Page 2 of A Beastly Court

The tea was pleasantly hot and sweet from blackberry honey. I lifted the teapot in Iris’s direction. “Care to join me?”

The witch released her hold on her battle magic and stormed to the table, but she didn’t sit. “What are you doing here, Stag Man?”

Setting the teapot down, her cup not refilled, I took another sip of tea. “I’m here about your granddaughter.”

“What have you done to Meadow?” her mother demanded, seizing the back of a chair and digging her nails into the wood like she was imagining it was my neck beneath her hands.

“I was going to ask her the same thing.” I gestured to Iris with my teacup. “What did you do to her?”

“I’ve done nothing!”

“Do not lie to me,” I snarled, launching upright and dropping every ounce of my composure.

The Hawthorne matriarch shuddered. No longer before them was the man my glamour projected, but a high fae, the rightful fae lord of the Court of Beasts. The tips of my magnificent antlers scraped against the ceiling, my frame grew and thickened with muscle, and the golden glow of my aura brightened to rival the noonday sun. With one brush of my hand, the table separating us careened to the side, the cutlery burying themselves like darts into the walls and the mismatched porcelain shattering against the floorboards and weeping tea into the cracks.

In the den, the three witches in the circle flinched, their chant wavering.

“There is a curse on her core,” I thundered. “She can barely make a flower bloom, so there’s no chance of her summoning and anchoring the portal. You put it there, you spiteful wretch, and you’ll remove it.”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Iris fired back, her anger giving her the courage not to cower. “Saving Marten and making this coven whole are only made possible through the deal she made with you. I would never sabotage this chance!”

She must be telling the truth to speak so vehemently in my presence.

My suspicions proved correct when she waved a hand at the table I’d upended and magic set the dining room back to rights in a matter of seconds. Glowing green tendrils, thinner than I remembered them, plucked forks and spoons from the walls and set the sturdy table back on its four legs. The tea set was unsalvageable, but the pieces were whisked up and deposited in the wastebasket in the kitchen. The fat witch hurried forth from her domain with a steaming kettle and two new mugs, and while she kept her long lashes lowered, I could feel the heat of her glower. It was matched by the stick-like witch with the kohl-rimmed eyes, who had abandoned the hearth and come to the kitchen doorway.

At the same time, the matriarch and I sank down into our seats, my exterior once again that of a tall human man with a mane of copper curls and no antlers—or hooves—in sight. Neither Iris nor I touched the new tea, the witch’s hands clasped in front of her on the table. No, gripped. Her knuckles were white, the tendons popping.

“My coven’s fate depends on my granddaughter,” she began without preamble. “I will help her in any way I can, even if that means helping you. Now, tell me what you know about this curse.”

So this is where Meadow’s directness comes from. “Meadow’s core manifests as an oak tree with a sweeping canopy and splayed roots—”

“You can see it?” Meadow’s mother blurted, sinking into the chair beside the matriarch. The one called Tod stood right behind her.

Iris gave her an impatient wave of her hand, gesturing her to silence. That was an interesting fact: she hadn’t felt the need to divulge to her own family that she knew a thing or two about fae abilities. It was more interesting that she even knew that high fae had that ability at all—to sense the aspect and strength of an entity’s magic. It was only through the conduit of that stolen fated mate bond I was actually able to visualize Meadow’s core, but I didn’t think Iris knew that. And finding out how she’d discovered such a secret would have to wait for another time.

“That’s the Tree of Life,” Tod said. “She never told us…”

“But you suspected,” I accused Iris.

She only wet her lips, her silence prompting me to continue.

“The curse is a net over the entire tree, including the roots,” I said. “Imagine chain mail with each link resembling a leaf—”

“What color is it?” Iris asked. “The chain mail.”

Another interruption. This family, like the rest of the mortals of this realm, had no manners. In the Court of Beasts, I would be in the right to snatch their tongues from their heads for such rudeness. Except the bargain forbade me.

“Golden green,” I answered.

Iris burst out laughing.

I’d been in complete mastery over my emotions since arriving at this farmhouse—that stunt with the table had been a calculated outburst—but now I felt my composure truly slipping. She was laughing at me. The unaffected calm I’d cultivated vanished, tension roiling off my shoulders like steam off mutton pie.

The witch was close to hysterics, the venom in my gaze having no effect on her. The other witches, however…

“Mother,” Forsythia whispered, casting me a fearful look.

“You fool,” Iris crowed, spittle flying from her lips. “That’s not a curse on her core. That’s a defensive shield!”