Twig of Thorn (The Blackthorn Cycle Book 1)

by L. M. Hawke

  “Bloody hell,” Una muttered. Then, because staring at her fantastically aged home would do nothing to alter her present situation, she resolutely turned her back on the cottage and marched away.

  She knew just where she ought to go, of course: the crossroads, the source of all her troubles since she’d arrived in Kylebeg. The road that led down the hill and toward the black-forested crossroad was no longer paved. Now it was a dirt path, deeply rutted as if by countless generations of wagon wheels, choked by eager grasses and trailing vines. To the left and right, where the familiar pastures of the hillside should have been, all the wood and wire fences had vanished. Now the land was open and wild. The remnants of old stone fences still stood here and there, cutting through dense meadows with the dark slashes of damp stone and thriving moss. Una pressed on. This time, she moved toward the crossroads determinedly—not under the spell of the Sidhe who had tried to summon her. Una was too angry and determined to give into whatever magic those creatures might be trying to work now.

  The blackthorn forest that loomed around the crossroads was not the dark, tangled thicket Una knew in the human realm. Here, each tree seemed to stand out from the others in sharp relief, their trunks outlined with a silvery halo that glowed against the twilight sky.

  “You and your damned blackthorn trees,” Una grumbled as she marched on down the hill. “I’d like to chop every last one of them down.”

  Just as Una left the hill behind and struck out across unsloped ground, a figure suddenly appeared among the trees. Una paused, staring. The figure was a woman, tall and slender, and she gazed expectantly at Una, but made no gesture of recognition of welcome; nor did she attempt to come any closer. She merely stood, watching and waiting. The silver glow from the blackthorn trunks shone brightly on her long, fair hair. She was garbed in the same light-colored, curiously flowing cloth the Sidhe man had worn when he’d appeared in Una’s parlor. That was all Una could determine about the woman from a distance, but her stature and paleness, and the strange clothing, were enough to identify her as one of the Fair Folk, even to a person as inexperienced as Una.

  “You there,” Una called.

  She wasn’t sure what else she might say to a fairy, but after experiencing first-hand their rude habit of appearing in human cottages and spiriting people away, she wasn’t about to adopt the deferential, almost worshipful tone Kathleen had taken.

  The Sidhe woman ignored her, though. After a moment, Una stifled a sigh of frustration and moved closer. As Una approached, the pale one only turned away, walking into the trees and promptly vanishing amid the silver trunks.

  “Bollocks,” Una whispered.

  She remained firmly rooted in place, reluctant to leave the dirt road. She could see the point where the two avenues met easily enough, though. The crossroad was essentially the same as it had been in the human realm—but now, here in the realm of the Fair Folk, the place had aged considerably, like everything else. It seemed as if a century had passed—a century at least—ravaging the landscape, eroding it under the grinding weight of time. The meeting of the two roads was no longer precise; wearing and overgrowth had blurred its edges, leaving a misshapen hole in the blackthorn wood, its ground packed hard by the passage of feet and old-fashioned vehicles.

  Una stepped into the center of the old crossroads. The open sky above was violet and misty. She could hear the soft rustlings of the fairy woman, moving about in the trees. The pale woman was near—Una could sense her unsettling proximity as a tingle of instinctive fear along her skin—but the Sidhe kept herself just out of Una’s reach.

  Una tilted her head to listen as the fairy moved, paused, and then moved again. Something about her motion and direction—and something about the periodic pauses, the tense moments of waiting—made Una believe that the creature was trying to guide her toward a particular path.

  “I’ll go of my own accord,” Una said boldly, though she still couldn’t see the fairy woman in the undergrowth. “Come out and guide me honestly; I won’t be tricked and led along by you.”

  The woman held still within the forest, so still that Una began to wonder if she’d vanished. Then the rustling started up again. The fairy would not show herself, and Una didn’t know where she ought to go—where the Sidhe might have taken Ailill. It seemed she had little choice but to follow wherever the fairy woman led, after all.

