CHAPTER 1
To enterthe woods as a human is death. The lykin have roamed the tree-covered, fog-blanketed edge of our world for generations uncounted, feasting on all creatures within. The packs of man-beasts have their forests, and the humans have their towns.
Then…there’s me. She who maintains the protective charms that keep one from the other and preserve the fragile peace of both.
I have no place with the lykin. I cannot shed my flesh for fur and run with the spirits of the ancient wood. But I have no place with the humans, either. When they look at me, they see an other. A kindly outsider. Someone who has their features, but does not share in their ways or struggles. I belong to neither.
I’m the witch in the cottage.
I adjust the pin at my throat that holds my velvet cloak shut. Labradorite, to protect me from the knowing of the elves. Dangling from my ears are tiny chandeliers, crafted by the finest glassworkers down the rivers and across the distant seas. A suitable gift for negotiating with any clever fae who might cross my path. There is always fresh blood in my veins for a rogue vampir, should such an offering be needed… The sirens I neednot fear in the woods, and the roar of dragons has not been heard in the eternal mist that clouds the lands to the north for more than a thousand years. A long enough time that stories of them have been almost entirely forgotten by the people who once feared them.
But more precious than all of these tokens, rare as many are, is the cloak around my shoulders. Sewn nearly three hundred years ago, every weaver witch of my family has worn and added to it in tiny thread, hand spun and dyed. Our power—what precious little we have clung to—stitched and bound to us.
The cloak will keep me safe tonight. My hand rests on the satchel at my hip. Keepussafe.
“One last time into the wood, Grandma,” I say, reassuring. Alone, I go where no other human will tread. Past the crimson ribbons tied around the small trees that act as a barrier between the lands of men and lykin.
It’s not my first time here. I began coming to collect herbs and stones following my mother’s death when I was fourteen. Grandma was too old by then, her feet too tired, to make the hike. Especially in the dark nights of the new moon.
I rest my hand on one of the large sentries that stand among the outer rung. In my other hand, I gather my cloak, searching for a specific stitching of two eyes, completely blackened with heavy thread. I close my eyes and the darkness behind my lids is barely more complete than the night itself. Even the stars can’t penetrate the heavy boughs of the trees, and there is no moon. I would be a fool to come here when the lykin’s magic is strongest.
I state my intention clearly for all those of this world, and of the other, who might hear. “Spirits of the old wood, guardians of nature’s order, I come to your doorstep as a humble guest. I seek passage through your domain and will take nothing that is not freely given.”
A soft breeze picks up behind me, landing like a gentle touch between my shoulder blades. It’s little more than a whisper and is gone as soon as I feel it.
“Thank you.” When I open my eyes, my vision can pierce the night. At least enough for me to see the path ahead. I start forward.
When I was a girl, Grandma would tell me tales of the forest in her time. The raw and wild magic that flowed through the veins of the earth itself, making it come alive. She said that when her great, great, great grandmother walked these woods, the magic was so powerful that the spirits took human shapes, strolling alongside our ancestors.
Even in my lifetime, the woods have grown quiet and still by comparison to when I was a girl. Perhaps my early memories are colored by the whims of childlike wonder—a proclivity for the fantastical. But I don’t believe so.
In my heart of hearts, I can feel the magic retreating from our world. A wellspring exhausted, or a weary giver with now-empty palms, I can’t know which. If I could, I would fix it. Every tree I touch hums only softly beneath my fingers. The rocks that my ancestors long ago set out as markers have gone cold and silent.
It is a bad omen, when even the rocks cannot keep magic in their stony grip.
It takes nearly an hour to navigate the old trail into the deepest part of the forest that we have ever dared to go. Eventually, the narrow path between the trees begins to open. The thin soles of my shoes meet soft moss and tiny grasses, rather than lumpy roots, packed earth, and rock. I emerge into a clearing and inhale the fresh air deeply; the density of the forest and all its magics—even depleted as they are—weighs on my chest.
The clearing is lined by a nearly perfect circle of pine. No mortal hands tend this place, and yet nothing dares to grow andencroach on the space of the giant redwood at the center. It is the oldest tree in the woods and was said to have been planted by the hands of a long-ago human queen who married the king of the elves in exchange for all our lives and safety. No one alive is quite sure any longer if it was meant to be a gift to the lykin, or a boon to the dwindling bloodline of witches. So it has become a neutral territory for both our kinds. A place where human and beast are safe and welcome to dwell under its boughs.
It has become the graveyard of witches.
I clasp my hands before me, bow my head, and whisper, “Thank you, spirits, for allowing me passage. I come before you to return my grandmother to the land from whence she came.”
Every step up to the base of the ancient redwood is harder than the last. I had thought I said my goodbyes when I held her hand as the life left her body. I had thought there were no tears left to cry when enough spilled from my lids to douse the funeral pyre that I had to build alone. But I was wrong.
The lump in the back of my throat is thick. My eyes burn and my heart is heavy as I reach into my satchel and retrieve a simple, wooden jar. The last thing made by her hands. Kneeling, I lean the jar against the trunk of the tree as I sink my fingers into the wet, mossy earth and begin to dig.
The land receives me. Opening for the woman who loved and served it with all her days. The hole doesn’t need to be deep, so it only takes a few minutes to make.
But…the jar quivers in my hands.
“Death is not something to fear, or lament. It is a gift, as much as life,” I say aloud—her words. She told me them often in her final days. Grandma knew the time was near for her. Up until the end, she looked after me, giving me comfort. I force a smile as a few lonely tears spill down my cheeks and into the hole I settle the jar within. They water the moss I pile atop. Settling her ashes into their final resting place. “I know,” I say ona ragged breath, “I know that you would not want me to go into this next chapter with fear. But, Grandma, I am afraid. What am I to do without you?”
I have no friends, only cordial acquaintances in town. The only person I was ever truly close to, the only one to truly know me, was the huntsman’s son…and he betrayed and abandoned me the night I had been ready to give him everything.
Heavy tears slowly fall. Each one reminds me of every day I’ve spent since her death. I give in to this final moment of mourning. My last goodbye. And then I lean back on my heels and stare up at the branches above, swaying with soft breezes and blotting out alternating stars.
“Look after her,” I whisper. “Gods of the Great Beyond, care for her soul as she leaves this mortal coil. I return her to you.” My fingertips press into the soil once more, as if I am trying to hold myself—ground myself in the here and now. “Spirits of this earth…we have always served you dutifully. But our magic is waning. Soon, my family will no longer be able to defend you as we always have. I am weak, and alone. Please, do not abandon me.”
