The One and Only Crystal Druid (The Guild Codex: Unveiled Book 1)

by Annette Marie

  I walked out of the shadows. Pierce and Ellen smiled at me. The rest did not.

  I’d joined the coven shortly after my eighteenth birthday, and I’d been a member through that shaky first year when I hadn’t known what I was doing with my life, then through two years of school to become a vet tech, and on into my career at the clinic. Not to suggest my membership had been a source of support or comfort. I couldn’t care less about coven activities, and since I’d never bothered to hide that sentiment, my fellow witches were, at best, ambivalent toward me.

  With the exception of Laney, who outright hated me.

  “I know there’s little you can contribute to these rituals,” she continued in a falsely sympathetic tone. “But you need to attend every full moon ritual, or else—”

  “I overslept,” I interrupted tonelessly.

  Her eyes flashed but she held a concerned smile. “Are you feeling well?”

  I didn’t bother answering. “Arla, can I have a word?”

  The coven’s matriarch, halfway through collecting bowls of herbs from the circle, looked up in mild surprise. Tucking her short gray hair behind her ear, she rose to her feet. “Of course.”

  The others eyed us—and Laney outright glared—as the older woman and I moved to the far edge of the glade.

  “Are you feeling all right, dear?”

  I studied her. Arla Collins. In her early fifties, she was a once-fit woman who’d softened in her later years. Large glasses, chin-length hair, no makeup. She managed her oddly mixed coven with kind words, firm patience, and zero tolerance for bullshit.

  She was the complete opposite of her vain, spiteful daughter, Laney. It surprised me that Arla could be such a positive influence on others but completely fail to raise a respectable daughter. But then, I knew very well how nature trumped nurture.

  “A fae that resembled a brown bear attacked me last night,” I said without preamble.

  Her face went slack. “A bear?”

  I nodded. “North of Quarry Road, less than two kilometers west of here.”

  Her mouth bobbed open, then closed with a snap. “Last night? What time?”

  “Late.” If I told her two or three in the morning, she’d want to know why I’d been wandering the woods in the dead of night—though my evasion wouldn’t fool her.

  “And it attacked you? Did you provoke it? Are you injured? What about the bear?”

  “I didn’t provoke it, and I’m fine. The bear was …” I hadn’t seen what the druid had done to drive it away, but his whip spell hadn’t inflicted much damage. “I think the bear was fine.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “Like another fae?”

  “Fae … people … anything unusual that might explain the fae’s attack.”

  Did she suspect I might have encountered a druid who had no business being in our coven’s territory?

  “Have you heard about other fae attacks recently?” I asked.

  “No.” She stared distractedly toward the mountain’s summit. “Hikers found a dead grizzly on Munroe Lake Trail this morning. I got a heads up from Bradley in Parks Management to check it out. The bear was a fae.”

  A faint chill washed over me. Had the druid gravely wounded the bear after all, or had he hunted it down after leaving me?

  “I didn’t hurt it,” I said sharply. “How did it die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you said you checked it—”

  “Why are you asking about fae attacks?” she interrupted. “Have other fae attacked you?”

  “No. A druid told me there’ve been incidents of fae aggression around here.”

  Arla jumped as though the word “druid” had been an electrical shock. “A druid? Here?”

  “He’s investigating the attacks, or so he claimed. He calls himself the Crystal Druid.”

  She stepped back, her eyes widening. “The Ghost … is here?”

  “The who?”

  Her shock softened into an amused, slightly exasperated smile. “Really, Saber, you should socialize with us more. The Ghost is only the scandal of the year. We were all talking about him nonstop a few months ago.”

  My brow furrowed. “I never said anything about a ghost.”

  “Look him up and you’ll understand.” She brushed dirt off her pants. “I’ve warned you about missing coven events. Full participation is a condition of your rehabilitation.”

  With that one word, cold fury slashed me.

  “As your rehabilitation supervisor, I have a duty to report—”

  “My parole supervisor, Arla,” I snarled softly. “Don’t use their bullshit PR language.”

