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A clap of thunder rattled the sky. The sound reverberated, sharp as needles. It scraped the inside of the skull like a single, giant iron bell. Everyone froze, a tableau of angry witches in a circle around Briar.
Ethan did not have to raise his voice. “Get the hell away from her. Now.”
Briar sat up, pushing her hair off her face as the others scurried away.
“Not fast enough,” Ethan added, silkily. Menacingly.
A bolt of lightning seared the perfect blue summer sky, slamming into the ground. Someone screamed. The smell of burning ozone and cobblestone was thick.
Another bolt hit just outside the apothecary. The window shattered into dust. Keepers ran into the square. Ethan did not even spare them a glance. He stared at Charles, who had gone red, then pale. His throat bobbed as he struggled to swallow.
“I won’t tell you again,” Ethan said.
The violence that came off him was enough to send three more tourists running and a cat up a tree. Charles was not that brave. He backed away, sweating. The fire from the lightning strike licked at the apothecary door.
Ethan reached down to help Briar up. His usually impassive expression was as mutable as a summer storm. Lightning changes, thunderous fury, and something softer. Something she could not name.
“You said you’d let me go alone.” Briar frowned at him.
He grunted. “I lied.”
She nearly smiled despite the bruises on her hip, the shocked stares, the whispers already traveling from shop to shop.
Ethan glared at Charles over his shoulder. “Still here?”
And then he tossed him something small and green. Charles was too slow, too stunned with fear. He caught it out of reflex. It was a bundle of coltsfoot leaves, also known as horse hoof, wrapped with a strand from a white horse’s mane, and red thread. A curse.
Ethan finally smiled. “Enjoy your nightmares.”
The charm sent seven nights of nightmares. Charles dropped it like it had stung him, wiping his fingers on his fine breeches. But it was too late. He stumbled back a step, another, before turning and dashing back to the apothecary.
“It would be so much easier if you let me murder him,” Ethan grumbled.
Halfway home, Briar’s cane splintered. Ethan tossed the pieces of driftwood into a bush with a sound of pure disgust. It was the same derisive sound that old dowagers reserved for newfangled, fashionable hemlines that were too short and familiars that ran wild at formal dinner parties. “You need a proper walking stick.”
“I know,” she admitted. “My mother thought white driftwood would fit Haven. She thought it was pretty.” Briar had drawn the line at the loops of pearls and opals that they could not afford and only cut into her skin anyway.
“Driftwood is not strong enough. And this design is ridiculous.” He nearly growled. “This whole bloody town is ridiculous.”
“No argument here.” Briar shrugged. “But it’s home.”
Ethan frowned at her as she darted under the metal teacup sign of the Rose and Petal. “You’re very cheerful.”
“And that offends you?” She dropped onto the bench inside the hall, not wanting to wait one more moment.
“Ladies who are pushed to the ground by a mob of idiots are not usually so cheerful about it,” he pointed out. He did not sound cheerful at all. “I half expected them to bring out the pitchforks.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes. That.” That lethal bite to his voice again. The gleam of magic sparking from a dagger at his belt.
She wouldn’t pretend that it had not frightened her—the thought of the iron collar and a Keeper’s cart. The thought of associating her tearoom with the locked shields and losing her customers and eventually her home. Her broken cane from being manhandled. She had another, but it was a bit too short for her. Her mother really had chosen them for the aesthetic value. She had no idea what was needed for a useful cane. But even so, Briar now had something in her possession that made it all worth it.
Ethan tilted his head. “What have you done, little thorn?”
She grinned, reaching into her stays and pulling out the amulet. The silver was warm from her skin.
Ethan took a step closer. “You found it.”
