“But you can’t get to it.” I met his eyes, waiting for him to deny it, then tapped the map. “This is Dennett Lake. Take Quarry Road up to Munroe Lake Trail. It’ll connect to Dennett Lake Trail. Follow that north until you reach the lake.”
“I’ve already been there,” he grumbled. “The slope on the north side is too steep to get up without rock-climbing gear.”
“I know. You have to go west, around the lake. There’s no trail until you get here.” I pointed. “Summit Trail. It’ll take you up onto the ridge, and from there you’ll be able to see the valley. Find a way down and follow the valley to the crossroads.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never gone myself, but I’ve been to Dennett Lake and the other witches in my coven told me about the route to the crossroads.”
Grunting, he leaned over the map to study the route I’d traced, hands braced on the tabletop. Large, strong hands.
“So,” I said flatly, “you’re going to go there immediately, figure shit out, and leave?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good.” I whipped my hand out of my pocket. Steel flashed as I brought my switchblade down, slamming it into the tabletop between two of his fingers.
He jolted but didn’t yank his hand away.
My knuckles were white around the knife’s worn black handle as I looked into his dangerously close fae-bright eyes. “If I ever see your face again, that will be your throat.”
He flicked a glance from the knife to my face, his brow furrowed. Instead of angry or intimidated, he seemed disconcerted, almost perplexed—and in response, my gut swooped as though the ground beneath me had shifted.
Then his expression tightened with cold disdain, and I wondered if I’d imagined it.
“With charm like yours,” he sneered, “how could I resist returning?”
I bared my teeth. He stepped back—then grabbed the map, tearing the edge where my knife was still embedded.
“Hey! I didn’t say you could take that!”
Without a word, he walked out of the room. I sped after him, but by the time I cleared the threshold, he’d reached Tilliag. Grabbing the stallion’s mane, he swung himself up. Hooves clopped loudly as the horse pushed into a rolling canter, speeding the length of the stable.
Whicker let out an envious whinny as the fae stallion and his druid disappeared into the afternoon sunlight.
“Dinner is served!”
Greta set a loaded plate in front of me, and I scooted my wooden chair closer to the table. My mouth watered at the delicious scents filling the eat-in kitchen.
Sinking into her chair, Greta smiled at Dominique. They’d been partners since before I’d met them. Dominique ran the front end of the rescue, Greta ran the back end, and they shared the labor around the farm.
I picked up my utensils and cut into my golden-fried pork schnitzel. “Is this your Oma’s recipe?”
“Yes.” Greta scooped a forkful of spätzle into her mouth. “No more experiments. Chicken schnitzel just doesn’t do it for me.”
I chewed a perfectly cooked bite of pork, silently agreeing. Not that I would ever complain when they fed me every night for free.
The oak cupboards were faded and scuffed, the patterned linoleum floor curling in the corners, and the floral wallpaper peeling, but I loved this kitchen. I’d started volunteering at the rescue during my last year at vet-tech school, and by graduation, I’d been spending so much time here that Dominique had offered to let me rent the suite above the stable.
I’d lived here for four years now, and every night I ate dinner in this kitchen. I couldn’t imagine not eating my next four years of dinners here too.
“Thank you,” I murmured, spearing a boiled carrot on my fork.
Dominique sighed. “How many times do we have to tell you that you don’t need to thank us?”
“But I’m—”
“Just a volunteer? You always say that, but you also live here, pay rent, spend all your free time helping us, and manage a huge portion of the daily animal care. This rescue wouldn’t function without you, Saber.”
“But you don’t have to feed me.”
Dominique muttered something that sounded like, “Talking to a wall.”
I said nothing, feeling too raw from my encounter with the druid for small talk. I didn’t play “nice Saber” with them the way I did at work, but I also never showed them the real me.
The real me scared people. I was creepy. I was crazy. I was the psychotic, violent, vengeful girl with a knife and zero compunctions about using it. If we hadn’t been interrupted, I would’ve sung an Irish folk song as I cut out Harvey Whitby’s molars, jagged shards of hate grinding in my chest.
