm, I'd been walking steadily and thinking clearly again.

Had drinking the druid's potion been stupid? Yes. But if he'd wanted to hurt me, he could've stabbed me and saved his potion. So I'd taken my chances.

It'd been nearly dawn by the time I'd fallen into bed, but despite my desperate need for rest, restless dreams had disturbed my sleep. I'd woken in a cold sweat, unable to remember anything more than a vague feeling of impending doom.

Pushing the lingering feeling away, I focused on driving. I was back on Quarry Road, which divided the land between private properties to the south and wild mountain wilderness to the north. If I continued east, the terrain would descend to the marshes of Minnekhada Regional Park, but Quarry Road curved gently north, carrying me toward the forested slopes of Mount Burke.

Humming under my breath, I steered my truck along the rough asphalt. The police hadn't shown up this morning to arrest me, so I assumed Harvey Whitby didn't know who'd sabotaged his harvester last night. And should he ever suspect me, I was ready. It was remarkable what death threats, blackmail, and a little creative stalking could make people do.

I hoped the stab wound in his foot would develop an infection. That's why I'd smeared my knife with mud first.

Lounging on my passenger seat in the form of a white cat, Ríkr yawned, showing off his teeth. You're in a fine mood this afternoon, dove.

"I was thinking about how long I should wait before tormenting Harvey Whitby some more. I didn't do much damage to him last night."

He will not forget you while limping like a lame heifer. It's a shame you did not remove any of his teeth.

"Maybe I can fix that next time."

Ríkr swished his tail in a pleased way. I adore your viciousness. It reminds me of my impassioned youth.

"I'm delighted."

Vengeance is the sweetest wine,he went on in a wistful tone. Are you sure you wouldn't enjoy a charming blood ritual with the farmer's corpse bent backward over your altar?

"I don't have an altar."

His ears perked up. We can remedy that easily.

Ahead, a gravel driveway diverged from the road. I slowed my truck and turned onto the drive. "Try to tone it down, Ríkr. It's awkward when the other familiars hide from you."

He gave me a cat's smile. If only you would teach the other witches to fear you the same, dove.

That was the opposite of what I wanted. My whole strategy for my life—my adult life, at least—hinged on making people like me, not fear me. The exceptions being human trash like Farmer Whitby, but he didn't know me and never would.

A tall hedge hid the property at the end of the driveway. I steered between the open gates and up to a West-Coast-style cabin with exposed wood beams and grand windows. Though not overly large, it was luxurious and nestled among the surrounding woods like it belonged there.

Half a dozen vehicles were parked in front, and I maneuvered my truck into the line and cut the engine. Climbing out, I inhaled the rich aroma of fir, cedar, pine, and fresh green flora. Ríkr hopped to the ground beside me, back arching in a stretch.

I do not sense the others, he remarked lazily.

They never waited for me. I'd no-showed too many times for them to bother. "Let's go."

We circled the house, crossed the grassy backyard, and started along the dirt path that wound up the mountain slope. The early afternoon sun peeked through the branches, casting dappled light across the path.

Ríkr trotted ahead of me, the shadows casting a bluish tinge over his white fur. He would've preferred to fly, but he always used the same feline form around my coven. I suspected he was waiting for the optimal moment to shock them with his shapeshifting ability. A seven-years-in-the-making surprise. It was so Ríkr.

My thoughts wandered to the surprises of last night. The dark rider and his blue-roan fae stallion. My upper lip curled in distaste. "Ríkr, do you know anything about that druid?"

Of course, dove. He is the Crystal Druid, after all.

"The Crystal Druid?"

The one and only.Ríkr hopped onto a fallen log and walked along it. Most kin in these parts know his name. He is feared by some, coveted by others, and respected by all for his cool head, knowledge of our ways, and uncompromising retribution against any who cross him.

"Are you a fan of his?" I asked, vaguely irritated. "You aren't usually this complimentary."

Ríkr's tail flicked with amusement. I merely repeat the accounts of others. For instance, he is rumored to treat well with the Gardall'kin fae—a formidable medley of warriors and beasts who came to this land from across the sea many centuries ago. They won their place among the existing courts through bloodshed and cruel bargains.

"They sound unpleasant."

Powerful,he corrected. Which is always unpleasant for the weak. I know of no Gardall'kin here. Their territories lie to the north.

"Good to know."

If the Crystal Druid lingers nearby, our vigilance should be upon his guardian.

"You mean the stallion?"

No, another.