  “You’re not being punished, Saber. I and the rest of the coven are helping you learn how to be a member of the community.”

  I tightened my jaw so I wouldn’t reply.

  Her expression gentled. “If you perform your own ritual, I’ll count your effort as full attendance. Go on, now, before the others finish packing up.”

  Spinning on my heel, I marched away from her. The rest of the coven was dismantling the ritual circle and gathering their supplies, and I didn’t look at any of them as I crouched and grabbed a handful of dried plant bits.

  A furry tail brushed against my arm. Ríkr slunk into my shadow, his pupilless blue eyes on Arla. A deliberate antagonization, dove. She used language you revile to distract you.

  I glanced over my shoulder, tracking Arla as she strolled toward the path back to her house, Ellen chatting animatedly with her. Ríkr was right. She’d diverted my attention to end the conversation.

  She knows something, I told him silently. Is it something about the druid? Or about fae—

  A shadow fell over me, interrupting my silent conversation with Ríkr. “You missed again.”

  I looked up at Laney, then rose to my full height so I could properly sneer down at the shorter witch. She smiled at me for the benefit of anyone watching.

  “Mother promised to pardon your negligence again, didn’t she?” Laney raised her chin as though that would bring her closer to my height. “Well, I won’t. I’ll make sure they know you violated your conditions again, and this time they’ll drag you back to—”

  “Laney.”

  She broke off, her shoulders stiffening.

  I curved my lips up, but it wasn’t a smile. Not even close. “If you, your mother, or anyone else sabotages me, I’ll make you pay.”

  Simple words, but her face went white.

  Hands full of leaves, I walked away. Ríkr trotted beside me, his tail flicking smugly.

  You elected to follow my advice, he observed. She appeared most frightened. Well done, dove.

  I bit the inside of my cheek, unsure if that had been the right move.

  Have you other topics of concern upon which I might apportion my wisdom? he inquired. I am eager to advise you. Have you reconsidered a blood altar?

  Rolling my eyes, I chose a spot at the farthest end of the glade where the movements and voices of the others were easy to ignore. Ríkr sat beside me as I scraped dead leaves off a small patch of dirt, then cataloged the dried sprigs I’d grabbed.

  Witches used their spiritual energy to cleanse, balance, revitalize, or manipulate the inherent energies of earth and nature. When I observed other witches performing those rituals, I felt the rightness in them, but when it came to creating them myself, I lacked any instinct whatsoever.

  I used a twig to scratch out a basic purification circle. Squinting at it, I tried to imagine how it should be adapted to fit the unique flow of energy around me … but I had no idea. With a mental shrug, I sprinkled herbs on it and closed my eyes. Singing wasn’t strictly necessary, but it helped direct my power—the little I possessed. What should I sing?

  In the tree above me, an unknown bird let out a series of delicate trills, as though encouraging me to join it. I smiled faintly.

  “Oh swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness, jewel of joys, arise,” I sang. “The little red lark, like a soaring
spark, of song to his sunburst flies.”

  A soft memory, tinged with sorrow, slid through me. My small hands, engulfed in large, warm fingers. A tall figure on either side of me, our arms swinging. My parents’ voices joined my high child’s voice as we sang together.

  “But till thou’rt risen, earth is a prison, full of my lonesome sighs; then awake and discover, to thy fond lover, the morn of thy matchless eyes.”

  Long meadow grass swept across our legs as we walked, singing and laughing. My father was tall with medium-brown hair and a reddish beard. My mother was willowy and dark-haired. I’d inherited her coloring and his height.

  “The dawn is dark to me. Hark! O hark to me, pulse of my heart, I pray.”

  A stream paralleled our path, and standing in the knee-deep water was a petite woman with bluish-green skin, dramatically pointed ears, and crystalline eyes. The water nymph’s smile enchanted us as she sang too, her voice more beautiful than any human’s.

  “And out of thy hiding, with blushes gliding, dazzle me with thy day.”

  She reached toward me, still singing, and touched my chest where a river-stone pendant lay. A shimmer of her blue magic washed over it.

