Page 59 of Thistle Thorns

“Thank you, my lord.” The magic hunter scrambled to his knees and bowed.

“If spilling blood in the forest is so abhorrent,” I said, somewhat petulantly, for I wanted to be the center of the Stag Man’s attention, “you should know he attacked us.” Through the brain fog, my rational self was screaming that the magic hunter wore a tattoo on his neck identical to the rack of antlers protruding from the Stag Man’s head, but it was easily ignored.

The Stag Man straightened, a raised copper eyebrow disappearing into his mop of curls. “Did he now? Then he must be punished.”

The fae lurched down, seized hold of the magic hunter’s neck, and lifted him bodily into the air. “Should I suffocate him? Or end it quickly by snapping his neck?”

Half of me was thrilled that he valued my opinion in this matter. The other half was horrified. That latter part won out and I cried, “By the Green Mother, leave him be!”

The fae regarded me curiously. “As you wish.” He tossed the magic hunter across the clearing with the same effort it took to drop a sachet of tea into a cup of steaming water.

“Meadow, get away from him,” Grandmother rasped. It hardly held any of her usual authoritative tone. There was nothing but desperation and fatigue in her words. The summoning, the healing magic, and the failed shield against the sluagh had drained her. What could she—or the rest of my family—do for me now?

My family.

There were more than Hawthornes in my family now.

The Crafting Circle ladies were clustered among the witches, seeking safety in numbers, but Sawyer—

Wystan the hobgoblin was pressing a hand over his left eye socket, trembling from shock or rage or both, all of his weight pressing down on the spiked club that pinned my tabby tomcat’s tail to the frozen ground. Sawyer must’ve sacrificed a moment to retrieve the stomped pixie, for the little creature—somehow miraculously still alive—was held in the tomcat’s mouth. Unable to flee without the risk of losing his tail or the pixie, Sawyer had tucked himself up tight to endure whatever came next.

Grief cut through the haze dulling my senses like a stinging slap. “Little cat,” I cried, tears springing to my eyes.

But it wasn’t his pitiful moans that punctuated the night air.

I twisted around, the tear in my heart from Sawyer’s pain ripping fully apart. “A-Arthur?”

The grizzly bear had shredded the black mallaithe to kindling. Black bits of woody flesh oozed blue sap into the ground in a circle of carnage with him in the epicenter of it all. A truly resounding and decisive victory, marred only by the tiniest of cuts on the bear’s cheek.

The hulking beast had slumped to the ground, his great chest heaving like a bellows, as the venom of the mutated mallaithe took root and spread. To see such a powerful and indestructible animal felled by something so small and insignificant… My Arthur—

Enraged, I struck with my battle magic and the power of the hearth ember. I was alert now, no golden feel-good haze befuddling my thoughts. Angry, fiery briars slapped Wystan away from his club, yanked that club from the ground, and swung that club right into his fanny. Sawyer yowled in pain upon his abrupt release but collected himself quickly, streaking away from the howling hobgoblin with the pixie cradled in his mouth. He tossed his head, flinging Dart into the air, and the little creature buzzed weakly on crumpled wings, retreating towards the farmhouse.

As the hobgoblin fled the clearing, removing himself as an immediate threat and screeching obscenities about green witches, I set my sights on the magic hunter. He was still reeling from where the Stag Man had tossed him. My fire-laced briars shot across the clearing and netted around him faster than he could blink, his skin sizzling where the magic touched him. A vicious yank on the briars had him dragged screaming across the clearing to the bear.

Snatching him by the throat in eerie mimicry of what the Stag Man had just done, I only hauled him to his feet before I thrust a finger at the suffering shifter. “Fix him,” I screamed. If he had the power to command the mutated mallaithe, he might know the antidote to their venom.

A large warm hand enclosed around my wrist, and suddenly I wasn’t so furious. Gently but firmly, the Stag Man eased my hand away from the man’s throat. I didn’t want to let go, but something in his touch was so warm, so calming, that eventually my fingers opened a fraction. “Easy, love,” the Stag Man soothed. “He’s of no use if he’s dead.”

Strange, for the Stag Man had been so amenable to the act of snapping his neck just a moment ago. I shook my head, but the golden haze had returned.

The magic hunter dropped to the ground with a gasp and crawled away as the fae turned to the grizzly bear. The Stag Man hummed to himself, then leaned forward and plucked a splinter I hadn’t noticed from the tiny wound and flicked it away.

The bear immediately shifted back into a naked man slumped against the cold ground, but the venom was still in him.

Instead of rushing to Arthur’s side, I turned to the Stag Man, seizing his hand in both of mine. His jewel-like eyes blazed at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. No, he looked down at me fondly, the way a benevolent lord indulged their favorite servant. It felt wonderful.

“Can you heal him?”

“Of course,” he answered simply. “I am the master of beasts, the king of forests. Such things are under my command.”

“Please,” I begged, “heal him.”

My family was too weak to do it, plus they were all unconscious. There were no more healing potions to be had, no more spells. I didn’t know the ones that had saved me, hadn’t learned them, hadn’t been taught them, probably because my family never thought I’d ever encounter a mallaithe, much less a mutated one, since I was supposed to stay sequestered in the manor forever. And good luck convincing my grandmother to heal Arthur when she had her entire coven to protect with the dregs of her magic.

“What will you give me in return?” the Stag Man asked. Though his tone was gentle, there was a hardness there, too. Fae gave away nothing for free; there was always a price.

The anger at my ignorance and those who’d fostered it had me replying, “What do you want?”

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