He said no more as we stepped into an open glade, the warm sun washing over my face.

My coven stood in a loose ring around a clear patch of dirt, upon which they'd drawn circles, markings, and runes. The markings were interspersed with simple pottery dishes filled with dried herbs, fresh leaves and flowers, handfuls of dirt, murky water from the marsh, and bits of fur and feathers shed by the forest's inhabitants. Holding hands, the eight witches sang in Old Gaelic, their voices rising and falling.

I shifted back into the shadows. They were too far along for me to join them. All I could do now was wait.

Lowering my eyelids, I let my vision slide out of focus. A pale mist coalesced around me as the fae demesne, the ethereal spirit world from which fae originated, appeared before my eyes. The trees turned dark and semi-transparent. The ground was solid black, opaque with permanence.

In their circle, the witches were shadowy forms amidst the fog. As they sang, the eddying mist shifted, slowly aligning with the broad curves and gentle loops of the patterns they had drawn on the ground. The fog-like energies of the spirit domain gradually flowed into the same pattern, then spread across the glade and into the trees.

A gentle calm settled over the woods, and the tension slid from my shoulders.

The patterns resembled nothing recognizable. The flow I could see and sense was nonsensical to my conscious mind, but it felt right. And I wasn't the only one who felt it.

At the edge of the trees, fae lingered, their dark faces marked by crystal eyes. A short satyr with a goat's lower body and a boy's torso, his head topped with short, prong-like antlers. Something that resembled a large squirrel wearing a woven smock and a tiny crown of flowers. A trio of bucks with silver antlers. A lone wolf with shaggy black fur and scarlet eyes.

I frowned. So few? Normally two or three times that many fae appeared for a large balancing ritual like this one.

The coven's song rose, then trailed off with a final low note. As the eddies of silver mist settled, the gathered fae retreated into the trees.

I blinked away my spirit-vision and focused on the four fae that remained—the other familiars. My coven was made up of nine members, including me, but not all witches had familiars.

Short, plump witch Deanne and her tiny pixie with its transparent dragonfly wings.

Elderly grandmother Ellen and her hob, a smallfae that resembled a garden gnome with very sharp teeth.

Tall, tattooed Pierce and his snake-like familiar, currently looped around his broad shoulders.

And lastly, haughty beauty Laney and her equally haughty fire salamander, the bright orange lizard resting on her crooked arm as she turned away from the nature circle.

Her cool brown eyes settled on me. "Saber, how lovely of you to join us."

I walked out of the shadows. Pierce and Ellen smiled at me. The rest did not.

I'd joined the coven shortly after my eighteenth birthday, and I'd been a member through that shaky first year when I hadn't known what I was doing with my life, then through two years of school to become a vet tech, and on into my career at the clinic. Not to suggest my membership had been a source of support or comfort. I couldn't care less about coven activities, and since I'd never bothered to hide that sentiment, my fellow witches were, at best, ambivalent toward me.

With the exception of Laney, who outright hated me.

"I know there's little you can contribute to these rituals," she continued in a falsely sympathetic tone. "But you need to attend every full moon ritual, or else—"

"I overslept," I interrupted tonelessly.

Her eyes flashed but she held a concerned smile. "Are you feeling well?"

I didn't bother answering. "Arla, can I have a word?"

The coven's matriarch, halfway through collecting bowls of herbs from the circle, looked up in mild surprise. Tucking her short gray hair behind her ear, she rose to her feet. "Of course."

The others eyed us—and Laney outright glared—as the older woman and I moved to the far edge of the glade.

"Are you feeling all right, dear?"

I studied her. Arla Collins. In her early fifties, she was a once-fit woman who'd softened in her later years. Large glasses, chin-length hair, no makeup. She managed her oddly mixed coven with kind words, firm patience, and zero tolerance for bullshit.

She was the complete opposite of her vain, spiteful daughter, Laney. It surprised me that Arla could be such a positive influence on others but completely fail to raise a respectable daughter. But then, I knew very well how nature trumped nurture.

"A fae that resembled a brown bear attacked me last night," I said without preamble.

Her face went slack. "A bear?"

I nodded. "North of Quarry Road, less than two kilometers west of here."

Her mouth bobbed open, then closed with a snap. "Last night? What time?"

"Late." If I told her two or three in the morning, she'd want to know why I'd been wandering the woods in the dead of night—though my evasion wouldn't fool her.

"And it attacked you? Did you provoke it? Are you injured? What about the bear?"

