by Eve Redmayne
“In what?” Willow asked, pulling her still-damp pants off their rock. “Blankets aren’t exactly the height of fashion.”
Jessica bit her lip in concentration then directed a great blast of wind toward her sodden gown. Within minutes, it was dry. “This magic thing is getting easier.”
“Goddess preserve us,” Willow whispered, hand clutched to her breast.
Blanket tossed to the ground, Jessica walked naked to the rock and threw on the dress. Though her face burned, and her head throbbed with confusion about the whole Braum situation, she kind of loved her new talent. “Ready?”
CHAPTER 17
The walk through the woods was pleasant enough, even though Jessica could tell Willow wasn’t exactly pleased to have her company. But no way she’d pass up an opportunity to see an entire village of real witches. The bear hadn’t stirred when they walked away, more concerned with his nap.
When they reached a fork on the narrow path, Willow nodded to the right. “That way’s a few day’s ride to the elves.”
Jessica’s heart seized. Would Wycliffe find her this close to Britarre? He’d been kind enough, but she wasn’t interested in marrying him. Besides, he wouldn’t take her back in a million years, disfigured as she now was. “How ugly am I?” she asked, her voice small as she fingered the frayed end of a stitch.
“You’re not ugly,” Willow answered, green eyes assessing, seeming to speak the truth. “Certainly, you’ll have a scar once the wound heals, but it’s a matter of opinion whether it’s ugly or not. Personally, I think being unique is beautiful.”
“So, really ugly, then.” Jessica tried to joke, but it came off forced and Willow snorted.
Since coming to Orygin, she’d been afraid and had let others make all the decisions for her, but now, she was choosing her own path—even if she had Braum and his selfishness to thank for this newfound confidence.
They crossed a rickety bridge, and Jessica saw hints of the village, peeking through the trees. It looked like a witch’s village, with buildings somewhere between Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread home and those houses you saw in documentaries about England with the thatched roofs and exposed timber walls.
Men and women milled about the main square, and, after a moment, Jessica noticed the stares coming her way. Self-consciously, she lifted her hand to her face and hunched her shoulders, letting her hair cascade forward.
Willow reached out and grasped Jessica’s hand. “It’s not your face they’re looking at,” she hissed. “You’re a curiosity. This is exactly the kind of attention I was hoping to avoid.” She sighed. “There’s nothing to do about it now, just… act normal.” Head high, she led Jessica through the vendors lining the perimeter of the square and examined what merchandise remained at this late hour.
The booths appeared picked-over, but Willow haggled with a woman over some oats and barley. Basket swinging, she meandered to the butcher and procured a slab of bacon and a small roast. She grabbed a few vegetables and lastly, bought a milk goat that she let Jessica lead around.
“We’ve got a good start on a proper larder.” Willow scanned the stalls for anything else they might need. “We’ll come back in a few days with the wagon to get more items for the cellar. Winter’s fast approaching, but this’ll do for now.”
“Blessed be!” a high-pitched voice sang over the din. “If it isn’t Willow Lostchild.”
Jessica eyed the angelic-looking woman sauntering towards them, doe brown eyes shooting daggers at Willow.
Willow’s hand tightened on hers, and she tried to steer them away, ignoring the woman, only to have a dreamy—in a lumberjack sort of way— man step directly into their path. His ginger beard glowed in the fading sun, a startling contrast to his dark hair.
With a smile pasted on her face, Willow faced the man. “Why, hello Orrin.” She turned to the woman, eyes gone cold. “Mystia. Nice seeing you here, not that I’d expect otherwise.”
Jessica sensed the cut, though the words sounded kind enough.
The golden-haired witch stepped forward and snarled, “It’s because of you I’m here at all!”
The man rolled turquoise eyes and settled his gaze on Jessica. He flashed her a quick grin, revealing a friendly smile with straight, white teeth.
Unbidden, her hand rose to cover her cheek. And she hated herself for feeling self-conscious.
“What’re you going to do about it?” Willow hissed back, lips turned down into a sneer.
Mystia’s brows snapped together. She stepped back, whipped her hand from a pocket, and flung a gray powder Willow’s direction.
