Page 3 of Thistle Thorns

Thistle thorns.

What a pear-shaped morning. Scratch that. Pear-shaped wasn’t wonky enough. This morning was a curly straw of disaster.

Not only had my family finally discovered my secret little life in Redbud and I had learned my own grandmother had been the one to lay the magic-sucking curse on our grimoire, a demon had shown up.

Stabbing the half-heart with the hellhound claw had broken the bargain made between Arcadis and Grandmother, and apparently killing the hellhound guardian had added insult to injury. I was responsible for both heinous (a matter of opinion) acts, but it was Marten who was held accountable for them. So he had been kidnapped and extradited to the Unseelie Court and I was left to kneel on the frozen ground after a failed rescue attempt with nothing but despair numbing my heart.

Oh my Green Mother, I pleaded, but I couldn’t finish the entreaty. What could I say that would make this better? Rectify it? What could I do? What if there was nothing I could do?

A sharp pricking sensation on the tender skin of my palms brought me back away from that spiral of despair. Bright amber eyes, twin pools of pain mixed with heartache, gazed up at me.

Sawyer was cradled in my hands, his weight digging something unfamiliar into my palm, but I was too distracted by the sight of my blood smeared across his fur and mingling with his own to care. While my own magic had healed the wounds I’d sustained without a second thought, now that I was no longer being dampened by whatever that oppressive force was inside the portal, Sawyer’s magic didn’t work the same way.

Green light sparked with gold flecks bloomed at my hands and soaked into his little body, and I felt the tension of pain and injury ease away from him. Surging upwards, he gave my chin an aggressive nuzzle.

“I’m glad you’re alright, little cat,” I whispered. But then I choked on my breath, stifling a sob when that insidious, guilty part of me hissed, But Marten is not. And it’s all your fault.

Then the warm hand on my shoulder, which I had quite forgotten about, squeezed gently, pulling me back from the edge of my mental misery abyss.

Arthur.

A flash of memory stirred—him rooted to the ground, every muscle fit to bursting like Hercules as he strangled the Nemean lion, his hands clamped around Otter’s as he anchored the chain of my family members to the mortal world.

Oh my Green Mother. He saved us all.

On cold legs and feet, I staggered upright.

The lumberjack shifter immediately caught me and turned me into his embrace. Sawyer didn’t protest being squished between us, and Arthur was gentle, mindful of the cat. His arms layered over me, one hand splaying wide across my ribs, the other cradling my head under his chin. I turned my cheek to the side to lay my head flat against his bare chest and sucked in one shaky, shuddering breath after another. He was trembling too, but the more we held each other, convinced ourselves through the contact of our skin and the mingling of our breath that we were both here, and alive, the more the tremors faded away.

By the Green Mother, he smelled like home: old-growth forest, honey, sunlight. The sturdy beat of his heart soothed mine, his skin so warm despite the rain, and when I was steady again, I opened my eyes.

Shari was enfolded in Daphne’s arms, as well as Flora’s, Lewellyn and Ame standing nearby, watchful. The quiet crafter’s shoulders shook as Daphne stroked her hair. The elegant older woman’s bright blue eyes met mine, and she nodded solemnly. I mouthed a heartfelt, “Thank you,” and convinced myself it was time to peel away from Arthur and rejoin what remained of my family. It was the only way to get Marten back, after all. Sawyer dropped to the ground, wary of the witches and wanting room to either attack or escape.

Mom’s eyes were still puffy, though the cause seemed to be from her grief this time instead of whatever I’d done to her when I’d burned through her spell on my cuffs; Dad had his arm wrapped around Mom, his jaw set and eyes glassy; Otter looked like he’d been punched in the gut, the rain dripping off his long hair to splatter on his cheeks; the aunts and Uncle Badger had cornered Grandmother, as much as one could be cornered in a clearing, demanding to know just how—exactly—she planned to get Marten back. She had been the one to broker to deal with Arcadis, after all. Surely she had a way of contacting him and negotiating his release.

“I can’t,” she shouted. My unflappable grandmother tore her hands through her hair, her fingers snagging in her bun. Locks of steel-gray hair were ripped loose, framing her face like limp cobwebs. “N-not with the amount of time we have left. Not with the resources at hand—”

“So we’re just going to let him take my son without a fight?” Dad seethed.

“Even if we made contact, he’d never agree to release Marten,” she said. “He has his pound of flesh; he doesn’t need to negotiate.”

“We are not abandoning him,” Uncle Badger boomed. His bright blue eyes brooked no argument.

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying, Mother?” Mom demanded. “Because it sounds like you’ve already given up!”

“Perhaps we should take this inside, by the hearth, as we had originally planned?” Aunt Peony spoke up, a slight quiver in her cheerful voice. “We’re still out in a forest with the protection spell broken and Meadow is beyond the wards of the manor. And it’s raining. Besides, planning anything is best done over a cup of tea and—”

“Forget your tea, Peony!” Mom shrilled. “That is my son—”

“And that is your daughter, your son’s sister, whom he was protecting when he was taken,” her sister shot back at her. “Let’s not dishonor his sacrifice by arguing out in the open! By nullifying all this family has fought for for the last four decades!”

At that, every witchy eye turned towards me as if suddenly remembering I was there. When I started to tremble, fearful I would see nothing but resentment in their expressions, Arthur stepped close, melding his palm against the small of my back. A shiver of gratitude raced through me.

That gentle giant of a Coalition enforcer, a title I had yet to understand fully yet knew carried a weight that even my anti-shifter family respected, somehow knew exactly what I needed—solidarity and encouragement—and relayed it through the simplest touch. The lumberjack shifter with his superhuman strength recognized I was strong in my own right and wasn’t trying to overshadow me, to cajole me into relying on him instead of myself, to shield me. He was a ballast, a support. An ally that would never fail to come through for me.

But there was no resentment in my family’s faces. Just trepidation and anxiety. They were torn. Should they focus on protecting me or retrieving the member of the coven who would make them whole again? The Circle of Nine had been broken. They were weakened, vulnerable, and even though they had another witch of their family line right in front of them—me—they weren’t exactly scrambling to initiate me right then and there.

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