"I didn't provoke it, and I'm fine. The bear was…" I hadn't seen what the druid had done to drive it away, but his whip spell hadn't inflicted much damage. "I think the bear was fine."

"Did you see anything else?"

"Like another fae?"

"Fae… people… anything unusual that might explain the fae's attack."

Did she suspect I might have encountered a druid who had no business being in our coven's territory?

"Have you heard about other fae attacks recently?" I asked.

"No." She stared distractedly toward the mountain's summit. "Hikers found a dead grizzly on Munroe Lake Trail this morning. I got a heads up from Bradley in Parks Management to check it out. The bear was a fae."

A faint chill washed over me. Had the druid gravely wounded the bear after all, or had he hunted it down after leaving me?

"I didn't hurt it," I said sharply. "How did it die?"

"I don't know."

"But you said you checked it—"

"Why are you asking about fae attacks?" she interrupted. "Have other fae attacked you?"

"No. A druid told me there've been incidents of fae aggression around here."

Arla jumped as though the word "druid" had been an electrical shock. "A druid? Here?"

"He's investigating the attacks, or so he claimed. He calls himself the Crystal Druid."

She stepped back, her eyes widening. "The Ghost… is here?"

"The who?"

Her shock softened into an amused, slightly exasperated smile. "Really, Saber, you should socialize with us more. The Ghost is only the scandal of the year. We were all talking about him nonstop a few months ago."

My brow furrowed. "I never said anything about a ghost."

"Look him up and you'll understand." She brushed dirt off her pants. "I've warned you about missing coven events. Full participation is a condition of your rehabilitation."

With that one word, cold fury slashed me.

"As your rehabilitation supervisor, I have a duty to report—"

"My parole supervisor, Arla," I snarled softly. "Don't use their bullshit PR language."

"You're not being punished, Saber. I and the rest of the coven are helping you learn how to be a member of the community."

I tightened my jaw so I wouldn't reply.

Her expression gentled. "If you perform your own ritual, I'll count your effort as full attendance. Go on, now, before the others finish packing up."

Spinning on my heel, I marched away from her. The rest of the coven was dismantling the ritual circle and gathering their supplies, and I didn't look at any of them as I crouched and grabbed a handful of dried plant bits.

A furry tail brushed against my arm. Ríkr slunk into my shadow, his pupilless blue eyes on Arla. A deliberate antagonization, dove. She used language you revile to distract you.

I glanced over my shoulder, tracking Arla as she strolled toward the path back to her house, Ellen chatting animatedly with her. Ríkr was right. She'd diverted my attention to end the conversation.

She knows something,I told him silently. Is it something about the druid? Or about fae—

A shadow fell over me, interrupting my silent conversation with Ríkr. "You missed again."

I looked up at Laney, then rose to my full height so I could properly sneer down at the shorter witch. She smiled at me for the benefit of anyone watching.

"Mother promised to pardon your negligence again, didn't she?" Laney raised her chin as though that would bring her closer to my height. "Well, I won't. I'll make sure they know you violated your conditions again, and this time they'll drag you back to—"

"Laney."

She broke off, her shoulders stiffening.

I curved my lips up, but it wasn't a smile. Not even close. "If you, your mother, or anyone else sabotages me, I'll make you pay."

Simple words, but her face went white.

Hands full of leaves, I walked away. Ríkr trotted beside me, his tail flicking smugly.

You elected to follow my advice,he observed. She appeared most frightened. Well done, dove.

I bit the inside of my cheek, unsure if that had been the right move.

Have you other topics of concern upon which I might apportion my wisdom?he inquired. I am eager to advise you. Have you reconsidered a blood altar?

Rolling my eyes, I chose a spot at the farthest end of the glade where the movements and voices of the others were easy to ignore. Ríkr sat beside me as I scraped dead leaves off a small patch of dirt, then cataloged the dried sprigs I'd grabbed.

Witches used their spiritual energy to cleanse, balance, revitalize, or manipulate the inherent energies of earth and nature. When I observed other witches performing those rituals, I felt the rightness in them, but when it came to creating them myself, I lacked any instinct whatsoever.

I used a twig to scratch out a basic purification circle. Squinting at it, I tried to imagine how it should be adapted to fit the unique flow of energy around me… but I had no idea. With a mental shrug, I sprinkled herbs on it and closed my eyes. Singing wasn't strictly necessary, but it helped direct my power—the little I possessed. What should I sing?

In the tree above me, an unknown bird let out a series of delicate trills, as though encouraging me to join it. I smiled faintly.