Willow clutched her neck. Mouth agape, her eyes filled with terror.
“What’d you do?” Jessica demanded, grabbing Mystia by the arm and keeping an eye on Willow, now on her knees. “Help her!”
It wasn’t a request and the cherub-faced woman knew it. She spat at Jessica’s feet. “I don’t know who you are, dwarf, but any friend of Willow Lostchild’s is no friend of mine.” She reached back into her pocket, but before she could fling the poison at her, Jessica shoved her then summoned a slight breeze to blow the powder harmlessly away. Thanks to the hours of practice that morning, it took almost no effort. The wind appeared instantly, as though having anticipated her request.
“Who are you, and what happened to your face?” Mystia asked.
“Someone who’s going to give you hell if you don’t help her.” Jessica sneered, dropping the goat’s lead. “Now.”
Blatantly ignoring the request, Mystia turned away and said to her companion, “You were useless.”
A vein pulsed in the man’s forehead as he knelt over Willow—purple from lack of oxygen. “Sister, this is your fight, not mine,” he said wearily. “Clean up your mess before you’re accused of murder.”
Mystia huffed, gave her brother a pretty frown and, after a long moment, rummaged under her white gown. Not saying a word, she reared her arm back and plunged a small blade into Willow’s neck.
Shocked into action, Jessica charged, bringing the tall woman to the ground. “What the hell’d you do?” she cried and turned to help Willow but stopped short as Willow managed a haggard breath.
“Magic, you dolt.” Mystia snarled, still flat on her ass. “Gods, my back.”
To Jessica’s relief, Willow reached a shaking hand up and fingered the knife hilt protruding from her throat. Her freckles re-appeared as her coloring returned. She took a couple steadying breaths, rose to her feet, and stomped over to where Mystia lay sprawled. Knife still embedded in her neck, she reared back and kicked the woman in the face.
Mystia howled as blood gushed from her lip. By now they’d acquired an audience around them, mostly men. A boy of twelve or so cheered.
Willow grabbed the blade by the hilt and tugged, wincing as it pulled free. A trickle of blood stained her shirt, but the wound, surprisingly, didn’t appear serious. “Let’s go.” She tucked the tiny blade into the waistband of her pants and gave Mystia no further notice. She stomped away, applying pressure to the wound with her reddening shirt.
Jessica grabbed the basket, stuffed their groceries back in, and found the goat, several feet away, placidly chewing its rope. Lead in hand, she guided the nanny away, hurrying after Willow—already at the bridge.
She glanced over her shoulder to see both Mystia and Orrin watching them go. A smile played about Orrin’s lips, and there was a heat to his gaze that made her feel like blushing, but she kept her expression under control. He lifted a hand in farewell and gave her a cheeky wink.
Warmth crested her cheeks as she stumbled over an exposed root in the path. Righting herself, she let her eyes linger for half a second longer than she should have, admiring Orrin’s broad chest. She hadn’t chosen to marry Braum, what if she sought another? That’d show her bastard of a husband.
“Who was that?” she asked, catching up to Willow. “And why does she hate you so much?” Jessica switched hands and gave a firm tug on the goat’s rope.
The beast
had a mind of her own, however, and wandered into the brush to nibble a patch of grass. Taking a moment, Jessica tried ‘magicking’ the creature, but nothing happened. So, she pulled and prodded until the reluctant goat followed.
“Bloody, Mystia Wolfehunter,” Willow grumbled and removed her hand from her neck to stare at the blood.
“And…”
“And I’m a better witch than that,” Willow spat. She yanked the knife from her pants, gave it a glare, and hurled it into the river. “I can’t believe I let her bring me low with some concoction of hers. Should’ve been using my second sight… distracted… what if they noticed your wind.” She stopped mumbling and focused furious eyes on Jessica. “Whatever you do, don’t use magic around any other witches. Luckily, I don’t think anyone noticed, but you must be careful, especially with Mystia.”
Perplexed by Willow’s reaction, Jessica trotted to keep up, dragging the reluctant goat behind. “What about her brother?” she asked, trying to sound casual. A vision of Braum’s dimples flashed in her mind, but she banished it with a shake of her head.
