Page 103 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

“Come here,” Oliver demanded, “or he gets another arrow.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Ethan bit out.

“The Iron Crow or the baker, Miss Foxglove. Or you.”

There was little time for deliberation, but no deliberation was required. She would never sacrifice Sorcha and Ethan. And Ethan was leaning against a post, turning an alarming shade of gray. The Iron Witch tangled in thorns near his boots bared her teeth.

Briar stepped forward.

“Don’t!” Sorcha said, but it ended in a choked yelp when the blade pierced through her dress. Even through the rose petals and the shadows, Briar could see the spot of blood.

She hurried closer to Oliver. “Don’t hurt them!”

He slid off his horse. “I do this for the good of Lyonesse.”

He believed it, and nothing she could say would dissuade him. Nothing else would save Sorcha and Ethan.

So Briar stood still as Oliver lifted the iron collar.

It was a flattened crescent, marked with lines and dots, like the ancient stone circles. It looked more like a necklace than something that would rip into her soul and shred it to pieces.

Ethan stumbled, trying to reach her, seething with fury and poison. “I’ll fucking kill you, Keeper,” he promised, his dragon breathing daggers of fiery light around him like a crown.

The clasp locked around her neck.

The pain was immediate.

It spread through her like veins of fire and acid, burning through everything that made her Briar. It stole her breath, her every thought. Her magic. It crawled through her like some monstrous beast, all teeth and claws, shredding away every necessary thing. Snapdragon fought, hissing and flapping his wings so that feathers of light joined the white rose petals.

When the pain receded, Briar could not feel her swan at all. He was no longer thrashing inside her, but was still. Too still. Tears pricked her eyes. She felt empty, hollow.

Oliver smirked, but he had no time to revel in his satisfaction.

It was hard to revel in anything when two hundred pounds of Black Shuck shot out of the shadows.

Oliver went down hard, screaming when vicious teeth vised around his arm. Blood dripped from the ragged wound.

“Good puppy!” Sorcha shouted.

Ethan didn’t say anything at all, as he was still slumped against a post, but he was smiling.

Briar really did have rather violent friends.

She hurried to the Black Shuck, as Sorcha took his example and bit the hand of the Keeper holding her until he dropped his dagger.

“Don’t kill him,” Briar said, getting as close to the Black Shuck as she dared. Oliver was struggling, gasping. “We might still need him if he was lying about the antidote.” She had no idea if he understood her, but there was something frantic enough in her voice that the Black Shuck sat back on its haunches and growled. “Thank you.”

Oliver was sweating and shuddering with pain. A thorn poked into his wound to add insult to injury. The roses, as predicted, cared little for her iron collar. They had already been set loose—she was no longer needed.

“The antidote, if you please,” Briar demanded, standing over him dispassionately. “Or I’ll let him eat you. Well, parts of you, anyway.”

“I’m with the Order!” he panted. “It’s your duty to help me.”

“Oh, sod off,” Sorcha muttered. “Give us the antidote and the key to the collar or I’ll stomp on your balls.” Direct, clear. To the point. And undeniably something Sorcha would follow through on. With a smile.

“Blue bottle,” Oliver whimpered. “In my left coat pocket.”

Briar dove for it, prying the cork loose. It smelled of herbs and fire and vinegar. “Does he drink it or does it go on his wound?” Oliver’s eyes were starting to roll back in his head. She squeezed his arm, above the wound. “Answer me!”