“Do you like birds?” I ask. He gives me a reluctant nod, but I see a spark breaking through. “Well, I have a talking bird. One of these days, you should have your mother bring you to my shop so you can meet him.”
Aaron tilts his head slightly and gives me a nod. “Okay.”
Silently, I urge him to eat some of the strawberry bread. This child needs some protection, as well as more love. I straighten and say to Dara, “I should get going. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. If there’s anything my sisters and I can do, let me know. We’d be happy to watch Aaron for you, if you have errands or something to do.”
Her face brightens considerably. “I appreciate that. There’s no man around here for me to lean on.” Her mood shifts even more. “I’m thinking about coming to your festival Saturday night. Hoping to bring a certain someone with me.” She winks, her grief shoved aside. “It’s that time of the year for romance, isn’t it?”
Tristan. I hear it as if she’s whispered his name in my ear. The thought of him with Dara makes me queasy.
“Enjoy the bread.” I turn on my heel and hurry back to Winter. Inside, I ask, “Did you get hold of Dad?”
She puts the car in gear and we pull away. “He’ll be at the shop in an hour.”
I’m nervous about seeing him, but glad he’s coming. He hasn’t been back since Mom died. “That won’t give us much time before dusk.”
“We’ll have to make it work.”
I glance back at the third strawberry bread. Now, I know why I needed it. An offering. I’ll slice it into five sections and we’ll place one on each altar where they stand as points on the pentagram. Along with that, we’ll offer flowers, tobacco, and other things to appease the fairies, Horned God, and the Goddess Mother, who guard the woods and wild places when honored.
Only with their help can we make sure the demon that killed our mother has not resurfaced.
10
My father looks older than his years. His hair is totally white and hangs down his back. His bushy eyebrows are filled with silvery gray streaks. My mother’s death and the constant shamanic journeys he takes to the underworld are exacting a price.
Winter doesn’t like to be touched, but she accepts his embrace before he turns to me. He holds out his arms and I fall into them, surprising myself by how deeply I ache for his embrace.
Neither of us speak. I sense his strong heartbeat under my ear, hearing the faint echo synching with mine. I inhale his scent—cedar wood, fir, and spruce. He’s a man of the woods, a brother to the trees that grow there. He talks to the animals, invites spirits to sit at his fire. As much as our Celtic blood ties us to the world of witches, our Native American ancestors do the same to the earth and her magick.
Winter and Autumn definitely favor him, while Summer and I take after our mother, mostly in looks, but other things as well.
As I pull away, our gazes meet and he smiles. Winter has those eyes, Autumn his smile. I search his face for some similarity to the one I see in the mirror every day. As he stares back, I have the sensation he’s doing the same.
At least Summer has his healing gift. Perhaps my green thumb and connection to the plants and the earth are as much from him as they are Mom.
Dad runs his hands over my upper arms, his touch light but strong. “How are you, my youngest?”
I know Mom forced him to leave because his path was as a healer, a medicine man, and his devotion to his family kept him from that. It still sucks that I didn’t have him here every day, those supportive arms always open for a hug.
As his warm energy filters into me, chasing away the aftereffects of the demon, I still resent the fact I didn’t get to grow up with him. Yes, he visited every week, and always brought stories and gifts for the four of us, but, being the youngest, I had his daily presence for the least amount of time. Winter and Autumn don’t just look like him, they share a closeness I will never have with him. They have the most memories as well.
I don’t lie when I answer. “I’m worried.”
He gently strokes my hair and pats my cheek, “As you should be, daughter.”
Dad isn’t one to mince words or offer useless platitudes. Sometimes it annoys me, but today, his directness is appreciated.
Winter fills everyone in on what we discovered while we were away. Dad has brought several of his group to mind the store for us, and Hale is already behind the counter running the register and answering the phone.
We gather our supplies in silence. I dole out chunks of the bread and retrieve five of the flower posies to add to the offerings. Each of us carries candles, salt, our wands, protective oils, and crystals to repel negativity. I hand out sage bundles and anoint each with my essential oil protective blend.
