Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
“An arrow? Who shoots someone with an arrow?”
“Robin Hood?” I joked, as I slouched on my rattan chaise lounge in the garden room.
Cecil had given me the appropriate charms and applied a poultice to my wound, and was now at his workstation crafting something that smelled like dried basil, fresh soil, and danger.
I hung around, because even the scent of Cecil’s scary experiment calmed me more than Ronan’s incessant ranting and pacing.
“Makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense when you understand how many people want me dead. Honestly, it’s the smartest attack yet. I’m not a shifter, nor am I a demon. I can’t take a bullet—or arrow—to a vital part of my anatomy and expect to live.”
Ronan stopped pacing. “Do you believe this was The Org?”
“The spell part feels like them, but the arrow feels more like something a human or shifter would do. What do you think?”
“I think you need a bulletproof vest, a full-time security team, and a rocket-propelled grenade.”
Cecil’s purple hat pointed up. He rubbed his tiny hands together like a cartoon villain. A dark little giggle erupted from his tiny mouth.
Ronan noticed. “I was just thinking out loud. We’re not doing that last part.”
Cecil’s hat crumpled, and he chittered something ominous under his breath.
“You have to stop getting his hopes up,” I said. “Be careful with your words.”
Ronan ceased pacing. Stared down at the disappointed gnome. “Sorry. If it makes you feel better, the pollination garden you and Betty planted behind the pub is starting to attract a lot of bees.” He took out his cell phone and scrolled through his photos. “See?”
Cecil’s hat went back to normal—about half mast—and he stopped chittering. Apparently, that did make him feel better. My partner was a complex mixture of environmentalist and demolition aficionado.
“Ronan, the arrow barely got me. We’ve established that it wasn’t poisoned or even dipped in silver—in case they were gunning for you. I’m fine, and it’s over now.”
“No, it’s not over, Betty. That’s the thing. We haven’t made it to the beach yet. We’re still miles offshore, paddling for our lives.”
“We should definitely take a trip to the beach soon,” I said, with a smile.
My attempt at deflection failed, because Ronan did not smile back. “You’re getting serious about security. I insist on it.”
“Insist?” What fresh hell was this?
“Yes. As your third-in-command, Alpha Lennox, it’s my duty to remind you that you lead roughly a thousand wolves in this county. Your continued existence is imperative to theirs—and mine. If you fight me on this, I will be forced to bring in Hartman—”
“Mason threats? Are you serious?”
“—demon and witch Betty—”
“Calling in my self-preservation crew? Pretty low, Mr. Williams.”
“—and Ida.”
I gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”
But he would. I could tell from the look in his eyes. He was acting a little over-the-top, but he wasn’t joking. He was truly afraid for me.
“Fine. I’ll do better.”
“I would appreciate it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stood at the head of the chaise and stared down at me. “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That makes sense. The people who love you are trying to take care of you, and you don’t like being taken care of.” He held out a hand to help me to my feet. “You see it as weakness.”
I had no response—at least, nothing worth staying up to say.
Still, it was well after sunrise when I finally fell asleep.
Ronan snored softly beside me, only agreeing not to sleep on the sofa if I allowed him to build what was essentially a pillow fort around me so he wouldn’t accidentally elbow my sore shoulder.
It was sweet, like him. Yet, the whole time I lay there in my fluffy cloud, staring at the ceiling, our final exchange in my garden room tonight ran through my brain.
“...you don’t like being taken care of. You see it as weakness.”
“No, I don’t.” I took his hand, but I didn’t put my weight into it, instead pushing myself to my feet using my own sore muscles.
“Yes, you do. Be honest. And the thing is, if you view being taken care of as weakness, how do you see the people you’re taking care of? How do you perceive someone like Dr. Marrakchi, Joshua Tyler, the elder wolves—or even me?”
I started to argue but shut my mouth when I realized he was right. I didn’t judge the wolves—especially not Ronan—as being weak for needing me, yet I held myself to a different standard. Why was I different?
“You need to find the answer to that, Betty,” Ronan said, as if he were reading my mind. “Because not understanding why you feel that way is putting you, and us, in serious danger.”
The next evening, Margaux brought over dinner and a bottle of pinot noir. We ate our weight in enchiladas and headed for the garden room where Bronwyn explained the process of forming a coven in tempus nexum.
“Essentially, the spell is like a half-drawn circle that we carry inside us. Open-ended. The circle has to be closed within a month to make it permanent. If we do nothing, the bond weakens and fades away.”
