Chapter Thirty-Two
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Long past the farm, down in the Holler
there is a sideways place
where the friends are foes,
lost in the creek and deep in the caves,
there is a sideways Witch
with a soul of shadow
who goes by the call of woeful Widow.
—“Song of the Widow Witch”
Strong hands stir me awake.
My eyes stay shut in protest. I finally fell asleep. Just a few more minutes.
“Ms. Frost, wake up.”
That man’s voice again. I recognize it. Why isn’t he asleep, too? It’s way too early for this nonsense.
“You have to fight through the lethargy.”
Why won’t the universe let me sleep? I. Am. Tired.
“Honey, can you hear me? Wake up.”
Ah, I see. We’re playing a game. I can do pet names. “Of course, dear,” I murmur. With some drool, I’m sure.
“Of all the times—you are the most vexing woman—do not make me empty our water bottles on top of your head—”
“Let me sleep, darling.” I’m going to run out of patience. And endearments.
The next thing I register is that my soft bed is gone and I’m upright on two feet, swaying with sleepy eyes. The Warlock’s face is not the worst view to wake up to, even if it’s rather tense. And sallow. He’s hauled me to my feet, my cheeks cupped in his palms. “Are you all right?”
I bat at his hands. “Congratulations, you saved me from a nap.” Now I’m tired and flustered. His thumbs were doing these nice—
“A nap courtesy of the Widow Witch.”
My dreary eyes go wide. Now I’m awake.
We are not where we fell asleep.
We’re still in a cave, but not any kind I’ve seen before.
Our bedrolls are gone, and we’re standing in a meadow.
The green earth beneath our feet covers the entire expansive footprint of a gaping cave chamber.
Stalactites hang from the uneven ceiling and stalagmites sprout from the ground like stony trees.
Pools of cave water glisten, and trickling waterfalls echo around us.
Pinpricks of light glow and wink out everywhere I look. Fireflies.
Farther into the cavern, dusky sunshine filters through the air.
I can see.
There—the roof of the chamber is open to the surface above us.
Shafts of light banish the deeper shadows, the brightness dancing off the cave pools.
A larger, rushing waterfall pours in from the surface, filling a massive cave lake.
And there, in the middle of the lake on its own tiny island, is no lair or fortress.
Just a small cottage. Candles burn in the windows. Smoke kisses the air above a chimney.
A cozy cottage.
The entire place is a storybook grotto.
A footbridge springs like a Slinky over the lake to connect the cottage’s island to the nearest grassy platform, not far from where we’re standing. “This is where she lives?”
He nods, solemn. “She transported us here while we were sleeping.”
“Why the hell would she help us find her?”
“Either she’s eager to see if we’ve come to bargain,” he says, “or she likes to play with her food.”
Even though I’m only subsisting on last night’s Spam sandwich, my appetite evaporates.
We don’t get long to contemplate her motivations.
Right as we step toward the footbridge, bone-white hounds emerge from the air, like mist taking shape. They’re twice as large as wolves, practically horses with paws and dagger-sharp canines. And they’re all missing their eyes.
The hounds surround us, going by scent.
“Run for the cottage,” the Warlock whispers.
I watch the beasts creep closer. “Run toward the evil Witch’s lair. Got it.”
The hounds snarl collectively, onyx teeth bared.
“Stay close to the waterfalls; the noise will confuse them. These nightmares will have the upper hand everywhere else,” he adds, making me feel a helluva lot worse. I try to suffocate my rising dread before I freeze in place.
That’s when the hounds lunge.
I run.
Mental blinders fly up as I focus on the cottage, running faster than I ever have in my short and looking-shorter life.
The footbridge inches closer with every leap over a cave pool.
I slip once, twice, three times on grass dewy from the waterfalls’ spray, though the falls are also the only thing keeping the hounds from fully tracking me.
The Warlock’s long legs are on the edge of my vision, barely keeping up. Even after a night’s sleep, his body is just as fatigued as it was yesterday. The hounds howl and snarl, narrowing the distance. I hear their massive paws striking the earth right behind me. Closer.
But I’m slowing down.
The hounds snap at my ankles, howling for the hunt. The Widow Witch dumped us in her front yard simply because it was time to feed her dogs.
We’re almost to the footbridge, but it’s too late.
The hounds surround us.
A thoroughbred of a dog pounces. I jump out of the way but slide in the wet grass. The Warlock is there in the same instant, as if to throw himself between me and the hound, but we collide and go down together, our limbs tangling. I land hard on my ass.
