5. Where’s Strider When You Need Him?

She was an old crone. I could totally take her, and yet I felt my feet dragging, not wanting to get any closer to her. When I reached the door, she stared a moment longer and then finally stepped back, allowing me to enter. Once I stepped inside, she slammed the door closed. Flames roared, flaring past the edges of a stone fireplace, before settling again.

Lanterns hung from the low wooden ceiling. I had to duck to avoid smacking into the one closest. The room was filled with long tables and benches, all dark wood. It felt like I'd walked into the tavern scene in The Lord of the Rings.

A tall, willowy woman with long silvery-blonde hair stood behind the bar. She wore a plaid flannel shirt with baggy jeans and was putting together a tea tray. She looked up once, nodded to me, and then continued her work, adding a scone to the tray.

"Who are your relations?"

I jumped. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's true. The reedy voice was gone. Her question was a loud clap in the room. When I turned, I was eye to eye, not with the doddering old crone who'd shown herself earlier, but with a powerful wicche, still clearly in her prime, white hair and wrinkles notwithstanding.

"Ma'am?"

"Your relations, girl. There are no Quinn wicches."

"Wolves," the woman behind the bar said.

"Aye, wolves. But this one's a wicche. I can feel her power. Odd scent, though." The crone looked me over again and sniffed.

The barmaid shook her head, picking up the tray. "Wolficche."

The crone took a quick step back, disgust evident, as the barmaid threw open the door and went to deliver Lydia's tea.

"Who are your relations," she asked again, her expression hard.

This was a bad idea. I already had Abigail wanting to erase me because of my mixed blood. I didn't need to add this wicche to the list of people who wanted me dead. When I turned to leave, the door slammed shut again, barring my way.

"Don't make me ask again, girl."

"Corey," I said, keeping my distance. "My mother was a Corey wicche and my father a Quinn wolf." I released my claws, six inches, razor-sharp. She wasn't taking me without a fight.

Her eyes flicked down to my hands and then back to my face. "Was," she breathed. "What was her name?"

"Bridget."

Closing her eyes, she let out a gust of air. "Damn." She strode behind the bar, pulled a shot glass out from beneath it, snatched a bottle of whiskey off the counter behind her, and poured a shot. She looked up, mumbled something in a foreign tongue, and downed the whiskey.

When the barmaid came back, the crone poured another shot and slid it down the bar to her. "Bridget's dead."

"Ach." The bartender said the same phrase the crone had—Elvish, perhaps—and then downed the drink.

"As you're Bridget's girl, I guess introductions are in order. I'm your great-aunt Martha. My sister Mary was your grandmother. This," she said, flicking a hand to the barmaid, "is Galadriel. She's an elf and my bar manager."

My brain stuttered to a stop at her words. I had a great-aunt? "Galadriel?" I'd walked into The Lord of the Rings and found family.

Rolling her eyes, the bartender said, "It was my name first. The idiot names a character after me, and suddenly I'm the one who has to deal with everyone wanting a magical gift." She moved the shot glass back under the bar and pulled out a mug. "Tea?"

"Yes, please." As no one appeared to want me dead, I snicked my claws back in.

Martha waved me to a table in the corner of the room. "I'm not in contact with my family." At Galadriel's snort, Martha side-eyed her and then continued. "I hadn't heard about your mother. Was it recent?"

"No." Mind reeling over the thought of a real family member who maybe didn't want me dead, I sat at the table she indicated and studied a mirror on the wall beside me. I sat directly in front of it, and yet there was no reflection. A fragrant breeze blew across my face. When I stared into the elaborate frame, its silvery surface became clearer, a window into a deep, verdant forest.

I held out a finger to touch it. Martha and Galadriel both shouted, "No!" Flinching, I drew back my hand and decided to move to another table, to put distance between myself and the portal that beckoned.

"Sam, is it?" When I nodded, she sat and took a sip from her own mug, settling in. "Spin us a tale, girl."

Light from the fire flickered in the dim room as I told her of my mother and father, of my aunt's psychotic mission to end me, of Mom and me trying to keep a few steps ahead of my aunt, moving from place to place. I told her about the protective amulet my mother had put around my neck as a child and how all hell had broken loose when I'd lost it. And I told her how I'd begun to develop necromantic abilities. When I got to Clive, a look passed between Martha and Galadriel. Deciding I'd probably told her more than enough, I picked up my mug and took a sip of the now tepid tea.

"Who made that necklace you're wearing now?"

I said, "Coco Drake," at the same time Galadriel said, "Dragon."

"Well, that was quite a tale. Wicche, werewolf, vampire lover, demon cook, and dragon jeweler." She lifted her brows and tapped her fingers on the table in a steady tattoo. "And you've come here, expecting me to train you. Is that it?"

"Asking, not expecting." Family. I had living family. She was probably going to toss me in a minute, so I wanted to memorize everything about her.

"Gad?" Martha watched the bartender, who was cutting lemons. The woman stared through me a moment and then shook her head.

