The Witch's General
Author: Tamsin Moore; Olivia Oakley
Date: 2023-05-31 00:00:00+00:00
Description: In this new world magic runs rampant and monsters and humans live side by side. Netta, an optimistic witch, wants to prove herself to her coven. Hiding her unreliable connection to the spirit realm, she sets off for Highwood Estate. Being the governess to five vampiric children will be easy with magic on her side. Then she meets her employer, Constantine Shaw. It's not his fangs that set her on edge but rather the way he looks at her. The moment he sees her, the vampire general is determined to send this witch packing. Too bad Netta isn't going anywhere. Agreeing to a ceasefire, they find they
Publisher: Inkblot Press

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Witch’s Windsong

A Coon Hollow Coven Tale
by

Marsha A. Moore

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Witch’s Windsong

A Coon Hollow Coven Tale

By Marsha A. Moore

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2018, Marsha A. Moore

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, organizations, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design © 2018 by Marsha A. Moore

When Keir’s coyote, his devoted witch’s familiar, is kidnapped, Keir’s unhealed grief over the recent deaths of loved ones he could have saved is rubbed raw. Hit with the reality that his beloved coyote is facing heinous torture and possible death, Keir must find a way to rescue his familiar and defeat the self-blame confounding his focus as a shamanic healer. He searches the crime scene—a stream through one of the coven’s magical ravines—but is unable to find any solid clues. An enchanted willow reads his frustration and passes his despair to the wind coursing southward along the waterway.

Far from his Indiana hill country home, Unole, the talented daughter of a Native American wise man and Keir’s former teacher, reads that wind and hears his plea. Realizing the wronged man is Keir, her teenage crush, she’s eager to help—until thwarted by a past deal of black magic she now regrets.

Using what had before seemed only a harmless promise Unole made, along with a secret buried deep in Keir’s past, the kidnapper weaves a dangerous web of deception. Keir and Unole stand to lose everything—his coyote and career, the love they just discovered, and even her life.

A stand-alone book in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series, Witch’s Windsong is a mystical adventure where hearts and spirits clash.

Buy Witch’s Windsong and listen to the magic!

Table of Contents

Inside Cover

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

A Note From the Author

Other Books by Marsha A. Moore

Chapter One: The North Wind

Bare tree trunks in the ravine cast crooked shadows over the frosted grass, like spirits slipping through the mists of the Otherworld. Taking caution, Keir touched a hand to the grounding forces of his hematite and river pebble amulets around his neck. When a sharp wind struck him at the crest, he zipped his parka’s collar closed.

He nodded to his coyote familiar Waapake, and they descended through an ice-brittle thicket. Though Keir had hiked these woods his entire life, the stand of willow trees along Owl’s Tail Creek was a destination he frequented during late winter, searching for signs of spring. In addition, he came that night to gather willow branches for new wands to use at February’s upcoming Imbolc sabbat.

Halfway down the slope, while disentangling his pant leg from hawthorn saplings, a gust whistled past, slapping the silver feather earring against his neck and chilling his ears. Hawthorns were known for marking entrances to the Otherworld. A few of the wind’s shrill notes bent and twisted around trunks, sweetening into a haunting female soprano. He glanced around for a trickster faery or a songbird that’d arrived in the hills of southern Indiana by chance too soon. Finding none, he pulled his knit cap lower.

Ahead on the narrow trail, Waapake, waited, yipping a prompt, his charcoal tail straight and stiff as a frozen twig, his eyes a blaze of yellow.

Heeding the warning, Keir proceeded with caution, alert for signs of dangerous magic. Every few feet lower, the wind blew harder, unexpected in the protected, shallow valley. “The creek’s sure a wind tunnel today,” he said as he caught up to the coyote. “Think that’s an early spring blowing in?”

Waapake’s coarse silver guard hairs raised along his spine.

“I agree. It’s unlikely to arrive on a northern wind.” Keir scanned the area, still unable to gain a view of the ravine’s heart through the wild thrashing of brush and branches in that direction. He pressed forward. The restless wind whipped in fitful gusts, as if tormented by an opposing force. He’d encountered such torturous gales deep in ravines before. During those few times, he’d needed to corner a storm’s fury into a talisman that could be used to drive illness or unwanted spirits away from his coven clients.

