Page 92 of Wretched Thorns

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Tara reached for the row of pouches at the edge of the table.

The three of them had been working since first light.

Tara at the table. Grandmère at the counter. Miss Delphine in the chair by the window with the leather book open in her lap.

What was laid out in front of Callum now had not been there an hour ago. A row of small leather pouches along the edge of the cypress table. A second row of folded paper packets sealed with wax that was still warm in the seam. A third row of carved bone tokens the length of his thumb. Tara picked one up from the first row and turned it over in her hand.

“Protection,” she said. “One for each of us going. Worn over your heart, inside the shirt. You don’t take it off until you’re back inside the wards at Thornwood. If you take it off in the field, you don’t get to put it back on.”

She set it down.

“These,” she said, picking up one of the paper packets, “are sigil destruction. You drop one on a ward sigil and the ward unwinds. Ten seconds, but count to twenty to be safe before you move.”

She set it down.

“These,” she said, picking up one of the bone tokens, “are dispel enchantments. Marcus has been laying that property with workings for years. Lock spells on the doors. Binding sigils all throughout the property, no doubt. Who knows what nasty little traps he’s laid. When you trip one, and you are going to trip one, you drop one of these on it. The spell work breaks.”

She set it down. She looked at Callum.

“And these,” she said, indicating the small clay dish at her elbow with three rough black stones in it, “are shields. One for each brother. You hold it in your off-hand when you go in. If you get hit with a spell blast that is intended to inflict injury, the stone takes the blast. The stone breaks. You don’t get a second one. They’re not easy to come by.”

“How many do we have?”

“Three.”

Callum picked one up. The weight of it was weird, heavier than the stone should have been.

“Grandmère,” Tara said over her shoulder, “do you want to go over the salves?”

Grandmère turned from the counter.

She was working in three small bowls. Something dark and ground in one, something the color of dried blood in another, and something pale and oily in the third.

“For her, when you find her,” she said quietly. She tapped each jar in turn. “The dark one for bleeding. The red one for fever or rot setting into a wound. The pale one for silver burns… or fire.”

She slid the three small jars across the table to the brothers.

“You travel with them in your jacket. Cool side.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And I will be here when you bring her home.”

Grandmère turned from the counter again. Miss Delphine, from the chair by the window, lifted her head once but did not speak.

“Expect the worst from this warlock,” Grandmère said. “He is old. He is strong. He can do much more damage than these salves can heal. Get her to us as fast as you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And take this.” Grandmère reached into the pocket of her apron and brought out a small dark thing the size of a peach pit. She set it on the cypress in front of Callum. It was warm. It hummed. “Pocket. Inside breast. If she is bleeding when you find her, and you are going to find her, you press this against her chest. It will not heal her, but it will prevent any damage from spreading.”

Callum looked at her.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t thank me. You bring her home.”