Morrigan's Cross
Page 7

“This won’t do,” she said in a voice that was both foreign and impatient. Kneeling beside him, she laid her hand on his brow, her touch as cool and soothing as spring rain. She smelled of the forest, earthy and secret.
For one mad moment, he longed to simply lay his head upon her breast and sleep with that scent filling his senses.
“You’re burning up. Well, let’s see what you have here, and we’ll make do.”
She wavered in his vision a moment, then recrystallized. Her eyes were as green as the goddess’s, but her touch was human. “Who are you? How did you get within the circle?”
“Elderflower, yarrow. No cayenne? Well, I said we’d make do.”
He watched as she busied herself, as women would, dipping water from the well, heating it with his fire. “Wolves,” she murmured, shivered once. And in that shudder, he felt her fear. “Sometimes I dream of the black wolves, or ravens. Sometimes it’s the woman. She’s the worst. But this is the first time I’ve dreamed of you.” She paused, and looked at him for a long time with eyes of deep and secret green. “And still, I know your face.”
“This is my dream.”
She gave a short laugh, then sprinkled herbs in the heated water. “Have it your way. Let’s see if we can help you live through it.”
She passed her hand over the cup. “Power of healing, herbs and water, brewed this night by Hecate’s daughter. Cool his fever, ease his pain so that strength and sight remain. Stir magic in this simple tea. As I will, so mote it be.”
“Gods save me.” He managed to prop himself on an elbow. “You’re a witch.”
She smiled as she stepped to him with the cup. And sitting beside him, braced him with an arm around his back. “Of course. Aren’t you?”
“I’m not.” He had just enough energy for insult. “I’m a bloody sorcerer. Get that poison away from me. Even the smell is foul.”
“That may be, but it should cure what ails you.” She simply cradled his head on her shoulder. Even as he tried to push free, she was pinching his nose closed and pouring the brew down his throat. “Men are such babies when they’re sick. And look at your hand! Bloody and filthy. I’ve got something for that.”
“Get away from me,” he said weakly, though the smell of her, the feel of her was both seductive and comforting. “Let me die in peace.”
“You’re not going to die.” But she gave the wolves a wary glance. “How strong is your circle?”
“Strong enough.”
“Hope you’re right.”
Exhaustion—and the valerian she’d mixed in the tea—had his head drooping again. She shifted, so she could lay his head in her lap. And there she stroked his hair, kept her eyes on the fire. “You’re not alone anymore,” she said quietly. “And I guess, neither am I.”
“The sun... How long till dawn?”
“I wish I knew. You should sleep now.”
“Who are you?”
But if she answered, he didn’t hear.
She was gone when he woke, and so was the fever. Dawn was a misty shimmer letting thin beams eke through the summer leaves.
Of the wolves there was only one, and it lay gored and bloody outside the circle. Its throat had been ripped open, Hoyt saw, and its belly. Even as he gained his feet to step closer, the sun beamed white through those leaves, struck the carcass.
It erupted into flame that left nothing behind but a scatter of ashes on blackened earth.
“To hell with you, and all like you.”
Turning away, Hoyt busied himself, feeding his horse, brewing more tea. He was nearly done when he noticed his palm was healed. Only the faintest scar remained. He flexed his fingers, held his hand up to the light.
Curious, he lifted his tunic. Bruises still rained over his side, but they were fading. And when he tested, he found he could move without pain.
If what had come to him in the night had been a vision rather than a product of a fever dream, he supposed he should be grateful.
Still, he’d never had a vision so vivid. Nor one who’d left so much of itself behind. He swore he could smell her still, and hear the flow and cadence of her voice.
She’d said she’d known his face. How strange that somewhere in the center of him, he felt he’d known hers.
He washed, and while his appetite had come back strong, he had to make do with berries and a heel of tough bread.
He closed the circle, salted the blackened earth outside it. Once he was in the saddle, he set off at a gallop.
With luck, he could be home by midday.
There were no signs, no harbingers, no beautiful witches on the rest of his journey. There were only the fields, rolling green, back to the shadow of mountains, and the secret depths of forest. He knew his way now, would have known it if a hundred years had passed. So he sent his mount on a leap over a low stone wall and raced across the last field toward home.
He could see the cook fire. He imagined his mother sitting in the parlor, tatting lace perhaps, or working on one of her tapestries. Waiting, hoping for news of her sons. He wished he brought her better.
His father might be with his man of business or out riding the land, and his married sisters in their own cottages, with young Nola in the stables playing with the pups from the new litter.
The house was tucked in the forest, because his grandmother—she who had passed power to him, and to a lesser extent, Cian—had wanted it so. It stood near a stream, a rise of stone with windows of real glass. And its gardens were his mother’s great pride.
Her roses bloomed riotously.
One of the servants hurried out to take his horse. Hoyt merely shook his head at the question in the man’s eyes. He walked to the door where the black banner of mourning still hung.
Inside, another servant was waiting to take his cloak. Here in the hall, his mother’s, and her mother’s tapestries hung, and one of his father’s wolfhounds raced to greet him.
He could smell beeswax, and roses cut fresh from the garden. The turf fire simmering in the grate. He left them behind, walked up the stairs to his mother’s sitting room.
She was waiting, as he’d known she would be. Sitting in her chair, her hands in her lap, clasped so tightly the knuckles were white. Her face carried all the weight of her grief, and went heavier yet when she saw what was in his eyes.
“Mother—”