The faint stirrings of a memory came back to Corrine, hazy voices she’d thought she’d dreamt up, people talking over her, about her, while she lay unconscious. Patron. Power. Evil Fire. “You’re saying I have power.”
The pixie arched an eyebrow. “You’re just now picking up on that?”
“But Mother Briar said my magic wasn’t very strong.”
“Which makes her a dirty liar.”
“But the amulet, the potions… She needed to make them for me.”
“She created them for you because you didn’t know how, but she used your blood. That’s where the power came from. That amulet was a trick of the mind, a way to pass your magic off as hers so you would think you needed her.” The pixie snorted. “That old bat doesn’t have the juice to do half of what you did today. Do you know how rare it is for a witch to work a spell through sheer willpower?” She paused. “Of course, being near death tends to give one quite a bit of extra oomph. I doubt you’d have been able to do that on an average day. Obviously I wouldn’t recommend it as a first course of action…”
Corrine’s head fell back, banging against the wardrobe. She hissed and jerked forward, rubbing the back of her head.
“You pulled energy from a sidhe too,” the pixie continued. “Pulled enough from her to hurt her. Even panicking as much as you were, that was impressive. Not sure you could have done that if you hadn’t already been taking from her for so long, but still.”
Maribel. Corrine had a flash of seeing Maribel collapse, remembered the euphoric feeling she’d been lost in, how long it had taken her to register what she was doing, what effect she was having on her sister.
“I could have killed her.” Saying the words out loud made her blood run cold.
The pixie tilted her head, eyeing Corrine from her new position on a tented portion of bedsheets. “Surprisingly, yes. Well, maybe not killed her. Sidhe are creatures of the earth, and the land around us is vital. She may have survived even if you did attempt to drain her.”
Corrine covered her face with her hands, trying to shove the memory away. “I never wanted to hurt her.”
“Witches left untrained with no familiar and no mentor often hurt people without intending to. Your patron must have had a terrible sense of humor. Not atypical, mind you, but terrible nonetheless.”
A surge of anger flared bright and hot, chasing back the pain. Corrine dropped her hands to glare at the pixie. “You’ve been dropping information like breadcrumbs, tempting my appetite, but providing nothing of substance. Is it your intention to continue to torment me, or do you plan to explain exactly what you know about me?”
The pixie put a hand on her chest. “You would accuse me of being vague?”
Corrine narrowed her eyes.
“Humph,” the pixie muttered. “That’s gratitude for you. Oh, all right. I suppose I could answer a few questions before we go.”
“Go where?”
“To Mother Hazel.”
That got Corrine’s attention. “You can’t be serious. You want to take me to another witch? After everything Mother Briar did to me?”
The pixie crossed her arms. “Fine. Figure it all out for yourself. How hard could that be?”
Corrine bristled at the sarcasm dripping from the pixie’s tone, but she bit back the scathing response that readied on her tongue. The fey had agreed to answer some questions. Best not to look that gift horse in the mouth.
“What’s a patron?”
The pixie took her time settling down, getting comfortable. By the time she finally answered, Corrine was ready to leap off the floor and strangle her.
“A patron is someone or something very powerful. It can be a god, a spirit, or a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very—”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Very powerful person,” the pixie finished with a glare. She sniffed. “The patron might reveal herself to the witch or she might not. She might have a reason for giving the person power or she might not. She might be giving the power to the person for a good reason or—”
“She might not,” Corrine finished. Impatience licked at her and she had to clasp her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for the fey.
“Or she might not,” the pixie finished pointedly.
“Is there any way to find out who my patron is?” Corrine’s heart throbbed in her throat, her nerves singing as she felt herself getting close to the answers she needed.
“Not if she doesn’t want you to know. At least, I’ve never heard of anyone tracking down a patron. You’d have to be some sort of crazy investigator.”
Corrine slumped back against the wardrobe, but her mind continued to whirl. The pixie eyed her for a minute then continued.