The woods fall eerily silent the moment we enter, no bird or insect welcoming us on our mission. Winter, Autumn, and our father walk ahead of me and Summer.
Summer nudges me with her shoulder. “Is it true Chief MacSexy saw through Winter’s invisibility spell?”
I haven’t had time to worry about it, but now it does take my mind off what we’re here to do. I mentally roll my eyes at the nickname. “It was kind of weird, him being able to see me.”
“He must have some powerful magick inside that hunky body.”
I rub the spot on my breastbone, even though the fire I feel there is only a phantom from earlier. “I told you, he’s Fae born. He just doesn’t know it.”
She nudges me again teasingly. “Maybe he just needs the right witch to wake it up for him.”
I can’t suppress the laugh that escapes my throat. Summer joins me, and for a moment, I feel young, like a normal twenty-two-year-old. It feels good.
The path is muddy from the earlier rain, and it smells like damp leaves and soil. Summer stops me and removes the rose quartz necklace from around her neck, hooking it around mine.
I touch the stone and feel her love and something deeper—my own desire for Tristan—blooming. The skin on my collarbone warms where it lies.
“There,” she says. “This will give you an extra boost in the love department.”
It seems almost wrong to be thinking about Tristan and love when I’m in a silent forest about to recharge our spell against a demon that killed my mother. But it’s as if mom is there and wants to relieve my guilt—I feel the softest brush of a hand across the back of my neck.
She always used to sweep my long hair aside and lay her hand there to calm my nervous energy. I look around expectantly as if I might see her. “Mom?”
Summer does the same, following my gaze. “Is she here?”
The others are too far away to notice that we’ve fallen behind. I wish more than anything I had a touch of Winter’s gift, so perhaps I could see Mom’s spirit.
I wait silently, mentally asking her to talk to me, to give me a sign she’s here. If only I could feel that gentle brush on my neck again.
Nothing happens except Hoax appearing out of the underbrush and walk-hopping, trying to keep up with us. “The crow’s curse on you both!”
“Oh, for magick’s sake. If she was, she’s gone now,” I answer Summer. We start off again, arms linked.
The woods grow darker with every passing minute, and at the crossroads, Summer and I part. She goes west, I go east. Winter will take the northwest corner, Autumn the northeast, and dad will take the top point, directly north.
Normally, I have no fear of walking the forested areas of our land. My earth magick keeps me safe. This area teams with animals—rabbits, deer, and an occasional elk or bear. The trees brim with all varieties of birds, and I glance up through the branches, calling to those who might be near to offer me guidance on my journey to the altar.
Hoax has fallen behind again but I know he’ll catch up. Summer’s familiar, Cinders, is a phoenix who bursts into flames at inconvenient times and sets things on fire. He’ll be great for setting the bonfire on Saturday night, if she wants him to, but bringing him into the woods is not the best idea.
Shade,
Winter’s ghost cat, disappeared with her along the path. Autumn has Sirius, a dog named after the constellation as well as her favorite Harry Potter character, but he stopped at the edge of the woods and refused to come in. He’s probably the smartest of all of us.
The closer I get to my designated altar, the stronger the energy becomes. My feet vibrate as the ley line snakes up around my ankles. I reinforce my protective bubble, but by the time I’m a few feet from the stone altar, even my teeth chatter with the energy.
It’s ageless and looks as though it’s been transported directly from the Hill of Tara itself. Half burned candles, tiny skulls of animals, and feathers are laid on the top, remnants of the previous binding ceremonies as well as gifts from visitors. Not human ones, but those who reside in the forest and support the work we do.
Pentagrams are etched into all sides and moss has naturally created a spiral on top. Nearby, a fallen redwood, ancient in itself, provides a backdrop.
I call on Ostara, my appointed goddess, as I clear the altar and set out the tools from the basket I carry. The only thing I fear here is the demon trapped within. Good and evil are always at odds, and wrestle with each other. My magick is no weaker, but also no stronger, than what lurks under my feet.