  “Ah, then, once more to thee, flying I’ll pour to thee, passion so sweet and gay. The lark shall listen, and dewdrops glisten …”

  Her cool fingers tousled my hair, then together, the four of us continued across the meadow toward a rustic cabin in the shadow of a towering mountain.

  “… laughing on ev’ry spray.”

  The final note throbbed in my throat, and I cracked my eyes open, unsurprised to find them damp with unshed tears. Though they’d died many years ago, memories of peaceful, laughter-filled days with my parents always struck me hard. I wondered if I could ever be happy like that again, or if carefree joy was no more than a child’s innocent illusion.

  In the wake of my ritual attempt, Ríkr’s sharp eyes had softened with lazy contentment. He sat beside me with his tail curled around his paws—but he wasn’t my only spectator.

  On my other side, Pierce sat cross-legged in the grass, his serpentine familiar coiled over his shoulders. With his thickly muscled build, bushy beard, and weather-worn face, he was the last person anyone would expect to be a nature-loving witch. But a closer look at his tattooed arms showed depictions of mythical fae intertwined with blooming vines.

  “Gleer loves your singing, as usual,” he said in his gruff voice. “But you still can’t do a proper ritual for the life of you.”

  Herbs scattered across my sad little circle as the breeze washed through the glade. I sighed.

  “You can do what you want, Saber,” he added, a deeper growl coming into his voice, “but missing rituals is a risk. Arla will only overlook your absence so many times. Don’t blow it.”

  I said nothing.

  “How long do you have left?” he asked.

  “Two years.”

  “That’s forty-eight more rituals. Just stick with it, girl. You don’t want MagiPol knocking on your door when you’re this close.”

  A slight shiver ran over me. Witches weren’t the only magic-users among the human race, and we were all ruled by the MPD, an organization as secret as it was powerful. “MagiPol” not only controlled magic-users—or mythics, as we called ourselves—and ensured magic remained hidden, but they were also judge, jury, and enforcer of their own laws. When a mythic committed a crime, the MPD and their agents dispensed “justice.”

  Pierce had ended up in this coven for the same reason as me—assigned to Arla for his “rehabilitation”—but he’d completed his sentence several years ago and decided to remain instead of starting over yet again. He was the only person here with the slightest idea of what it was like to live under the MPD’s absolute power.

  “The day I’m done,” I murmured, “I’m going to break Laney’s nose.”

  A guffaw burst from him, and he quickly choked it back. “She’ll be lucky if that’s all you do, but I wouldn’t recommend it. MagiPol won’t forget you exist.”

  MagiPol wouldn’t forget. They probably remembered better than I did.

  I knew what I’d done. I remembered that much. But my memories of that day, and the weeks leading up to it, were fragmented and missing crucial details that I should have been able to recall easily, even after ten years.

  “Dissociative amnesia,” it was called. A condition where the subconscious mind represses traumatic memories out of self-preservation. At least, that was what the psychiatrist had described when asked to explain why I couldn’t testify during my own sentencing. I might remember everything someday, he’d claimed, if I healed enough or if the right trigger brought the memories back.

  All things considered, I was fine with the gaps in my recollection.

  My thoughts drifted back to my conversation with Arla. I couldn’t push her for answers about the bear fae or the druid, not without risking my freedom and future, but like the MPD, I wouldn’t forget. I hadn’t come here of my own free will, but this place had been my home for seven years now.

  And I wasn’t about to ignore the inexplicable new danger in my backyard.

  Chapter Eight

  I parked beside a beat-up bronze sedan that belonged to one of Hearts & Hooves’ regular volunteers. Dominique and Greta’s Ranger was gone; they were running errands this afternoon.

  The breeze teased my loose hair through my truck’s open windows as I leaned back in the driver’s seat, my phone in my hand. On it was the MPD Archives, a website where any mythic with a login could browse information about other mythics, guilds, and bounties set on the heads of the magic community’s criminals.

  Filling my screen was a bounty listing.