  “Fine,” Una muttered petulantly. “We’ll do it your way, then.” She stepped toward the whispers among the leaves, trying to shrug off the weight of fear that lay across her shoulders.

  The forest rustlings guided Una to a path through the undergrowth—a path she recalled from her previous experiences at the crossroads. Again, she remembered the confusing waking dream—the thing that had been no dream after all—when she had walked this path and found herself moving through one era of history, then another, and another still. This path was the one that had led Una to the circle of stones, where she had watched a man and a woman, priest and priestess, conducting their mysterious and ancient rites for the benefit of the people who had gathered around a great bonfire.

  Una followed the sound of her elusive guide, moving briskly through the forest. As she came out of the blackthorn wood, she recognized the landscape. It was as she remembered it: the hill was stood exactly where it had been before. Although in the human realm lush pasture had spread out around the hill, now there was young forest, filled with the saplings of broadleaf trees and tangled, blue-green underbrush. The path that led to the hill was lined in flowers, purple and gold, just as in her dream; as she walked among them, the flowers responded to her presence with a soft, gentle light, and now and again glittering puffs of pollen drifted across her path.

  At the hill’s summit, the ring of tall stones stood exactly where Una expected them to be. But inside the ring of stones—beyond them, sprawling to encompass the whole crest of the hill—was a magnificent palace. Dozens of delicate spires stretched up into the purple mist. They were pale and fine, their turrets and windows intricately carved. Leaves and flowers fashioned from that bone-white stone almost seemed to ripple in the woodland breeze, so realistic and detailed was their workmanship. Renderings of fantastical birds in flight, trailing long, sweeping tail feathers, decorated one tower—the next, the faces of men and women with flowing hair and deep, wise-looking eyes. Each tower bore a different theme, and every carving was so lifelike that Una half expected the figures and animals to leap down from those high stone towers run and dance among the forest.

  As Una stood gaping in wonder at the palace spires, the Sidhe woman stepped out of the wood, some twenty or thirty paces ahead. She turned and gazed back at Una, watching her with eyes that were slanted and luminous, like a cat’s eyes in twilight. The Sidhe lifted a hand, beckoning.

  “Come.” Her soft voice drifted gently through the forest. The sound of that one, simple word was musical, consoling. “We have waited long for you, Cousin. Come.”

  Una hesitated. Kathleen had warned her of the dangers of the Otherworld. Despite its strange, lush beauty, this place was unknown and uncharted. For all Una knew, it might hold as many dangers—as many monsters—as the darkest depths of the sea. Who was to say what was safe or unsafe, and who in this realm could be trusted?

  The only thing Una could be certain of was that time was running faster here in the Otherworld, flowing along a much swifter current than in her own realm. She did not yet know what the difference in time might mean for her—or for Ailill, if she could even find him.

  But Una knew she must speak to the Fair Folk if she wanted to get Ailill back. It was they who had taken him, and they who knew what had become of him. Caution was wise, but she couldn’t hold herself back forever. She pressed on toward the Sidhe woman with her head up high.

  This time, the Sidhe made no effort to slink back into the woods or to keep herself out of Una’s reach. No doubt, she lived in that pale palace, and felt entirely confident here on her home turf. The woman remained where she was, all
owing Una to catch up with her.

  Una eyed the Sidhe carefully as she drew close. The fairy had an undeniable air of regal self-possession, gazing unruffled at Una with a quietly expectant air, as if she were waiting for Una to bow low before her, as Kathleen had done back at the cottage. Her hair was so light in color that it seemed almost translucent, as if each strand picked up and amplified the silvery glow of the saplings around her. The eyes were wide and slanted, colored a blue so vivid that they brought thoughts of Ailill to the surface of Una’s mind with a sudden, painful force. The woman’s face was sharply defined, her features bold and forceful, yet nothing was out of harmony, nothing unbalanced. Yet that undeniable beauty was tempered by a strange, detached iciness that Una couldn’t help but find suspicious. The Sidhe’s air of superiority and distance reminded Una powerfully that she had recently seen this very same woman weeping in despair, in the dream-vision she’d had shortly after her arrival in Kylebeg. Una was absolutely certain that this was the same fairy—the one who had cried despondently on the moss-covered boulder as Una had looked on from the dream realm.

