Page 97 of The Filigree Key

The air wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let them, for their evil existence could not be allowed to endure. Unlike mallaithe and fiáin, they did not belong to the natural order. They were abominations, twisted for the sole purpose of feeding off the living. They were also fae monsters, which had no right to these mortal lands.

At my direction, the air funneled them straight into the hard ground. Each blackbird ruptured into a puff of white mist as it hit the frozen soil. Tendrils of wind whisked that mist away, preventing it from condensing. The sluagh fought against the current, each beat of their black wings propelling them upwards, but the air was mine to command. We would not stop until the threat lingering over Redbud was gone.

Pfft. Pfft. Pfft-pfft-pfft. The sluagh exploded one after the other in rapid succession, the grass blackening from their evil stain. When it was done, I turned to the last evil stain upon Redbud’s land.

The Stag Man gave me a cautioning look and extended the filigree key.

No longer Meadow Hawthorne, I truly was Meadow Ní Violet now. Her heir in full.

I knew it, and the Stag Man knew it too.

I could take that key if I really wanted to, right now. I could take it and charge it and fly upon this wind I had mastered to the portal and—

“The bear,” was all Ossian had to say to dissuade me.

And Sawyer. And Flora, Daphne, and Shari. Cody and Emmett. My family. And . . . the list went on.

Twin currents, as playful as otters, as fierce as wolves, coiled down my arms and shot straight into the last diamond.

The key flashed a blinding silver. When the light faded, the diamonds were all blazing with their respective colors and the filigree shone even brighter than before.

It wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

No longer did the magic oak tree shine with golden-green light. Nor was there a red heart or blue veins, white leaves and green roots. The oak tree was a riot of colors like those of opal: white, gold, purple, green, red, blue, even flecks of glittering black. It stood straight and tall, its roots and branches fanning out and reaching.

The Tree of Life.

Ossian must’ve sensed the change in me for his golden aura shone brighter and soothing thoughts blasted down the stolen bond. They were a balm on the stress of the day, but my heart rebelled against them. These emotions were lies. He had no right to them.

“No,” I murmured, swaying on my feet.

But he had been waiting for this opportunity. Planned for it. At his throat, the light within the blue cloche swirled violently. The Stag Man pumped more of that golden aura down the bond like a firehose, making my thoughts sluggish and dreamy. He’d never given me this much before.

I should’ve been more careful. Should’ve known he’d seize my elation as the perfect opportunity to pounce. Why hadn’t I kept my guard up? No matter how hard I tried to tamp down on the bond, it was still too much.

“Easy, love,” he murmured to me like I was a wounded animal. “Easy.”

I shook my head, the movement upsetting my equilibrium. Magic sputtered along my skin like water droplets cast into a hot pan—a fleeting protest.

The Stag Man caught me and swept me up into his arms. The blue gem at his throat gleamed as brightly as his eyes. Twin emeralds obscured by a mop of copper curls winked once before my eyes fluttered shut.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The night shattered apart with the caws of the stone crow sentries.

Something pawed frantically at my face, little thorns pricking.

I came fully awake with a yelp, flinging both Sawyer and the bedsheets to the ground. Ossian was gone, the depression in the mattress beside me not yet cool. My head was a fuzzy, murky mess, almost as bad as when Ossian had dosed me with Caer powder, except recent memories came flooding back the more I shook off the dregs of sleep.

The magic oak tree flashed with opalescent light, burning away the residue left behind by the stolen bond. The wretch had given me enough to stay blissfully asleep until morning had it not been for the sentries. My feet hit the rug with a solid thunk, and I raced out into the corridor in yesterday’s clothes with Sawyer at my heels.

The stone crows’ alarm reverberated even louder here, and I mashed my hands against my ears. Even muffled, they could still hear the sounds of faraway shouts, something of the castle being under attack.

Who would chance such a thing? And why now, when the Stag Man was stronger than ever before?

A strange itch in my palm suggested an answer. Holding my hand out in front of me, I swept it through the beam of moonlight coming from the window from left to right as if it were a compass. The itch increased noticeably when my hand angled towards the great hall instead of the atrium. Before I could follow the sensation, Sawyer swatted at my ankle.

There in the dust at my feet, his claw had written out one word to confirm my wildest suspicion: Grumpy.