by Eve Redmayne
He walked over, pried one of Jessica’s eyes open, and waved a hand. No response. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said, fighting the fear gripping his heart. “We don’t know what’s happened. Let’s remain calm and care for her body.”
“What does that mean?” Willow squeaked, voice panicked. “I’ve killed a fae!” Green eyes wide, she began to pace the length of the room, hair twisting in aggravation. “You know what happens to people who hurt the fae! I know you know!”
Unwilling to pay Willow any more attention, Orrin pulled Jessica off her feet and cradled her in his arms. Cautiously, so as not to jostle her, he sat her in the chair before the fire.
Heat pulsed from the hearth, but she felt cold to the touch. The fire wasn’t enough. He threw together a pallet beside the fireplace and lifted her down, certain not to bump her head. Her body was a fragile shell, limp without its soul reinforcing the flesh.
He pulled her close, wanting to provide warmth as well as protection. With one arm pushed under her head as a cushion, he draped the other over her waist and breathed deeply. Then scowled. Her floral scent was faint.
Jessica’s left hand rested limp as death on the blanket. He drew it to his lips and placed a kiss on each ice-blue fingertip.
Then he pulled her right hand out from under her. She’d held it within the candle flame to build up the fire’s strength and now had a ridged fire-brand emblazoned there. It’s vibrant orange center radiated outward in shades from palest yellow to brightest raspberry where the ragged edges curved into dancing flames.
Tears slipped down his cheeks as he pressed his lips to her hair. He’d never hold her again. The knowledge of his impending loss overwhelmed him, and he clutched her all the tighter, willing her spirit back.
Choose me, he silently prayed. Choose me and I’ll spend eternity making you happy. Choose me, not him. He repeated this chant until his exhausted mind followed his worn-out body, and he fell asleep, holding the woman he loved as they slept together for the first and last time.
CHAPTER 28
Willow’s blanket drooped about her shoulders as she looked out the window into the darkness. Something was whispering in the wind, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. Her glance shifted to the couple by the hearth, and she set aside her Grimoire. Jessica must live, as Orrin still clutched her, desperately. Her heart broke for him, knowing Jessica would never be his. Though his love for her was true, it was sadly unrequited.
Jessica.
There! She raced onto the porch and waited, head cocked.
Jessica.
Her eyes widened, and she straightened a scarf. Something was wrong. Jessica’s shade should’ve been long back by now. Though she’d never heard his voice before, and this was really only a faint echo of his heart’s desire, she knew Braum called for help.
She raced back inside, crouched next to the sleeping couple, and placed her hand on Jessica’s chest. The faint flutter told her Jessica wasn’t long for this world. But it didn’t make sense. Her body should’ve been stronger than this, should’ve lasted several days without its shade. But then, if she’d exhausted herself getting the potion to Braum… that might’ve accelerated the decline…
Willow tip-toed away. She’d let Orrin cradle Jessica. Hopefully, it’d provide comfort to her shell, keep her holding on a bit longer.
Adrenaline pulsing, she lit another candle and flipped through the Grimoire. What to use, what to use? She flipped passed titles written in various handwriting, landing just long enough to read, How to make your enemy fall in love with his enemy, and, Where to find fresh toadstools and how to use them. Her eyes brightened at an entry written in her mother’s flowing script: How to Summon the Spirit of One’s Ancestors. It’d have to do, she didn’t have time to look for another, more suitable spell. Jessica wasn’t an ancestor, but her spirit needed summoning.
With a worried eye, Willow glanced over the recipe, then scanned the ritual: Perform spell at midnight of a waxing moon. That’s out. It wasn’t midnight, nor was the moon waxing. Candle on a black plate. No black plate, a plateful of thyme, maybe? It had contacting properties, and it was a well-known fact the fae loved the herb. Her only hope was that her great need would counter-balance the whole waxing moon, black plate, and Jessica not being an ancestor.