  “Are we going in there, then?” Una asked. She nodded up the hill, toward the palace.

  For a long moment, the Sidhe did not answer. She only gazed at Una steadily, and that air of expectation increased around her until it felt almost palpable, practically visible. Una stoically remained upright, refusing to bow or grovel, refusing to give the creature what she wanted. I’ve seen you all undone and crying like a baby, Una thought. You may not know it, but I have.

  She waited just as silently and patiently as the fairy, and finally the pale-haired woman relented with a single, brief nod. “Yes.”

  Una stared up at the palace, rising above its outer ring of stones. Inside, she hoped, Ailill waited for her—somewhere in that maze of towers and spires and delicate, finely carved ramparts. With luck, she would find him quickly and bring him out again. But the palace was so vast, and—if the pale-haired guide was any indication—none of the Sidhe would be inclined toward helpfulness. Still, Una was resolved to do what needed doing, regardless of the difficulty or cost. She strode forward, breaking out in front of the Sidhe, and began to climb the hill on her own.

  With a few quick steps, the Sidhe was in front of Una again, though only by a few paces. The pale guide had to move briskly to keep determined Una properly behind her alabaster shoulder.

  “We are glad you’ve come,” the woman said, without looking around at Una, and with very little gladness in her voice.

  “What is your name?” Una asked. “If you have a name, I mean.”

  Now the Sidhe did look at Una, casting a quick glance over her shoulder. To Una’s surprise, an obvious glint of amusement shone in those strange, intensely blue eyes.

  So they do have emotions, Una thought. That comforted her a little—the knowledge that these strange creatures felt, even if they put on a good show of total detachment.

  “I am La’anxshtimala Sispherene do Seelie do Tuatha,” the woman said, with a hint of laughter in her voice. “But I have learned that humans find my name rather cumbersome. If you wish to address me, you may call me Bracken. It is not an exact translation of my name, but it is accurate enough to serve.”

  “You know my name, I suppose,” Una said as they climbed the slope.

  “Yes. We have known of you for quite some time, Una Teig. We are glad you have chosen to come.”

  “Chosen,” Una said bitterly. “You would have taken me, whether I chose it or not.”

  Bracken shrugged gracefully, never taking her eyes off the palace at the top of the hill. “Our need is great.”

  As if that excuses anything, Una thought.

  They reached the crest of the hill. Bracken walked steadily toward the ring of stones and the palace courtyard beyond it, but Una hesitated just outside the circular border.

  “Come,” Bracken said. “It is safe.”

  “Safe for you,” Una muttered. She watched the palace suspiciously for another long moment, but it was still and serene—even beautiful. Somewhere in that forest of spires and towers, Ailill was waiting. And Una must find him… must right her grave, foolish wrong, and restore both their lives to the way they’d been before.

  With a deep breath, Una stepped into the ring of stones. Passing that barrier was like walking through a wall of crystal-clear water—moving through a force that was impossible to see, but which Una felt powerfully on her skin, in her bones… with the whole of her body. The invisible force surrounded her, wrapping her tightly with a palpable, smothering sensation. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe—as if she might drown in whatever the stuff was that surrounded her. In a panic, she leaped forward and burst through the barrier, unharmed but shaken. She gasped for breath on the other side.

  Bracken stepped close to her, murmuring softly, “There is nothing to fear. It is protective magic—a spell to keep our court safe from harm.”

  “Harm?” Una said, trembling, trying to rein in her thoughts and emotions. “What can harm you? This is your world, after all.”

  Bracken gave her a long, lingering look. There was a certain wryness about it, as if to say, A great lot you know, human. But there as sorrow in those vibrant eyes, too, and Una recalled all too clearly the image of Bracken in her dream, face buried in her slender hands as she wept inconsolably in the forest.

