by Deanna Chase
“Corrine, wait!” Her father scrambled to his feet, arms reaching for her as she stood.
“Leave me alone!” Corrine screamed, humiliation burning her cheeks. She stumbled as she regained her feet and half-fell against the door.
“Corrine, please, let me help you,” her father begged, tears thickening his voice.
“You can’t help me,” Corrine bit out, scrabbling at the doorknob. The smooth metal mocked her as the scarred flesh of her hand slipped against its slick surface. “You’ve never been able to help me.”
She bolted out the door, leaving her father’s protests behind her. Furniture conspired to keep her trapped in the house, lunging out of nowhere to bang into her hips and thighs. Her heart beat harder as pain blossomed on each fresh strike, the blood pouring from the cut in her mouth welling up until she gagged. Whimpers were falling from her throat as she finally put a hand on the front door and forced it open.
She ran out of the house as fast as she could. The land flew beneath her feet, her surroundings a blur as she desperately raced for the forest that held Mother Briar’s old hut. All around her, her father’s new employees stared, not bothering with subtlety or basic human manners. She could feel their judgment, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as if warning her how dangerous it was to turn her back on them with their sharp farming instruments. She was a witch, untrusted, unwanted. It was only a matter of time before one of them decided they could no longer work for a witch. Before they decided they needed the job too badly to simply quit.
Her head ached, the panic riding her like a demon, urging her faster and faster. She needed help and she needed it now. Maribel was gone. She was slow, too slow. Surrounded by enemies. Starving…
Corrine didn’t know if Mother Briar used magic to alert her to visitors or if the old woman had a sixth sense, but however it came to be, she was standing on her front stoop as Corrine burst out of the trees into the clearing that held her home. The witch stood with her hands on her generous hips, steely eyes tracking Corrine’s progress. She inclined her head to Corrine as she ran up the pathway then retreated into the small hut, leaving Corrine to follow her.
“I’ve been expecting you.” Mother Briar approached the fire and took up a large wooden spoon. She stirred something in the giant black cauldron hanging over the flames, filling the room with the sour aroma of stewed cabbage.
Corrine’s stomach growled loudly even as her nose wrinkled in distaste. She put a hand over her belly and sank into a chair at the table, too tired to be embarrassed anymore or to care what manner of food was offered to her. Mother Briar scooped whatever was cooking into a bowl and set it in front of Corrine along with a few slices of bread and a cup of water.
Shredded cabbage cooked to within an inch of its life floated in an oily broth. Lumps of meat—pork?—floated here and there, nearly lost to the quagmire of cabbage. Corrine wanted to reject the foul-smelling food, but her stomach screamed at her, her body withering as she hesitated.
Starving…
The word echoed from somewhere inside her mind, and with it came an uncontrollable hunger so intense it threatened to fold her in two. Corrine fell on the food like it was a lifeline, her disgust forgotten under the force of her body’s need.
Juice dribbled down her chin and she had to put her face down until it nearly touched the bowl to avoid spilling more food than she swallowed. She shoveled thick chunks of meat into her mouth, scarcely bothering to chew. Mushy cabbage slid down her throat whole and she choked. Still she didn’t stop until she saw the bottom of the bowl.
The food was real, the bowl was real. She wasn’t in that horrible dream anymore, her body was her own again, obeying her commands. Her gaze traveled to the cauldron. Who knew when she would eat again? She eyed Mother Briar, waiting until the witch wasn’t’ looking, then slipping the bread into the pocket of her cloak to save it for later. Finally the panic faded to a manageable level. She put both hands, palms down, on the table and fixed her eyes on her empty bowl.
Mother Briar said nothing, merely waited in silence for Corrine to speak. Corrine had all the time in the world to put her thoughts in order. She waited until she thought she could keep her voice steady before she spoke.
“You lied to my sister.”
The old woman sat across from Corrine, her chair creaking like an ancient tree branch under the weight of a looming vulture. “Oh?”
