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And they would not respond to Briar’s magic. They were ignoring her. Which was just rude, frankly. Snapdragon, often disgruntled, was positively insulted.

Briar let herself inside and everything was quiet and smelled of mint and tea and lilac flowers. And roses. But nothing seemed immediately out of place. “Bramble?” she called up the stairs. “Have you noticed the roses?”

Which were utterly forgotten when she caught movement on the other side of the glass.

Not Bramble. She would never be caught out like that. Her magic turned her to mist and smoke, just another part of the scenery. Briar knew the back door was secure—and none of her house shields had alerted her of any intruders.

They didn’t have the time.

Her front door burst open, slamming into the wall.

Ethan was crowned with the blazing light behind him, his face in shadows. There was something cold and vicious about the glitter of his eyes. The dagger in his hand. He had crossed the hall in the time it took for her to frown at him. She stumbled back into the teashop as the back door also crashed open. She didn’t have a chance to reach for a weapon, even if she had one to reach for. Instead, there was only a jar of dried rosebuds, a locked box of Darjeeling tea, a potted violet. A tray of ivy cuttings. A metal tea leaf strainer in the shape of a dove.

She was truly a threat to all.

And then Ethan was on her, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of her neck. His grip was firm but not painful, but nor did it allow for any defiance on her part. “What are you—?”

Her words died in her throat, at the exact spot he pressed his dagger against.

She froze. Her heart beat loudly. Ethan was too strong, too fierce. She had begun to think of him as if not a friend, then at least an ally. She’d been working on nothing more than instinct. Hope.

Fool.

She shifted onto her good hip, wondering if she could kick back into his kneecap.

“Don’t.” His voice was barely a breath in her ear, a quiet warning only she could hear. It shivered down her spine.

A woman stalked into the shop, the leather strap between her breasts hung with charms and daggers. The mark of an Iron Crow. She was short, strong enough to take out an ox. She had muscles, graying hair in a thick braid, and a Black Shuck on an iron chain wrapped with nettles and Lady’s Mantle. Its folk name was Nine Hooks for a reason.

Briar hissed out a breath. Black Shucks resembled giant, shaggy dogs, with too many teeth, fiery eyes, and the ability to make you mad with terror with only three barks. They were meant to be wild, roaming the moors and eating the wind. Not trapped. Ensnared in iron. If Sorcha were here, she would find a way to free the poor beast.

Briar wanted to do the same, but mostly she hoped it would not eat her.

Black Shucks were not tame or gentle, and this one had bloody welts from the iron chains pockmarking his fur. He snapped his jaws, saliva dripping in thick strings to the floor. Where they fell, the wooden boards smoked, burned through.

“Twyla,” Ethan greeted the woman calmly, as if they were meeting in the square, under the oak tree. As if they were drinking tepid lemonade at a ball, which Briar could not imagine. There was nothing tepid about the undercurrents.

Or the blade still at her throat.

She was not entirely certain the sharpness of the very air would not cut her before the dagger. Ethan angled it slightly, tilting Briar’s head back. She made a choked sound of protest and clutched at his arm, but it was useless. She may as well have been clutching at the mast of his ship for all the good it did her.

The Black Shuck growled, and every hair on Briar’s body prickled as if they had turned to needles. “Call off your mutt,” Ethan said. “And may he eat your liver for what you’ve done to him.”

Twyla snorted. “I’ve seen what you can do, Dragon.”

Everyone knew the stories, even green witches who lived in pink cottages: stolen grimoires, duels at dawn. Victims tossed over the side of his ship to be eaten by the kelpies, their water-horse teeth smeared with blood.

Ethan smiled. Briar felt it against the top of her head.

It was not comforting.

“Then you’ll remember that you don’t want to fight me, Twyla,” he said evenly. “Leave while you still can.”

“I want the moon charm.”

“Don’t we all.”

“That one has it.” Twyla nodded to Briar even as she released another foot of chain. The Black Shuck advanced, eyes red.