  “‘Zakariya Andrii,’” I read quietly. “‘Also known as the Ghost and the Crystal Druid. Charged with three hundred and forty-five felonies under MPD law. A “dead or alive” bounty of one point three million dollars will be awarded upon his capture or death, pending confirmation of identity.’”

  The bounty for killing a demon, the deadliest magical creature out there, was less than half that. I skimmed the list of charges against him. Illegal magic, illegal trading, theft, extortion, blackmail, assault …

  Kidnapping.

  Murder.

  This guy was a dedicated career criminal with a mile-long rap sheet. The bounty information flashed past as I scrolled down to the notes section, used by bounty hunters to share information. A quick scan of the comments revealed that “the Ghost’s” real name and his second alias of the Crystal Druid had only been discovered recently.

  The commentary also suggested he was the most notorious rogue in Vancouver.

  “Why?” I muttered. “If he’s an infamous fugitive, why tell me who he is?”

  Because you are a witch with a familiar, Ríkr answered, sprawled on the passenger seat beside me. No fae would mistake him for anything but a druid, and pretending to be any other druid would be a fool’s move.

  “Because he’s the one and only Crystal Druid?” I muttered mockingly, using Ríkr’s wording from earlier.

  Despite my tone, I could see his point; druids were extremely rare, known for being magnitudes more powerful than their weaker magical cousins: witches like me. They were also known for their extreme power carrying them straight to an early grave.

  His energy was exquisitely, savagely delectable, my familiar added. How does he not have an assembly of drooling fae trailing his every step?

  “Were you drooling?” I asked as I scrolled back to the top of the webpage.

  I would never drool. Sitting up, he arched his feline back in a stretch. An august entity such as myself salivates. They are quite different things.

  Snorting, I reread the bounty summary, fitting his name to that enigmatic face and those inhuman green eyes. “Zakariya Andrii …”

  Ríkr flicked his tail. An unusual name, is it not?

  I opened a web search. After a minute of tapping, I shook my head bemusedly. “‘Zakariya’ is an Arabic form of Zac
hariah. ‘Andrii’ is … a Ukrainian given name? I don’t think it’s normally a surname. Maybe he adopted it.”

  Remembering his fair skin, I assumed Ukrainian was more likely than Arabic. Pulling up more variants of Zachariah, I spotted a close Russian/Ukrainian spelling—Zakhariya.

  I abruptly exited the search. Why was I researching his name? Why was I giving him any thought at all? I wasn’t going anywhere near him again, even if that meant leaving the bear fae’s death and Arla’s secrets alone for now. Where rogues went, bounty hunters and MPD agents followed, and drawing the attention of either was the last thing I needed.

  It was better that I hunker down, stick to my usual routine, and wait for “the Ghost” to get lost. Whatever strange fae behavior he might be tracking, he wouldn’t risk staying in one area too long. I’d have to refrain from any nighttime wandering—or lawbreaking—but I could resist for a little while. Probably.

  “Ríkr,” I muttered as I stuck my phone in my back pocket. “Don’t let me do anything stupid until that druid is gone, okay?”

  He flicked his tail. That may be difficult, dove.

  I frowned at him as he gave me a catty smile and leaped out the open passenger window.

  “Saber!”

  I started, whipping toward my window. Colby, our volunteer, stood beside it, and I swallowed a breathy gasp. Why did people keep sneaking up on me?

  He grinned. “Thought I heard your truck! You have a customer.”

  I stared at him without expression. His good cheer faltered.

  “The rescue doesn’t have customers,” I told him flatly. We had donors and volunteers, not customers.

  “Well, yeah.” He rubbed his hand over his shaggy blond hair. “I said you were an apprentice farrier only, but it’s a simple job. You can do it. They’re waiting in the stable.”

  Waiting? I looked around the yard. There were no vehicles other than mine and Colby’s, and besides that, the city boy didn’t know enough about horses or farriery to determine if anything was a “simple” job or not. His main duty around the rescue was cleaning.

  He watched me with growing discomfort, and I belatedly remembered he was used to “nice” Saber.