  “Come, now,” Bracken said, turning away. “The Seelie Court waits to meet you.”

  * * *

  Also by L. M. Hawke

  The Blackthorn Cycle

  Cage of Thorn

  Harp of Thorn (January, 2017)

  The Turquoise Path

  Black Moon Sing

  Red Fire Glow

  Blue Sky Break

  Alpha House

  Virgin Shift

  Witch’s Reign

  Rain City Hunters

  A Sense of Shadows

  Ghostlight

  Preview Chapter: Virgin Shift

  The first book in the Alpha House duology, available now from select ebook retailers.

  * * *

  Roxy tipped the big ceramic mug carefully in her hand, easing the steamed milk into the caramel-and-espresso brew that waited, sweet and mouth-watering, in its bottom. The coffee and milk blended into a perfect latte-brown as her friend Brooke watched over her shoulder.

  “Good,” Brooke said. “Now slow it down… slower… there. Okay, remember what I showed you with the foam?”

  “I think so.” Roxy gave the steel pitcher a gentle shake, and the raft of rich foam drifted to the pitcher’s mouth. She made one quick pour, then another, and another. Three dollops of foam floated atop the latte. She finished with a last smooth pour, drawing the dollops together into the shape of a perfectly veined white leaf, which floated smack in the middle of the latte.

  “Hey, I did it!”

  “Just like a pro,” Brooke said, flashing her bright grin and tossing her long, sandy hair over one shoulder. “Soon you’ll be the one training all the newbies.”

  Roxy set the mug on a saucer and called the order up. She loved her new job at the Browsing Buffalo Café almost as much as she loved her new life in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. But she doubted there would be any new employees to train for a good, long time. The Browsing Buffalo must have been pretty desperate to hire somebody – anybody – since Roxy could hardly imagine a worse new-hire than herself. When she got the job, she’d had no prior experience in cafés or restaurants, and even lacked in-town references. She’d arrived in Jackson Hole just hours before with everything she owned crammed into the back of her old, Army-green Jeep.

  Roxy hadn’t intended to make Jackson her final destination. The truth was, she hadn’t had the faintest idea where she’d end up. When she’d left Hanover, Roxy hadn’t picked any particular destination or even a route. Her only clear thought had been to put as many miles between herself and the Ivy League town as she could manage, to distance herself from the privileged and the out-of-touch, from the Dartmouth
boys who thought their wealth made them untouchable.

  She had allowed her curiosity and the road carry her wherever they would. She’d spent several days in various cities along her meandering route, and found things to like about all of them – Greensboro, Columbus, Sedona, Las Vegas – but when she found herself in small but classy Jackson with its Western charm and stunning scenery, something deep in her heart – something assertive and essential – told her she was home. As she took in the town’s astounding scenery – the violet-blue, bare-granite peaks soaring above the broad sagebrush plains, the sky still bright and clear in the short end of summer – a wave of satisfaction and comfort had swept over Roxy, filling her heart with comfort and satisfaction like she had never known before.

  Almost at once, Roxy had spotted the “Help Wanted” sign on the Buffalo’s door. True, she had been driving for a long time in the summer heat and really needed that iced mocha – the AC in her Jeep wasn’t what it used to be. But still it had seemed like serendipity, like luck was smiling on her at last, and she’d inquired about the position certain that even with her lack of applicable experience, still she couldn’t go wrong. Roxy had found herself in an impromptu interview with Annie, the sweet, motherly old hippie of an owner who had come out from the back kitchen wiping the flour from her hands with her ragged apron. Fifteen minutes later, Roxy had the job.

  Jackson Hole. It still seemed impossible that she was lucky enough to call such a beautiful place her home. She thanked all the stars in the sky that Annie was willing to hire her, and as she stepped outside the aged-barnwood door of the Browsing Buffalo on that first bright day of her new life, she had stared up at the Grand Teton peaks, breathed deep the dusty-green perfume of sagebrush, and sighed with happiness. Even if she didn’t know a thing about working in a café – yet – she already knew that this was where she belonged.