"Oh swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness, jewel of joys, arise," I sang. "The little red lark, like a soaring spark, of song to his sunburst flies."

A soft memory, tinged with sorrow, slid through me. My small hands, engulfed in large, warm fingers. A tall figure on either side of me, our arms swinging. My parents' voices joined my high child's voice as we sang together.

"But till thou'rt risen, earth is a prison, full of my lonesome sighs; then awake and discover, to thy fond lover, the morn of thy matchless eyes."

Long meadow grass swept across our legs as we walked, singing and laughing. My father was tall with medium-brown hair and a reddish beard. My mother was willowy and dark-haired. I'd inherited her coloring and his height.

"The dawn is dark to me. Hark! O hark to me, pulse of my heart, I pray."

A stream paralleled our path, and standing in the knee-deep water was a petite woman with bluish-green skin, dramatically pointed ears, and crystalline eyes. The water nymph's smile enchanted us as she sang too, her voice more beautiful than any human's.

"And out of thy hiding, with blushes gliding, dazzle me with thy day."

She reached toward me, still singing, and touched my chest where a river-stone pendant lay. A shimmer of her blue magic washed over it.

"Ah, then, once more to thee, flying I'll pour to thee, passion so sweet and gay. The lark shall listen, and dewdrops glisten…"

Her cool fingers tousled my hair, then together, the four of us continued across the meadow toward a rustic cabin in the shadow of a towering mountain.

"… laughing on ev'ry spray."

The final note throbbed in my throat, and I cracked my eyes open, unsurprised to find them damp with unshed tears. Though they'd died many years ago, memories of peaceful, laughter-filled days with my parents always struck me hard. I wondered if I could ever be happy like that again, or if carefree joy was no more than a child's innocent illusion.

In the wake of my ritual attempt, Ríkr's sharp eyes had softened with lazy contentment. He sat beside me with his tail curled around his paws—but he wasn't my only spectator.

On my other side, Pierce sat cross-legged in the grass, his serpentine familiar coiled over his shoulders. With his thickly muscled build, bushy beard, and weather-worn face, he was the last person anyone would expect to be a nature-loving witch. But a closer look at his tattooed arms showed depictions of mythical fae intertwined with blooming vines.

"Gleer loves your singing, as usual," he said in his gruff voice. "But you still can't do a proper ritual for the life of you."

Herbs scattered across my sad little circle as the breeze washed through the glade. I sighed.

"You can do what you want, Saber," he added, a deeper growl coming into his voice, "but missing rituals is a risk. Arla will only overlook your absence so many times. Don't blow it."

I said nothing.

"How long do you have left?" he asked.

"Two years."

"That's forty-eight more rituals. Just stick with it, girl. You don't want MagiPol knocking on your door when you're this close."

A slight shiver ran over me. Witches weren't the only magic-users among the human race, and we were all ruled by the MPD, an organization as secret as it was powerful. "MagiPol" not only controlled magic-users—or mythics, as we called ourselves—and ensured magic remained hidden, but they were also judge, jury, and enforcer of their own laws. When a mythic committed a crime, the MPD and their agents dispensed "justice."

Pierce had ended up in this coven for the same reason as me—assigned to Arla for his "rehabilitation"—but he'd completed his sentence several years ago and decided to remain instead of starting over yet again. He was the only person here with the slightest idea of what it was like to live under the MPD's absolute power.

"The day I'm done," I murmured, "I'm going to break Laney's nose."

A guffaw burst from him, and he quickly choked it back. "She'll be lucky if that's all you do, but I wouldn't recommend it. MagiPol won't forget you exist."

MagiPol wouldn't forget. They probably remembered better than I did.

I knew what I'd done. I remembered that much. But my memories of that day, and the weeks leading up to it, were fragmented and missing crucial details that I should have been able to recall easily, even after ten years.

"Dissociative amnesia," it was called. A condition where the subconscious mind represses traumatic memories out of self-preservation. At least, that was what the psychiatrist had described when asked to explain why I couldn't testify during my own sentencing. I might remember everything someday, he'd claimed, if I healed enough or if the right trigger brought the memories back.

All things considered, I was fine with the gaps in my recollection.

My thoughts drifted back to my conversation with Arla. I couldn't push her for answers about the bear fae or the druid, not without risking my freedom and future, but like the MPD, I wouldn't forget. I hadn't come here of my own free will, but this place had been my home for seven years now.

And I wasn't about to ignore the inexplicable new danger in my backyard.