By age twenty-five, Keir had served five years as one of the coven’s two seers. In that time, he expanded his practice from simply foretelling futures to harnessing the natural and supernatural worlds in order to heal physical and spiritual ailments. Acting as a shaman, he attempted to follow in the footsteps of his mentor, Chuquilatague, from the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. Grateful for receiving such invaluable instruction, Keir strived to honor his teacher by aiding his fellow coven members.

But this night, with air at the ravine’s crest dead calm and absent of any sign of an approaching storm, Keir hadn’t expected to find a localized disturbance. With gloved fingers, he fumbled in his coat pocket, hoping he’d left Tall Sam’s snuffbox there when he collected it during yesterday’s visit. He located the palm-size rectangular tin, a keepsake from Sam’s departed grandfather. Though the corners exposed base metal beneath worn silver-plate, the lid still gleamed with the initials C.G.B. The empowered spirit of Clement George Byre, which lived on past the man’s death, normally resided within the small box but had recently become displaced. Strangely, the spirit of a badger had taken up residence and cast him out.

This unexpected fierce wind might enable Keir to drive the animal far along the creek bed; hopefully out of the coven, where it wouldn’t bother Sam’s family or neighbors. If Keir could harness a southbound gale blowing through the waterway corridors, the critter’s spirit might sweep from Indiana and be deposited into the mighty Ohio River.

Keir removed his gloves and pried the lid open. A gust whirled around him, sending the lid several paces uphill. As he retrieved it, his fingers numbed to a dull blue. In the reflection off the metal, his blue eyes stood out against red, windburned cheeks.

Waapake snarled at the whipping wind as it smacked his ears. Unable to subdue the force, he leapt one way then another, contorting in a comical dance that took him howling into another barbed thicket.

Convinced and pleased the job for Tall Sam was completed, Keir replaced the snuffbox into his pocket. Before he wriggled back into his gloves, strains of that same female voice skirled through upper boughs. Her panicked notes splintered ice from the bark.

His curiosity heightened, wondering why spirits would be active on such a cold winter night. Keir called to Waapake and pressed forward.

Though the creek had been iced solid for nearly two months, the pool kissed by the willows stood open … but not necessarily free. Its surface remained captive, churning under control of the unrelenting winds.

Moonlight on a willow always held mysticism for Keir. Under direction of tonight’s last quarter crescent all living things were encouraged to release energy that caused them harm or no longer served them. However, as winter neared an end, this purging could not be ignored—he as well as all creatures must follow its command.

Unlike the torment endured by the creek, the willows’ graceful branches danced gayly and indiscriminately with either partner, wind or water. The trees’ frosty party skirts, dotted with swells of potential leaf buds, shimmered in the subtle light.

When the rhythm of the dance changed, the skirts swished and swirled. Colliding branches chimed with magic—the voices of faeries, breathing their songs into ears of those willing to listen; soft but distinct above the rustling forest and keening wind, they invited Keir closer.

As he stepped onto the bank, once again the song beckoned him, this time from beneath the oldest and largest willow. Compelled to comply, he could only resist long enough to call to Waapake. Upon receiving no response, Keir succumbed, his fears suspended.

He ducked underneath the swaying branches and entered another world.

The cacophony of noise and jarring energy ceased; stillness and diffused moonlight caressed his soul. Faeries, alight on the bower’s curtains, tinkled with song and shone with thousands of pinpoints of white light.

Keir bowed his head to those nearest. “With your blessing, please grant me a single branch to use as a wand.” No response dissuaded him. Pocketknife in hand, he cautiously began cutting a thick branch that would serve him well to conduct moon magic on the sabbat. As he sliced through the wood, he heard the woman’s angelic voice.

She gasped, then choked into a fragmented verse. Her urgency rang clear, not obscured as before by the wind:

Beware what lurks near this shoal.

Loss, festered and fresh, intends to claim your kind soul.

