Page 41 of Mortal Heart

“A very eclectic witch.” She smiled kindly. “But you can think of me as a kitchen witch if you like. That reminds me—Katy, take the scones out of the oven. Our guests will be hungry when we’re done. And finish brewing Arkady’s healing tea.”

Obediently, Katy disappeared into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Ronan surveyed Carly’s living room. She’d set up an altar and a nest of cushions in the middle of the floor, draped with a tarp to keep blood off the carpet and furnishings.

“Lie down now,” she told him. Her tone was still kind, but firm. “Before you fall.”

“Help Arkady first,” he countered. “I’ll wait.”

In his defense, his pain and the itchy sensation of the dampening spells had made his temper short, but he should have known better than to issue an order in a witch’s own house. Carly’s stare and the odor of burned paper made it clear he’d just added yet another item to the list of ways he’d fucked up tonight. Katy appeared in the kitchen doorway, a kettle in her hand, and gave him a matching glare.

“I apologize,” he said. “But I won’t accept treatment while Arkady suffers.”

“Katy will tend to Arkady while I take care of you,” Carly informed him. “Either trust us to care for you both or go. I need my energy for protecting my coven and healing people who get themselves shot and poisoned, and I won’t waste it arguing with you.”

“Lie down, you horse’s ass,” Arkady snapped. She leaned against the wall with her arms folded over her abdomen. “Katy’s got me. She’s not going to let me suffer.”

“Not much, anyway,” Katy interjected. At Ronan’s glower, she shrugged. “Hey, I’m a black witch. You want black magic to undo black magic, you gotta be prepared for some pain.”

That was true, he reflected grimly. Blood and pain were the primary ingredients in black magic, along with thirst for power.

He gave in and lay down in the bed Carly had prepared, with his head in front of the altar and his feet toward the south wall of the house. Apparently satisfied that the conflict was over, Katy went back to the kitchen to finish preparing some kind of healing elixir for Arkady.

As Carly busied herself at the altar, Arkady tossed a throw pillow on the floor and sat down next to him with an almost inaudible groan. He patted her knee. “No need to fret over me so much, Miss Woodall. I have no plans to die tonight.”

She glared at him. “I’m just here in case you start crying and need these.” She pushed a box of tissues closer to him. “We all know what a big baby you are.”

He snorted without thinking and couldn’t hide his flinch. She covered his hand with her own. “Okay, okay, cut the dramatics,” she said. “Just hold on to me, you big baby.”

Despite her mocking words and tone, the worry in her eyes nearly undid him. She stroked her thumb over the callouses created by his long years of fighting and practicing with his sword. Her gentle touch soothed him.

Carly rested her hand on top of Arkady’s head and murmured something even Ronan couldn’t quite hear, but that seemed like a prayer or blessing. Whether actual magic passed between them he couldn’t tell, but some of the tension went out of Arkady’s shoulders. Carly stroked Arkady’s head like a child’s, then busied herself at her altar.

Ronan was hardly new to working with witches, and much of what Carly had on her altar was familiar to him. The pentagonal altar had a statue of a goddess at the top—probably the Morrigan, given both he had Arkady had fallen victim to black magic and demon poison. The top right point had a bowl of river water, since the movement of water would help carry the poison from their bodies. A twelve-inch red taper candle in the lower right corner added strength to Carly and her magic and would help burn away negative energy released when she took out the bullet.

The bowl of what he thought might be graveyard dirt in the lower left corner was the most unsettling item on the altar. If he’d guessed right, its presence indicated Carly thought he and Arkady might be in danger of dying. On a less-dire note, it would also help absorb any death energy in the demon poison or black magic spellwork on the bullet. In the upper left corner, she’d arranged a pile of loose white sage mixed with what smelled like palo santo and sweetgrass to keep the energy in the circle cleansed and positive.

In the center of the altar was a basket full of implements and one of the most beautiful athames he had ever seen. Its power was so great, and so pure, that it reminded him of a full moon shining brightly on a clear night. Everything on the altar was designed to protect, purify, strengthen, and care for bodies and souls.

Carly and her altar reminded him it had been entirely too long since he had interacted with a true white witch—so long that he’d forgotten how simply being in their presence felt like a healing.

Athame in hand, its blade pointed at the floor, Carly walked around the bed and altar clockwise. “I close this circle with love,” she said on the first turn. “I close this circle with healing,” she added on her second turn. Finally, on her third pass around the circle, she said, “I close this circle with comfort.” She knelt, pricked her finger carefully on the tip of her athame, touched the edge of her circle, and said, “With my blood I give this circle my strength and protection.”

The scent of warm parchment and the contents of her altar swirled in the circle. Ronan took as deep of a breath as he could and let her magic settle over him.

Carly rose, placed the athame back on the altar, and stood in front of it with her hands outstretched, palms up. “I call upon the goddess Morrigan to enter this circle to help me rid Ronan and Arkady of the demon energy that flows through their veins. Lend your strength and knowledge to my mind and guide my hands to do whatever needs to be done.”

She knelt at Ronan’s side, across from Arkady, and picked up a cup from the altar. “Help me raise his head so he can drink,” she told Arkady.

Together, they lifted Ronan’s head. Carly pressed the cup to his lips. The warm liquid smelled and tasted like Carly’s house: a hundred distinct flavors and odors blended together. And not one drop of black magic, he decided after a few sips—pure white magic, designed to calm and heal. It eased the pain caused by the demon poison in his bloodstream, and it soothed his body and soul.

At Carly’s urging, he drank the remainder of the tea in a few gulps, rested his head back against the cushion, and focused on the steady, even strokes of Arkady’s thumb on his hand. Under the influence of the tea, her gentle touch became hypnotic. Everything taking place around him grew blurry, but not in the same way he’d become hazy from blood loss. He felt…peaceful, for the first time in a very, very long time.

His serenity was short-lived. Carly took a pair of scissors from a basket at her side. “I need to remove your vest,” she told him.

He grabbed her arm before he realized he’d moved. His sudden movement startled her. “I have magic, but not the kind that can remove the bullet or treat the wound through your clothing,” she said. “Don’t worry about what’s under the vest. Your secrets are safe with us.”

He gritted his teeth. “You’ve seen, then?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I did what I could at Alice’s house to heal your body and spirit, but some things are beyond my power.” She did sound regretful about the last, but it was the unvarnished truth—another specialty of white and gray witches.

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