Page 20 of Thistle Thorns

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

She set her empty mug down, added her opals and moonstones to the diamonds, and picked up each corner of the velvet display swatch like she was about to tie up a gingham cloth around a picnic lunch, and marched for the checkout counter.

Ms. Harris gasped as Grandmother passed, seething, “How dare you, you… dominatrix! Do you have any idea who I am?”

“An old raisin of a gossiping witch who needs more vitamin D in her life?” Grandmother flung over her shoulder, not even bothering to insult Ms. Harris to her face. “I left the whole of his cubic zirconia inventory for you to enjoy, by the way.”

Dad nudged me then, urging me to join Grandmother at the checkout counter as it seemed we were going to beat a prompt exit.

“Ladies,” Grandmother called, summoning my aunts and proving Dad’s instincts correct.

“Excuse me!” Ms. Harris bugled, her suede boots stomping after Grandmother. “Did you just call me a witch? I happen to be—”

“No. But what I called you certainly rhymes with it.”

Ms. Charlotte Harris’s eyes threatened to bulge out of her head, and Emmett whimpered a nearly inaudible, “Oh mercy.”

But the human woman drew herself up short, plucking back the accusing finger she’d thrust in Grandmother’s direction as the rest of the Hawthornes surged to her side. There was a sudden wall of black battle robes and leather in front of her, minus me in my canvas parka and fleece leggings. The four Hawthornes had nothing but disdain for the woman who’d insulted their family, but I mumbled a low, “Good afternoon, Ms. Harris.”

Behind the checkout counter, Emmett’s energy was split between sweating, ringing up Grandmother’s many purchases—including all the clothes, extra bed linens, and toiletries the rest of us had amassed—and not getting his sweat on said purchases.

When Ms. Charlotte Harris didn’t reply, the muscle in her jaw flickering as she alternated between clenching her teeth and preparing an insult, my father jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You can queue up behind me.”

She let out a queenly, “Hmph!” and marched out of the Barn Market instead, the little bell ringing angrily with her exodus.

Emmett sagged onto his stool, but his hands continued to check tags and carefully package.

“Let me help you with that, Emmett,” Grandmother said.

With a wave of her hand, green vines of magic folded and tucked and stacked every item into brown paper totes. When the tote was full, a vine passed it off into the waiting hands of a Hawthorne. Soon, each of us held a tote in each hand, and Grandmother was pulling out her leather billfold from a hidden pocket in her robe. She handed him cash, telling him to keep the change, then led her family through the winding path back to the front door.

“Sorry about that,” I whispered to Emmett before catching up after my father. “Bye, Monkfoot!”

If the brownie or the elderly gentleman were worried about repercussions from the Harris Harridan, they didn’t show it. They’d just made a killing in sales, after all. Emmett flung up a hand and waved in farewell. “Thank you for visiting the Barn Market, Fields Family. Have a good’un!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Outside, the rain had reduced to a drizzle that seemed to coat the world in a wet gray fuzz. We exited in time to catch Ms. Harris deliberately driving into a puddle to splash my car before her tires screeched in a hairpin turn to narrowly miss oncoming traffic as she pulled out onto the road.

“Interesting townsfolk you have here,” Grandmother commented dryly, as if I had populated Redbud myself. “Misty, the car—”

“Don’t move.” My father’s voice was low. “We’re being watched. On the left.”

I set my totes down and made a show of fishing out my keys from my bag, even though I knew they were in my coat pocket, and glanced to the left. “Thistle thorns.”

Short black hair, cutting blue eyes, those strange bluish-green tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of his pea coat. Even though he had a scarf nestled against his throat, I’d recognize Antler Tattoo Guy anywhere.

And he wasn’t alone.

The same cluster of magic hunters I’d seen that time in the Magic Brewery were with him, their own fae-like markings peeking out from cuffs and collars.

“You know them?” Grandmother asked, pretending to fiddle with her robes as if she was preparing to lift her hood against the drizzle.

“Magic hunters.”

“Magic hunters?” She actually twisted to face me, incredulous. “Why are we just hearing about them now?”

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