“Not quite.”
“Shame,” he said.
I said nothing.
After a moment, he said, “Don’t hate him. He was in a difficult position.” He cleared his throat. “And now even more so.”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you.”
“He appreciated uniqueness. He was intoxicated by it. In many ways, it controlled him. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting what he didn’t have. I’m sure he tried.”
“He should’ve tried harder,” I muttered.
“I thought you said you’d forgive me.”
“I’m sure I tried,” I said.
With a sigh, my father straightened and took a step away from my seat. The reek of magic lingered. The fairies were probably here because of teleporting Malcolm Bellrose’s chemtrail.
I let my gaze fall on Tristan’s portrait at the front of the room. There was no casket or urn here, only memories and people to share them. Livia was talking to an unfamiliar woman in a burgundy dress who held a folder. She was attaching a microphone under her chin, fiddling with the controls. A moment later she smiled at us and introduced herself as the official “celebrant” who would be leading the service.
I looked at Phoebe Day, sitting near the back to my left, wondering when the Protectorate would have their ceremony or if they’d had it already. Witches liked to hold important rituals at liminal times and places—boundaries such as midnight, solstice, dawn, a seashore, a clearing in a forest. An obscure vineyard’s tasting room on an ordinary Saturday morning, filled with nonmagical nobodies, wouldn’t command the same supernatural heft.
Birdie sat with Jasper in the middle of the room, directly in front of me, and I thought they looked cute together. If I could convince Birdie there was no hint of attraction between Jasper and me, on either end, maybe she’d ask him out on a date. It seemed unlikely he would make the move himself.
The officiant began the service, and I listened to the cover story Tristan had established for himself be presented as fact: raised by international businesspeople, orphaned at twenty, a career in San Francisco as a corporate accountant followed by an early retirement and new start as boutique winery owner. Never married. Lots of friends. Generous with charities, loved travel, gourmet cooking, walks in the moonlight…
Thinking that last bit of trivia was unfortunate, given his death, I looked at the fairies sitting on the bar. They could drink through the bottles without opening them but not enough to drain them. Just a sip here and there was enough to intoxicate a wood sprite. The two little ones were slumped over, holding each other up at the shoulder. The tall one, however, was staring at the human mourners with a malevolent look in his bright blue eyes, appearing cold sober. His gaze landed on me, and I pretended to look through him as I dabbed at my damp eyes with a tissue.
Inside, I shuddered. That tall fairy was bad news. I fingered the necklace at my throat and sent out vibes of love, peace, and exhaustion. I didn’t expect love or peace to work on that guy, but sleepiness might. When he yawned, I put my tissue back in my purse and redirected my attention to the service, which was just about to break for volunteers to come up and say a few words.
People began to move around their seats and whisper to one another. I thought it was about the call for people to come up and speak, but then I saw the cops. A man and a woman in uniform strode past me down the aisle, scanning the crowd and then surrounding Jasper and Birdie.
Murmurs and silence, shock and awe—everyone stared as the female cop hooked both hands around her wide utility belt and gestured for Birdie to follow her outside.
Looking shocked, Birdie stood.
And then, like an unhappy wedding procession, the two cops led Birdie down the aisle and out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I spun around to ask my father if he’d overheard the cops say anything to explain why they’d taken Birdie, but he was gone.
Of course he was gone. He’d probably fled long before their squad car had turned in to the driveway, maybe the moment they crossed the unincorporated boundary of Silverpool. I had to admit his talent for appearing and disappearing tout de suite was magnificent; more admirable than his knack for nicking things.
While the celebrant attempted to restore order, I bolted out of my seat and ran after the cops and Birdie. They were already putting her—handcuffed—into the back of their car.
I hurried over. “What are you doing? Birdie, what happened?”
The male cop stood hands on hips between me and the car. “Ma’am, please stand back.”
“But that’s my friend. Birdie! That’s Elizabeth Crow.”
“We know that, ma’am. You’re going to have to stand back,” he said.
A tingling between my shoulder blades told me somebody was using a spell on me from the back. As I turned to see who, the cops got in the car and drove off.
Riovaca Police. I’d have to go to the station and see what was going on. Or maybe I could lock the wheels—
“Don’t,” Jasper said in my ear.
“Was that you?” I drew a triangle in the air, a sign for magic.
“I was afraid you were going to do something stupid.” He nodded his head toward Phoebe Day, who had come out of the building, holding a magic wand disguised as a phone. “She’d drag you in, too, if you did anything here.”
The Protectorate had put itself in charge of punishing witches who used magic recklessly. It wasn’t usually enforced, but it would be at a Protectorate’s memorial service filled with nonmagicals.
“What did they say?” I asked Jasper. “What was the charge?”
“Just a few questions, they said.”
“But they put handcuffs on her.” I took out my keys and unlocked my Jeep. “I’m going to Riovaca.”
“But what can you do?” he asked. “Maybe they found something. Something to do with Tristan. Something bad.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “I saw her the morning after he died. It came as much a shock to her as to anyone. And I know Birdie—” I bit my tongue.
