Page 51 of Thistle Thorns

And me? I did what I was told, no ifs, ands, or buts. This was their realm, the business of the Circle of Nine, and if anyone was going to open a portal to demand Arcadis return its lost member, it would be them.

When it was my turn to eat dinner—Italian-American night that included a massive Caesar salad in Grandmother’s brand new salad bowl—I took my plate of spaghetti and meatballs outside to the porch. Knowing how important the great outdoors were to a green witch’s health, Grandmother had relented a smidge since last night, increasing the area of my house arrest to include the porch. I took the opportunity to inhale the fresh air and look for my cat. And assess the farm in general now that it wasn’t protected by the hearth.

Nothing glowed with faelight in the eastern woods, and the orchard was silent. Faint yellow light shone from the hobs’ barn, and I knew they were tucking into the same meal I was. Then, out of the orchard came Sawyer slinking low through the flattened stalks of the dead wildflowers. Since he wasn’t racing like Jakob Tabrass was chasing him with his ruby-topped cane, I knew there was nothing to worry about and rolled a parmesan-dusted meatball off my plate and onto the porch railing for him.

He sank his little white fangs into the meatball and tore off a large bite, the fluffy cheese crusting his upper lip like a moustache. He hadn’t had anything to eat all day, not risking an attempt to sneak inside for a mouthful or two of kibble for fear of Grandmother catching him, and I let him finish the clementine-sized meatball in peace before asking, “Anything?”

I knew he’d gone to see Ame at least once at Shari and Daphne’s house.

“Nothing here,” he reported. “Flora, Flint, and Poppy are just peachy behind their sunlions, and all’s quiet at Weaver Lane. But Ame’s nervous.”

My ivy-green eyes widened. That cat seemed unfazed by anything, and she was nervous now? “She give a reason?”

“She says the air feels charged. Like lightning’s about to strike, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. She says that feeling usually precedes a big spell.”

I snorted. “What does she think we’ve been doing in the farmhouse all day?”

Sawyer rolled his amber eyes. “She says that’s different.”

Twirling some saucy spaghetti onto my fork, I thought aloud, trying to keep my voice light, “You think it’s Antler Tattoo Guy and another one of his freaky fae friends planning another ambush?”

“Arthur says he’s gone to ground,” the tomcat replied confidently. “He’s alone, definitely injured, and probably licking his wounds. Arthur’ll find him any minute now.”

On any other day, I would have smirked at the cat’s change in attitude towards the lumberjack shifter, but not today.

“It’s been all day,” I worried. “I wish Lewellyn was with him. Two shifter noses are better than one.”

The wolf tracker had called me earlier, having used Daphne’s phone, to let me know he was leaving town. His business with Arthur and the Coalition representative had demanded his prompt exodus. Lewellyn hadn’t explained, other than to impress on me that he was coming back as soon as he could. We were pack mates now, after a fashion, and pack mates didn’t leave each other exposed when danger was near. “In the meantime, that’s what the bear’s for,” he’d said. “And your grandmother.”

“Arthur hasn’t texted you?” Sawyer asked presently, now helping himself to some of my spaghetti. His little stomach growled.

“Just once.” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and scrolled through the text messages to see if I’d somehow missed one. Unlikely, since I had the volume set to the same intensity of a foghorn.

There were messages from Flora—selfies of her, Flint, and Poppy with the sunlions in the background, each armed and ready for trouble. Flora had her wand, Flint the fiáin was terrifying enough without a weapon with his needle-like teeth and claws and raspberry juice streaked across his cheeks like war paint, and someone had tied a trowel to the top of Poppy’s head under a big blue bow. She’d told me in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be budging from her house until after our business with Arcadis had been concluded, still salty with my family for going through with the summoning, even if it was only the equivalent of a magical video conference call.

Daphne had texted a few times, wondering if Aunt Peony could whip up a different kind of sedative for Shari and would it be too much trouble to bring it over? As the time of Arcadis’s summoning drew inevitably closer, the quiet crafter had retreated further into herself than ever before, her days and nights becoming plagued by terrible dreams. She was bedridden now, only able to be coaxed to leave the comforts of her blankets to go to the bathroom. Daphne absolutely refused to leave her side. I’d promised to have Aunt Peony make one as soon as she could.

Then there’d been Arthur’s clipped communication: Nothing yet. Rawr.

After that, nothing.

“Meadow,” Otter called from the kitchen window. “Get your butt back in here for dessert. You’ve got like five minutes to hork it down before we start the summoning.”

Sawyer and I stuffed the rest of my spaghetti into our mouths then parted ways, me for inside and him for the porch’s roof. He climbed one of the support posts and wormed-wiggled-clawed over the edge, his feet padding on the roof’s shingles a moment later. He’d eventually make his way to the attic vent where the mirror was when it was time for the spell. Earlier that day, he’d told me in no uncertain terms that if I was going to get sucked into another portal, he was coming with me.

True to her word, Aunt Peony was serving up the leftover jammy tarts as I put my dinner plate in the sink, Aunt Hyacinth dividing up the last of the rabbitfoot clover tea. To an outsider, it might look strange that we took the time to enjoy our food, but the life of a witch was different than a normal mortal’s. A spell could go wonky, a potion might explode, that new locket you just picked up at the antique store could’ve just saddled you with a curse, so it was always in your best interest to savor your meal, especially since it could be your last.

Yet we ate the tarts with a little more haste than usual and left the dirty dishes soaking in the sudsy sink water before collecting all that we had prepared and trooping to the attic. There were only a few more hours before the witching hour was upon us and the portal’s echo vanished completely. From what Grandmother had said, negotiating a fae bargain could be a lengthy process. There was no time to waste.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Our breath frosted upon entering the attic, swirling like smoke in the moonbeams slanting in from the vents. Inside the protection barrier I’d erected seemingly ages ago, the mirror shimmered with its opalescent waterfall effect.

Hiking up their skirts or trousers, the Hawthorne witches high-stepped over the barrier and arranged themselves in an arc around the front of the mirror. Grandmother snapped her fingers at me. “You too, Meadow. This will take nine of us.”

I hastily joined them.

“We must be quick,” Grandmother told us. “This is not the same as summoning a demon, where a door opens and shuts between our world and the next as fast as a snap of your fingers. This is the equivalent of keeping a window open in a tornado for an indeterminant amount of time. The strain will be intense, and it will weaken us. So, the faster we accomplish this, the better for everyone.”

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