The One and Only Crystal Druid (The Guild Codex: Unveiled Book 1), Page 4

  His features twitched with disgust. “What are you doing here, if you don’t know anything about fae attacks?”

  “I’m here because Farmer Whitby was here.”

  “Why was he here?”

  “To kill his starved, neglected horse before it hurt his reputation.”

  I rather liked the way his eyes blazed at my words.

  “And what were you doing here, then?” he asked.

  I considered how to answer, then told the truth. “I was about to saw Whitby’s teeth out of his jaw with this knife.”

  He stared at me. “How hard were you hit in the head?”

  “How do you know I was hit in the head?”

  “There’s blood all over your face.”

  Oh.

  He shoved me backward, the movement so sudden I didn’t have a chance to stab his eye out or brace myself. I landed hard on my ass.

  Pushing his coat to one side, he slid his knife into a sheath on his thigh. I watched the ten-inch blade disappear, then watched his hand move up to his belt, where half a dozen test-tube-shaped vials were held in place by leather loops.

  Alchemic potions. Was he an alchemist too?

  I hated alchemists.

  He ran his gloved fingers across the potions, pulled one out, and tossed it to me. Catching it automatically, I glanced at the cloudy brown liquid inside.

  “For your concussion,” he said shortly. “Drink it immediately. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

  Turning, he strode to his fae steed. The stallion arched his neck as his rider seized a handful of dark mane and pulled himself up. He settled into place like he’d spent his life on horseback.

  “Stay out of the forest,” he called as he guided the horse in a tight turn. “A terrible witch like you is an easy meal for pissed-off fae.”

  The stallion launched forward. Shadowy mist spiraled around his powerful legs, and as he surged into a gallop across the clearing, he and his rider faded out of reality. The sound of thudding hooves disappeared.

  With one hand clenched around my switchblade and the other holding the potion vial, I stared at the spot where he’d vanished.

  The Crystal Druid.

  Interesting. With a scurry of small claws, Ríkr hopped onto my knee. He’d traded his hawk form for a small vole, sneaking close so he could defend me in case my verbal sparring game with the druid had turned violent. More violent.

  The fae sat back on his tiny haunches, gazing into the trees. Most interesting, don’t you think?

  I looked down at the potion vial. “Interesting” wasn’t the word I would have chosen.

  Chapter Six

  Four inches of steel flashed as I spun my switchblade over and under my fingers in an endless loop. Rain thundered against the roof overhead, and the only other noise came from below—the rumble of adult conversation, interspersed with sloppy laughter.

  A few feet away, the boy in black sat against the wall. Instead of a knife, he held a small, leather-bound book in one hand. A grimoire, probably—his personal record of magical knowledge. He flipped the pages, his gaze drifting aimlessly across them. He was bored too.

  Still, the attic was better than standing in the rain all night.

  This was the second time we’d snuck into the attic instead of waiting in the alley. My heart drummed at the prospect of getting caught, but we’d have plenty of time to slip outside before dawn.

  I looked at the empty space between us, large enough for another person to sit in, then stretched my legs out, slouching against the wall. The knife started spinning again.

  The deepest voice downstairs boomed something, and everyone else went silent. The man continued in a menacing growl, and I strained to make out words, losing track of the precise motion of my hand.

  The switchblade slipped from my fingers. Still spinning, it skidded across the floor and bumped into the boy’s boot.

  He glanced at it. Though he’d unzipped his jacket to reveal a simple black shirt, he’d left the hood up. Only a few locks of his dark hair were visible where they tumbled across his forehead. Tucking his grimoire into an inner pocket of his coat, he picked up my knife and examined the glossy red handle, then the short blade. I fidgeted as I watched him, tugging on my chiffon blouse then adjusting my sleek, sunflower-blond ponytail.

  He pressed the switch. The blade retracted with a click. A touch of his thumb and it popped back out.

  “Don’t cut yourself,” I taunted. “Knives aren’t toys.”

  Smirking, he flicked the blade into the air. It whirled end over end, then plunged back down. He caught it by the point. His gaze angled toward me, assessing my reaction.