CHAPTER 18
Fur throw clenched in his fists, Braum scanned his bedroom. For the thousandth time, he considered what his family had told him. Jessica was dead. If he hadn’t married her, she’d still be here. He never should’ve forced her; should’ve shown her the understanding she’d needed.
He wanted to run, wanted to howl at the sky until his legs collapsed, but that wasn’t going to happen, now. Moisture collected at his eyes, but he shoved the tears away. Unwilling to allow himself the relief weeping would bring.
Though shards of pain stabbed him with every movement, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to a sitting position. Gods! His wounds burned but not as much as the realization that her body was out there. He needed to find her; put her soul to rest.
While inspired to do something, he hesitated to stand. The word amputate hung over his head like an executioner’s axe. Griffin had promised if his condition worsened, he’d cut off both legs. “Well, screw him,” Braum said, and agony embraced, swung his legs—both set in braces—over the edge of the bed.
Feet planted on the cold, stone floor, he grabbed the headboard and heaved. Knees locked, a cold sweat broke out as the tremble in his legs threatened to bring him down.
He took one halting step. Fire flooded his limbs. His vision dimmed, legs buckled, and he crashed to the floor. Unable to stand, he pounded his fist and waited for someone to find him.
When the door finally opened, he blinked in relief.
“Oh, Sire!” Tilly cried, wringing her apron. “I’ll get help!”
Without a backwards glance, she ran from the room to return with several footmen and Griffin. Braum avoided Grif’s dark eyes as the men put him back in bed, listening as his friend cursed him for every kind of fool.
“Too proud to stay in your goddamned bed? I should just let you break your neck and be done with you.” Grif cut away the blood-soaked bandage covering Braum’s left leg and shook his head. “Serves you bloody right I have to sew your sorry arse up again. Maybe this’ll teach you to follow my orders.”
None-too-carefully, Grif pulled the flesh together, ignoring Braum’s pitiful moans. “Hold still!” He turned to Tilly and ordered her to give Braum whisky for the pain. “I should let you suffer.”
“I have to find her,” Braum managed between gulps. “Her body, that is.”
“You’re never going to walk again if you keep up this fool behavior.” Brows drawn, Grif turned his full ire on Braum and pointed out the red streaks traveling the length of both legs. “For my sake, if not your own, don’t make me amputate.” Then he glowered at Tilly. “Go get my bag, girl.”
Braum turned his head towards his best friend and saw the dread in his eyes. With nothing else to do, he took another slug of whisky and prayed for oblivion.
CHAPTER 19
Jessica stood outside Willow’s house and focused on the rivulet of water she’d coaxed from the stream. It hung suspended, waiting. With a crook of her finger, the water followed, looping mid-air. She pointed at the candle, burning beside her. The water plummeted and extinguished the flame with a hiss.
A shiver wracked her. She didn’t own a cloak, and while it hadn’t snowed yet, Willow said winter was just biding its time.
Probably because of the bloody cold, her cheek throbbed. She brushed the hardened scab with her free hand. It rarely crossed her mind, anymore. Willow didn’t own a mirror, so she hadn’t been able to spend hours obsessing over her face or become overly distraught about it.
Several days had passed since the incident in the village, and Jessica had barely rested. Willow pushed her to practice, constantly observing and scratching furious notes. And Jessica wondered if the constant exercises had to do with Willow wanting revenge on Mystia.
But the magic was harder to manipulate than Jessica had first imagined. Usually, Willow could over-power her with a simple spell. And it rankled Jessica to concede witchcraft superior to her own fae magic.
Most of the time, Jessica worked outside. Willow’s house made her antsy, filled to the rafters with odds-and-ends. If you ducked to avoid the dried herbs, you knocked over a basket of dehydrated eyeballs. Stacks of journals sat piled on every table and chair. Crystals lay in heaps, and a collection of brooms sat stacked in every corner. She had at least eight mortars and pestles, most filled with half-crushed ingredients. Shelves tilted haphazardly, over-burdened with books, candles, and ceramic bowls filled with nuts, bark, skins, and all manner of creepy things.
