Page 21 of Thistle Thorns

“Well I would’ve told you in the car, except you and Dad distracted me trying to throw my cat out a window, and then we were here!”

Grandmother gave me a scathing tsk then wrenched her attention back to Antler Tattoo and his companions. They were milling about their cars, parked on the opposite side of the lot from ours. With a flick of her hand, Grandmother told us to move to the side to stop blocking the door to the Barn Market. To see if they were milling because they were being respectful of our space… or otherwise.

The magic hunters didn’t move. In fact, Antler Tattoo leaned against a damp car door and lit a cigarette, seeming perfectly content to just smoke while the world drizzled around him and soaked everything with a bone-chilling cold. His companions were less nonchalant, tense, eyes darting everywhere.

Spurred by some invisible cue, the four Hawthornes in battle leathers squared themselves against the magic hunters like a herd of Cape buffalo creating an impenetrable wall against a prowling pride of lions. Shielding me from sight.

“What’s going on?” Sawyer whispered from the foraging bag, squirming against the scarf he’d tugged over his head.

“Shhh!”

A few of the magic hunters seemed cowed by the sudden intense focus my family gave them, shuffling around their cars. My grandmother uttered not a word, no “Can I help you?” or “Yes?” or “Something wrong with your eyes?” as Flora would have said, and neither did any of the other robed elders. They were eerie in their intensity.

So resolute were they in this silent display of intimidation, in fact, that Antler Tattoo flicked his cigarette into the puddle at his feet and opened his car door, disappearing inside. The rest of the magic hunters were quick to follow, dividing equally amongst their cars. The Hawthorne witches maintained their defensive display long after their cars had disappeared down the road.

Then, all of them whirled around to face me. Except for my father, who kept his eyes glued on where the magic hunters had gone. I was already flattened against the red siding of the barn, so there was little elsewhere to go.

“Explain,” Grandmother ordered.

“They’ve been in town for a while now and it hasn’t been the first time in this town’s history,” I said in a rush. “Although…”

“Yes?” Aunt Hyacinth prompted.

“They’re here for me.”

All three women threw up their hands.

“Except they don’t know it’s me they’re looking for. Their fiáin tracker—”

Dad’s chin snapped to his shoulder so he could glare at me with one light brown eye. “They have a fiáin?”

“I took care of it,” I assured them. “It’s no longer a threat. And with it not sniffing me out, the magic hunters haven’t been able to find me. Plus the townsfolk around here are more tight-lipped than you think. They protect their own. And Misty Fields has become one of them.”

“But you’re not Misty Fields,” Aunt Eranthis said gently. “You’re Meadow Hawthorne.”

For some reason, I winced at that comment.

“And by ‘no longer a threat,’” Dad said, “do you mean it’s dead?”

“Dumb. I made it stupid, like a hunting dog who no longer has its sense of smell or the will to hunt.”

“You didn’t kill it?” he exclaimed. “I taught you better than that.”

“It wasn’t a threat anymore!”

“Fascinating,” Aunt Hyacinth said. “I didn’t read that in your journal.”

“Because it only happened last night. And I was”—memories of Arthur backing me onto my bed and kissing down my throat flashed across my mind’s eye—“tired. I-I fell asleep. Hard.”

“How?” she asked. “How did you do it?”

“I shoved a whole bunch of Caer powder and some magic into it and hoped for the best.”

Aunt Hyacinth seemed thoughtful. “Unrefined, but seemingly effective.”

I shrugged. “Intent is nine-tenths of magic.”

“Your mother will want to debrief you. That’s a spell for the grimoire, changing the base nature of a thing.”

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