We scramble backward on our palms, the Warlock in front of me, his feet closest to the jaws of the hounds.
Maybe we can jump off the footbridge, if we can reach it.
But if these hounds are her defense on land, what’s lurking under the water?
My insides quiver, gut tightening with panic. Now is not the time to need a bathroom.
The beasts circle us with oddly human precision. When my arms give out, the Warlock’s back hits my chest. His body nearly covers mine as he stays facing the hounds.
There’s nowhere else for us to go.
I wrap my arms around his heaving chest from behind and haul him closer.
These hounds are going to tear us into shredded cheese, but holding him like this calms my pulse for one brief, sweet second.
As he leans against me, torso tucked between my legs, his hands grip the backs of my thighs. “If this doesn’t go well—”
“Don’t you dare,” I gasp between lungfuls of air.
The hound closest to us looks ready to pounce. To devour.
My thoughts tumble. Devour. He’s hungry. And I’m a Farewitch—that’s it! Using precious seconds, I reach into my backpack and yank out a plastic container.
The hounds lunge just as I chuck the contents of the container over their heads.
Feral and starving, they pounce for the bait, stopping their attack long enough to demolish the food.
Not just food. Honey bourbon bread pudding. For insomnia.
One by one, the dogs stretch, yawn, stomp the grass in circles, and plop down, eyelids heavy. The dessert is harmless—I brought it in case my brain was too wired to sleep—but it works fast. Soon, the vicious demons become fur-balls no more dangerous than Beauregard.
Our path to the footbridge is clear. For now.
The Warlock’s head falls back against my chest. “You’re brilliant.” Hands still cupped under my thighs, he pulls my legs tighter around him, like he has no intention of moving. “I admit, the dogs are a surprise.”
He’s shaking. Or I am. I press my cheek into the top of his head, greedy for the smell of soil and thyme that reminds me of the Manor. Of safety. Home.
“We need to go to the gym,” I say, breathing heavily. “Do some cardio.”
“I have a few ideas—”
He doesn’t get to finish. In a matter of seconds, my vision of the cottage and sleeping hounds vanishes in a gray cyclone swirling around us, and then my feet are off the ground and I’m spinning, spinning—
Quick as it begins, the carnival ride from hell ends.
From the air, we drop a few feet to the earth. My ears pop, like we’ve emerged in some pressurized dome. I stumble to my feet, disoriented but determined to be ready for whatever’s next. Beside me, the Warlock does the same, looking up to see where we’ve landed.
The front porch of the Widow Witch’s cottage.
That was the pop—we must be inside her own personal bubble of warding now. Her winds whipped us here like we’re paper cutouts. Not far off from how I feel right now, fragile enough to tear. Just as I catch my first full breath, the cottage’s front door swings open.
But it’s not the Widow Witch on the threshold.
It’s Gertha Fudge.
Well, not quite Gertha Fudge.
Same dark skin and short frame, which swims in a black kaftan dress.
Like Gertha, her white hair, streaked with pearlescent gray, sits atop her head in braids.
They could be twins, except the Witch’s wrinkled and sagging face is an even older copy of the already-aged church lady.
Impossibly, this woman has to be generations older than Gertha.
The Widow Witch crosses her arms. “You sedated my hounds, girl.” Same voice, too, but cracked and deep. Old. Tired.
My heart pounds. “They’ll be fine. It was only a recipe for sleep.”
“Farewitches,” she sneers. Her dark eyes twinkle with a wicked bitterness that sends horripilation over my neck. “A crafty one. I’m not surprised you keep her company, Knight.” Her gaze at last travels to the Warlock.
He gives her a terse nod. I think he’s about to bite a molar in two. “Okolona.”
I suppress a gulp. This is the very person who cursed him, the Witch who is the reason he and a little boy are inching toward death. But the thought of Lazlo gives me the courage to look her in the eye. “I’m Honey Frost. Nice to meet you.”
Momaw stressed manners.
“You owe us a new foyer.”
Manners, sometimes. I don’t dare bring up the barn or church.
“If you’re going to make demands,” the Witch says, “you best come inside. I have a sonker cooking.”
“Honey is off-limits, Okolona,” the Warlock says, his voice raspy. “If a morsel of your magic touches her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? With what power? I can’t even sense your magic. Not a spark.”
He glowers. “Because of your curse, Okolona.”
The woman gives a throaty chuckle. “Relax, boy. I’m not interested in breaking your toys. Yet.”