She shook her head and darted about the cottage to gather supplies, crushing a bundle of thyme in her haste. As an afterthought, she drew to a stop, and with a quick hand motion and whispered incantation, released the protective spell on the cottage. Better to err on the side of caution. It was possible Jessica’s shade might appear as an intruder, given how long it had been away, and she wanted nothing barring the reunion with her body.
After lighting a brown candle with a shaking finger, she searched for her stash of pine needles. Finding them in the cupboard behind some wartsbane, a handful went into a teacup, followed by boiling water from the kettle. Her gaze lifted, and she grabbed the bell sitting on the mantle above the hearth, almost hidden by the journals stacked around it.
Sparing Orrin and Jessica a quick glance, she made sure the fae’s chest still rose and fell, then sat at the table to begin. Between sips of the pine needle tea, she read her mother’s summoning spell, changing it as needed.
Faerie, my sister, spirit of love
Come to me, come to me, from above
Entities loving, who wish me well
Come to this circle when I ring the bell
She rang the bell three times exactly. Then sipped the tea until naught but the needles remained, grimacing at the bitter taste.
Hours drifted by. The moon completed its arc, and the night grew black. Still, she watched. Finally, when the hearth grew cold, the hair on her arms stood. Willow jumped to her feet and opened the door, allowing the presence she now sensed entrance.
Jessica! Careful not to touch the bell, Willow completed the spell by blowing out the candle. It was imperative she not ring the bell, even accidentally, lest she send Jessica’s shade back to whence it came.
Willow hurried to the hearth, knelt, and released a breath. A pink vitality had returned to Jessica’s cheeks, and she rested naturally, not stiff like before, in Orrin’s arms.
This had to be the last time Jessica released her shade. The grip her body had on its spirit was feeble at best, now. She’d have Jessica perform a grounding ritual every morning for a month, and hopefully, her spirit wouldn’t just wander away.
Weariness taking its toll, Willow sank into the chair beside the hearth and watched over her friends until she, too, sank into peaceful slumber, her work complete.
***
“I truly believe if you rest a while longer, your left leg will heal as completely as the right,” Grif droned, hands on his hips, as Braum limped about the bedchamber, mere hours after his miraculous healing.
Braum had heard this a dozen times already and ignored his friend.
“Your insistence to walk is foolhardy! Take a day, man, at the very least before leaving to find her!”
His leg didn’t matter a wit. He had to get Jessica back. After tossing a few supplies into a saddlebag he eyed Grif. “It was magic that healed me, was it not?”
With a reluctant nod, Grif agreed, “Yes, but—”
“But nothing!” Braum railed, eyes flashing. He’d had enough of this. Jessica’s life was in danger and every minute they delayed was a minute he wasn’t with her. He no longer felt her presence, which could be either good or bad. Blast, he just didn’t know.
He slammed his fist on the table. “It was Jessica and you know it! I can’t explain how, but she was by my side last night.” He tapped his fingers. “She arranged it to ensure I got well to her own detriment, don’t you see?” Unable to prevent the winces creasing his face with every other step, he resumed packing.
“What do I say to your mother when she finds you gone?” Grif asked, voice low.
“I don’t give a shit. My mother’s not my greatest concern at this moment, my wife is!” The
word wife caught in his throat.
Cloak on, Braum glanced through the East-facing windows, unable to see for the dark. “I’ll take a few men and find her. She went towards the witches’ land, which only makes sense considering how I was healed.” Eyes beseeching, he considered his friend. “I’m relying on you to stay here and explain this to my family. Please, try to make them understand. If I need help, I’ll send word.”
For once, Grif didn’t have a sharp retort. “I’d forgotten about this, but I think you should take it.” He strode to Braum’s bed and rummaged under the mattress. “It came with the potion, and though I’m not a superstitious man, I’m not willing to let you go without.”
“What is it?”
Grif shrugged and handed the charm over.
At once, Braum recognized the lock of Jessica’s hair. He threw the iron star onto a silver chain and around his neck. With a nod to his friend, he charged from the room and headed to the soldier’s quarters. Awakening Straum and Arvin with none-too-gentle kicks, the well-trained men got up and followed without question.
