Page 43 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Haven worked hard to keep boggarts from the streets and the back gardens and the beaches. They were mischievous, hungry creatures who sowed chaos and dissent. They undid knots, tangled skeins, mixed up the potions and the poisons on the shelf. They were exceedingly dangerous in the kitchen of a green witch.

And one of them crouched on her threshold, short and wrinkled, and cackling. Behind it, an oak tree branch cracked, falling and cleaving a table in two.

Not in her house.

And not in her bloody garden.

She might not be able to take down the Order or an Iron Crow, but she could do something. Even if it was with rose-petal honey and a fistful of flowers. A few herbs, a silver boline. She needed everyone to get the hell out of her house.

Immediately.

She stayed on her hands and knees, reaching up for one of the ivy clippings and a teacup. She dropped the ivy in the cup, and added bits of amber, remembering a honeybee she had once seen trapped in an amber egg in a museum in Hallow. She needed something more, something with kick.

Ethan stabbed down, slicing through Oliver’s sleeve. Blood spattered. His silver crow claw and hagstone tangled around his neck. His silver rings flashed. So did the amulets hanging from his cross-belt and the leather pouches at his hip. And the glass vial with a single strand of dark hair, the color of wet seaweed and glittering with magic.

One did not grow up on a magical island and not learn to recognize a strand of mermaid’s hair.

She darted forward, then waited for him to smash his dagger down on the other Keeper’s knife, sending it clattering to the floor. She pivoted and tugged the bottle free. When she popped the top off, she was immediately inundated with the sound of the sea on the sand, the taste of salt, a song she could not quite make out, but she knew someone was singing it just for her. Mermaid magic. She remembered it from that day on the beach with Petal.

It could fill a witch’s mouth with seawater until they drowned.

But used in a binding spell, it could also strengthen every aspect of the work.

She wrapped it around the ivy and covered it all with honey. Thick, glistening honey that was too dear to waste. It stuck and held the ivy fast. She whispered over it, the way she whispered to her plants, “Bind them fast.”

She crawled to the edge of the counter, peeking out. Magic and blood clogged the air. Three more teacups had broken. Her mother’s statue of Aphrodite, made entirely of seashells, lay in shards.

“Enough,” Briar said.

It was as good an incantation as any spell written in any ancient grimoire.

Because she meant it. To the depths of her soul.

She threw the teacup. It shattered, yet more crockery she would have to replace. She would be serving tea in seashells if this kept up. Assuming she even had a tearoom left to run.

That desperation, more than anything, added fuel to the spell.

The ivy vines shot out of the cup, gleaming with honey. They reached the Black Shuck first, then the Keepers, Twyla, and, finally, Ethan. The green tendrils were not strong enough to hold anyone in place on their own—that was for the imbued honey to do, and the whisper of Briar’s desperate magic, the strand of mermaid hair.

The sudden silence rang in her ears.

Oliver reached for his jet pendant, but he was moving too slowly. The honey and the ivy were already doing their work. The other Keeper struggled, the tendons of his neck swelling with effort, all to no avail. The last Keeper, who did not look like a Keeper at all, merely looked curious, as if he would have taken notes if he could have. Twyla ground out a curse, but there was no magic available to make it real.

Briar pulled herself to her feet. “You lot have no manners at all,” she declared, thoroughly disgruntled.

While they remained stuck, she limped toward the Black Shuck. He was also straining against the honey spell. His teeth really did resemble knives from this close up, breath fetid like smoke and bog water. Briar reached for the chain around his neck, and he growled. She tensed. “I don’t like this either, I assure you. So don’t make such a fuss.”

“Briar,” Ethan warned softly. He was the only one not fighting the spell, the only one waiting patiently to spring into action. And he was still the only one who looked properly menacing.

It didn’t stop her from replying, “Hush, I’m busy.”

She would pay for that remark later, she had no doubt. She felt it in the narrowing of his eyes.

The iron chain was cold, the kind of unnatural cold that burned. The Black Shuck’s growl faded to a whimper. “I know,” she said. “We’re going to get this horrid thing off you.”

“Don’t you dare!” Twyla struggled, sweat beading her brow. “It took me months to break him.”

“Just count yourself lucky I don’t let him eat you,” Briar snapped. She hoped the same for herself, if she was honest. This was not her most clever plan, but it had to be done. Quickly. The spell would not last much longer. “It’s no less than you deserve.”