If Dominique and Greta saw that side of me, they’d never invite me into their home again.
“By the way, Saber, I have bad news.”
I looked up. Dominique took a slow sip of water, her eyes sad behind her large glasses.
“Harvey Whitby’s third horse was found dead in the woods north of Quarry Road. Since it was found inside the provincial park, BC Parks wants a necropsy done just to be safe, but they think it’s heart failure due to severe malnutrition.”
“Heart failure?” I repeated skeptically.
“I suspect Whitby had something to do with it too.” She tapped her fork on her plate. “But the horse had no visible injuries.”
I remembered stroking the deceased horse’s neck and noticing the lack of a bullet wound. But I’d heard the gunshot. Had Whitby missed the shot but scared the horse to death? Or had that bear fae caused the horse’s demise?
After finishing dinner, I helped with the dishes, then bid Dominique and Greta goodnight. My thoughts dwelled on the palomino’s mysterious death as I completed my evening routine in the stable, checked on the animals in the pasture, then unlocked the stable’s back door and ascended the stairs to the second level.
My suite sat above the tack room, feed room, and tack stalls. Though tiny, it was comfortable, with a squashy sofa facing an old TV I never used, a cramped kitchenette, and the world’s smallest table, joined by two little chairs. It looked like playhouse furniture.
I stripped off my clothes and entered the equally small bathroom, fitted with a toilet, pedestal sink, and tiny shower. A few minutes under the shower’s hot water washed off the sweat and odor of the barn, but it couldn’t wash the questions from my mind.
The bear fae’s unprovoked attack and unexplained death. A “kill zone” of fae violence and bodies. The mysterious death of Whitby’s palomino. The druid’s interest in the crossroads.
Returning to the main room in baggy sweats and a t-shirt, a towel wrapped around my wet hair, I flopped down on the sofa. “Ríkr?”
A moment later, a shimmer disturbed the window. An all-white magpie flew through the glass and landed on the arm of the sofa.
Ríkr’s ability to pass through solid objects like a phantom didn’t startle me. It was a common fae ability. They could move between their spirit realm and the human world in strange ways, and what seemed perfectly solid in my world was a transparent shadow in theirs. Anything that lacked presence and permanence was insubstantial to them, and human structures lacked both.
When I focused my vision correctly, I could glimpse their domain—a landscape of mist and shadows. If I were to ever fully enter their world, it might look quite different, but I’d never find out.
With a flare of faint blue light, Ríkr transformed into a cat. You called, dove?
“Tell me about the crossroads.”
He lay down on the sofa’s arm. What would you like to know?
“Just the basics. I want to know why that druid is so interested.”
Dwelling on the druid? he asked coyly. Ruminating on his—
I rolled my eyes. “The crossroads, Ríkr.”
He swished his tail. Crossroads are places of power that connect your world to multiple points in my world that are otherwise impossibly far from one another. It is an ancient m
agic that was used by fae of old to travel great distances with ease.
“How many other places can a crossroads connect to?”
Some crossroads, only two. Others, a dozen or more. He cracked his lips in a feline smile. Fae of elder knowledge and power can traverse the world in mere steps if they know the correct route to take from crossroads to crossroads.
I pushed my bangs up and rubbed my forehead. “How many places does the crossroads to the north connect to?”
He licked his paw and rubbed it over one ear. Four. You have not asked the most pertinent question, dove.
My eyebrows rose. “What question is that?”
Standing, he arched his back. Can a mere human traverse the crossroads as we can?
I blinked. “Can they?”
He leaped off the sofa and sauntered away.
“Ríkr,” I grumbled irritably.
I’m hungry.
“You’re not actually a cat, you know. Stop acting like one.”
He let out a loud meow. Maybe I am. You do not know what my true form is.
“You’re a shapeshifter,” I scoffed. “Do you even have a true form?”
