Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Swansea.
Ethan couldn’t have said why it infuriated him to his bones to have Briar address him so politely. So formally. Never mind that no one had called him Mr. Swansea in years. He was Dragon.
He wanted to hear his name on her lips.
It was addlepated of him. But also true.
No use denying it. She was all wrong for him and he couldn’t keep his damned eyes off her regardless.
Partly because he knew Crows and Keepers were also watching her and he’d have that moon charm first. He had that cargo on his ship that he needed to get to Lowestoft, and a mermaid who had promised him a song he could bottle.
He had the work of an Iron Crow. The call of the sea.
Even if Briar was dangerously intriguing. Quiet and brave, saucy and polite. Surprisingly sensual, with that thick hair scattered with flowers and those delicious curves. Soft, sharp.
And just a little bit sad.
He saw it when the villagers turned awkward around her, fluttering about in their white dresses and pearls. In the way she smiled politely through it. It made him want to burn the square down.
Starting with Aster. Useless git. The way he smirked at her made it a fact that he was going to end with broken teeth before Ethan left the island. Before the end of the day, if it came to it. Aster and his mother were trying to wear her down like water wore through stone.
Ethan watched Briar nod off, just for a moment, the strain and exhaustion of the last two days taking its toll.
Who was taking care of her? Who was making sure she ate and rested her hip, which clearly pained her?
Had she had an accident to cause such a lasting wound?
Was there someone still out there who needed to pay for it?
Why were those questions wrapping around his brain like a kraken around a ship?
It was none of his business. He needed Petal, not Briar.
Still. There was a connection there, a fascination. His entire body felt the need to turn toward her, to fill his lungs with her flowery scent, his hands with her warm curves. His mouth with her everything.
The interruption by one of his crew was timely. It saved him from doing something truly stupid. Like finding a Midsummer posy for the teashop girl.
Young Matthias had never looked happier, his feet on solid ground, his arms full of fresh greens, eggs, bread that wasn’t hard as the ship’s hull.
It had been months since he’d come aboard as cook and exactly the same number of days that made it obvious he was not a sailor at heart.
But he refused to give in. And he made the best damn jugged hare with red wine and juniper berries, which made more of a difference to morale than anyone could have guessed, so the crew coddled him.
But he’d end up at the bottom of the sea as a mermaid’s plaything if they weren’t careful.
“Dragon, they have fresh thyme. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had thyme? Fresh herbs of any kind?”
“Thrilling.”
“You will be thrilled when you taste the omelets I can make with this. Maybe I’ll make a mushroom tart to go with them.” His blue eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. Something else that would get him killed. The life of an Iron Crow was no kinder than the life of a sailor.
“First, I need to know about this bloody town we’re stuck in,” Ethan said.
Matthias straightened. “Of course. I thought you’d been here before.”
“Too many times,” Ethan muttered. Matthias was good at cookery and gossip. Even his familiar, an otter with glowing eyes and a chortle, was friendly. Ethan was neither. “I need to know about the Asters over there.”
Matthias followed the direction of his nod, then frowned. “Gits.”
Ethan snorted. “I knew that already. We need to sort the locals from the tourists. And I need to know who went wandering last night. And a list of the other bloody Crows hanging about.”
“Aye, Dragon.”
Ethan watched Briar slip away, darting back up the hill, flowers blooming in her wake.
And he needed to know about her.
But that was a task he would take great pleasure in seeing to himself.
The left side of the cottage was being swallowed by roses.
Vines crawled up the wall, bristling with thorns and heavy with fat white damask roses. They perfumed the air until even the salt of the sea was overpowered. Salt white, bone white.
Moon-white.
And they would not respond to Briar’s magic. They were ignoring her. Which was just rude, frankly. Snapdragon, often disgruntled, was positively insulted.
Briar let herself inside and everything was quiet and smelled of mint and tea and lilac flowers. And roses. But nothing seemed immediately out of place. “Bramble?” she called up the stairs. “Have you noticed the roses?”
Which were utterly forgotten when she caught movement on the other side of the glass.
Not Bramble. She would never be caught out like that. Her magic turned her to mist and smoke, just another part of the scenery. Briar knew the back door was secure—and none of her house shields had alerted her of any intruders.
They didn’t have the time.
Her front door burst open, slamming into the wall.
Ethan was crowned with the blazing light behind him, his face in shadows.
There was something cold and vicious about the glitter of his eyes.
