Chapter 8

Bowen knew multiple swear words in multiple languages, but he wasn’t sure if any of them were strong enough to express how

it felt watching the woman Declan had loved rush out of her bridal dinner in a flood of tears.

He could hear Sir Madoc calling after her, could see David rising to his feet as though he might run after her, and—worst

of all—could feel Tamsyn’s questioning eyes on him, but none of that mattered, because right now, Bowen was back in that attic

at the very top of Penhaven College’s library, and Declan was standing in front of him, alive, real, vivid. There was a chalk

circle drawn on the floor in front of them and a crumpled piece of parchment in the center. Declan’s eyes were so bright,

unnaturally so, and Bowen had known then that he had to call a stop to this, that whatever magical knowledge could be gleaned

from this was too much, too strong, but Declan was already saying the words—words Bowen had taught him—and there was a flash

of light, and—

Tamsyn got up suddenly, her napkin landing in a heap near her plate, and before Bowen had time to think, she was out the door and after Carys.

Luckily, he did have the perfect curse for this, one Tamsyn herself had said multiple times.

Fuck a duck.

Throwing back the last of his wine, Bowen rose from his seat, tossing his own napkin down, and Lady Meredith beamed at him

from behind her pince-nez. “Ooh, very nice, do enjoy a bit of drama before dessert! Your lady friend goes in search of darling

Carys, you go in search of your lady friend, and hopefully someone ends up rogered in the library. Oh, it’s like the Yule Ball of ’75 all over again!”

Bowen didn’t know what that meant, and given that his father had referenced the Yule Ball of ’75 multiple times, usually while

a bit squiffy at the holidays, Bowen emphatically did not want to understand the reference.

Instead, he stalked off toward the double doors and out into the foyer, while behind him, he could hear Sir Madoc saying to

David, “It’s from her mother, you see, this penchant for theatrics. I met Amelia on a cruise down the Nile in the late eighties, and she was a performer,

a glorious performer, but a performer nonetheless, so it’s to be expected...”

The dining room had been dim, but the hallway was positively gloomy, all shadows and flickering sconces, and for a moment,

Bowen froze, trying to figure out where they might have gotten off to.

Then he heard the distinctive click of those ridiculous shoes Tamsyn was wearing somewhere off to his left, and he followed the sound down an increasingly dark hallway until he reached a set of French doors that led out onto the terrace. One door stood ajar, a cold wind blowing sleet onto the parquet.

Tamsyn was wearing a fucking velvet jumpsuit cut down to her navel, she didn’t have a coat, there was no way she would’ve

stepped outside into—

“Carys!”

Bowen heard her distinctive husky American voice, and something within him clenched even as he forced himself out onto the

veranda despite his bloody impractical clothes and his even stupider shoes.

“Tamsyn!” he shouted, lifting a hand against the freezing rain that was rapidly becoming snow.

He saw her then in the light from the windows, standing on the brown lawn with her arms folded tight around her as she stared

out at the tall, dark hedges in front of her. The blond wig she was wearing was definitely worse for wear and listing to one

side as she threw one arm out in the direction of the garden maze. “She went in there!” she called back, and muttering every

curse word he knew—yes, in all the languages—Bowen jogged down the few stone steps to where Tamsyn stood, shucking off his

tuxedo jacket as he went.

The freezing rain bit into his shirt as he lowered his jacket around Tamsyn’s shoulders, and she used both hands to pull it tighter around her. Her wig was sodden now, and without thinking, Bowen pushed it from her head, letting it land with a wet splat on the lawn.

“Which way did she go?” he asked over the wind, and Tamsyn lifted an arm toward the center of the hedges.

“She turned left once she hit the statue,” she replied, and sure enough, there was a marble figure rising into the night,

a woman with flowing hair and raised arms, a crown of crescent moons rising white against the black sky.

Hecate, goddess of witchcraft.

“It’s so cold, and that dress was so thin,” Tamsyn said. “She didn’t even grab her shawl.”