We label it a demon, using the Christian term, but even that is insignificant compared to what we’ve experienced. It was only a tiny brush of its power that we encountered when stuffing it into the prison after it took my mother’s life. I’ve not felt anything like it before or since.
It’s older than humanity, perhaps as old as the earth. It’s not of this world, and Autumn is sure it came from somewhere else in the cosmos. Perhaps its prison from wherever it was exiled from was meant to be here, or it came of its own volition and created its version of paradise, however tumultuous and chaotic that might be. All we know for sure is that it feeds on destructive energy that humans exhibit, and the more evil and chaotic our world grows, the stronger it seems to become as well.
I reassure myself with the fact that the last time it escaped, it generated a great deal of natural disasters, including an earthquake and wildfires. It didn’t fully escape, still anchored to its place from the pentagram our Whitethorne ancestors created, but even the little bit that did emerge was able to cause a lot of death and destruction in the nearby area, only a few miles or so from Annie’s house.
While two people are dead, possibly due to demonic influence, it seems rather trivial compared to what it’s done before. I don’t doubt Winter picked up on some similarities, but I’m more sure than ever, after thinking about it, that we would know without a doubt if ‘our’ demon was on the loose.
Hoax appears to my left and squawks, the sound echoing through the trees. I lift him onto the altar and he assumes his position at the top of the main pentagram, his bird feet hopping across the moss of the spiral in the center. I check my watch and see it’s time to begin.
The woods are too quiet, and I scan the area closest to me, sending out my gratitude to the ancient trees, the forest floor, the boulders and wildflowers. I light the candles, ask for Ostara’s help before I begin the ritual.
“Earth and air, fire and sea, bless this spell as well as me. North and south, east and west, protect this witch, may she be blessed.”
I pour my protective blend made from cypress, frankincense, and sage along the spiral to represent water, and place chunks of black tourmaline, symbolizing the earth at each corner as I cast the binding spell. The candles represent fire, and Hoax chants softly, representing my version of air.
Each of the altars along the ley line have a similar pentagram etched into them, mirroring the larger connection. As my sisters, father, and I lock in these points with the crystals, we use our wands to outline them with sacred light. In turn, the larger pentagram lights up, an almost blinding illumination in the shadowy forest. It fills me with joy and a sense of peace, knowing its keeping evil in and protecting innocents without.
“As above, so below. As within, so without. So mote it be."
Three times I infuse the pentagram clockwise with my magick and the sacred light, reinforcing the ties that bind the evil. The candles flicker as the energy builds, their flames climbing higher and higher. Hoax’s chant rises, too. With each turn of my wand, I envision a stone wall infused with an impenetrable magick sinking deep into the earth and rising all the way into the universe.
“World below my feet, world above my head, infuse this pentagram with binding force, let your protections so imbed.”
I make my offering to all of the spirits involved, laying out the bread and tobacco, pouring drops of bourbon at each point. I lay my posy at the tip of the pentacle, light a taper candle from one of the larger ones so I can drip wax over each tourmaline, then slowly make a circle around the outside of the pentacle with the wax as well.
As I do, the bright light falls softly back into the shadows and I complete my spell by pricking my finger and outlining the ground with drops of blood, sealing the bind, just as my sisters and father are doing at their altars.
I bow my head for long moments and send a silent prayer out to the spirits, to the Green Man and Mother Goddess we will honor tomorrow night, to my personal goddess, and finally to my mother. I listen for any messages that might come on the breeze, but there is no stirring of air, no voices. Only Hoax flapping and cursing in Gaelic.
I gather the feathers left since the last binding, as these are good luck charms for me. My sisters and I will weave them into our Witch’s Ladders we create for Beltane. I leave the candles to burn down on their own, tuck my wand away, and send a blessing to the stone people, fairies, and animals.
“Until next time,” I tell them, “please keep this forest safe.”