“Normally, the patron arranges for a mentor, either by formal introduction or as some sort of apparent coincidence. The witch can either find a mentor, or a mentor can find a witch. It’s the mentor’s job to help you balance the power that’s making you ‘ill’ and to help you learn new spells.”
The way the fey said “ill” made Corrine study her more closely. “Why do you say ‘ill’ like I’m not really ill?”
The pixie gripped her head in both hands. “You haven’t figured it out yet?” she half-shrieked. “After all I’ve been saying?”
“What? Just tell me!”
“You were never sick,” the pixie shouted. “Your patron just decided to let you think that. All that nausea, dizziness, hallucinations, weakness—it was all raw power! You didn’t know what you were, you had no one to help you. Your power was making you mad.”
A fine trembling shook Corrine’s body. Never ill? All those years…all that time…all that fear. The pixie shifted as though suddenly uncomfortable. Then she cleared her throat and slid down the incline the bed sheets had made. She jumped off the bed and flew over to land on Corrine’s folded hands. Slowly, she leaned down and put her tiny hand on one of Corrine’s fingers.
“All this time… All the things I’ve done.” Heat swamped Corrine’s head, making it hard to think. She could only sit there, helpless as images danced across her mind. All those days she’d spent in bed, terrified of falling and hurting herself, of losing herself in one of those horrible waking dreams. The stares she’d always gotten from others, the whispers. The times an episode had left her in physical danger, cut, burned, or bleeding. The bonding spell she’d used on Maribel.
“It’s not your fault,” the pixie said softly. “I know you’re feeling guilty about what you did to Maribel, but there was nothing else you could have done. You were drawn to magic, it was inevitable with that much power inside you, but you didn’t understand what you were. You bonded to your sister because she was the only one ‘other’ that you knew. You were driven to do something to prevent true madness.” The pixie scowled. “Whoever your patron is, she’s a sick one.”
“You keep saying ‘she.’” Corrine tried to focus on the pixie. “How do you know it’s a she?”
The pixie shrugged and leaned back. “I don’t. But I resort to female when dealing with any kind of creative magic. Women are the creators, after all, not men.”
Corrine mulled that over for a while. Her hands grew clammy as an unpleasant thought unfurled in her mind. “Could Mother Briar be my patron?”
The pixie snorted. “No. Mother Briar isn’t powerful enough. That’s why she’s so desperate to get Jeanne back. She wants the girl to be her slave, to do all the work she’s too lazy to do and doesn’t have the power to do magically. If the old bat put half as much effort into her own work as she did trying to find Jeanne, it would all balance out and she wouldn’t even need the poor goblin girl. I mean, look at how much work she put into manipulating you.”
Corrine stared into space for a moment. “Maribel knows about Mother Briar’s part in…everything.”
The pixie shrugged. “Seems so.”
“Maribel will want her punished.” Inner turmoil tightened Corrine’s voice, threatening to choke her with emotion s
he didn’t want to deal with right now. “Maribel has always been very protective of me.”
The pixie pressed her lips into a thin line. “It would be foolish of Maribel to go after Mother Briar. She’s not all that powerful as far as witches go, but that’s still a lot farther than a sidhe who’s believed she was a human her entire life. Even Daman would do well to keep his distance unless he wanted to end up cursed into a shape significantly worse than the halfway form he’s been living in this past year. Even a poor excuse for a witch like Mother Briar could manage to change him into a wild boar or something.” The pixie paused. “Well, perhaps not a boar. Nagas are too powerful for something so mortal. But a river, that could likely be managed.”
“Is Mother Briar more powerful than me?” Corrine asked carefully, her mind parsing through different scenarios in which she might make Mother Briar pay for all she’d done.
