Page 34 of The Filigree Key

“Yet you harness its spirit all the same!”

“No, I—”

“No? Then release my kin and let her return beyond the mist.”

“I can’t do that.” Marten would be lost forever. Arcadis wanted both his ring and the Samildánach in exchange for my brother.

The wolfhound howled and lunged for me again. A green shield turned its fangs away. The wight was fierce, but it was weak from captivity. It was more bark than bite, but it wouldn’t quit. It was an old dog who’d known nothing but abuse and loneliness, and any trust would be earned through blood.

“This ring is not for me to release, but,” I said loudly so it could hear me over its wailing, “I can free you.”

“More lies!”

“You think so?” Again, my shield stood strong against the wight’s attack. It didn’t even crack or spark in response to the blow.

Now wasn’t the time to get cocky in my new strength, but a demonstration was in order. And, the disgustedly rational part of me argued, it was good practice for the demon half-heart.

With a thought, the shield expanded into a glittering net. The wolfhound dissipated into vapor, seeking an escape through the mesh, but the net had already solidified into a sphere. The wight threw itself against the green walls, but they didn’t crack. With another thought, the sphere began to shrink.

“Yes, Meadow.” Ossian’s voice sounded so far away. “Bend it to your will.”

The wight shrieked in rage.

I tightened the cage until the wight couldn’t do anything but condense into a tight cloud of swirling black smoke.

It was livid. “You’re in league with the Horned One!”

“It’s this,” I interrupted with forced calmness, “or this.”

The cage vanished. And the tunnel through the cloch barrier opened, wide and welcoming.

The wight transformed into that shadowy wolfhound once more and began to pace, its cloud-white eyes never wavering from the entrance to the tunnel. “You desecrated one wight but offer freedom to another?”

I huffed a sigh. “I told you, I—”

The wight struck.

Not for its freedom.

For me.

Warmth enveloped me—the touch of a pure spirit—but no peace came with it. Just a ravaging of my mind and spirit.

“Meadow!” shouted Ossian’s faraway voice.

The wight tore through my memories faster than my magic oak tree could react. Defending itself against fae and witches was one thing, but against a pure spirit old enough to remember when magic first came to the mortal realm? The oak tree’s leaves erupted with golden-green light like a sun exploding, and the wight was expelled.

The oak tree immediately threw out another green shield and barricaded the tunnel. Battle magic sprang from my cuffs and manifested as thorny vines that wreathed up my arms.

Meanwhile, the stunned, cloud-like wight somersaulted through the air. It was white as virgin wool and crackling with golden-green threads of lightning. It tumbled to the far side of the cloch and ruptured into a dozen tendrils of vapor against the barrier. The crackling threads of my magic dissipated into sparks, leaving the wight free to condense into whatever shape it wished.

Instead of a snarling wolfhound made of black smoke, it condensed into a docile Irish setter of white vapor. It looked sleek and healthy, not skinny and savage as its previous canine incarnation had been.

“That was very rude,” I said flatly.

“You are Violet Ní Dara’s daughter. Enemy of the Horned One. Keeper of Cats.”

“Shut your mouth!” Thistle thorns, if Ossian heard that about Sawyer—