Of course. Can you not guess it?
I frowned. He favored a cat and a hawk, but somehow, neither seemed quite right for his “true” form. “Give me a hint.”
He shot a scathing blue-eyed stare over his shoulder.
“Probably the cobra,” I decided.
I am not a cobra!
As he stalked off in a huff, I leaned back into the sofa, chewing my lower lip. Should I have sent the druid to the crossroads? I hadn’t wanted to help him, but he would’ve found it on his own sooner or later, and I’d rather he leave sooner.
Fae aggression. Mysterious deaths. A druid who didn’t belong here.
Arla knew something. What was she hiding, and why? I shouldn’t have told her about my encounter with the Crystal Druid; I hadn’t realized he was a wanted rogue. Had she reported his presence to MagiPol, or did she want to avoid the authorities?
If the druid were to be believed, there was a “kill zone” in my coven’s territory—in my territory—and I knew only two people who might have answers. One I’d sent to the crossroads, and the other …
I pushed off the sofa and strode into my bedroom, pulling the towel off my head.
Ríkr appeared at my heels. Going somewhere?
“To see Arla.”
As I opened my closet and pulled out a pair of jeans, my familiar’s voice murmured in my head.
Does this count as doing something stupid?
Chapter Ten
The huge front windows of Arla’s house glowed cheerily. Night had fallen half an hour ago and the full moon shone just above the treetops as I parked my truck on the gravel drive. I stifled a yawn as I checked the time. Just after ten. I was usually getting ready for bed around now.
The late hour wasn’t an issue for Arla. She had an open-door policy for the entire coven. We could show up at any time, even in the middle of the night.
As I marched toward the door, Ríkr swept away on the silent wings of a screech owl, wishing me a telepathic good luck. Probably for the best. He enjoyed making snarky interruptions too much to include him in serious conversations.
I rang the doorbell to announce my arrival, then punched my code into the door lock. The electric bolt buzzed open, and I let myself in. I waited a moment to see if anyone would greet me, then followed the hall past the formal dining room and into the open-concept main room, a large kitchen on one side and a living room on the other.
“You.”
Sitting on the pale gray sofa with a hardcover novel in her hands, Laney shot me a death glare. I gazed back at her emotionlessly. Arla treated coven members like family; we were welcome to show up any time we desired, whether Laney liked it or not.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, flipping her long, bottle-blond hair over her shoulder. “And so late?”
“I came to see Arla.”
“She’s busy doing paperwork.” She returned her attention to her book. “Including your parole report. I saw it on her screen when I was up there, oh, forty minutes ago? You’re too late to stop her from reporting your absence at the ritual.”
I started up the stairs.
“Keep it quick. I want to go to bed and I can’t sleep with you and your knife around.”
At the top of the stairs, I slid my hand into my pocket where my switchblade was nestled. I carried it everywhere, though I’d broken the habit of playing with it years ago. Laney had never forgotten, though.
In the seven years I’d been a member of the coven, I’d seen half a dozen other “parolees” come and go. Laney had hated them all—except the one she’d dated for six months before he’d cut and run mid-rehabilitation—but she hated me the most. Only I was showered with nonstop vitriol.
Pausing in front of Arla’s closed office door, I considered how to approach my coven leader. The woman who’d calmly endured my icy attitude and threats when I’d first arrived in her care. Who’d gently encouraged me to participate no matter how many times I’d flung her requests in her face. Who’d given me second and third and tenth chances when I’d failed to meet the requirements of my rehabilitation.
Most people would have given up on me. I would’ve been sent back to a correctional center, and what was left of my ability to function around other people would have deteriorated to nothing. Arla had probably saved my life.
But she didn’t know me. Didn’t understand me. Had no idea that I hadn’t changed on the inside. I blended in better. I pretended. I played nice. But the real me still wanted to put my knife between the ribs of people who triggered me. The real me still enjoyed seeing them bleed.
I rapped on the door. “Arla? It’s Saber. Can we talk?”
