The Witch's Quest. Michele Hauf
circle before coming around to face them both and saying, “Your wings.”
“No!” Valor yelled from behind Kelyn.
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it,” the demon said.
“We don’t—”
“Valor,” Kelyn said to shush her. “Be still.”
“You can’t give him your wings. They are what make you...you! That’s a terrible thing to ask in trade for—”
“For a life?” the demon interjected. “Seems more than fair to me. But if you’re not keen on breathing, witch, then so be it.”
The demon’s eyes glimmered vivid pink. He was preparing to flash out of the forest as swiftly and quietly as he had appeared.
“Wait!” Kelyn reacted from his heart and soul, not his better senses. “You can have them.”
The demon smiled.
“Absolutely not!” Valor punched the ground with an ineffectual fist.
Kelyn turned to face her, and the spill of tears down her cheeks startled him. Wasn’t she the feisty tomboy of the group of witches who owned a local brewery? The one who hung around with Sunday and fixed cars and motorbikes, and never met a greasy engine she didn’t want to take apart?
Or so he’d heard. He’d made it a point to listen when Valor was spoken about. Because he had lusted after her. Had wanted to ask her out. And almost did. Until...Trouble.
But with the lingering taste of her kiss still on his lips, he couldn’t deny that those feelings had not grown any lesser.
“You are not going to sacrifice your wings for me,” Valor said on a desperate pleading tone. “Just go! Get out of here!”
“And allow you to die? I am a better man than that. It’s not my nature to walk away when I can help.”
“Help? No! Just no! I couldn’t live with myself if you gave up your wings to save me.”
“Well, you’re going to have to.”
He tugged his ankle away from her grasping, pleading hands and turned to the demon. With an inhale that shivered through his system and tweaked at his back between his shoulder blades where his wings could unfurl, he grasped decisiveness. “We have a deal. But you will promise you’ll go immediately to Faery and unpin Valor.”
“With your wings in hand, my entrance to Faery will be secured. The moment you hand them over to me, I will leave and unpin your tragic lover.”
Kelyn almost said “She’s not my lover,” but semantics were less important than getting this cruel task completed. Because to sacrifice his wings would be like handing over himself. He’d become lesser. Not even the faery he was now. He would lose...
Kelyn held out his hands. The violet sigils that circled his wrists were a match for those sigils on his chest. They were his magic. His strength. As were his wings.
But to walk away from a helpless woman when he had a means to save her?
“Do it,” Kelyn said firmly.
The demon thrust out his arm, and in his blackened hand materialized a gleaming sword of violet light. “Kneel, faery.”
Feeling the intense sidhe magic that emanated from the weapon shimmer in his veins, Kelyn dropped to his knees, his side facing the demon.
“No” gasped from Valor’s lips.
Lips he’d kissed, and on which he’d tasted a sweet promise. But he must never taste that promise again. He couldn’t bear it.
“Do it!” he yelled.
And his wings shivered as he unfurled them and stretched them out behind him into the fresh spring air. Moonlight glamorized the sheer violet appendages, glinting in the silver support structure that held a close resemblance to dragonfly wings.
The violet blade swept the night. Ice burned through Kelyn’s body as blade met wing, bone, skin and muscle, and severed each of the four wings cleanly from his back. Overwhelmed by a searing agony, Kelyn choked back the urge to scream and dropped forward onto his elbows. His fingers dug deep into the cool moss. He gritted his jaw, biting the edges of his tongue.
Behind him, Valor screamed.
He wasn’t aware as the demon gripped his severed wings and, in a shimmer of malevolence, flashed out of the Darkwood.
Bile curdled up Kelyn’s throat. His stomach clenched. His wingless back muscles pulsed in search of flight. Clear ichor, speckled with his innate faery dust, spilled over his shoulders and dribbled down his arms to the backs of his hands. The violet sigils about his wrists glowed and then...flashed away, leaving his skin faintly scarred where the magical markings had been since birth.
The witch muttered some sort of incantation that felt like a desperate blessing wrapped in black silk and tied too tightly for Kelyn to access.
He wanted to scream. To die. To curse the witch. To curse his own stupidity.
But what he instead did was nod and suck back the urge to vomit. The task had been done.
He would not look back.
Suddenly Valor’s body lunged forward, her hands landing on his bare feet. The tree roots had spat her up, purging her from the earth. She scrambled over them alongside him. The demon had kept his word, unpinning her from the Faery side.
Good, then. His sacrifice had been worth it.
“Oh, my goddess. Your wings.” Valor gasped. “I... Kelyn?”
“Go,” he said tightly.
“What?”
“Leave me, witch! Get out of this forest and never return. This is not a place for you. Be thankful for your life.”
“Yes, but—I’m thankful for what you’ve—”
“We will never speak of this again,” he said forcefully. Still, he crouched over the mossy ground, unwilling and unable to twist his head and face the witch. “Please, Valor,” he said softly. “Go.”
If she did not leave, he would never rise. He didn’t want her to see him wingless and broken. Hobbled by his necessity for kindness, to not abandon a condemned woman.
“You need someone to look after those wounds,” she said. “I might be able to find a proper healing spell if you’ll walk out of here with me.”
“I need you to leave,” he insisted sharply. “I will walk out of the Darkwood on my own. When I am able. Do you understand?”
He sensed she nodded. The witch’s footsteps backed away from him. She uttered a sound, as if she would again protest, and then the soft cush of her boots crushing moss moved her away from him.
And Kelyn let out his breath and collapsed onto the forest floor.
Two months later
Valor walked down the street, her destination was the gas station on the corner. She had a craving for something sweet and icy that at least resembled food and that would probably give her a stomachache. It was what she deserved.
When she spied the classic black Firebird cruise by, she picked up her pace and then halted on the sidewalk but a dash from the parking lot where the car had pulled in to stop before a hardware store. That was Kelyn Saint-Pierre’s car. His brother Blade had fixed up the 1970s’ vehicle with spare parts and a wicked talent for auto body reconstruction. She knew it was Kelyn’s car because she’d been trying to speak to him for months. Ever since their harrowing encounter in the Darkwood.
When he had sacrificed his wings for her.
She