Damn. "Look, even if you don't want to train me, can I visit sometime? I just—I haven't had any family in a really long time." Sudden tears blurred my vision. Embarrassed, I blinked them back quickly.

"No one's throwing you out." She paused, studying me. "All right. You can come in the mornings, before we open. If you come too early, before the door is unlocked, you can sit outside. I'll be along soon enough."

"Thank you." A tear leaked out and I quickly swiped it away. "I really appreciate it."

"First lesson," she said, leaning forward and pinning me with a stare. "You don't have to go blind every time you use your powers."

"I don't?" My heart leapt at the idea of not being left vulnerable to attack, as I had been in New Orleans.

Galadriel delivered a fresh pot of tea, with a new mug for me. Mine had gone cold. As she poured, she said, "When I heard you were coming, I asked around about you."

"Oh?" I swallowed and thought about that head shake she'd given Martha.

"I'm told you broke Liam's arms." She replaced the pot on the tray with more force than necessary.

My stomach dropped. "I did."

"That all you have to say for yourself?" She crossed her arms and waited, violet eyes sparking in anger.

In that moment, I knew it was over. No visits with my great-aunt, no lessons, no family. "Yes, ma'am. I broke both his arms."

Galadriel shook her head, picked up her tray, and headed back to the bar. "Are you sure she's one of yours?"

Martha let out a breath. "I was wondering the same thing."

"I'm also told," Galadriel continued, "that you could have killed him right off when he attacked, that that scar you're sporting on your neck is because you were trying to figure out how not to hurt him while he was pinning you down, knife to your throat."

"It wasn't his fault. Abigail had taken over his mind. She was pushing him to kill me. He's a kind man. He'd never have done that without her influence."

"Aye. Which is why you stopped your demon from burning him and asked that woman out in the yard to help heal him before you returned him to the sea." She put her forearms down on the bar, leaning forward. "When I shook my head at Martha about you, I wasn't saying to toss yer ass out. I was telling her there was no black in your aura."

"Unlike some others in our family," Martha added, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders. "Back to your problem. My guess is your mind came up with the loss of sight as payment and you've never redirected it. Do you have a deep-seated fear of going blind?"

I flashed on being tied and blindfolded in that shack seven years ago, on being tortured and having no idea who he was. "Yes, I guess I do."

"Frame it in another way. Accept the payment freely but direct it differently. When you use your power, focus on the payment you deem acceptable. Headache, stomachache, sore joints, gray hair, withered features. You offer it up and see if it's accepted."

"Is that why your hair is white?"

Galadriel snickered.

"No. I'm just old." She pursed her lips before continuing. "You can also go the tried-and-true method of getting a familiar."

"A cat?" I was pretty sure a cat wouldn't want to hang out with a wolf.

"It can be any animal you create a bond with. You channel the payment through your familiar in order to avoid the pain."

I'm not sure what kind of horrified expression I wore but it was enough for Galadriel to drop off a plate of cookies. "Do people really do that? Torture animals?"

"Yes. I would venture to guess my niece has gone through a shelter's worth of familiars."

Low cursing sounded from the direction of Galadriel's retreating back.

"What I recommend for you is a piece of jewelry that can be used to store the pain. In battle—for instance, with a homicidal aunt—you can access the reserve of pain and aim it like a weapon."

On the one hand, that sounded amazing. I'd have a way to fight back. On the other, it felt like a slippery slope to becoming my aunt.

"You can't use the necklace you have. Dragon-made won't do. The item must be wicche-made with a spell for this exact purpose. I'm guessing, because of your other form, rings and bracelets won't work."

I shook my head no. As it was, I worried all the time that I'd need to shift suddenly and lose my engagement ring.

"I know just the thing." She glanced at Galadriel, who'd made a strange noise. "I'll give it to you. Next time you come." She tapped the table. "We need to open, so you should run along. The fae don't take easily to new people."

I stood and carried my mug up to the bar. "Thank you. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Nodding, Martha rose as well. "Don't take too long. Your aunt won't. All right." She waved me toward the door. "Enough visitors for today. We have work to do."

My throat was tight as I nodded goodbye. A great-aunt. I had a great-aunt who wanted to help me. I was feeling lighter as I walked across soft, mossy ground under the twinkle-lit twilight of the courtyard to collect Lydia.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said. "I was worrying that I'd delivered you to your death while I sat out here drinking tea." Standing, she brushed a few stray crumbs from her coat and grabbed her bag. "Owen's been texting me every half hour, begging me to go look for you."

"Wait." I checked the time on my phone. "How long was I in there?"

"Two and a half hours," she responded as we walked back through the gate.

"Two and a half hours!" I checked my phone again. "But it only felt like twenty or thirty minutes, at most."

Lydia hit a button on her key fob, causing the car to chirp and the doors to unlock. "Time runs differently in faerie. That bar must have a foot in Underhill for it to exist out of our time."

I thought of the large mirror on the wall and decided Lydia was probably right.