  I pressed my palms to the floor, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, yeah.”

  He tossed the blade again and caught it by the handle—then his arm flashed out. The point thunked into the wooden floor between two of my fingers, the edge a quarter inch from my skin.

  My lungs heaved with a silent gasp, but I didn’t let myself recoil.

  “Mildly impressive,” I drawled.

  He arched an eyebrow and released the knife, leaving it stuck in the floor. I snatched it and pointed it at his hand. His eyebrows rose higher.

  “Only fair,” I told him. “Or are you afraid?”

  In answer, he placed his left hand on the floor, fingers spread. I turned the knife over, locking my gaze on the spot between his middle and ring fingers. Nerves twanged in my gut, but I wouldn’t be outdone with my own blade.

  I bit my lower lip, then snapped the knife down. It hit the floorboards with a dull thud—and the boy lurched back. As he raised his arm, a line of blood ran down his hand.

  “Oh shit!” I gasped, retracting the blade. “I cut you!”

  He gazed bemusedly at his hand as blood pooled in his palm. Swearing under my breath, I reached for him.

  “It’s fine,” he muttered, dodging my reach. “I don’t need—”

  I grabbed his wrist. “Let me see how bad it is.”

  He pulled away. I pulled back. He wrenched his arm, almost yanking me onto his lap.

  “Just let me see!” I hissed, digging my fingers into his wrist. Pressed against his side, I yanked his hand toward me and peered down. The slice between his fingers was bleeding freely and I couldn’t tell how deep it was. It probably hurt like hell.

  “Shit,” I mumbled guiltily. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Shut up.” I glared into the shadows beneath his hood. Abruptly furious, I shoved his hood off. Dim light fell across his face, illuminating his fair skin—and the fresh bruise darkening his cheekbone.

  I sat back. He slanted a scowl at me, then leaned against the wall, still holding his bleeding hand up. I pulled out my switchblade again, untucked the hem of my shirt, and cut a strip off the bottom. He said nothing as I wrapped the silky fabric around his hand to form a makeshift bandage, nor when I pulled a small, shallow jar from my back pocket. I unscrewed the lid and scooped white cream onto my fingers.

  “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

  I knelt in front of him. “My aunt is an alchemist. She made it. It fades bruises in a couple of hours.”

  He didn’t ask why I carried it around with me. The answer was as obvious as the purple mark on his face.

  “Hold still,” I warned as I reached for him.

  He winced slightly when the cool cream touched his cheek. I spread it carefully across the bruise, massaging it into his skin.

  His fingers brushed my wrist, stopping my movement. I met his eyes, surprised by how close our faces were.

  “Is your aunt the one you want to kill?” The question was soft, inflectionless.

  I searched his unreadable stare. “Yes.”

  “Is she a buyer or a seller?”

  With a glance at the unseen room below, I answered, “Seller.”

  As if in reply, a deep male voice boomed with cold laughter. The boy didn’t flinch, but his pupils dilated with adrenaline.

  “Is he th
e one you want to kill?” I asked.

  His chin dipped in a slight nod.

  I recalled how that rough voice could silence all the others downstairs. “He sounds dangerous.”

  The boy’s lips pressed into a thin line. His pupils dilated even more. “He is.”

  “Do you think you can kill him?”

  “Not yet.” The same words as our first brief conversation. “I’m not strong enough yet.”

  My fingers slid down and pressed against his jaw in silent sympathy.

  “Well, Ruth?”

  The growling voice rumbled directly beneath me and I started, falling into the boy. His hands clamped my upper arms, and we froze like that.

  “Keep your voice down, Bane,” my aunt replied sharply. “We don’t want to broadcast this negotiation.”

  “It isn’t a negotiation,” the man retorted, an Eastern European accent thickening his words. “I’ve already made my offer.”

  “And I’m not selling to the first buyer to come knocking,” Ruth snapped. “Why do you want her?”

  “My business,” he leered. “Either refuse or counter.”

  A short pause.