Corrine raised her face, letting the hot anger flickering to life inside her show in her eyes. “You know full well that the curse on Daman has nothing to do with love or trust. Maribel can’t break that curse—only I can.”
“I’m the one who taught you that curse, Corrine,” Mother Briar said calmly. “I am fully aware that you are the only one who can break it.”
“Then why did you tell her that?” Corrine grasped the sides of the table with her hands, fingers white with the effort. “How could you send her away from me, filling her head with all that rot about saving him with love?” Corrine slid her hands onto the tabletop, clenching her hands into fists. “I need her.”
“Yes. I’d imagine it is quite hard for you to drain your sister’s energy now that she’s so terribly far away.”
Instinctually, Corrine rubbed at a spot over her heart where the arcane mark was drawn on her skin, ink and blood mixed together. Touching it should have let her feel the invisible thread that connected her to her sister, but she felt nothing. It was as though the distance between her and Maribel had stretched the magical bond so thin that it was intangible, even to her magic sense. Completely absent of the thrum of energy she so depended on. Useless. “Don’t say it like that. I’m not trying to hurt her.”
“You can’t hurt her,” Mother Briar corrected her, her tone condescending. “The spell I taught you doesn’t work that way. The bond between you only allows you to share her energy, not to drain it from her. Despite her ignorance, she is sidhe, and as long as she is more powerful than you, you will not be able to take more energy from her than she can spare.”
“I would never take more than I need.” Corrine’s heart pounded against the wall of her chest in a bruising rhythm. “Why did you send her away? You’re the one who taught me the spell, surely you don’t begrudge me using it?”
“I could not care less what you do to your sister.” Mother Briar waved her hand as if to brush away the suggestion. “But for now, she is of greater value to me if she remains with Daman.”
Corrine gritted her teeth at the mention of the monster’s name. She never wanted to hear that name again—ever. “Why?”
Mother Briar’s eyes flashed, an unearthly light glittering in eyes gone black as obsidian. “Daman stole my daughter from me. I want her back. Your sister is in a position to earn his trust and find out where he took her.”
“He took your daughter because you treated her as your slave,” Corrine spat. “You were a fool to mistreat her in the territory of a naga sworn to protect changelings.”
“She is a goblin!” Mother Briar met Corrine’s gaze, beady eyes fairly glowing with ire. “The goblins stole my child and left one of their own miscreants behind! If I hadn’t kept the goblin brat busy, she would have been a danger to everyone. Daman had no right to judge my mothering—especially when he knew what she was.”
“I notice you’re not so interested in finding your own daughter—the one you actually gave birth to.” Corrine rested her chin on her hand, propped up with an elbow on the table. “What’s the matter, humans can’t work as hard?”
“Obviously,” Mother Briar sneered, giving Corrine a pointed look. “Isn’t that why you need your fairy sister to come back? So she can be your slave?”
Corrine pressed her lips into a thin line. “I do not treat her as my slave. She is my sister. I love her.” Why doesn’t anyone understand that? She shoved that thought away. It didn’t matter what anyone said, Maribel knew Corrine loved her.
Mother Briar didn’t argue, but something in her eyes made it clear what she though
t of Corrine’s declaration of familial love. The dismissal tightened something in Corrine’s stomach despite her attempts to reassure herself, and the stew she’d gobbled down so ravenously soured inside her.
“There is no reason for us to fight, Corrine,” Mother Briar said finally. “We can work together and we will both get what we want. If you help me get my daughter back, I will teach you magic stronger than any you have ever dreamed of. I will give you the strength to steal energy from anyone around you, the power to bend people to your will. You will be able to find a rich husband and take him for all he is worth. You will have the land, the money, and the power to support yourself—forever.”
The crone’s words wove around Corrine like a new dress, corset strings pulling into a snug fit that hugged her closer than any human ever had. Security. That’s what Mother Briar was offering her now. Magic was only a means to an end, a means to be absolutely certain that she never starved again, was never alone again, never weak again.