It wasn’t right for Birdie to go to jail for something in the magical community. As a witch, I felt responsible for helping all nonmag people from the dangers of our world. Especially my neighbor. My friend.
At least a dozen Silverpool citizens and a handful of witches had come outside, and all were staring at me. Even the fairies were there, weaving between people’s legs.
“I’m going to Riovaca,” I repeated.
Jasper put his hand on my arm. “There’s nothing you can do.”
I stared at him. “Watch me.”
To get to Riovaca I would have to take Vago Highway, a narrow, twisting, two-lane road through heavily wooded hills. It was the kind of journey that made children throw up and gave other passengers a headache, especially if they tried reading something in their lap instead of staring straight ahead, praying for it to be over.
If I was behind the wheel, I didn’t get carsick. A bouquet of redwood sorrel and peppermint on the dash helped. And although my Jeep handled like a toaster on roller skates, the rough ride kept me from getting smitten by the fairy song in the forest.
The bright sunshine of the winery had disappeared as soon as I took the first sharp turn into the forest. Redwoods grew close together in clusters, a mother tree and her children often merging together at the base into a single trunk before stretching up to the sky like long fingers on a thin hand. Very long. With the cedar and fir, the shade was thick, misty, magical. Even I, a local witch, had to focus hard on the center yellow lines to keep my attention and my wheels pointed at my human destination and not into the appealing shadows. The soft-focus understory sang a siren song to all travelers, tempting even to the most cynical, experienced locals hurrying home after work.
Off to my left, a warm, yellow light flickered about five feet off the ground. Then another. Like fireflies, but there were no fireflies here. The air tasted mossy and sweet in my mouth. Sexy, delicious. When I found
myself daydreaming about the feel of a man’s warm, strong chest under my cheek and how satisfying it would be to take a nap there right now, I rolled up the windows and drew a circle around my face to protect me from the call of the forest.
It was a wonder anyone ever made it in or out of Silverpool. Though it wasn’t usually this bad in the middle of the day. All the witches in town for the memorial service must’ve stirred up the fae.
The moment I regained my focus on the road, I saw the tall fairy from the winery, standing on the shoulder. He stood with both hands up, pale-green palms out, displaying the same malevolent expression he’d worn in the tasting room.
Out of nowhere, a massive redwood as wide as a double-wide trailer appeared in front of me where the road should’ve been.
No! Every muscle in my body went rigid as I jerked the wheel sharply to the right to avoid slamming into the tree. But then the road beneath me disappeared, and I realized, stomach twisting, that my wheels weren’t touching anything but forest mist.
In that slow-motion vision you get when you’re sure you’re about to die, I watched the hood of my Jeep arc downward. I clamped harder on the wheel and braced my legs as the vehicle hit the embankment and rolled headfirst into a bed of sword ferns.
I could hear my heart pounding like goblin drums.
After a long moment to remember how to breathe again, I loosened my death grip on the wheel and looked around to see how bad it was.
Other than a sore shoulder from the seat belt, I wasn’t hurt. The driver’s-side door was blocked by shrubs and saplings, but the passenger side looked free. I crawled over and climbed out to inspect the damage, but my heels slipped out from under me, and I fell into a thicket of blackberry vines.
I’d worn my nicest clothes to the memorial service: a long embroidered skirt and a lacy top with silk sleeves. Both seemed to have been designed to catch as many thorns as possible. By the time I pulled myself free, my limbs were scratched and bleeding and my nicest clothes were no longer my nicest.
From unsteady feet, I regarded my Jeep half-buried in ferns. It wasn’t going anywhere without a tow truck—or magic beyond a single witch’s powers. Maybe with Jasper’s help I could’ve moved it halfway, but then it would probably just roll down again, this time hitting one of the redwoods near me.
Who the devil was that tall fairy, and why had he run me off the road? Many witches hated fairies. Until now I hadn’t understood why. It was no more sensible than hating tigers, oxygen, or geometry; what existed, existed. As Helen had said, our only purpose as witches was to understand. To know as much as possible. And occasionally bend the rules a little to suit our needs.
I staggered up the bank to the road, planning to find the tall fairy and kick his green ass. At a distance, he would look like a small child, about the height of a three-year-old. Although I found the precise spot where he’d run me off the road, he’d left no trace. Now it seemed likely I’d been wrong about thinking he was a wood sprite. The power to move a car like that came from something bigger and colder, perhaps some kind of water fae.
The fireflies caught my attention again. Low to the ground in the shadows, their lights twinkled like glitter. I saw ten, twenty, two dozen lights. More than I’d seen near Jasper’s house the week before.
That was an unusually large number of fairies to be gathered so close to civilization without the wellspring in season. Up in the remote areas of the North Coast, countless fae lived in huge communities, hidden from humanity, doing whatever it was they did. But this close to San Francisco, their numbers only grew significant at the solstice.
Why were they here so early?
I cast a protective spell around me and began walking into the woods.