  “You won’t refuse.” His growling voice went quiet, sinister. “Keeping the girl will only bring more trouble for you. Get rid of her now. My offer is generous for a magic-stunted runt.”

  The silence stretched again before Ruth replied coolly, “I’ll consider your offer.”

  Bane barked a laugh, and footsteps thumped away. The muffled rumble of conversation swelled as he rejoined the main group.

  My fingers trembled as I squeezed fistfuls of the boy’s shirt. He hadn’t shown pain when I’d cut his hand. He hadn’t shown fear when he’d spoken of Bane. But now …

  Now he stared at me with such untempered horror that I knew split lips and broken bones had become the least of my worries.

  Chapter Seven

  I was going to be late.

  Sleeping in wasn’t a habit of mine, but getting home last night had been rough. It would’ve been worse without the druid’s concussion treatment, which had begun working within minutes of downing it. By the time I’d returned to the Whitby farm, I’d been walking steadily and thinking clearly again.

  Had drinking the druid’s potion been stupid? Yes. But if he’d wanted to hurt me, he could’ve stabbed me and saved his potion. So I’d taken my chances.

  It’d been nearly dawn by the time I’d fallen into bed, but despite my desperate need for rest, restless dreams had disturbed my sleep. I’d woken in a cold sweat, unable to remember anything more than a vague feeling of impending doom.

  Pushing the lingering feeling away, I focused on driving. I was back on Quarry Road, which divided the land between private properties to the south and wild mountain wilderness to the north. If I continued east, the terrain would descend to the marshes of Minnekhada Regional Park, but Quarry Road curved gently north, carrying me toward the forested slopes of Mount Burke.

  Humming under my breath, I steered my truck along the rough asphalt. The police hadn’t shown up this morning to arrest me, so I assumed Harvey Whitby didn’t know who’d sabotaged his harvester last night. And should he ever suspect me, I was ready. It was remarkable what death threats, blackmail, and a little creative stalking could make people do.

  I hoped the stab wound in his foot would develop an infection. That’s why I’d smeared my knife with mud first.

  Lounging on my passenger seat in the form of a white cat, Ríkr yawned, showing off his teeth. You’re in a fine mood this afternoon, dove.

  “I was thinking about how long I should wait before tormenting Harvey Whitby some more. I didn’t do much damage to him last night.”

  He will not forget you while limping like a lame heifer. It’s a shame you did not remove any of his teeth.

  “Maybe I can fix that next time.”

  Ríkr swished his tail in a pleased way. I adore your viciousness. It reminds me of my impassioned youth.

  “I’m delighted.”

  Vengeance is the sweetest wine, he went on in a wistful tone. Are you sure you wouldn’t enjoy a charming blood ritual with the farmer’s corpse bent backward over your altar?

  “I don’t have an altar.”

  His ears perked up. We can remedy that easily.

  Ahead, a gravel driveway diverged from the road. I slowed my truck and turned onto the drive. “Try to tone it down, Ríkr. It’s awkward when the other familiars hide from you.”

  He gave me a cat’s smile. If only you would teach the other witches to fear you the same, dove.

  That was the opposite of what I wanted. My whole strategy for my life—my adult life, at least—hinged on making people like me, not fear me. The exceptions being human trash like Farmer Whitby, but he didn’t know me and never would.

  A tall hedge hid the property at the end of the driveway. I steered between the open gates and up to a West-Coast-style cabin with exposed wood beams and grand windows. Though not overly large, it was luxurious and nestled among the surrounding woods like it belonged there.

  Half a dozen vehicles were parked in front, and I maneuvered my truck into the line and cut the engine. Climbing out, I inhaled the rich aroma of fir, cedar, pine, and fresh green flora. Ríkr hopped to the ground beside me, back arching in a stretch.

  I do not sense the others, he remarked lazily.

  They never waited for me. I’d no-showed too many times for them to bother. “Let’s go.”

  We circled the house, crossed the grassy backyard, and started along the dirt path that wound up the mountain slope. The early afternoon sun peeked through the branches, casting dappled light across the path.