And it smelled like a witch’s lair. A potion was always brewing, either in the enormous, black cauldron or balanced over a candle. And if by some miracle something wasn’t bubbling away, there were a million other things lending their unique odor to the cacophony of scents.
“That’s not very useful,” Willow yelled from the door, shielded from the bitter wind. “What can I do, muss someone’s pretty hair?”
“Shut up,” Jessica yelled back. “Let me figure this out.” Controlling water was new. They’d speculated if Jessica could control fire, wind, and earth, then water only made sense.
Legs braced, she focused on the river. She’d show Willow what she could do. Motionless, she waited, her face scrunched in concentration. Finally, every drop of water within eyeshot rose into the air. Jessica let out a victorious whoop.
Awed by what she’d accomplished, and a bit breathless, Jessica held one trembling hand in the air to maintain the river’s suspension and walked to the riverbed to get a closer look. Fish flopped in the mud, slowly suffocating, while the river hovered over-head.
Okay, fish, go to the water. She pointed up. They went nowhere. Some flopped about, others, opened and closed their mouths in silent gasps. “Fish,” she said aloud this time, “go to the river.” Still nothing. Blowing a strand of hair from her face, she glared. Why wouldn’t they do as she commanded?
“Jess, what’re you doing?”
Eyes wide, Jessica spun around and gaped at the witch, now by her side. She grasped her pounding chest. The water she’d been suspending—no longer supported—fell in a cascade over Willow.
“Oh!” Jessica gasped.
Willow’s mouth opened on a silent scream. She came to her senses and pulled the sodden hair away from her face with both hands. Water trailed away from her in rivulets, winding back to envelop the beached fish.
“I’m sorry!” Jessica rushed to Willow. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Willow managed, shoulders hunched. She looked from Jessica to the rapidly filling riverbed and lifted one foot free of the sticky muck. “C-C-Cold.”
Unable to help herself, Jessica burst into laughter. “You should see the look on your face!” She giggled all the harder, not seeing Willow tilt her head to the side and give her a warning look. “You look like a drowned rat!” Still laughing, she held out a helping hand.
“Well, thank you very much,” Willow grumbled, grabbed Jessica’s hand, reversed her gri
p, and yanked, hard! Jessica lost her balance and fell face-first beside her.
Sputtering and shrieking, Jessica pushed herself up to a crouch and wiped the mud from her eyes. Her gown, sodden with grime, clung to her body. And when she moved to stand, she slid back down. “I can’t get up, it’s too slippery!” she cried, unable to stop laughing, all the while sinking further into the mire.
Once again, Willow reached out a hand to help Jessica to her feet. But this time, Jessica gave a quick yank and dragged Willow down beside her. Together they sat laughing in the mud.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Both women turned at the deep voice. Mr. Lumberjack, himself, watched, looking as dashing as he had the other day. He stood beside a large cart at the edge of the yard. His mouth twitched into a smile that he tried to hide by running a hand over his full, almost pouty lips.
“Orrin!” Willow said, sinking deeper. “We had a bit of an accident.”
Jessica wiped mud from her eyes to get a better view of the witch. When she’d asked Willow about the handsome warlock, the other day, Willow had nearly lost her mind. “Warlocks are evil sorcerers who command dead spirits,” she’d shrieked. “Don’t ever call a witch a warlock again! Male witches are witches.”
“I can see that.” Orrin stepped closer. “May I be of assistance?” He no longer tried to hide the grin, and Jessica found herself smiling back, only to have mud drip in her mouth. She sputtered and resolved to smile at him later.
Willow held her hands out, but before Orrin grabbed them, he eyed her threateningly. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh please, as if I’m that immature,” she huffed, as if she hadn’t just done the very thing he accused her of, moments before, and let him yank her free. “Besides, if I did anything to you, Mystia would most likely come after me with more poison.”
He ducked his head and reached for Jessica, avoiding Willow’s eyes. “Sorry about that. Her gripe isn’t mine and never has been. We were friends before and are friends still.”