The dagger in his hand. He had crossed the hall in the time it took for her to frown at him.
She stumbled back into the teashop as the back door also crashed open.
She didn’t have a chance to reach for a weapon, even if she had one to reach for.
Instead, there was only a jar of dried rosebuds, a locked box of Darjeeling tea, a potted violet.
A tray of ivy cuttings. A metal tea leaf strainer in the shape of a dove.
She was truly a threat to all.
And then Ethan was on her, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of her neck. His grip was firm but not painful, but nor did it allow for any defiance on her part. “What are you—?”
Her words died in her throat, at the exact spot he pressed his dagger against.
She froze. Her heart beat loudly. Ethan was too strong, too fierce. She had begun to think of him as if not a friend, then at least an ally. She’d been working on nothing more than instinct. Hope.
Fool.
She shifted onto her good hip, wondering if she could kick back into his kneecap.
“Don’t.” His voice was barely a breath in her ear, a quiet warning only she could hear. It shivered down her spine.
A woman stalked into the shop, the leather strap between her breasts hung with charms and daggers.
The mark of an Iron Crow. She was short, strong enough to take out an ox.
She had muscles, graying hair in a thick braid, and a Black Shuck on an iron chain wrapped with nettles and Lady’s Mantle.
Its folk name was Nine Hooks for a reason.
Briar hissed out a breath. Black Shucks resembled giant, shaggy dogs, with too many teeth, fiery eyes, and the ability to make you mad with terror with only three barks.
They were meant to be wild, roaming the moors and eating the wind.
Not trapped. Ensnared in iron. If Sorcha were here, she would find a way to free the poor beast.
Briar wanted to do the same, but mostly she hoped it would not eat her.
Black Shucks were not tame or gentle, and this one had bloody welts from the iron chains pockmarking his fur. He snapped his jaws, saliva dripping in thick strings to the floor. Where they fell, the wooden boards smoked, burned through.
“Twyla,” Ethan greeted the woman calmly, as if they were meeting in the square, under the oak tree. As if they were drinking tepid lemonade at a ball, which Briar could not imagine. There was nothing tepid about the undercurrents.
Or the blade still at her throat.
She was not entirely certain the sharpness of the very air would not cut her before the dagger.
Ethan angled it slightly, tilting Briar’s head back.
She made a choked sound of protest and clutched at his arm, but it was useless.
She may as well have been clutching at the mast of his ship for all the good it did her.
The Black Shuck growled, and every hair on Briar’s body prickled as if they had turned to needles. “Call off your mutt,” Ethan said. “And may he eat your liver for what you’ve done to him.”
Twyla snorted. “I’ve seen what you can do, Dragon.”
Everyone knew the stories, even green witches who lived in pink cottages: stolen grimoires, duels at dawn. Victims tossed over the side of his ship to be eaten by the kelpies, their water-horse teeth smeared with blood.
Ethan smiled. Briar felt it against the top of her head.
It was not comforting.
“Then you’ll remember that you don’t want to fight me, Twyla,” he said evenly. “Leave while you still can.”
“I want the moon charm.”
“Don’t we all.”
“That one has it.” Twyla nodded to Briar even as she released another foot of chain. The Black Shuck advanced, eyes red.
“You’ve got the wrong sister.”
The right sister was upstairs, unconscious in her bed.
“And anything they have belongs to me, Twyla. Cut your losses and I might let you leave with both your arms.”
“You won’t kill her if she still knows something.”
Ethan’s retort was flat, chilling. “You know me well enough to know that I’ll kill her before I let any of her secrets go to you or another fucking Crow.”
Twyla paused. She clearly believed him.
Ethan turned his head, dragging his mouth along Briar’s temple and into her hair. She shivered. “And this one especially is mine. She tastes like mint leaves.”
Somehow he made it sound like a threat.
While their magic seared the air, spiky with the scents of salt and fennel seeds, vibrating with the snarls of the Black Shuck, Petal was vulnerable. Hiding her in plain sight was a fine idea when Keepers were watching and there had been no other options, but now?
Nowhere near good enough.
“I’m Pet—” Briar’s declaration was cut short when Ethan tightened his grip.
The dagger nicked at her. Her feet left the ground entirely as he hauled her up against his chest. “Quiet,” he ordered her, dark and menacing as the flash of a sea serpent under the waves.
There was nothing of Mr. Swansea about him.
Nor even Ethan. He was the Dragon, through and through. She could only gasp.
And then Twyla let go of the iron chain.