Page 33 of Muddled Magic

And invisible barrier stopped me halfway to the grimoire, my hand frozen in midair.

I strained, putting my whole weight and will behind that swing, but my hand didn’t budge. Neither of them did.

Fear shot through me. This wasn’t a barrier. It felt more like shackles.

The runes on my cuffs glowed red, having come to life at another’s command.

Leaves and brittle grass crunched as another set of footsteps approached, my mother coming into view. Her hands were glowing with the ivy green of battle magic, shimmering threads of her magic strung between her hands like a cat’s cradle. Or puppet strings.

“What are you doing to me?” I rasped, straining against the invisible restraints. It wasn’t just my cuffs that she had control over, but my arms and chest. It was as if they’d turned to granite—immovable. I could feel an unfamiliar power trickling into my legs, attempting to root them, and my own power flared, fighting it back. How had she gotten a spell through the barrier?

“I can’t let you do that, honey,” Mom replied firmly.

“You… have control… of my cuffs?”

She winced. “It’s a backdoor spell even I didn’t know.”

“Until I taught her,” Grandmother finished, seemingly appearing right out of thin air. Her hands were hidden away in opposite sleeves, her chin high, her voice level. The golden censer she’d used at the Circle ceremony hung from her belt, a coal of the Hawthorne hearth burning inside. She wore no other adornments, and she didn’t need to. Iris Hawthorne was the picture of regal calmness… if not for the green light glowing in her eyes. She was furious.

The rest of my coven approached from every side then, completely encircling us. It was unnerving to see them in their battle leathers and shortened black battle robes, their feet hidden in boots and their hair braided or bound or swept out of the way of their eyes. The pixies had apparently roused at the attack on the farmhouse and had gone after their hair, tufts sticking out every which way. Aunt Hyacinth was even missing an eyebrow. From the splattered apple stains on most of their robes, it seemed the hobs had made good on their distraction efforts too, though it all hadn’t been enough to stop them. Now the Circle of Nine regathered, solemn and menacing, as ominous as the fire-scorched stakes that had been historically used to burn our ancestors.

Uncle Badger shoved a bound and gagged Lewellyn, his chest bare and heaving, to the ground at the base of an old oak and summoned roots to imprison him there. A soft note of distress, almost like the chirp of a frightened finch, rose from Daphne at the sight of the massive bruise on the side of the shifter’s face.

When Lewellyn was contained, every eye turned towards me.

The forest was silent, the birds all flown, the insects hiding. The sky was dark overhead, a November storm brewing—perhaps Uncle Stag had sent it. There was no rain yet, but the air was deathly still, void of breath and smothering in its windlessness.

Aunts Peony, Hyacinth, and Eranthis were solemn; Uncle Badger’s blue eyes didn’t twinkle; Cousin Otter was a cheerless husk of his usual self; and Marten… He seemed the only one unaffected—still brazen and bold and selfish. He maintained his position even as he shook his head and blinked rapidly at what had to be dazzling spots in his vision. Aunt Peony remained close to him, her hand hovering nearby in case he lost his balance. His battle leathers and shortened robes bore the worst of the hobs’ apple assault, but he wasn’t swaying on his feet from their attack.

“Briars take your eyes, Meadow,” my brother growled. “That Scouting Spell—”

“Was less than you deserved,” I seethed. I turned my attention back to my mother. “Let me go!”

“Perhaps a trade?” Grandmother asked, withdrawing a hand from her robes. Her talon-like fingers pinched Sawyer’s scruff, the tomcat dangling in her grip. Something about her robes must have subdued him, but now that he was free of the dark fabric, he yowled with renewed distress, swiping with every claw.

“Sawyer,” I cried.

There was a streak of reddish-brown and white, and then my grandmother let out a hiss, clutching her hand to her chest. The claw marks across the back of her hand sealed almost instantly.

Ame landed with Sawyer’s scruff in her mouth as if he was her kitten, and my tomcat wiggled free to jump towards me, but the crystal barrier prevented his entrance. The force field shimmered with ripples of opalescent light with his impact, knocking him to the ground. A few members of the coven gave surprised murmurs, but quickly recovered, focusing on the feral tomcat. Sawyer gave me a panicked look, then spun to find a way out, but he was just as surrounded as I was.

So, he tucked in his tail, fluffed out his fur, and flattened his ears, directing a ferocious hiss at my nearest family member. Otter flinched but held his ground. He’d always enjoyed playing with the manor cats.

“Iris,” Ame spat, paws flared into a fighting position.

“Ame,” my grandmother replied coolly, distain dripping from every syllable. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”

But no one could out-scorn a cat. “Fern would be ashamed of you.”

The coven shared a brief glance at the mention of our late great-aunt, Grandmother’s younger sister and Aunt Hyacinth’s mother. My generation hadn’t known her, and our elders rarely spoke of her. So how did an old ornery cat from the backwoods of the Midwest know of such a powerful witch?

While Aunt Hyacinth had stiffened, it was like Grandmother had been slapped. Her glowing green eyes widened, her serene mouth twisting into a snarl. “Don’t you dare speak her name.”

“Why not? She was my bonded witch and my friend. And you ripped us apart!”

“I didn’t know Mother had had a familiar,” Aunt Hyacinth said, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned to Grandmother. “You said they were always forbidden.”

“They are,” Grandmother said firmly.

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