Page 100 of The Filigree Key

The Stag Man’s eyes glittered like the jewels they resembled. “So you . . . killed him instead.” One of his pointy ears twitched, picking up a heartbeat. He jabbed the wolf with his bow and received no response. “Or near enough.”

A sardonic smile came to his lips. “You killed your own ally to save a beast who barely remembers you.”

My chin dropped as I looked away, clutching my cat tighter to my chest. At my back, the bear huffed.

Ossian’s laugh was cut off as Alec reported, “My lord, Kelly says the elm tree is under attack. No news from the portal team.”

The Stag Man threw his head back with an ear-shattering roar. Gripping his necklace with both hands, he drew upon the magic stored in his caches. Copper lightning crackled up and down his body as he drained every crystal. The blue cloch, however, remained bright and swirling.

A wind rose around his feet, scattering dust. It swirled up his body, catching the lightning and forcing the many strands to twist into a single bolt above his head. With a shout, Ossian punched his fist towards the ceiling, and his magic shot into the air.

The copper lightning burst a hole through the central arch and released a hailstorm of broken masonry. Through the bay windows, we watched the lightning scatter over the copper shield encasing Redbud, previously invisible.

“The Coalition may have gotten in here,” he seethed, panting, “but they will not escape.

“Get this body out of here and bring her back to my chambers. Shane, with me,” the Stag Man thundered, vanishing with nothing but a gust of wind and a thundering of hooves in his wake.

Alec dismissed two of his Brothers to search the castle and ordered the third to stand guard at the double doors. Then he approached the fallen wolf and where I huddled nearby against the bear. His sharp blue gaze bore into me as he crouched down to eye level, an oily smile on his lips.

“Seems like what I saw and what Cernunnos saw are two different things, Meadow,” he said softly, as if he were sharing a secret. Alec wagged his finger at me. “You were trying to tamper with Faebane. Whether or not that’s the reason you shanked this wolf is irrelevant. And my lord will know about it. Your bear dies.”

I jerked my chin at the fallen Nemean wolf. “And while you’re busy brown-nosing and being pathetic, that wolf will die. Taking his magic with him. Magic you’ll never get your hands on.”

“I can’t harvest it without a Solomon knot anyway.” He yanked down his shirt to reveal that pale, unblemished swath of sternum. “Something you made sure of.”

“You can’t, but Wystan can.”

No spectacle had been made of the hobgoblin, and since he was Fair Folk, I had assumed Ossian was holding him captive in the dungeon as a contingency if something should happen to the elm tree and he needed another source of magic. An error on Ossian’s part, for Wystan knew the ways of draining and donating magic to those without a Solomon knot. It’s why the Brotherhood had conspired to keep him free. And from the way Alec’s blue eyes widened, I had inferred all that correctly. And with his master away . . ..

“That’s the price of your silence, Alec. You get this wolf, and I keep my secret. Or . . ..” Lifting my hand, I snapped my fingers.

The magic hunter’s head whipped around as fresh blood trickled from the wound in the Nemean wolf’s side.

“Stop!” he cried. “You have my word, witch.” He rose, barking, “Nathan, get over here and help me with this.”

“Nurse him back to full health and imagine the power he’ll give you then,” I mused. A shrug followed. “If you’re willing to risk it, I suppose.”

From the covetous look in Alec’s eyes, he very much was.

‘Your jealousy and greed will be your undoing, Alec.’ And they’d be my allies.

“Get back to bed,” the magic hunter ordered.

Rising from the floor, I carried Sawyer to the side door without protest. There, I paused a beat and glanced over my shoulder to find the Nemean wolf suspended in the air via those ivy-like Faerish scripts. They shuttled him towards the double doors as if on an invisible stretcher. Sensing me watching him, the beast cracked open one golden eye and gave me a baleful look. Then he rolled that eye and allowed the magic hunters to ferry him off to the dungeon.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“How did this happen?” Ossian roared.

Shari squeaked, pricking herself in the paw for what had to be the hundredth time that morning. And like I had for what had to be for the hundredth time that morning, I sent a trickle of healing magic into her paw before the blood could bead and stain the dress she was hemming.

Ossian’s “guests” were seated at the trestle table, not necessarily enjoying breakfast—and they certainly weren’t commenting on the “live” centerpiece that was the pixie birdcage—though they were eating with gusto. There’d been no woodchuck parade buffet nor specialty beverages brought in by the Lancaster brothers. Mrs. Bilberry had set her platters and the cast-iron skillet of biscuits down on trivets and scuttled off to the kitchen with the hobs to prepare the elaborate multi-course meal and wedding cake for this evening. And, frankly, none of them wanted to be around Ossian when he was in a mood.

The Stag Man had returned to the castle at dawn with a half-empty quiver, the twinkling of the gemstones on his necklace hinting where he’d spent the wee hours of the morning. Since then, he’d been pacing with his bow and ranting and blustering about the attack by the “hobgoblin’s associates,” so this recent outburst was nothing new. And, it seemed, it wasn’t wholly believed.

Cody noted how 1) up until last night, Wystan and his gang had never used such coordinated attacks, and 2) none had been bold enough to attack Cernunnos in his own keep before, and 3) there’d been more than one whisper about shifters being involved, and why would supes as strong as they have a mere hobgoblin as their ringleader? It made about as much sense as using your tongue to shine your boots. That was the last verbal observation Cody had been allowed to make. For the sake of us all, Emmett had made it his sole mission for the rest of the morning to elbow the beaver viciously in the ribs anytime he opened his mouth other than to eat his scrambled eggs and ham steak or sip his coffee.

Beside them were the Crafting Circle ladies, aside from Shari, of course. Flora, in true honey badger fashion, was shoveling egg-and-ham biscuit sandwiches into her mouth with wild abandon. Half to mask her glee at Ossian’s strife and half to give her paws something to do other than disemboweling him. Poppy and Flint were still imprisoned and there was the fact that the kindest creature in Redbud was slumped in the corner with a sword sticking out of his back.