Page 60 of Thistle Thorns

“Meadow, no!” Grandmother protested.

We both ignored her. She held no power here. This was between me and him. It always had been.

In the back of my mind, a fearful thought niggled at me through the golden haze. Was this the choice I’d been foretold to make? Save one life… and sacrifice what in order to do it?

While I didn’t shy away from his touch, I didn’t lean into it when the Stag Man cupped my cheek and smoothed away the tear glistening there. Such a tender gesture was Arthur’s right, not his. That seemed to offend him, the discontentment flicking across his face so quickly I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it.

“I need your help,” he answered simply, his voice and face once again serene and inviting. Lulling.

His voice was so nice. It sounded even deeper, richer, and nourishing when he was touching me like this. If I could make a blanket out of his voice, I’d want to curl up in it with a good book and a cup of tea and never leave. “For… what?” It was an effort to get the words out.

“To go home to Elfame—”

Elfame! The word was like a hot poker to the fanny. That’s the home of the Seelie Courts, where the Wandering Mirror is! That was how I was going to get Marten home. How had I already forgotten about him?

“—but I’m too weak to open the portal.”

Wait, what? “But the sluagh,” I protested. “You healed that man’s arm—”

He shook his head sadly. “A different kind of magic, love. But you.” His hand slid sensuously down my neck to meld over my healed shoulder, the one that bore no scar. His fingers squeezed. While his touch was thrilling, it was not as enflaming as Arthur’s was. “You are Violet’s true daughter. You could do it.”

I gestured helplessly to the mirror in the clearing. “It took nine of us to use that one. I’m just one witch.”

“With unlocked potential.” His gaze grew cold as he looked over my head at Grandmother. “She has been holding you back. I could teach you. Free your magic.” The crystals on the twisted golden wire of his necklace shimmered at his offer.

Every alarm bell went off in my head, but I couldn’t figure out why. Not with that golden haze dulling my senses, lessening my worries. Then Arthur’s labored, wheezing breath changing to an irregular, ragged pattern tore through my distraction as clearly as if Grandmother had shouted “Focus” directly into my ear canal.

“I can only promise that I’ll try,” I blurted. “If you save him first.”

“Is that your official bargain?”

“Meadow,” Grandmother began again.

“Silence, witch,” the Stag Man thundered. Grandmother croaked, clawing at her silent throat, and the Crafting Circle ladies did the same, spelled to the same silence. The fierce sharpness of his expression smoothed as he looked down at me, smiling gently. “My love?”

The more he called me that, the more I wanted to believe it was true. Yet… he wasn’t Arthur. The chain that connected us thrummed in warning, and I blinked rapidly. Was there a glamour or compulsion spell being woven here?

Clarity partially returned like the sun breaking through the clouds on a stormy day, and I realized the stimulus was coming from my ankle. From where Sawyer pressed his little body against mine. From that bond we had forged by ourselves for ourselves.

“Meadow,” Arthur groaned. His voice was so faint I barely heard it over the thundering of my pulse, but my heart sang to hear my name on his lips. The chain tightened, calling me away from the golden haze.

I fled the searing gaze of the fae to drop down beside him, snuffing out my battle magic and cradling his head in my hands. The contact we shared did two things: it blasted asunder whatever illusion or seduction magic was going on here and told me with no uncertain terms from the searing, feverish heat of his skin that Arthur Greenwood was dying. I forced my healing green magic into him, but the venom was nothing I’d ever seen. It was not of this realm. I could blast him, perhaps, like I had done the dead elm tree, but that’d been just a fluke. I’d need to concentrate to do that again, and I couldn’t even get my hands to stop trembling.

Not even the hearth ember could help me now. I hooked the censer on to the strap of my foraging bag then swept the sweat-darkened strands of Arthur’s hair away from his pale face.

Panic injected a tremor into my voice. “Arthur—”

“Don’t,” he begged. He was so far gone he couldn’t even open his eyes. “Not… worth it.”

“You are to me.”

He shook his head, soft tears leaking through his closed eyes.

“Maybe you should listen to him,” Sawyer offered in a small voice. “Is this the one he’s been protecting you from all this time? He’s projecting an aura that’s—”

“And you are, cat?” the Stag Man demanded abruptly, the languid melody of his voice replaced by a harsh snap.

The tabby tomcat said nothing, instead bushing out his fur.

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