Page 42 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Chapter Fourteen

The Black Shuck lunged.

He was even larger when he was coming directly at you, teeth gleaming, eyes flashing. The teacups rattled under the force of his growling. Panic crawled up Briar’s throat, choking her.

Ethan twisted, spinning her out of his arms as if they were dancing. She skidded toward the counter, catching her bad hip. Ethan did not hesitate; even as he had spun her, he had taken another dagger—this one made of iron—from his belt. He slammed it into the floor.

Magic exploded, the familiar salt-and-fennel smell momentarily overpowering the acrid blister of the Black Shuck’s breath, too close, too close.

But Ethan’s shield held.

The Black Shuck hit a wall of witching energy and fell back, paws scrabbling. His saliva hit the corner of Briar’s apron, sizzling through the thick cloth.

“Get behind the counter,” Ethan snapped. A single iron dagger shield would not last long. They needed a coven of bog witches, swords forged on Samhain. A feather plucked from the tail of a gryphon. None of which Briar stocked next to the chamomile and the apple-mint tea.

Twyla cursed, throwing her own knives. Ethan slapped one away before it could pierce his eyeball.

When three Keepers thundered down the hall, it was not an improvement.

An oil painting of cliff grasses under a storm fell off a nail and crashed to the floor. Something else shattered in the kitchen.

“By order of the—Gah!” Oliver, because of course he was the one to lead the Keepers into her cottage, broke off with a choked yelp when the Black Shuck turned his head and barked. The teacups shivered more violently in their saucers. The violet flowers in the clay pot closed up on themselves.

“Fucking mayhem,” Ethan muttered at Briar. “Are you sure you’re not part demon?”

“This wasn’t my idea! None of you were invited here!”

“Just stay the hell down.”

As she had no intention of having her throat ripped out by a Black Shuck—or sliced by a knife, she thought pointedly in Ethan’s direction—Briar stayed down.

She had never had occasion to witness a true magical battle. She battled slugs and root-rot and pixies who stole the foxglove flowers to drink out of because it intensified the effect of mead. Haven mostly dealt with complaints about the hotel beds, glamours, the cost of pearls. John and Grant fighting over their competing businesses. Once, the mayor and a duchess came to blows inside the fountain over a game of magical pall-mall. And her mother had dealings with irate spouses on a regular basis, but Petal’s face usually softened much of their ire.

A proper magical battle was messy.

Even without a Black Shuck. He rippled with power and rancor. Briar could hardly blame him. Usually, salt and iron were used to stop most magic in its tracks. It worked for village witches and cunning men and charm-singers.

It was not quite enough to stop a Crow.

Or a Keeper, regrettably.

They worked with iron on a regular basis, using it against each other so often that while a scatter of iron nails on the floor was enough to make Briar’s green magic hesitate, it was not nearly enough to make the others pause. They had so much more experience pushing through the pain and the prowl of power. Briar gritted her teeth. She had her own skills pushing through the pain. Let them deal with a dodgy hip on a daily basis and see how well they fared.

But in the end, they did not fight with spells. Instead, it was daggers and fists and a great deal of trying to avoid the giant, angry magical dog. Snapdragon vanished inside her chest, tucking his feathers in.

The Keepers split their focus between Twyla and Ethan. The Black Shuck did not appear to care whom he mauled, as long as he got blood in his mouth. And throughout it all, Ethan was dark and calm, like a shadow in a garden on a hot day. A place to retreat to, a storm cloud that might drive you indoors but would also steal away the scorching heat. His dagger caught Twyla in the thigh when she tossed a charm in Briar’s direction.

Oliver tried to stab Ethan and hit the wall instead, blood streaming from his nose. Two teapots crashed to the ground.

The Black Shuck snapped his jaws at one of the Keepers, knocking over a chair in the process.

Twyla threw a potted ficus.

The tearoom would not survive much more of this.

And even without the use of spells, the cacophony was attracting boggarts.

Briar saw the quick shadows, heard the telling, raspy giggling from the hydrangeas. The bells on the door handle and the wind chimes in the trees would not be enough to keep them out, not from this. They consumed wayward witchcraft as well as freshly baked loaves of bread left unattended, the last best bit of the stew in the pot, the freshest cream. But they loved mayhem best of all.