  Ríkr trotted ahead of me, the shadows casting a bluish tinge over his white fur. He would’ve preferred to fly, but he always used the same feline form around my coven. I suspected he was waiting for the optimal moment to shock them with his shapeshifting ability. A seven-years-in-the-making surprise. It was so Ríkr.

  My thoughts wandered to the surprises of last night. The dark rider and his blue-roan fae stallion. My upper lip curled in distaste. “Ríkr, do you know anything about that druid?”

  Of course, dove. He is the Crystal Druid, after all.

  “The Crystal Druid?”

  The one and only. Ríkr hopped onto a fallen log and walked along it. Most kin in these parts know his name. He is feared by some, coveted by others, and respected by all for his cool head, knowledge of our ways, and uncompromising retribution against any who cross him.

  “Are you a fan of his?” I asked, vaguely irritated. “You aren’t usually this complimentary.”

  Ríkr’s tail flicked with amusement. I merely repeat the accounts of others. For instance, he is rumored to treat well with the Gardall’kin fae—a formidable medley of warriors and beasts who came to this land from across the sea many centuries ago. They won their place among the existing courts through bloodshed and cruel bargains.

  “They sound unpleasant.”

  Powerful, he corrected. Which is always unpleasant for the weak. I know of no Gardall’kin here. Their territories lie to the north.

  “Good to know.”

  If the Crystal Druid lingers nearby, our vigilance should be upon his guardian.

  “You mean the stallion?”

  No, another.

  He said no more as we stepped into an open glade, the warm sun washing over my face.

  My coven stood in a loose ring around a clear patch of dirt, upon which they’d drawn circles, markings, and runes. The markings were interspersed with simple pottery dishes filled with dried herbs, fresh leaves and flowers, handfuls of dirt, murky water from the marsh, and bits of fur and feathers shed by the forest’s inhabitants. Holding hands, the eight witches sang in Old Gaelic, their voices rising and falling.

  I shifted back into the shadows. They were too far along for me to join them. All I could do now was wait.

  Lowering my eyelids, I let my vision slide out of focus. A pale mist coalesced around
me as the fae demesne, the ethereal spirit world from which fae originated, appeared before my eyes. The trees turned dark and semi-transparent. The ground was solid black, opaque with permanence.

  In their circle, the witches were shadowy forms amidst the fog. As they sang, the eddying mist shifted, slowly aligning with the broad curves and gentle loops of the patterns they had drawn on the ground. The fog-like energies of the spirit domain gradually flowed into the same pattern, then spread across the glade and into the trees.

  A gentle calm settled over the woods, and the tension slid from my shoulders.

  The patterns resembled nothing recognizable. The flow I could see and sense was nonsensical to my conscious mind, but it felt right. And I wasn’t the only one who felt it.

  At the edge of the trees, fae lingered, their dark faces marked by crystal eyes. A short satyr with a goat’s lower body and a boy’s torso, his head topped with short, prong-like antlers. Something that resembled a large squirrel wearing a woven smock and a tiny crown of flowers. A trio of bucks with silver antlers. A lone wolf with shaggy black fur and scarlet eyes.

  I frowned. So few? Normally two or three times that many fae appeared for a large balancing ritual like this one.

  The coven’s song rose, then trailed off with a final low note. As the eddies of silver mist settled, the gathered fae retreated into the trees.

  I blinked away my spirit-vision and focused on the four fae that remained—the other familiars. My coven was made up of nine members, including me, but not all witches had familiars.

  Short, plump witch Deanne and her tiny pixie with its transparent dragonfly wings.

  Elderly grandmother Ellen and her hob, a smallfae that resembled a garden gnome with very sharp teeth.

  Tall, tattooed Pierce and his snake-like familiar, currently looped around his broad shoulders.

  And lastly, haughty beauty Laney and her equally haughty fire salamander, the bright orange lizard resting on her crooked arm as she turned away from the nature circle.

  Her cool brown eyes settled on me. “Saber, how lovely of you to join us.”