“It’s that easy to form a coven?” I asked as I wandered from planter to planter, deadheading, testing soil, breathing in the peaty scent of growing things.
The radio was on, and “I’m Every Woman” by Chaka Khan played like a soundtrack behind our conversation. Bronwyn was perched on my workstation stool. Margaux sat tall and straight on the chaise lounge, her slim legs crossed at the ankles.
“You of all people should know magic is never easy,” Bronwyn said, “but it is a straightforward spell, yes.”
Margaux cleared her throat. “I spent the afternoon tapping into contacts from the magic world to obtain more information about The Esteemed Order of the Removal of the Blight on Humankind. Going to battle against them alone never ends well. The few times The Org has acted in error against the magical world, witches have only been able to fend them off when multiple covens banded together in a singular cause.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I said.
“It’s a truth, not a lullaby.” Margaux’s perfect brow arched judgmentally high. “Now, when considering our offer, I ask that you bear in mind not only your safety, but also the safety of your people—”
“I’m in,” I said.
“—including your wolves and the elderly tenants here, not to mention your lover—”
“I’m in,” I repeated, though I didn’t expect her to hear it. The woman was on a roll.
“Margaux…” Bronwyn began.
Margaux shushed her with a shake of her finger. “I recognize that you have doubts, Betty, but a coven is vital to your safety and…” she blinked. “Did you just agree to form a coven?”
“Yes. In tempus nexum.” I rubbed my hands together. “All right then, let’s do this. Let’s coven up, ladies.”
Margaux was visibly annoyed. “That’s not a verb.”
“Should be.”
“You can’t just coin a new phrase for what we’re about to do. Witches uniting their magic in a coven is a tradition that stretches back centuries, millennia—from the very birth of the world.”
“Dramática,” I said, and rolled my eyes.
If she’d had feathers, they’d have been ruffled. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m attempting to impose upon you the gravity of the situation. There is a reverence required here, a ceremony.”
“Yeesh, okay, I’ll stop saying it if you stop lecturing me.”
Bronwyn snickered.
Margaux huffed. “We’ll need to start the chant tonight. I suggest you keep your element close, Betty.”
“Start it? Oh no. This isn’t one of those chant-all-night types of spells, is it?”
“It’s a simmer sort of spell,” Bronwyn said. “We chalk out a circle, set our intention, and let the power build. Then we chant all night—or morning. Whatever. It’s not time-of-day specific.”
“So, use the bathroom, stretch, go into the soil, whatever you need to do to ready yourself for the spell.” Margaux lowered herself gracefully to the chaise and rummaged through her purse. “Fennel, Cecil? Are either of you available?”
Cecil poked his purple hat out of the lavender plant beside her. Made a chitter-snick noise.
She held a small paper sack out to him. “A small token of my gratitude for your assistance with the spell tonight.”
Cecil scamped over the side of the planter, down one of the legs, and up onto the chaise. He took the bag from her and peered inside. Twitched his beard in my direction—Smile? Frown?—before shoving his entire head inside.
“Freeze-dried boysenberries.” Margaux sounded pleased with herself.
“Take it easy in there,” I said. “Cecil, you need to breathe.”
His response sounded suspiciously like a satisfied moan.
“He’s fine. They’re boysenberries, not boysenberry wine. I ordered the exact variety his kind prefers. He’ll be well-nourished and focused when we need him. You’ll see.”
Fennel padded into the room through the front door. “Meow.”
“Good timing,” I said. “Margaux’s giving out presents.”
The witch repeated what she’d said to Cecil then gave the cat a bag of what appeared to be catnip. “Please open this later, when we’re finished with the spell. We’ll need you sharp and focused tonight.”
He flicked his tail, took the bag in his teeth, and dropped it into his bed.
I whirled on Margaux. “It’s demon-grown catnip, isn’t it?”
She smiled.
“You’re bribing my partners.”
“I prefer to think of it as rewarding them,” she said.
Cecil poked his head out of the bag. His beard was stained mauve. Oddly, it suited him.
“Did you eat them all?” I asked.
He shook his head, sending boysenberry dust flying.
“Are you okay?” I speared him with a look. “Like, really okay?”
He nodded, carefully rolled the paper bag closed, tucked it under his arm, and climbed off the chaise.
I stared after him, dumbfounded, as he casually strolled into the depths of the garden room.
He had a hidey hole back there where he kept his most special things.
I didn’t know exactly where it was because he kept moving it.
“What’s in those berries, Margaux? Cecil looks like a yogi two meditations from enlightenment.”