As they saddled up, Braum ran a hand through his hair. Dwarves and witches typically avoided each other. Dwarves didn’t believe in the use and worship of magic. Witches were suspicious of anyone who didn’t use or believe in magic. It’d suited the two races fine to remain distant. So, what would happen when word got out a witch’s potion cured the dwarven prince?
“At least it’s spring,” Straum said as they began their journey through knee-high snow. “And by the time we get to Moonstone, the snow’ll be naught but puddles.”
Braum urged his horse faster. His jaw tightened as regret consumed him. Jessica had saved his blasted life and he’d done nothing to deserve it. But he’d make up for it, rectify every wrong, and prove himself worthy of her love.
CHAPTER 29
A sweeter slumber Orrin couldn’t remember when the door slammed open and somebody yanked Jessica from his embrace. He jerked up at her cry of alarm—his fingers already tingling—to find a woman’s hand upon his chest.
“Orrin!” Mystia hissed. “Stop this madness. What do you think you’re doing, sleeping with that dwarf?” She spat the words as though they left a bad taste in her mouth.
His mind raced as more than a dozen witches milled into the cottage. Exhausted following yesterday’s spellcasting, a contingent had come upon them without alerting either him or Willow. Never assuming they’d come under siege, they’d let their guard dwindle.
Unable to grasp what was happening, he briefly clung to the dream become reality of Jessica asleep beside him. He’d felt the moment she’d become whole as her shade slid into place. A sharp jolt of hope had seized his heart that she’d chosen him and not the dwarf as she lay snug in his arms. He’d pressed her to him, wrapped his arms protectively around her, and they’d lain as one, breathing the same air, their bodies touching, until now. His neck grew hot. He could kill someone for the intrusion, and it appeared that someone was his sister.
Jessica’s gray eyes widened as she took in the two men holding her by either arm. She struggled weakly, but her protest ended as Mystia rounded on her.
“Changeling?” Mystia gasped before her lips curved into a nasty smile. “She married the dwarf.”
A curse almost escaped Orrin’s lips. Willow had released the glamour so anyone looking would now see Jessica had transitioned.
Eyes glittering, Mystia observed Jessica then turned to the men holding her. “Throw a bag over her head. We’re fulfilling our part of the deal by taking her back. Whether she’s human or dwarf has nothing to do with it.”
Still too weak to fight, Jessica slumped.
Before Orrin could question her, Mystia stepped back and six witches surrounded him, all with spells at the ready. Sparks sizzled around their hands, emitting a low hum.
It’d be near impossible for him to take them all on, six against one. Black cloaks billowing, and their heads covered with hoods, they wore the formalwear of witches. It wasn’t to disguise their appearance, for he could see each of their faces, but to denote the seriousness of this intervention. They were from the council and would brook no opposition.
Another six witches surrounded Willow. An aura of malevolence pervaded the atmosphere so thoroughly he could taste its bitterness on his tongue. Each witch braced themselves, their brows drawn, and magic hissing.
“What’s the council doing here, Mystia?” he demanded, steeling himself for the answer. “And how’d you get out of the village?” Separated from his sister by the council members, he glared at her from over their shoulders.
“I wrote to mother and father, of course,” she answered, expression smug as she casually examined a nail. “Told them you were consorting with a dirty, dwarf whore. Obviously, they felt the same as I and ordered me to come save you from her clutches.” She walked over to the table, lifted a candle, and sniffed the wick. Her nostrils flared. “What have the three of you been up to?” She dropped the candle and spun around to glare. “This has the reek of demon magic upon it.”
“You would know!” Willow interrupted, straining against the bodies holding her back, her green eyes flashing hatred. “Under what charges are we being held?”
In three strides, Mystia marched over and reached between two witches to grab Willow by a hank of crimson hair. She jerked Willow’s head to the side and considered her. “Watch your tongue, demon spawn, or I’ll have it torn from your head.” Her brown eyes shone as she sneered, “We hold you on the charge of harboring a known enemy and endangering the entire Moonstone Coven.”