From the weight of her message, Keir lost his balance. Searching for the invisible female, he fell against the tree’s trunk and called out, “Who are you?” Worried by her meaning while mystified by her unusual magic, Keir grappled with the bark to regain his balance. Was this a psychic perception triggered by the Otherworld beings? He clutched the cut branch and examined it as best he could, despite the dim light. Nothing seemed unusual. Willows could connect to the subconscious mind; he’d received premonitions in their presence before—only flickers of insubstantial images, lacking the clarity of the woman’s impassioned words.

He pocketed an end of the collected branch, parted the tree’s curtain, and stepped out. The wind persisted. If only the willow could calm the surrounding area, he could use the stream’s pool of reflected moonlight to scry for understanding.

A frigid gust spider-walked down his spine; the storm had intensified. He shuddered with a feeling of dread, then scrambled to his feet and left the tree’s protection. Standing tall against harsh gales, he called for Waapake.

No answer.

Keir shivered. He and his coyote familiar often shared so much magic between them, acting with one mind. Akin to an old married couple, verbal or gestured communications were often unnecessary or reduced to subtle glances.

Waapake’s silence, combined with the woman’s worrisome foretelling, made Keir coil his muscles tight, anticipating the slightest threat.

He leapt a few paces higher on the rocky bank, filled his lungs, and cried out, “Waapake!” But the north wind stole his air, rendering his voice a squeak even to his own ears. Keir faced south and sucked in another lungful before calling to his familiar. His voice did project but bounced back from ice-covered trunks. He waited, hoping his call carried through the trees.

No reply from any direction—save for a chill blast that battered his face and froze the breath inside his nostrils, as if intending to steal the life from his body. Ferocious coldness snaked through his windpipe into his chest, pounding with a sharp ache. What unspeakable force was this?

Panic riveted through his veins and set his legs into motion. Although years of hiking had trained his muscles, he powered across the ravine wall faster than ever before. With whatever breath the vicious wind allowed, he called to every direction, “Waapake! Where are you?”

Gasping, he paused to scan the incline and sucked in another deep breath, which was stolen before he could exhale.

Adrenaline powered him to descend and jump the creek to search the other side. Ignoring the pain of his dry, stinging eyes, he scoured the forest for signs of movement or a glimpse of the charcoal and tan fur of his dear companion.

When his eyelashes crusted nearly shut with ice and a freezing ache clutched at his heart, Keir leapt back across the creek. He trudged toward the crest, still sputtering Waapake’s name.

At the crest, he gulped the calmer air and wheezed, “Damn you! Who are you? Show yourself. You warn me, then torment me. What do you want?” Hands on his knees, he panted and scanned for any movement in the hollow.

Though treetops still rustled below, only a slight breeze wafted to meet him. It caressed his cheek with a sensuous tickle but exposed nothing.

Desperate and confounded by his inability to reap information from nature, he bellowed across the ravine for Waapake. Into the night he called until the name rasped raw against his throat.

Chapter Two: Wind Woman

Like her, the windflowers’ stems, fragile yet resilient, rose proud after a harsh winter and escaped from frozen cracks. Like her, they had died to the Great Spirit, remaining silent and suspended until time to reawaken. Like her, they would know another springtime.

Unole stooped and ran a gentle finger over one of the emerging shoots. In the moonlight, the green stem was of the palest hue, almost anemic. White blossoms edged out, blushed pink under the caress of protective bud sheaths. Some called them rue anemone; she preferred to think of the tenacious blossoms as windflowers, kindred spirits since her name Unole meant wind in Cherokee.

With a groan, as if joining their push through the hard earth, she forced her own frail muscles to stand. Allowing her legs to recover from the strain, she surveyed the area. Where the stream parted, the forest invited the moon and stars, and the windflowers would soon flourish with the coming springtime.

She’d walked this same reservation trail many times in recent days. But only today did she notice the green stems of the flowers stretching skyward—they must be an omen.

It was Unole’s first day walking alone, unaccompanied by her elogi, her mother’s youngest sister, serving as Unole’s nurse during her recovery. Other times, her elogi behaved more like an older sister and surrogate mother. She intended to be helpful, but sometimes she smothered Unole.

Excited by her new freedom and eager to understand what the omen portended, she ambled off the trail toward the windflower bank. Her elogi would not approve, fearful of how the uneven terrain might prove difficult for Unole’s limited strength.

