Page 54

The urge to push him over the side was strong.

Too strong, apparently.

The storm suddenly lashed out, smashing waves against the wooden dock. The witchlights swung wildly. Water reached up and pulled Charles into the dark sea. He fell, screaming. There was a splash, a yelp.

Briar glared up at Ethan.

“What?” he asked as innocently as one could when bristling with weapons and questionable spell ingredients. Not to mention all that talk of murder. “I had to make it look good.”

“I don’t think he can swim!”

“He lives on a bloody island and he can’t swim?”

“Well, even if he can, he can’t fight off a herd of kelpies!” She darted to the edge of the dock, where she could hear thrashing.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Ethan leapt over the side of the ship, landing beside her. He caught her by the waist, growling, “You’re not going in there.”

“Someone has to.”

“Not you.” He gave a long-suffering sigh, just before the sea tossed Charles back out like it had not enjoyed the experience any more than he had. There was blood running down one arm from a kelpie bite. He choked and groaned.

Briar backed away from Ethan.

“One more thing,” he said to Briar as Charles coughed up salt water, oblivious to his audience. Anais watched from the railing and could not have looked more disgusted if she had bitten into a rotten pear.

“What is it?” Briar asked.

His eyes burned.

“If he touches you, sweetheart, he dies.”

The walk home was long. The ground under her feet was muddy and riddled with puddles, but the rain did not touch her, not once.

It fell on Charles as though it hated him personally.

She did not even try not to enjoy it, though she did keep her expression calm. Not that he noticed—he was too busy moaning over the state of his shirt sleeves, his hair, and his arm, in that order.

It felt odd to leave her sister behind, to leave a ship full of witches and Iron Crows and return home to her little cottage. It was where she usually felt safest, but tonight everything was too topsy-turvy. The Midsummer fires burned, cheerful music drifting up the hillside from the beaches. Wine flowed; wishes were made. The wind was sweet and warm where they celebrated, but at the top of the hill, it was chilled with rain and there were Keepers hiding in the shadows, watching her. There were Iron Crows coming for her sister. Black Shucks roaming unbridled. Probably boggarts in her rosemary buses.

And Charles Bloody Aster where he did not belong.

But a green witch knew patience. Seasons would not be rushed. Daisies did not grow in January, no matter the magic. Seeds needed time.

Small, manageable steps, she reminded herself again. Plant, grow, harvest.

So she bade Charles goodbye and locked her front door. She pulled the bench in front of it for good measure. She swept the floor clean of broken crockery, ignoring the scorch marks and the honey residue in the center of the room, the hint of Black Shuck breath. The very thought of dragging herself up the stairs nearly undid her. She was so tired that even her arms ached, never mind her hip. And it was hardly the first time she had slept on the shop floor, tucked by the hearth.

It was, however, the first time she curled up in a circle of salt for extra protection.

And it was definitely the first time she woke to an Iron Crow glaring down at her.

She gave a start, heart hammering. “Is it Petal?”

“She’s fine.” The rain had stopped and Ethan had left his cloak behind. He wore his usual black trousers and lawn shirt, dry now. There was violence in every bone in his body.

“Oh.” She sat up, confused. “Then why are you here?”

“Had to make sure Aster went home and stayed there. The flood in his shop ought to see to it.”