When I got no reply, I knocked again, then turned the handle. Open-door policy, after all.
The office had mismatched bookshelves lining one wall and an inexpensive corner desk by the window, two computer monitors facing the room. Arla sat in her chair, her head pillowed on the desk.
“Arla, wake up,” I called as I walked in.
My gaze caught on her monitors. One showed the same MPD page I’d perused on my phone this afternoon: the bounty listing for Zakariya Andrii, the Crystal Druid. The other displayed a satellite view of a rugged mountain valley, little red markers dotting it. As I drew closer, I read the label for the only manmade route on the map: Summit Trail.
I sucked in a silent breath—and my hand flew to my face, covering my nose. The room reeked of urine. I looked around, expecting to see a pet-made mess, but Arla didn’t have any pets.
I jerked toward the woman. “Arla!”
Her arm lay on the desktop. I grabbed her wrist and shook it. I shook her shoulder. My breath rushed through my throat, quick and frantic. No.
No no no.
Grabbing her shoulders, I pulled her upright. She flopped limply against her chair, arms falling off the desktop, head hanging back. Glassy eyes staring.
Dead. She was dead. Arla was dead.
And the moment I realized it, a single, blinding, all-consuming urge slammed through me: GET OUT.
I needed to get out. Just push Arla back down onto the desk the way I’d found her, walk out, and close the door. Say goodnight to Laney. Go home, go to bed like normal. No one would ever know she hadn’t been alive when I’d been here.
But if I left, I’d look even guiltier. Who would believe she’d already been dead when I’d come in? Arla had been alive forty minutes ago, and now she was dead. My word against Laney’s.
I couldn’t leave. Should I scream? Call an ambulance? Call Laney upstairs myself? But I’d been here too long. A scream now would seem fake. Laney would wonder why I’d stood around for three minutes before realizing her mother was dead.
They couldn’t blame me. Arla hadn’t been murdered. No injuries. No signs of distress. It looked like she’d simply slumped forward onto her desk and died.
No one would believe I wasn’t involved. No one would believe a convicted murderer.
My breath was coming faster and faster. I was doomed. I was fucked.
Better to run.
I spun toward the door—just as Laney walked through, her mouth set in a scowl.
“Are you done talk—” She stared at her mother slumped back over her chair, head hanging unnaturally. “Mom?”
Her shriek lanced my ears as she sprinted across the room. I staggered back as she took my spot.
“Oh my god! Mom? Mom? Oh my god!”
I backed up another step and stammered, “C-call an ambulance.”
Panicked tears streamed down Laney’s face as she fumbled for her phone and dialed. I listened to her stutter and sob through her address. “You want me to—p-pulse? Ch-check—”
She almost dropped her phone as she extended a trembling hand toward Arla’s exposed throat. Her fingers hovered as though she were terrified to touch the body. As soon as she touched her mother’s skin, she would feel that it was too late.
I stepped back again.
Laney’s blurred gaze shot to me. Her hand went slack and her phone clattered to the floor.
“You,” she snarled hoarsely. “You!”
“I didn’t—”
“You killed her!” she shrieked. “She was fine a few minutes ago!”
I stumbled away. “No—”
“You killed her for reporting you!”
The room spun. “I didn’t—”
“You threatened us this afternoon!”
I couldn’t get enough air.
“You said you’d make us pay if we screwed up your parole!”
“I didn’t do it!” My loud voice filled the room. Enraged. Fearful. On the edge of hysteria.
“You’re a murderer!” she screamed, her eyes bulging. “You’re a psycho killer!”
Her words hit me like blows. I staggered. I spun.
“Where are you going? You can’t run away!”
Through the door. Down the hall.
“You’re done for, Saber! They’ll execute you this time!”
Her howling shriek chased me down the stairs. I flew across the house and slammed through the front door. “Ríkr!”
The One and Only Crystal Druid (The Guild Codex: Unveiled Book 1) Page 7