“In terms of raw power, not likely,” the pixie mused. “Mother Briar comes from a line of witches capable of little more than parlor tricks, there isn’t much power in her bloodline. And she’s never been foolish enough to barter with a bigger force for more power. You, on the other hand, have been touched by a very generous, if cruel, patron.” The pixie eyed Corrine. “Still, all the power in the world won’t do you any good if you don’t know how to use it. You’re nowhere near ready to take on Mother Briar.”
“I can’t let Maribel go after her and get hurt. I have to do something.”
“Well, there are all kinds of ways to keep your sister from challenging the old crone,” the pixie assured her. “Why, I could teach you a spell to lay a fog around the old crone’s house that would disorient and turn away anyone who tried to go in. Or we could try wiping the memory of Mother Briar from your sister’s mind. Or—”
“No,” Corrine interrupted. “Fog would only lead unwary travelers astray. And I will never interfere with my sister’s mind again.” She tapped a finger against her thigh. “I’ll be honest with Maribel. It’s the least I can do to make up for the deception of the past.”
She slid out of the bed and searched the room until she found parchment and a pen. She quickly scribbled a letter to her sister. Her eyes watered as she penned a pathetic apology along with an insistence that Maribel leave Mother Briar to her, since it was she who had been manipulated. She swallowed hard as tears streamed down her cheeks, then forced herself to finish the letter with a plea that Maribel not try to find her.
“Pixie?”
“Yes?”
“Can you help me get out of here without being seen?”
“Oh, yes. Glamour is easy.”
Corrine hesitated before asking the next part, but there was no point putting it off. “And can you help me find somewhere to stay until I can support myself?”
“Mother Hazel will help you.” The pixie tilted her head. “Why don’t you stay here? Your sister obviously wants you to stay, the naga lord has no reason to attack you now.” The pixie glanced around. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? To live like a queen?”
“Not on someone’s else’s coin!” The words came out louder and harsher than Corrine had meant to say them and she pressed her lips into a thin line as she took deep breaths. After some measure of her control had returned, she addressed the pixie again. “All I want is to be self-sufficient. I don’t want to rely on anyone.”
“That wasn’t your attitude before,” the pixie pointed out. “You were quite firm on the point that you wanted to be rich and wealthy with lots of servants—”
“That was when I thought I had need of such things.” Corrine pressed her hands to the table, concentrating on the solid support of the wood. “That was when I thought I was ill, that I couldn’t do things on my own. If what you’ve told me is true, I don’t need to rely on anyone. I don’t need to surround myself with wealth and servants, to protect myself from the world. I can handle the world.” She cleared her throat and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable with the pixie’s piercing gaze. “I just need a little help to get there.”
“And you would take that help from Mother Hazel, but not your sister?”
Corrine cleared her throat, mentally threatening to dig her eyes out of her head if they dared to drop another tear. “I have taken enough from my sister.” An ache in her chest prompted her to massage a spot just under her collarbone. Where once there had been an arcane mark, the symbol of the bond linking her with Maribel, there was now only a scar. The last remnant of her link to her sidhe sibling, severed by a sheer force of will in what she’d thought would be her last act on this plane of existence. She gave the pixie a defiant glare. “Besides, isn’t it my mentor’s job to help me? Isn’t that what this Mother Hazel is offering?”
The pixie ignored her tone, not blinking an eye. She stared at Corrine for so long that the gaze gained a weight to it, bored straight through Corrine and dragged over the tender fabric of her very soul. She clenched her hands into fists, determined not to squirm. Finally, the pixie nodded.
“I will take you to Mother Hazel. But I will tell you now, Corrine. The life you’re choosing for yourself will not be an easy one. Magic is a fierce beast that can hurt you or help you, depending on how you try to use it and how seriously you take your studies. To learn that life surrounded by loved ones and comforts is one thing. To study alone…”
“Perhaps it’s time I was alone.” Corrine stood straighter, squared her shoulders. “But mark my words, pixie. Someday I will repay my sister for her kindness. I will make up for all I have done.” She stared out the window at the land. “I swear it.”