“She wasn’t a known enemy.” Willow laughed, the sound harsh in the tense silence. “But while I had no control over who my mother was, at least I have control over who possesses my soul!”
Somebody gasped at the accusation, and council members looked from one to another, trying not to stare.
Braum had suspected his sister was involved in some dark shit recently, but every time he questioned her about it, she’d denied it. It seemed Willow sensed it, too.
Mystia threw her arm back and slapped Willow across the face. Her brown eyes shifted over the witches in the room and their curious glances. “We’ll have words later, spawn.” Her lips tugged down into a grimace as she hissed each word, then pointed at Jessica. “Take her out of here! The rest of you, handle these two.” She didn’t spare a backwards glance at Willow or him, simply followed behind the men dragging Jessica from the cottage.
Handle them? The vein in Orrin’s forehead pulsed as fury welled inside. While Mystia had antagonized Willow, he’d formulated a spell under his breath. Though it wouldn’t be enough to take on everyone.
He turned as Willow’s head snapped back, pulled by a woman who then pressed a vial to her lips. Her scream cut short, Willow clutched her throat, then moved no more, frozen in a contorted spasm. The six witches walked out, talking companionably, their work done.
The witches around him moved forward as one, their circle closing in, getting tighter. He fell to the floor in a crouch, hands braced before him, legs ready to charge. No sodding way he’d swallow their potion.
Like an arrow, he bolted at the witch in front of him, a hunched woman with a crooked spine. Her hands glowed hot, and she shot a bolt of lightning at him. He dodged to the left and heard it strike someone behind him. He looked back to see a man collapse to the ground, mouth foaming.
Orrin spun and sprayed the witch with the burst of white-hot energy he’d concealed. She held up her arms, only to come away shrieking, blood spurting from ragged stumps where her fingers had been. As she crumpled to the ground, she managed to spit a final curse before fainting. Orrin ducked behind a chair, which disintegrated in hot flames. He smothered the small blaze on his pants but was otherwise unharmed.
Desperate to reach Jessica, he sprang for the door. A flurry of objects hit him from behind. But he paid them no mind until something big hit him squarely in the back, forcing him to the ground.
He pulled free of the uptu
rned shelf and looked over his shoulder. A gaunt female witch grinned. Hands sparking green she continued hurling things at him.
The shelf became a barricade as Orrin scrambled behind and searched for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself. The closest thing he found was the tall stool Willow sat on when working her potions. He slammed it against the ground and grabbed a splintered leg, the tip sharp and jagged. After a quick locating spell, he jumped to his feet and, before anybody could react, flung the spike.
A scream pierced the air. The witch stood in shock, before turning her eyes downward. The makeshift spear quivered, embedded under her cheekbone. With shaking hands, she pulled it out, only to gag as blood flooded her mouth, drowning her protests.
The three remaining witches tackled Orrin from behind before he had a chance to round on them. One held his hands, one his legs, and the last man sat astride his abdomen, clutching the poison.
The stout man, holding the vial, placed it to Orrin’s mouth and tipped.
Refusing to swallow the foul liquid, Orrin spat it back out. The man jerked away, screaming, as he clawed his eyes, frozen within their sockets.
“For the love of the goddess! I leave you to take care of him and come back to this?” Mystia snarled as she knocked the blinded man aside and glared at the fallen witches. “He’s one man. Six of you can’t handle one man?”
“Don’t do this, Myst,” he pleaded, tasting blood.
Only two of the six witches ordered to control him were still able-bodied and strained to hold him down as he fought—the rest, while still alive, hovered near death. “Please,” Orrin stared into Mystia’s familiar fawn eyes as he pleaded, “for my sake.”
Her black gown swirled about as she spun to face him. She leaned close and wiped a trickle of blood from his lips before giving him a sisterly peck on the cheek. “Oh brother, it’s for your sake that I do any of this.” In what might’ve been a playful move, in any other situation, she smacked him sharply and twirled away. She ignored him as he bellowed after her and strode towards the door.
