The Witch's Quest. Michele Hauf
her cheek wet with tears.
All she’d wanted to do was invoke a spell. For her. For once in her long lifetime, she’d finally thought about herself and what she wanted.
Eyes closed now, she thought the loamy scent of moss and earth were too rich for such a fool as herself. The crisp promise of crystal clear water babbled from somewhere behind her. Even the bird chirps seemed to admonish her for being an idiot.
Would her friends think it was odd she did not show up for work tonight at the brewery? Of course Eryss would wonder. Give her a call. But Valor often did not answer her phone. Eryss would shrug and figure Valor had forgotten. It was a Thursday night. Never too busy. Instead of a staff of three, the Decadent Dames could easily manage the microbrewery with two.
They might not bother to drive by her loft at the edge of town in Tangle Lake until the next day when Valor didn’t show up to help carry in a delivery of grains that was expected to arrive in the afternoon.
She’d be dead by then. Even now she sensed her energy waning, seeping from her. Bleeding her life into the ground.
“Stupid tree,” she muttered. “A simple lash across the face would have served me well enough.”
But she knew faeries—and their trees, for they were alive and sentient—never did anything half-assed. Be it mischief or unspeakable malice, it was either all-in or all-out.
Clasping the moonstone amulet she always wore strung from a leather cord about her neck, she bowed her head to the leaves on the forest floor before her. It was time to start thinking of leaving a message for her friends. Who may eventually find her decayed corpse still pinned to this earth, perhaps one clawing hand still sticking out from the ground, surrounded by the malevolent tree roots.
“Aggh!” She had to stop thinking of how dire her end would be. That wouldn’t solve anything.
Valor grabbed a thin branch and decided the moss was so thick she could probably write in it. No. It would never work. The mason jar of angel dust sat two feet out of her reach. So blood was the next option. And her parchment? A wide maple leaf.
She broke the branch in two and was holding the serrated end poised to stab at her skin when the rapid beating of hooves alerted her. She glanced up and just had time to tuck her face against the leaves as the sleek doe beat a path toward her. The deer probably hadn’t expected a nonanimal to be sitting in the forest, so the beast hadn’t much time to correct her trajectory. Valor sensed the deer’s surprise as her front hoof nearly stepped on her hand and she leaped high and over Valor’s head.
Muttering a quiet oath and a quick blessing of thanks, Valor followed the deer’s path. Then it occurred to her that something might have been after it. She swiftly turned and spied the man running toward her, a blur of gold and green. When he was but twenty feet away from her, he suddenly halted, appearing to put on the brakes as a runner in an animated cartoon would, heels skidding and body lagging behind as his speed dropped from swift to stop.
“Whoa!” Valor stretched up a hand to stop him. Which she realized was ridiculous because he’d already stopped.
Tall and lithe and not wearing a shirt, he gave a shrug of one shoulder that stretched his sleek, tight muscles up and down his abdomen. His arms twitched as he looked her over. His face was angular and cut with sharp cheekbones and a prominent slash of brow line. Short blond hair, blown wild and wavy by his racing speed, settled about his ears and forehead. Hip-hugging gray jeans revealed he was barefoot. And his abs were sculpted with more muscle than Valor could imagine what to do with. On those abs were traced violet sigils that she knew were faery in nature. And there, braceleting his wrists, were more faery sigils.
But she didn’t fear him. She knew him.
“Valor?” And he knew her.
Kelyn Saint-Pierre padded up to her with a lanky ease that spoke more of a wild animal’s gait than that of a human. Of course, he wasn’t human; he was faery.
He swept a hand over his forehead, pushing the hair from his face. His violet eyes took her in from tangled brown-violet hair, moss-smudged cheek and faded green T-shirt to—her combat boots were well underground right now. It was too dark now for him to see into the shadows where all the horrible pinning action had occurred.
His expression switched from surprise to concern. “What’s a witch doing in the Darkwood? Don’t you know this forest is dangerous to your kind?”
So state the obvious.
Kelyn lived in the area, and she knew his sister and three brothers. Daisy Blu, a faery who had once been a werewolf, was married to Beck Severo. Valor had gone to Daisy’s baby shower a month ago.
Blade was the brother who lived at the edge of this forest. That guy was a vampire but sported gothic wings that would give anyone a fright. And Stryke was a pack leader in a northern suburb.
Trouble, the eldest of the Saint-Pierre siblings, was a werewolf to the bone. And Valor and Trouble were drinking buddies who got together once in a while for Netflix and pizza. Guys like Trouble were meant for fishing trips and shooting the shit, never romance.
Summoning her pride, Valor tossed her long violet-streaked hair over a shoulder and lifted her chin. She was still able to lean on an elbow, but she knew she looked pitiful all the same. “I was just out for a walk.”
Kelyn crossed his arms before his chest. His haughty posture and smirk spoke his assessment of her situation much louder than words could.
“You know,” she continued casually. “Collecting some ingredients for spells. Communing with nature.” She patted the moss. “Doing...witch stuff.” It was difficult not to wince. Witch stuff? Ugh. She was never good at the lie. But, oh, so talented with getting herself into strange fixes.
Case in point: the witch pinned by the oak tree.
“I can see that.” He made a show of peering over the ground. “Looks like a spell sigil to me. Witch stuff, eh?” Tucking his hands behind his back, Kelyn leaned forward in an admonishing teacher pose and said to her, “You know that witch stuff is the worst you could manage here in the Darkwood? The mortal realm powers you possess clash terribly with the faery energies that inhabit every inch of this woods.”
“I’m not working magic at the moment. Just—” A glance to the angel-dust sigil and scattered ingredients proved her guilt. “What do you want, Kelyn? Don’t you have a deer to chase?”
He righted himself and laughed. “We were racing. She won.”
Right. The man was faery. And Valor knew he had wings. Trouble had told her they were big and silver and violet, and that Kelyn was ever proud of them. She also knew that of all four Saint-Pierre brothers, Kelyn was the strongest and most powerful. Or so Trouble had told her during a drunken game of truth or dare one night.
To judge by Kelyn’s lean, lithe appearance, Valor had to wonder about such skills and strength. Sure, he looked riveted together with a factory gun and sculpted from solid marble, but Valor always tended toward the beefier, broader sorts. With dark hair. Always. A blond? Never had an interest.
On the other hand, why was she limiting her options when the reason she’d come to the Darkwood was to cast a spell for love?
Propping her chin in a hand and twisting at the hip to look more casual, she asked, “You go running through this forest often?”
Surely, he had noticed that her legs were sucked into the ground up to her knees, but she had a difficult time asking anyone for help. She was woman. Hear her roar!
She hated coming off as the weak one. The stupid witch who’d gone to the Darkwood without telling anyone.
“I do go for a run a few times a week. This woods is special to me.” He smoothed a hand absently down his abs, which drew Valor’s eye to the violet sigils. They looked like intricate mandalas, and she knew they were the source of his faery magic. “You talk to Trouble lately?”
“No,” she answered defensively.