Epilogue
Kirill, vampire prince of Dacia and member of the ruling council for the New Kingdom, led Daman into the study. The castle had only recently been completed and everything was shiny and new, every golden wall sconce gleaming with perfection, every inch of the marble floor polished to a glossy shine. The art hanging on the walls had come from his own personal stock, and the vibrant colors made the images come alive. The entire castle screamed of money and power—exactly as Kirill intended. It was precisely the scene he wanted as he invited his first prospect to meet with the rest of the council.
“I’m still not sure I understand why I’m here?”
Kirill smiled at Daman, not bothering to hide his fangs. Daman was a naga, with a half dragon and full dragon form—a set of fangs was not going to startle him. “All will be explained very soon.” He tilted his head. “I trust your honeymoon was pleasant?”
The corner of Daman’s mouth quirked up in an expression that said more than words how much he’d enjoyed his vacation with his new wife, Maribel. “Indeed. Your suggestion was most welcome.”
“Glad to hear it. So few people are aware of that island. It makes it the perfect spot for a private getaway.”
“Did you honeymoon there as well?”
Kirill paused, keeping his face neutral as he studied Daman. From the way the naga had behaved when Kirill had first appeared at his home, he’d assumed the naga was unfamiliar with the royal family of Dacia. How had he known Kirill was married?
Then it dawned on Kirill and he glanced down at his left hand and the ring that matched the silver band he’d given his wife Irina. “No,” he answered finally. “My wife and I didn’t travel for our honeymoon, though I did suggest it.”
“Your wife does not like to travel?”
Kirill fought not to roll his eyes. “No. She doesn’t like to leave the kingdom. My wife is very interested in”—social reform, interfering in my political machinations—“charity work. She is quite dedicated.”
“She sounds like a lovely woman,” Daman said politely.
This time Kirill’s smile was a full flashing of fangs as he thought of his beautiful bride. Heat stirred in his body and he composed himself before his mind could travel too far ahead in the evening to the time he would once again have his wife in his arms. “She is that.”
Finally they arrived at the study. Kirill opened the door and gestured for Daman to precede him.
Daman warily glanced into the room, body held loose, prepared to leap at any sign of danger. After a moment, he stepped over the threshold. Kirill followed him.
There were four men in the room, the rest of the ruling council of the New Kingdom. Kirill stepped slightly ahead of Daman to begin introductions.
“Daman, may I introduce you to my compatriots.” He gestured toward the window. “Prince Etienne of Sanguenay.”
The moonlight spilling through the window illuminated Etienne, casting his shaggy brown hair in shadow and making his dark blue waistcoat appear black. His brown eyes glinted with a momentary flash of gold, a hint of the wolf within him peeking out at the visitor. He bowed slightly. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And this is Adonis, Prince of Nysa.” Kirill paused and put a hand to his head and rubbed his temple. “Adonis, didn’t we discuss this?”
The demon standing at the fireplace crossed his arms, the smoldering cigarette tucked between two fingers filling the room with the smoky scent of cloves. “You said he was a naga. Don’t tell me horns and wings are going to frighten him?”
“That’s not the point,” Kirill argued tiredly. “Is Etienne in wolfman form? Is Saamal appearing as a jaguar or a gust of wind?”
“Patricio’s wings are out,” Adonis objected.
“Patricio is an angel, he has no choice.”
“Well, I’m an incubus. This is what I look like, to look otherwise would be deceptive. Hardly the sort of first impression you want to make when you’re inviting someone to move into your kingdom and take up a position of power in the court.”
“Move? Position of power in the court?” Daman leaned back from the other occupants of the room. “What court? What kingdom?”
Kirill clenched his teeth, struggling not to bare his fangs. “Thank you for that subtle revelation, Adonis. And here I was worried about how best to broach the subject.” He straightened his clothes, counting his weapons as he kept a careful eye on Daman out of his peripheral vision.
“If I may continue with the introductions, all else will soon be revealed.”
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