Corrine blinked, realizing she’d been leaning forward more and more as Mother Briar spoke. Her heart pounded and images of herself sitting in a grand house, surrounded by servants, smelling the sweet aromas of a sumptuous feast, kept floating through her mind. She searched inside herself for that power that let her sense magic, that let her use magic. Surely the witch must be using some sort of compulsion spell on her. Surely her desperation couldn’t be this strong?
The magical sense rose like a pet greeting its mistress, coming to her call and dutifully sniffing for any traces of magical manipulation. She kept feeling around, but came up with nothing. Mother Briar’s words were just words. There was no force behind them.
“You’ve suffered so much, Corrine,” Mother Briar continued gently. “Your family doesn’t want to admit it, they don’t want you to feel badly, but the fact is that you are a pathetic creature. You’re nothing but skin and bones, and sometimes I’m amazed that you can walk all the way here from your own poor farmhouse.”
Pathetic. Skin and bones. Poor. Corrine averted her eyes, trying to force her brain to think past the strange muddle it had become. Her skin was suddenly clammy with sweat, and if she rubbed her hands together, she could swear she felt the bones grinding against one another. The horror built inside her as she noticed the way her dress sagged against her flesh, sharp, skeletal points tenting the fabric where her bones stuck out. She swayed in her chair. So hungry…
“Oh, you poor child. Let me get you another bowl.”
Mother Briar snatched up Corrine’s bowl and refilled it with the disgusting concoction. Corrine fell on it like a starving wolf. It didn’t matter that the cabbage was overcooked to the point of losing all cohesion, or that the pork was tough and burnt. Her stomach was cramping, her head spinning, her entire body aching as though she hadn’t eaten in days. She needed this food.
“Corrine, if you won’t do this for me, then do it for yourself.” Mother Briar put her hand over Corrine’s, her meaty paw making Corrine’s fingers appear even more fragile. “My dear, you won’t survive this life much longer. You weren’t meant for it.”
She’s right.
Corrine was only half surprised to find her food was completely gone. She kept her gaze fixed on the bottom of the ceramic crockery, forcing herself not to cast a mournful stare at the pot on the stove like a dog begging for more scraps. She was tired of being pathetic.
“Go to your sister. It has been weeks, and she is such a charming girl. It will only be a matter of time until she has the power over the beast to leverage the information I need. Use your influence over your sister. Get me that information. It is your only chance.”
Corrine swayed in her seat, blinking slowly as Mother Briar’s words echoed in her head. “I’ll do it.” She stood up, proud of herself that her legs only trembled slightly. She met Mother Briar’s gaze. There was a spark of pride there, and Corrine’s spirits rose. She tried to remember why she’d ever been angry with the witch, but couldn’t think of a reason. “You’re certain Daman will let me see her? After what I did…”
“Corrine, I’ve already planted the seed in Maribel’s mind that Daman needs love and trust to break his horrible curse. I’m certain that Maribel’s kindness and Daman’s own guilt over his horrid temper will be more than enough to make him give her whatever her heart desires.” Mother Briar scowled. “Besides, the beast has such a soft spot for changelings. I’ve yet to hear of him denying one of the creatures anything they asked for.”
Corrine gritted her teeth. “He certainly doesn’t care that way for anyone who isn’t a changeling. He had no problem whatsoever telling me no.”
“Yes, he was cruel to you, wasn’t he?” Mother Briar moved to stand behind Corrine, hands rising to rest on her shoulders. “All you wanted was the same security he so willingly offered those pathetic changelings. He has no wife, no shortage of treasure. You’re a beautiful girl, a girl who’s been brave in the face of more adversity than any woman should have to bear. He had no right to mock you like he did.”
The flames below the large black pot danced in her vision as Corrine’s mind drifted back to the first time she’d met Daman. “He was so kind at first, but it was only because I had Maribel’s blood on me and he thought I was a changeling. For a moment I actually thought he cared about me.”