Hoax jumps down and we retrace our steps toward the main path. I hear birdsong, the skittering noises of small animals in the underbrush. Normal sounds of the forest reassure me that our spell has once more been effective.
I’m thinking of Mom and don’t notice when, moments later, the forest falls silent. A chill sweeps through me and I have the sudden sensation of nails clawing at my brain, down my spine. I shudder so hard, I drop my basket.
Instinctively I reinforce my protective bubble and throw it over Hoax as well. The bird screeches at the top of his lungs, and the noise of nails on a chalkboard rips through my ears.
I’m slammed from behind and knocked down, my hands sliding as I fall on my belly. I screech as loudly as Hoax, getting soil and leaves in my mouth. I lift my head to spit them out, to call for help, even as I dig deep for my power, my magick, spinning it around me to deflect whatever is attacking.
When I look up, I’m staring into the eyes of a giant wolf.
11
Those eyes…
I know those eyes.
The wolf looks past me, snarling. Teeth bared, he stands with his front paws braced, ready to jump. His gaze drops to mine, and for a second, our eyes lock.
Tristan? I start to speak his name, but I hear the echo of another in my mind—Grayson.
“Grayson?” It spills from my tongue, across my lips and the wolf ducks his head. He is fully Fae now, as old as the earth herself. Grayson is his wolf name, his original name. Tristan is only this incarnation’s human label.
In the next second, he bares his teeth again, a low growl issuing from his throat.
His focus snaps to something behind me and I start to rise to my hands and knees. I’m almost there when he launches himself off the ground, lands on my back, and catapults off.
The force of his large body using me for a springboard knocks me to the ground once more, forcing the air from my lungs when I hit. Grit flies into my eyes and they water as I try to catch my breath.
From behind, I hear the sound of a fight—snaps and growls, Hoax screeching, and I roll over to see what’s happening.
The wolf fights an invisible opponent. I blink several times to dislodge the dirt and call on the Sight to help me see what originally shoved me to the groun
d and now fights with the wolf.
The Sight falls over my physical eyes and helps somewhat, yet, all I can make out is a separate layer that seems to blend with the forest, causing ripples across its body as it moves. The arms are too long for a human, the head too large. Each time the wolf attacks, the entity slithers and slips from his grasp.
Hoax adds what he can, clawing with his talons and pecking with his beak. His wings beat against the thing and try to distract it from the wolf.
Sitting up, I stretch my hands and call on my magick, creating a whirlwind of leaves to swarm the thing. Along with them comes soil and debris as I try to stop its movements and create a container to hold our attacker.
This whirlwind works for a moment, until the thing makes an unearthly noise that shatters my magick and knocks the wolf backward. It moves so fast I can’t react quickly enough and goes from being several yards away to appearing right in front of my face.
A startled cry breaks from my lips and I dig my heels into the soft forest floor, scrambling as fast as I can. The thing is faster, reaching out to grab me through my protection. The rose quartz necklace breaks and falls, and when the attacker touches me, I feel icy-hot pain shoot through my entire body.
At the same time, this evil becomes flesh and blood.
My magick drains swiftly, painfully, as though the thing has plugged into my energy and sucked it away. The eyes stare at me, huge and tilting up at the corners. The mouth is like a rubber band stretching and moving with such a high-pitched sound, it blocks everything else. I am locked into its gaze, my limbs limp.
My mind scrambles. I try to freeze it mentally because I cannot lift my hands to fling a spell. For a single heartbeat, I think I’ve succeeded because it goes still. The vise grip around my throat doesn’t loosen, but it doesn’t become tighter either.
I try to pull my head out of the crushing grip, and the instant I shift, the spell breaks, and to my horror, it comes alive once more.
My windpipe is being crushed, pain splintering through my throat. My eyes roll up in my head, my tongue falls from my mouth. Inside my brain, I scream for my sisters, my goddess, my mother. Help!
Of Potions and Portents Page 6
