Page 56 of The Filigree Key

“I’m not drinking that.” I would’ve crossed my arms over my chest had I not been carrying a literal armful of food. The salty badger hadn’t given me a basket, but I should’ve insisted on one. “I don’t know where that’s been.”

Carissa’s eyes narrowed at the implication. “If you don’t drink this, then you’ll be confined to your quarters.”

Snorting, I channeled my grandmother and gave her my most scathing up-down glance. “And you’ll make me?”

The bluish-green markings on Carissa’s skin illuminated and came to life, twisting and wriggling like freshly unearthed worms. “Yes.”

The flat response gave me pause. I was not so confident in my own power that I could blatantly ignore any threat posed my way. Ossian was still formidable with arcane magic at his disposal. There was a distinct possibility he’d given something akin to a heretic’s fork to Carissa to use at her discretion.

“And you’re not leaving this castle,” the magic hunter informed me. “Not while Cernunnos is away. The dressmaker will be brought to you, and there’ll be no off to the gardens.” She wrinkled her face in disgust. “They’re dead at this time of year, and if they’re not dead yet, they’re full of slimy wet things anyway. Disgusting.”

“Well, no reason to get nasty,” I said. “I don’t get fussy about your hobbies.”

Carissa was known to be blatantly promiscuous. Though, I didn’t know a Brother without a poignant vice. The magic and power they stole always made them hungry for their next fix, and that didn’t always translate into a magical boost.

I made sure to give her another judgmental up-down glance that told her in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought about those fae-like markings on her skin. Stolen magic. “And I can’t very well drink that with my hands full. Hold this.”

Without waiting for her consent, I started unloading my breakfast, lunch, snacks, and snail on her.

“Now wait just a—”

Carissa screeched as the intrepid garden snail scooched along the brown parchment-paper packaging right at eye level. Oh, thistle thorns, had I placed a slimy wet thing right there so I could free up a hand to take the tonic?

The magic hunter stumbled back, flailing. My breakfast, Auggie, and the bottle of red fizzy drink-me-not launched into the air.

That’s when I struck.

My magic was so fast now I didn’t need to ground myself anymore to concentrate. I was grounded already, to the magic oak tree. Vines, too many to count, shot out of me. They snatched my food, the garden snail, and the bottle before they could hit the ground, and one helped Carissa stumble back even further and crack her body against the stone wall.

The magic hunter slumped to the floor, head lolling to the side.

The vine that had shoved her now encircled her like a serpent, its tip crooking under her chin to lift her face. Carissa groaned, eyelids fluttering. “Damn . . . sna—”

Her words slurred as I blew uncut Caer powder into her eyes. Then I pinched her bottom lip, pulled it out away from her mouth to expose her bottom teeth, and sprinkled dried valeriana petals against her gums. They would dissolve over time, ensuring a deep slumber that would give me the unsupervised and uninterrupted time I needed with my friends.

Straightening, I plucked the bottle of fizzy red nasty from where the glittering green vine still suspended it, uncorked it, and poured it into a dark corner. Then I wedged the empty bottle into Carissa’s slack hand and retrieved Auggie and my rations. The magic vines winked out of sight, and I began my trek to the porcupine’s hut. Since I clearly wasn’t supposed to be out and about unattended, I had to skulk yet again in case there were any spies. Where was Shane, anyway?

A shadow passed overhead just as the stick hut came into view. I choked down a yelp and shied away under the boughs of a nearby cedar, but the creature had already seen me. A blackbird?

Gertrude the robin!

Her nest was nowhere near here and she was twittering up a storm and—

I broke out into a run. Forget the possible spies.

A minute later, I was smacking aside the red curtain door and ducking inside the hut. Shari was crocheting manically on her cot and Daphne was crying big horse tears that rolled down her long muzzle to drip off the end of her nose and sizzle against the logs in the firepit.

“Oh, Meadow,” the mare sobbed. “Flora’s been taken!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ever hyper-observant, no matter the situation, Shari demanded, “What happened to your hands? They look like you’re wearing pink lace gloves.”

Daphne’s sobs choked off into sniffles as she lowered her big glossy eyes down to where I clutched my rations to my chest. “Oh, Meadow!”

“It’s nothing,” I assured them. “Daphne, what’s this about Flora?”

“It’s not nothing,” Shari corrected me. “Why aren’t you healing?”