“He only cares for creatures from beyond the veil.” Mother Briar snorted. “He obviously has no respect for the suffering humans must endure. Who knows what sort of terror those changelings wreak on their new homes after he’s relocated them?”
“You are no changeling. You have a good life, you are just too spoiled to appreciate it. Go home, human, and be grateful.”
Daman’s words echoed in Corrine’s memory. She could still see his flashing silver eyes, the harsh lines of his face, the cruel twist of his handsome mouth as he’d practically thrown her out of his manor.
“Make your sister understand that Daman is not the man she thinks he is, that he is a selfish beast who kidnaps changelings and sends them away from the people their own families chose to raise them. If she is the kind-hearted soul we know she is, she will help me find my daughter.” The witch moved to the side and settled into a chair next to Corrine. “And then, my child, I will teach you all you need to know to get the life you want—the life you deserve. You can trust me. Only me.”
Anger burned hot inside Corrine as Daman’s face hovered in her mind, mocking her, her pain, and her dreams. Her heart cauterized in her chest, the decision solidifying inside her like a lump of coal squeezed into a diamond. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.” Mother Briar stood up, brushing her skirts off. “Now, let me wrap up some bread up for you to take home.”
“Thank you.” Corrine waited for the witch to turn her back and then plucked an apple out of the bowl on the table and tucked it into the other pocket in her cloak. She was so hungry…
Chapter Six
Maribel jabbed the knife into the slab of meat and began viciously sawing off the fat and flinging it into a bowl. It landed with a wet plop! The sound was not nearly satisfying enough to appease Maribel’s growing temper.
“I wasn’t staring.” She savaged the piece of beef into small chunks, hurling them into the oiled cast iron pan heating on the oven. “Why would I? It’s no big deal.” Her teeth clenched in frustration. “Half… Half…” She pursed her lips and slammed a fist down on the cutting board. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Say it. Half serpent.”
The word hung in the air like an accusation. Maribel drummed her fingers on the cutting board, jaw jutting out as she glared at nothing in particular. After several moments of silence, her shoulders slumped and she cast a glance at the oven.
She should have been more excited that Daman had an oven. She hadn’t seen one since her family had been wealthy enough to have a full kitchen, and even then she’d spent limited time in that area of the house. It hadn’t been until they’d lost all of that and she’d begun cooking for her family herself that she’d started
dreaming of using one. Now she finally had her chance, and she couldn’t enjoy it properly because she couldn’t quit thinking about her sour host. She grasped the knife.
“It’s been weeks,” she informed the would-be stew. “Weeks, and every time he deigns to speak with me I get to bear the brunt of his atrocious mood swings.” She stabbed the raw meat and resumed butchering it. “If he didn’t want to go on a walk, he should have said so! It wasn’t as though I was trying to underline the fact that he…”
She tripped over the words in her mind, tiny voices in her head screaming she was being rude until she forcibly shook off her embarrassment. “Don’t be a ninny, Maribel,” she told herself firmly. “Say it. He hasn’t got any legs.” The knife thunked into the wood on a particularly enthusiastic jab. “That’s no reason we can’t get along. I’m not judging him for it, there’s no reason for him to be so blasted sensitive.”
The meat sizzled, oil flying off in angry sputters, wrenching Maribel out of her reverie. She gritted her teeth as the oil splattered against her arm, tiny droplets burning her skin. “If anything, I should be the one who doesn’t want to try and get along with him,” she told the vegetables. “Every chance he gets, he steers the conversation to Corrine. I’m sure he thinks he’s being subtle, but men in general are lost when it comes to subtlety and that’s apparently even more true for men who are…” She glared at the angry red spatters on her arm. Say it, Maribel, it’s no big deal. You’ve already said it once. “Half serpent,” she finished.
“Wyvern.”
A squeak exploded from Maribel’s lips. She whirled around with the knife held out in a defensive pose, silver blade shining in the light pouring into the kitchen from the open door and the great cooking fire in the hearth.