Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Outside, the rain had reduced to a drizzle that seemed to coat the world in a wet gray fuzz. We exited in time to catch Ms. Harris deliberately driving into a puddle to splash my car before her tires screeched in a hairpin turn to narrowly miss oncoming traffic as she pulled out onto the road.

"Interesting townsfolk you have here," Grandmother commented dryly, as if I had populated Redbud myself. "Misty, the car—"

"Don't move." My father's voice was low. "We're being watched. On the left."

I set my totes down and made a show of fishing out my keys from my bag, even though I knew they were in my coat pocket, and glanced to the left. "Thistle thorns."

Short black hair, cutting blue eyes, those strange bluish-green tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of his pea coat. Even though he had a scarf nestled against his throat, I'd recognize Antler Tattoo Guy anywhere.

And he wasn't alone.

The same cluster of magic hunters I'd seen that time in the Magic Brewery were with him, their own fae-like markings peeking out from cuffs and collars.

"You know them?" Grandmother asked, pretending to fiddle with her robes as if she was preparing to lift her hood against the drizzle.

"Magic hunters."

" Magic hunters? " She actually twisted to face me, incredulous. "Why are we just hearing about them now?"

"Well I would've told you in the car, except you and Dad distracted me trying to throw my cat out a window, and then we were here!"

Grandmother gave me a scathing tsk then wrenched her attention back to Antler Tattoo and his companions. They were milling about their cars, parked on the opposite side of the lot from ours. With a flick of her hand, Grandmother told us to move to the side to stop blocking the door to the Barn Market. To see if they were milling because they were being respectful of our space… or otherwise.

The magic hunters didn't move. In fact, Antler Tattoo leaned against a damp car door and lit a cigarette, seeming perfectly content to just smoke while the world drizzled around him and soaked everything with a bone-chilling cold. His companions were less nonchalant, tense, eyes darting everywhere.

Spurred by some invisible cue, the four Hawthornes in battle leathers squared themselves against the magic hunters like a herd of Cape buffalo creating an impenetrable wall against a prowling pride of lions. Shielding me from sight.

"What's going on?" Sawyer whispered from the foraging bag, squirming against the scarf he'd tugged over his head.

"Shhh!"

A few of the magic hunters seemed cowed by the sudden intense focus my family gave them, shuffling around their cars. My grandmother uttered not a word, no "Can I help you?" or "Yes?" or "Something wrong with your eyes?" as Flora would have said, and neither did any of the other robed elders. They were eerie in their intensity.

So resolute were they in this silent display of intimidation, in fact, that Antler Tattoo flicked his cigarette into the puddle at his feet and opened his car door, disappearing inside. The rest of the magic hunters were quick to follow, dividing equally amongst their cars. The Hawthorne witches maintained their defensive display long after their cars had disappeared down the road.

Then, all of them whirled around to face me. Except for my father, who kept his eyes glued on where the magic hunters had gone. I was already flattened against the red siding of the barn, so there was little elsewhere to go.

"Explain," Grandmother ordered.

"They've been in town for a while now and it hasn't been the first time in this town's history," I said in a rush. "Although…"

"Yes?" Aunt Hyacinth prompted.

"They're here for me."

All three women threw up their hands.

"Except they don't know it's me they're looking for. Their fiáin tracker—"

Dad's chin snapped to his shoulder so he could glare at me with one light brown eye. "They have a fiáin?"

"I took care of it," I assured them. "It's no longer a threat. And with it not sniffing me out, the magic hunters haven't been able to find me. Plus the townsfolk around here are more tight-lipped than you think. They protect their own. And Misty Fields has become one of them."

"But you're not Misty Fields," Aunt Eranthis said gently. "You're Meadow Hawthorne."

For some reason, I winced at that comment.

"And by ‘no longer a threat,'" Dad said, "do you mean it's dead?"

"Dumb. I made it stupid, like a hunting dog who no longer has its sense of smell or the will to hunt."

"You didn't kill it?" he exclaimed. "I taught you better than that."

"It wasn't a threat anymore!"

"Fascinating," Aunt Hyacinth said. "I didn't read that in your journal."

"Because it only happened last night. And I was"—memories of Arthur backing me onto my bed and kissing down my throat flashed across my mind's eye—"tired. I-I fell asleep. Hard."

"How?" she asked. "How did you do it?"

"I shoved a whole bunch of Caer powder and some magic into it and hoped for the best."

Aunt Hyacinth seemed thoughtful. "Unrefined, but seemingly effective."

I shrugged. "Intent is nine-tenths of magic."

"Your mother will want to debrief you. That's a spell for the grimoire, changing the base nature of a thing."

"Spells can be undone," Grandmother said, taking control of the conversation. "Usually with great difficulty, but it is possible. Did you see the fae markings on the hunters' skin? They already have access to magic they have no right to. It's probably how they managed to capture a fiáin and compel it to do their bidding. If they manage to recapture it, they might be able to reverse what you've done, maybe even determine you are the one responsible for befuddling it. And with the grimoire's protection spell gone…"

The other robed elders shuddered at the mention of the curse I lifted, but not Grandmother.

"Tod," she said crisply, "you and Eranthis will return to the farmhouse immediately. There, Eranthis will remain with Forsythia and you will take Badger and hunt down this fiáin and remove it as a liability."

You mean remove its head , I thought bitterly. I could have done that myself, except I'd shown it compassion instead. Because I didn't want to resort to battle magic for the rest of my life to solve all my problems.

"But, Grandmother," I protested.

She sliced a hand through the air, demanding silence. "Your safety comes first. And I don't want that feral fairy, nor those greedy humans, coming by to disrupt our impending negotiations to get your brother back. Do you?"

Biting down on my lower lip, I shook my head. There was no use arguing. She was right, however I hated it. She hadn't seen the fiáin, hadn't seen the anger and pain and desperation fleeing its milky eyes as my magic had nullified the compulsion runes branded into its flesh. It was probably off in the middle of the woods right now hunting rabbits and squirrels and making a burrow for the impending winter. It was no more dangerous than a raccoon or a bobcat minding its own business.

"And you?" Dad asked my grandmother.

"Hyacinth, Meadow, and I will continue on to this Cedar Haven for the rest of the supplies. We'll be back before nightfall."

Dad nodded, and the women parted for him to step through and pull me into a one-armed hug. The leather of his battle gear creaked as his grip tightened. "Remember what I taught you," he murmured against my ear.

"Head on the swivel, watch my six, stay frosty, and all that other military jargon," I grumbled.

" Including obeying your commander." That meant Grandmother.

I huffed a short exhale. "I will."

He kissed my forehead. "Love you." Then he picked up my totes, along with his, and loaded them into the spare car with practiced efficiency. As he and Aunt Eranthis finished packing away all of our purchases—minus one, with the clothes my aunt and grandmother would use to change into in the car—the rest of the Hawthornes followed me to the sedan.

Sawyer squirmed out of my foraging bag the moment we were inside, then resumed his seat on the center console to evaluate my aunt.

"Hmm," she mused, fingers drumming on her lap, now covered in paisley linen instead of black leather. "No moonstone collar on this cat." She eyed Grandmother, then flicked her gaze towards the car window.

Sawyer immediately slunk off the console and into my lap, tucking himself into a tight ball for the ride to Cedar Haven.