That doesn’t make me relax at all. But we’re only here because we’re desperate. So I follow a magical being leagues more powerful than myself into the dark beyond the threshold.
The inside is like the outside: wooden beams warped from water damage, walls mossy with age.
A large stone hearth that is suspiciously person-sized hosts a blazing fire.
Sunlight is minimal and candles are everywhere.
Between those and the fire, the cottage is aglow.
The place doesn’t look much like the home of a dreaded Witch.
Yet it’s frigid in here. Like all this heat is just for show.
She isn’t lying: A cast-iron skillet rests deep in the fireplace, baking. Goopy fruit and its juice bubble up around a golden-brown cake-batter crust, threatening to spill over. A sonker uses riper fruit than a cobbler. I hate to admit it, but the thing smells divine.
“Blackberry?” I ask.
She adds a log to her fire. “Huckleberry. It’s seasonal.”
“Don’t accept any food from her,” the Warlock says, following right behind me.
An unkind grin twitches at the Witch’s mouth. “Would I really poison you two? We haven’t had a lick of fun yet.”
“We’re here for your help,” I say without preamble. There’s no time to be shy.
She looks past me, her cold eyes narrowing on the Warlock. “You’ve been busy, Knight. And here I thought you couldn’t possibly get into any more trouble. Then again, I’ve never seen you following a girl around.”
“I’m thirty-one, thanks,” I protest.
“Child, do you know how ancient I am? You are all children tugging hair on the playground to me.” She hums, almost giddy.
“Speaking of children, I hear the Eldercraft may pay the Holler a visit, to drive out a rogue Warlock before he can corrupt an innocent soul. Same town, same story. Foxe Holler never changes, does it?”
I shake my head. “You don’t get information for free. Witches like to trade, don’t we? You get a question, we get a question.” I hope I sound more sure than I feel. I’m the novice here when it comes to age and field experience.
“Well, I like her more in four minutes than I ever liked you in four decades, Knight. Where did you find this one?”
The Warlock shifts closer to me, and I can feel the defensive unease threaded through his muscles where we brush up against each other. “She found me.”
“Ah. The good ones usually do.”
“Why did you transport us here?” I ask, keeping us on track. Time might not pass here the same way it does in the Holler. What if we’ve already wasted hours, or days? “Why not let us get lost and die in the caves?”
“That’s two questions. But I’ll be generous since you’re my guest: I don’t like when folks meddle in my bargains. A deal is between those who make it.” She nods at him. “He asked for time, I gave it to him. A year. No more.”
The fire pops. Sparks tickle the walls of the stone. The entire cottage smells of sugary, ripe huckleberry and woodsmoke. Sweet and dangerous.
“That doesn’t sound like a very fair deal to me,” I say.
“It’s my turn to ask a question, girl. Why are you here?”
I swallow. “My family’s magic is poisoning my mom. And me. I don’t know how to reverse the effects. Or even just stop them. But I think you can help me.”
“This one’s awfully nosey and blunt, Knight.”
“I know,” he says at the same time I say, “Thank you.”
I keep my chin high. “My Momaw said, You can’t spell honesty without honey.”
The Witch wrinkles her nose, looking even more like Gertha Fudge. “How disgustingly quaint.”
That’s it. “You’re Gertha Fudge’s grandmother!”
“Great-grandmother. Don’t short me my life experience.
But yes. Gertha didn’t inherit any Hedgewitch magic.
She’ll die a normal old woman. But I have a few centuries in me yet.
My turn, Witch to Witch, girl. Why are you here helping a Warlock who could trade your life for his own gain if he wanted? Honesty is not in his vocabulary.”
The Warlock makes a sound of objection. “I’m simply selective about when I choose to reveal information.”
I ignore his affronted expression. “He’s honest when it matters.”
She waves a bony hand at the Warlock. “Did you bring this poor girl here so she could make an equally as foolish bargain? Shame on you, boy.”
“No deals. No tricks. Only answers,” I say. “That was your question. Here’s my next one: What exactly happened between you and the Knight family twenty-five years ago?”
Surprise crosses the Warlock’s face. Like he’s been avoiding this story, running from it for years. But he’s going to have to go with me on this.
The Witch eyes him. “How much does she know?”
His surprise shifts to confusion. “As much as I do.”
She snorts. “This story begins long before the last solstice.” She sticks a wrinkled finger right into the bubbling sonker, then licks off the gooey fruit filling like third-degree burns are a myth. “Once upon a time…”