During the winter, she had seen the light of death, a beacon prompting her to journey to the other side. Though the icy hand of death clawed at her window, luring her to release her own final puffs of air, she’d lain for weeks hot as ten summer suns. The healers had wrung their hands over her and called her father, the tribe’s shaman, to guide her spirit through its final journey.

Chuquilatague’s craggy but kind face blurred through her fever-dreams and hung upon edges of her nightmares. As her father, he was relentless, chasing them to the four winds. She’d traveled far upon those dreams, into both light and darkness, without knowing the time or day. During December, death courted her with his exotic delirium, almost claiming her as his eternal bride at the new year.

Yet, she’d been spared, allowed to live again. Her father, though overjoyed, couldn’t explain how she’d escaped the Death spirit—something she couldn’t bring herself to divulge. Despite the weakness still wracking her limbs, she was grateful to be alive, anticipating the approaching spring more than any other in her twenty years.

Along the stream, no windflower buds had been able to open; she identified with their struggle and said a silent prayer of thanks for the gift of life. She sang a soft melody of encouragement, to the tiny flowers and to herself. As she walked, the rocky ground challenged her strength and balance. She kept hold of slender saplings or low-hanging limbs of mature trees.

When her hand grasped the weeping branches of a willow, she crept underneath its skirt. There, the graceful branches shimmered, like stars trapped in droplets of dew. On the streamside of the great tree’s trunk, she found what she sought: the first windflower in blossom. She made her way across exposed roots, until she stood closer to the frigid water than what her elogi would’ve allowed. The yellow center kissed the five white petals with the slightest pink—too delicate to be the brave first blossom of spring.

As she delighted in her discovery, rings echoed across the water’s surface, perhaps a small fish or amphibian gulping its first breath after wriggling free from a muddy winter burrow. When the water quieted, Unole viewed her own image. Her waist-length hair lacked its usual blue-black shine. Though the pallor had left her face, her eyes were sunken, cheekbones too angular. Stains and rips covered the jacket she wore, the one closest to the door at home and belonging to her older brother. She’d not had energy to make herself pretty—or even think it was possible.

But like the flower, her complexion bloomed with a hint of pink. Like the flower, she would again be strong and brave: that was the omen’s prediction. A grin spread across the water-woman’s face; Unole touched her cheeks to ensure she owned the dimples.

She was glad she’d checked, for a moment later, a gale blew from the north and scattered the image, as if to steal it from her. The thief had failed; Unole had clutched the omen deep within her heart.

The north wind whipped and thrashed like a cyclone around the willow. Was it winter torturing the first flower? Or was it death, outraged that Unole had claimed her omen and the will to flourish? The willow’s branches tangled. Across the stream, the sycamore’s clattered. Her legs wobbled, and the fire of weakness threatened her core.

She stepped back, using the willow’s trunk to bolster her quavering spine. She took a deep breath to calm her mind and attempt to read the wind—her special gift she’d spent years honing. When she reached age thirteen, this practice culminated in the revealing of her spirit name, Unole, at her Naming Ceremony. Despite her skill, she hadn’t made a reading in months. Could she, with her body now so frail? A ripple of apprehension shuddered through her first failure.

She clamped her hands onto the trunk and focused. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, more than from the remnants of her illness. She searched in all directions for the source of the invasive blast. Her nerves fired too fast and numbness mounted, rising into her body and threatening to obliterate her reading. She locked her jaw, holding back the assault. The fierce north wind coveted secrets it didn’t want her to know. She clung tighter to the willow, digging her nails into the bark. Pressing her head against the steadfast willow, she lifted a defiant gaze to the sky.

Her reading took shape as a premonition. Far upstream, a young man approached the mother of her own willow. The same north wind crusted his eyelids with ice and froze the life-giving air within his lungs, while it was abducting who he loved most. She searched her thoughts for an image of the endangered one, but it wouldn’t appear. The man would soon experience panic and fear so excruciating that Unole could already smell its initial tang sweeping through the water corridor.

She had no time to dwell on the reading or her analysis; she must warn him of the coming peril.

