Page 8 of The Filigree Key

“What about Ame?” I asked quietly, changing the subject.

“I don’t have a way of contacting her,” he admitted. “She’s like she’s always been—just pops up whenever it suits her.” He shoved off his haunches and started pacing, following the same track I had. “We need a beast we can trust.”

“We have one.” I grinned, my heart swelling. “Shari. The Stag Man’s magic never subsumed her completely. She’s always had one foot outside his illusions.”

“And Flora and Daphne! They already resist his reign.”

“We must be sure. Their little mutinies—Flora’s snark and Daphne helping us to the farmhouse—never undermined his ultimate goal. A true rebellion to defend Redbud will.”

“We’ll need more than a honey badger, a horse, and a porcupine for a rebellion.”

“We’ll get it.” I nodded, as if the affirmative gesture would manifest the reality. “I’ve already tasked Brandi to sabotage the Caer powder and make it less effective. The populace should be starting to wake up.”

“If she did what you told her to do,” Sawyer said sourly. “There’s not a brave bone in that witch’s body. She’ll always take the road paved by fear and selfishness.”

“I don’t agree, actually. You didn’t see her in the dungeon, Sawyer.” My teeth pinched the corner of my lower lip as I thought. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to double-check. And mix up a counter-potion for that insufferable toirchim tonic.”

Which I was scheduled to ingest in the next few hours. While I was strong enough now to defend myself against attacks from spells and other magics, counteracting an ingested potion was another thing entirely, especially the ones that physically did you no harm.

I hastened to the bathroom, retrieved the cup I used to rinse the toothpaste from my mouth, and got to rooting around through the various bottles and vials I kept in my bag. There had to be something in there to mitigate the toirchim tonic’s effects. Nullifying was completely out of the question—I didn’t know much about the manufacture of either toirchim tonic or glaze, so subverting it directly was impossible.

The best I could do without a cauldron or a hearth to prepare a proper potion was create a coarsely ground powder in the bottom of the cup using the blunt end of my hairbrush as a pestle. It was a stimulant, blended with a sachet of rabbitfoot clover tea, that would amplify my personality (enough, I hoped) that when my system was hit with that tonic, everything would even out. Maybe.

The cup clinked against the ceramic countertop of the sink as I set it aside to drink in the true morning, when the sun crested the horizon. Sawyer was already on the bed when I returned from the bathroom, front paws propped on the headboard and head cocked as he listened to the walls for more spies. When he curled up on my chest after I’d burrowed under the covers, I knew we were safe for the time being. At least, as safe as we could be.

I removed the moonstone collar from his neck and shoved it under the mattress. With as much sneaking around as I suspected we would have to do, he couldn’t have a pretty collar catching the light and giving us away. Besides, if he were caught, we were both screwed anyway, collar or not.

Then, with a deep breath, I relaxed into the lulling rhythm of stroking his fur. This would be the first time my dreams would be mine, uninfluenced by Caer powder.

Except they wouldn’t come. I was too wired, my blood too hot, to find the peace of dreams. Seeing Sawyer with his amber eyes already slitted and seconds away from sealing shut just pierced me with jealousy.

Needing something to do but unwilling to leave the bed and disturb my cat, I found the Celtic shield pendant and rubbed it vigorously between forefinger and thumb. Maybe I could transfer my anxiety and restlessness into the shield and actually gain a measure of sleep before I had to wake up in enemy territory.

The phantom hand returned, the knuckles gentle as they traced the contour of my cheek. I had no idea if Arthur’s influence was real, but I had to believe it. The caress repeated, mimicking the languid strokes I’d given Sawyer . . . to the same effect. I drifted off, in the presence of the two I loved most in the world, with confidence in the upcoming day.

I had a plan, I had power, and I had the patience to employ both to defeat the King of Beasts.

CHAPTER THREE

Peppy.

That was the only word that could describe my steps as I walked down the empty east wing in the weak yellow light of dawn. The drab stone and washed-out pastoral paintings couldn’t dampen my spirits, even though the rational part of my brain was desperate for me to get a grip.

The effects of that makeshift anti-tonic potion/tea/sludge thing I made this morning had been nearly immediate. I had no idea how long they would last, so maybe it was a good thing I was practically skipping across the foyer and down the hallway to the great hall. The foraging bag, heavy with a smuggled cat and new runes (well, new to the bag, but old to my returned memories) that hid his scent and prevented anyone from helping themselves to the bag without my permission, thumped against my thigh.

Knowing better than to yowl his displeasure, Sawyer merely punctured every claw through the leather. When the bag thumped against my leg again, eighteen stabbing needles simultaneously got his point across.

“Rude,” I muttered, slowing down to a brisk march.

I’d been of a mind to leave him in the bedroom on pest control, but the cat was determined to be a tick and stick with me. The fact that he could donate small amounts of magic to me and his own knowledge of spells and crystals made his case. Despite the risk we faced, I truly was glad I wasn’t alone.

In more ways than one.

I don’t think I’d stopped rubbing the Celtic shield pendant once since waking, flooding it with the song of my heart that sang only for the lumberjack shifter. It was unclear if he inundated me with a positive mental attitude in return, or if that was a placebo effect of simply knowing the shield bound us in a way hidden even from Ossian, but I felt victorious. Like I had already dominated the day at half-past dawn.

There was no skulking one-armed magic hunter to ruin the morning either, nor any of his lurking Brothers. Unmolested, I shoved open one of the double doors that led into the great hall and felt my boldness falter.

The Stag Man sat upon his throne, something wet and red dripping from his knuckles.