Page 22 of Thistle Thorns

“Spells can be undone,” Grandmother said, taking control of the conversation. “Usually with great difficulty, but it is possible. Did you see the fae markings on the hunters’ skin? They already have access to magic they have no right to. It’s probably how they managed to capture a fiáin and compel it to do their bidding. If they manage to recapture it, they might be able to reverse what you’ve done, maybe even determine you are the one responsible for befuddling it. And with the grimoire’s protection spell gone…”

The other robed elders shuddered at the mention of the curse I lifted, but not Grandmother.

“Tod,” she said crisply, “you and Eranthis will return to the farmhouse immediately. There, Eranthis will remain with Forsythia and you will take Badger and hunt down this fiáin and remove it as a liability.”

You mean remove its head, I thought bitterly. I could have done that myself, except I’d shown it compassion instead. Because I didn’t want to resort to battle magic for the rest of my life to solve all my problems.

“But, Grandmother,” I protested.

She sliced a hand through the air, demanding silence. “Your safety comes first. And I don’t want that feral fairy, nor those greedy humans, coming by to disrupt our impending negotiations to get your brother back. Do you?”

Biting down on my lower lip, I shook my head. There was no use arguing. She was right, however I hated it. She hadn’t seen the fiáin, hadn’t seen the anger and pain and desperation fleeing its milky eyes as my magic had nullified the compulsion runes branded into its flesh. It was probably off in the middle of the woods right now hunting rabbits and squirrels and making a burrow for the impending winter. It was no more dangerous than a raccoon or a bobcat minding its own business.

“And you?” Dad asked my grandmother.

“Hyacinth, Meadow, and I will continue on to this Cedar Haven for the rest of the supplies. We’ll be back before nightfall.”

Dad nodded, and the women parted for him to step through and pull me into a one-armed hug. The leather of his battle gear creaked as his grip tightened. “Remember what I taught you,” he murmured against my ear.

“Head on the swivel, watch my six, stay frosty, and all that other military jargon,” I grumbled.

“Including obeying your commander.” That meant Grandmother.

I huffed a short exhale. “I will.”

He kissed my forehead. “Love you.” Then he picked up my totes, along with his, and loaded them into the spare car with practiced efficiency. As he and Aunt Eranthis finished packing away all of our purchases—minus one, with the clothes my aunt and grandmother would use to change into in the car—the rest of the Hawthornes followed me to the sedan.

Sawyer squirmed out of my foraging bag the moment we were inside, then resumed his seat on the center console to evaluate my aunt.

“Hmm,” she mused, fingers drumming on her lap, now covered in paisley linen instead of black leather. “No moonstone collar on this cat.” She eyed Grandmother, then flicked her gaze towards the car window.

Sawyer immediately slunk off the console and into my lap, tucking himself into a tight ball for the ride to Cedar Haven.

CHAPTER NINE

As we stepped out of the car, Sawyer once again snug in my foraging bag, Aunt Hyacinth sucked in a deep inhale through her nose at the sight of the old forest, the little path into the trees to the clearing where Arthur’s cottage nestled, the big green barn with its open bays, and the river just barely visible at the bottom of the hill, swollen and roaring.

“We’ll get everything we need here,” she announced triumphantly. “You can tell by the smell. This is a lush place. Perfect for foraging.”

“This forest is old,” Grandmother said, giving me an accusing look. “You said you’ve foraged here before? And nothing was amiss?”

I kept my mouth shut about the elm tree. Besides, she asked if anything was amiss, not that if anything had gone amiss. “No.”

She gave the forest another suspicious look, mumbling something to herself about fae monsters lurking in its depths that I barely caught. I mean, she wasn’t wrong, exactly, there was that demonic half-heart still buried in that tree in the Alders’ part of the forest, but thistle thorns, she was more superstitious than a bog witch.

“Wood first,” she then declared, marching off towards the barn.

No longer in fine black wool and leather, she wore dress slacks, heeled boots, and a form-fitting belted houndstooth coat. A green-and-ivory neck scarf tied in a French knot was just the boost of color she needed to bring out her eyes. She cut a fancy figure, like she was going out to a classy brunch in the Hamptons instead of buying wood at a carpenter’s shop.

Aunt Hyacinth and I quickly followed, me breaking out into a jog to reach the open bay first and announce our arrival. “Hi, Cody!”

“He ain’t here, Misty Fields,” the old carpenter said, not bothering to look up from rubbing stain over one of his newest carvings. I didn’t take any offense; it was delicate work he needed to finish. “The boy’s over at Axel’s getting his motorcycle fixed. Had to enlist other help this morning, but dontcha know that fella ran off too. Nobody wants to work these days,” he muttered.

“The boy? Motorcycle?” Grandmother murmured. “Is he talking about the man-bear?”

I suppressed the image of man-bear that immediately came to mind—Arthur in my bedroom doorway, a scattering of buttons on the floor, along with his shirt—and murmured quickly, “Everybody’s a boy or girl when you’re Cody’s age.” Then, louder: “I’m actually here to see you, Cody.”

“You are?” He looked up with delight then, eyes quickly narrowing in on the two other women with me.

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