She braced the backs of her legs against the willow. The tree’s limbs swept past each other playing shrill, staccato notes, alerting its mother. Unole gulped a lungful of air. With arms raised upstream, it sputtered out of her chest with a thin gasp, creating her own wind. The illness confounded her gift; head down, defeated, she slumped. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then opened them to the willow’s stars shining brighter. They illuminated the tiny windflower standing tall before her. Both reminded her to be strong.

She filled her lungs again and armed the exhale with assertive notes of her voice to gain his attention. This time, it sailed under her direction. She quickly sent another breath, propelling the first closer to the man. With each inhale, her chest continued to expand, loosening the stiffness of created by her illness.

Winter from the north pummeled her with a torrent of icy blasts.

Breath after breath sent up the corridor, Unole’s wind battled the onslaught. She twisted her wrists and skimmed her gusts over and around the opposition.

The north wind stung her nostrils with anger, ready to spark into rage. The rancid stench of its fury smelled familiar but not one she could identify. And the man’s fear smelled of someone she’d known, but who? The two anguished souls bent and clashed, racing southbound and colliding with brutal force against her own. The acidic odor of the man’s bleak future choked her throat; his pain would soon be realized—but it was hers now. She clutched her churning stomach, unable to turn away from a battle which didn’t seem to involve her. Why was she compelled to help him? The answer evaded her.

The north wind shrouded the emotions associated with its stink, rendering her unable to read what consequence the struggle would yield. Still, Unole tasted the rot of its deception. Her choice was easy: she couldn’t abandon the man.

Past the burning in her lungs, she sucked up air and pounded the waterway with her wind. Gusts so strong, they would blow from Carolina through the valleys and across the Appalachians. While she braced against her willow ally, other trees along the streams and rivers swayed, amplifying her song, as if the universe was rhythm. Her rhythm.

Feet anchored by the willow’s roots, she leaned over the bank. At this angle, she had better projection. Unleashing more notes, she used her fingers to spin them into the words he needed to hear: a plea to keep safe.

With her body exposed, the whirling gusts stung her eyes, knotted her hair, and its wrath agitated the pit of her stomach. She doubled over and retched. Before she looked up, the north wind halted its attack. She dropped to sit on the bank, head reeling.

The air lay calm with no odor or taste, other than the clean, fresh promise of spring. As though what she’d witnessed and fought against had never happened. Had it? Her legs shook as proof. Was that from the battle? Or merely a remnant of ill health, from overdoing without the constraints of her elogi—something she’d pay double for when she arrived at home?

At Unole’s feet stood the tiny windflower. But now, a second bud had curled its white lips upward as if to open. “What do you know that I don’t? Can you tell me?” she asked it. When the answer remained unclear, she glanced in the direction the bud reached. There, in the sky, a band of millions of stars twinkled down on her.

She took a deep breath and stared at the wonder of the Milky Way. How is this possible? It shouldn’t be visible for months.

Her mind swam through the stream of stars, drunk on the unbridled energy of the evening. The legend of the Black God glimmered in her thoughts. She heard her father—Shaman Chuquilatague’s raspy, deep voice telling the favorite tale during a summer evening years ago:

The great Black God was about to take his seat at the dinner table when Coyote approached and asked, “Why are you taking a break? There is more to do.”

“See for yourself what has been done, all the constellations I have created,” said Black God with a note of annoyance in his words. Ignoring Coyote, the god sat and crossed his legs beneath him. In his usual manner, he began to position his pouch beneath one foot for safekeeping.

But Coyote, being impatient and angry at being rebuked, zipped under the chair and snatched the bag before Black God could get his foot in place. Coyote then emptied out all the stars and blew them across the sky.

Outraged, Black God refused to light those scattered stars, and today they remain dimmer than their cousins. Stars placed in the sky by Black God have names, and those of the Milky Way are known to us only as Coyote Stars.

But tonight, the Coyote Stars twinkled brightly upon Unole—an amazing sight. Coyote was communicating with her. But was this one of the trickster’s pranks? Or did he really need her? As she watched, his stars transformed into the faces of tribespeople who’d listened to her father’s teaching that evening years ago. Sitting around the fire beside her mother, Unole, barely fifteen, giggled with her girlfriends. She missed her mother, who passed the following year. But her heart warmed at the sight of many other stars, her tribespeople, smiling with reverence at her father.