About twenty feet from the road, I passed through a beam of sunlight and began to hear them. Singing, arguing, chanting fairies—hundreds of them. I moved closer, my footsteps hushed by the soft ground beneath the trees. I listened and strained to count how many little beings were scattered among the sorrel and rotting logs, the sticks and shrubs. With each breath I inhaled the flavor of cherries, earth, jasmine, rain. I was reluctant to turn away, tempted by the unique enchantment of the fae.
I was also concerned for their sake. With Tristan gone, the fae here were vulnerable to demons. I’d failed as a demon hunter, but I had a few useful tricks that might protect them in an emergency.
But when I saw how many there were, I no longer worried about their well-being and began to think about my own. Many were delicate and ephemeral, the local wood sprites, but there were also hair-shirted bridge trolls, gnomes in red velvet waistcoats, dryads wearing robes made from buttercup petals, and goblins in human military uniforms.
They were gathered around a bonfire. Nothing most humans could see—it would be shrouded by fog—but because of the wellspring, I knew what to look for. I’d had practice watching similar celebrations at the winter solstice.
But this wasn’t a celebration.
“War,” chanted the trolls.
“Poison,” hissed the dryads.
“Kill,” shouted the sprites.
The goblins in their military uniforms held flaming chunks of wood over their heads, waving them side to side to the beat of hundreds of bare feet pounding the earth.
“Revenge,” they said in unison.
Terror washing over me, I forced my legs into reverse. Back the way I’d come. Step by step. Slowly. Carefully. I couldn’t risk turning my back on them.
What was happening? Did the Protectorate have any idea that goblins and dryads, immortal enemies, had formed an alliance? And since when did human-hating bridge trolls march in the forest with gnomes, who had cohabited with humanity for millennia?
Horrified but curious, I searched the crowd for Willy’s familiar face. I couldn’t see him, but there were so many of them.
Another step. Then another. I stole a glance over my shoulder to see how far I had to run, but the road and my Jeep were out of sight. I’d walked farther than I’d realized.
Now I noticed the sun was low in the sky. How long had I been standing here? The memorial service had been in the morning. This mob of fae had captured me.
Yet they still didn’t seem to notice I was here. Maybe it had been an accident—
Human.
The fae spoke in one silent but deafening voice, united in metaphysical malice.
And then they joined together, a cloud of lights, and began to come toward me.
My feet felt as if they’d taken root. Using a shot of magic, I was able to lift my heels and finally turn to run, but the bright swarm, flexible with space, surrounded me. I stumbled back against the trunk of a large tree. Heart pounding, I dug my fingers into the thick ridges of bark and drew upon its power. My necklace wouldn’t have been enough to transform me so quickly, but a tree as wide as a taco truck would give me everything I needed.
As the lights and shouts of revenge grew closer, I tore off my clothes. I didn’t want to get tangled up in my bra after I changed because, without opposable thumbs, there wouldn’t be time to free myself.
Human!
Once naked, I dug my fingers into the bark, closed my eyes, and reached into the core of my power.
Since they didn’t like humans, I would turn myself into something else.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’d never been boiled alive, but I always imagined it would feel like shape-shifting into a cat. Walking the earth as a five-seven, one-hundred-sixty-pound (give or take) house cat wouldn’t be practical, so years ago I’d mastered the art of transforming into a smaller shape. The shrinking was what hurt. As the skin melted off my flesh to allow the rest of me to morph into a form I hoped was less offensive to the fae, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my deep, internal flame of magic to stop myself from screaming.
It was agony, but it was quick. Before I could succumb to the pain and let the fairy monsters do their worst, the transformation was complete. With effortless, feline grace, I dug my claws into the so
ft bark and scrambled up the trunk of the towering redwood, my enemies and my clothing forgotten below me.
I forgot them because I always forgot who I was for the first hours of my transformation. Fortunately (and sometimes unfortunately), I remembered later what happened during that lost time. Usually it involved torturing something small and feathered, which gave me nightmares and the urge to donate to bird sanctuaries and organizations that worked to reduce the feral cat population.
This time when I became aware of myself, I was clinging to the trunk as far from the ground as I’d dared to climb, and because of the fairies, I’d so far been unable to torture anything small or feathered.
Small mercies. I was cold, tired, and afraid, and the branches were too thin to make a comfortable bed for the long night ahead. My necklace, designed to survive a shape shift, was nevertheless heavy and annoying, and only my human spirit kept me from tearing it off.
Darkness was falling, and the fae were still gathered around the tree below me. Their mixed voices—some high and melodious, others little more than a growl—spoke of revenge, retribution, death, and witches.
Witches. Not humans in general, but specifically the magic-wielding variety. What had witches done to them that merited this furious mob? Was the resentment ancient or something new?
Either from stress or instinct, I began licking myself. Holding complex thoughts was impossible in this shape. I was inside a cat’s body. My consciousness was intact, but my intelligence was distorted by the absence of a large brain. Later, I told myself. I would figure things out later. Right now I only had to survive, and a cat is a genius at survival.
I dozed up in the tree until dawn, when the fae gathered in one last chorus of whooping and shouting before fading into the morning mist.
I waited another hour before I climbed down. There was no handsome firefighter to help me, and it took three times as long as it should have because of the vertigo that overcame me whenever I looked down the impossibly long trunk.
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