Bowen had lived over thirty years on this planet. Had wielded powers few had ever dared touched. Had dared things few had

ever dreamed.

But he had never been in love. Never once until here, in this moment, standing in a freezing garden looking at a woman—a human—with

wet hair streaming down her back, her skin pale and pebbled with gooseflesh. Someone who had come here to steal a jewel worth

a life-changing amount of money, but who, when the woman wearing that jewel had vanished into a cold, harsh night, could only

worry that that woman wasn’t wearing a coat.

Christ, he loved her. Desperately, irrevocably.

Completely and totally.

He was still standing there, accepting that knowledge, when the love of his life slapped his chest with one wet hand and yelled,

“Fucking do something, you dumbass!”

So he did.

“Carys!” he called, moving into the garden maze, shrubs leaving nearly frozen droplets on his sleeve. Behind him, he could

hear Tamsyn also calling the bride’s name, and the wind seemed to pick up, distorting the sounds, making every footfall louder

than it was.

The rain was harder now, colder, and Bowen wiped it from his eyes as he squinted into the darkness, taking one turn, then

another, Tamsyn right behind him.

Finally, he rounded a massive hedge and found himself in a clearing. There was another statue here, a slim marble figure that

looked more modern than the ancient Greek goddess of witchcraft. From all the jewelry carved on the sculpture, he figured

it might be Lady Angharad Meredith back in her debutante days, but he was more interested in the person kneeling in front

of it.

Carys’s white dress was sodden, and Bowen could see the pink of her scalp through her soaked hair. She was crying, and in

her hands, he could make out the dim glitter of YSeren.

She was muttering to herself in Welsh, but the rain and wind drowned out the words. That didn’t mean Bowen couldn’t feel them,

though. Whatever she was saying, it wasn’t gibberish or grief.

It was a prayer.

No, worse.

It was a spell.

“Carys!” he shouted, and she looked over at him, her face contorted with agony.

“You knew him!” she cried out, just as Tamsyn appeared at Bowen’s side, out of breath and streaked with mud from the shins down. “You knew Declan. You were his friend, he loved you, and I...” Breaking off, she stared at the brooch in her hand. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”

“You do, though,” Tamsyn said, stepping forward. Her heels sank into the mud, and she flailed one hand out. Bowen caught her

easily, steadying her and moving forward as she did. “Carys, I didn’t know Declan, and I’m sorry. It seems like you really

loved him. But even if he’s not here, you don’t have to marry David. No one can make you! Hell, Bowen and I will drive you

out of here right now. Right this second if that’s what you want. Isn’t that right, Bowen?”

She looked over at him, and Bowen could only nod, rainwater spilling down his beard and into the collar of his shirt.

“That’s right, Carys!” he yelled. “We can leave right now if you want to. Declan wouldn’t have wanted you to grieve like this.

Or to marry someone if you didn’t want to.”

Carys stayed on her knees, her body curling further inward. “I can fix this!” she shouted over the storm. “I can undo it all!”

Confused, Bowen made a step forward, only to be brought up short by Tamsyn’s hand on his arm.

“Look,” she said, and even though she was barely whispering, he could hear her over the rain.

Carys was still kneeling, YSeren clutched in both her hands, but as they watched, it began to glow.

The air around them felt electric, like anything he touched right now would shock him, but Bowen still reached for Tamsyn’s hand.

She took it, and sure enough, an electric pulse zinged through him, but he only held her tighter as the very ground started

to shake.

“Take it back!” Carys cried, raising her head to the sky. She was still pale and fragile, but Bowen could feel the magic pulsing

through her, and suddenly remembered just why it was that the Meredith family had been so feared for centuries.

“All of it!” Carys continued, holding the brooch to the turbulent skies. “Whatever can be undone, so be it!”

There was a crack of lightning, and next to him, Tamsyn yelped.

And then Bowen was... slipping.

Sliding.

Falling, even though Tamsyn’s hand was still locked tight in his.

Falling, falling, falling...