A gasp escaped her lips—also present was someone she couldn’t forget, Keir Sheridan, her father’s summer apprentice. Her first crush. She was an awkward, gangly girl, nothing but spindly limbs, and he’d probably forgotten all about her. She sighed, envisioning the clear blue of his eyes, his neatly cropped black hair, his sensitivity, and friendly smile. In the sky circle, Keir sat beside his animal companion Waapake—a coyote.

The connection sparked: the man upstream was Keir, panicking over danger to Waapake, who appealed to his ancestral god, Coyote, for help. Each had called for help, and she had overheard their pleas. But why? What could she do, and from so far away? Frustration and fire roiled along her nerves. Unblinking, she stared at the stellar display, desperate for another answer that did not come.

She rubbed her aching neck and glanced down to view a different spectacle in the stream’s mirror. Reflected there was a wild wind woman dressed in a white sheath beaded with starlight. Coyote Stars twinkled from within dewdrops on the willow’s branches. Wind-knots tangled her blue-black hair, and her face glowed from within—a goddess sent to tell the world’s future and weave magic into dreams.

Chapter Three: Guilt

Along the route home, Keir scavenged the dark roadsides and woodlots for the gleam of Waapake’s bright yellow eyes. Approaching the house, dread engulfed Keir. He directed his Packard into the driveway and scanned the property. Determined to see a glimpse of the coyote, he almost missed the bend toward the garage. At the last moment, he swerved the sedan and slammed on the brakes. The wide white-wall tires chucked gravel and ice chunks at the garden’s picket fence, before skidding to a halt. He fixed on the logs and buckets strewn around the yard, playthings that Waapake favored—had they been recently moved? His heart raced, searing with hope. Yet the coyote never trotted to Keir’s car door with his tongue dangling and tail wagging.

Maybe Waapake waited for him at the house, injured. Keir bolted from the car and hurried around the corner of the garage toward the back porch. Only a fresh glaze of ice on the steps and the mocking from a solitary bird, a rare white crow flying out from the apple tree, greeted him. Its frozen perch rebounded and cracked the twig’s icy coating, a slight sound but enough to ring loud against the morning’s perfect stillness. It struck Keir how the vicious creek wind never occurred here.

A frozen mist encroached upon the air, advancing on low-hanging clouds from the woods behind the lawn. The crunch of his hiking boots freed winter-weary blades of grass from their imprisonment; he wished he could rid the Hollow of winter’s last claws as easily. He debated whether the ravine’s wind contained magic that prevented Waapake from returning home. Or had he fallen through thin ice over the creek? Keir’s blood and bone intuited that truth, but the logic failed to manifest.

While striving to comprehend, pressure pushed against his eardrums. He swallowed, trying to equalize but discovered the force was external. From the approaching mist? He spun, noticing the usual pale gray of dawn at the tree line, but not the typical wildlife that roamed at daybreak. No cardinals or titmice cracked seed at his feeder, no rodents skittered through the forest brambles. Even the morning breeze was absent, missing its cue of rising air temperature. What restraint had spread such silence? The close dampness usurped his lungs, forcing him to over-expand his chest to breathe. He strode around the house, searching. His heart banged against his ribcage, competing with his lungs for space.

The evil had followed him.

Panic hit, and his heartbeat ratcheted faster. “Waapake! Where are you?” he bellowed, then released an ear-splitting whistle. In zig-zag sweeps, he traversed the property, yelling and whistling for the coyote: through the orchard in the side lawn, across the stubble of a would-be garden, and into the deep ditch on the other side of the road.

He retraced his steps along the side of the house, where the root cellar met the foundation. It brought back a memory of Waapake when he was a pup, often hiding there to surprise Keir. He toed aside wet leaves packed into the nook. A nest of bleary-eyed field mice scuttled to the brick wall. He bent to brush leaves from his jeans and found the cellar door’s latch unset and the pin missing—had Waapake taken cover there?

Keir opened one of the double doors, descended part way, and flicked on the light. Nothing stirred. “C’mon, Waapake. No time for games. Show yourself.” His voice rattled with false hope. The contents of dust, apples, and his meager harvest of root vegetables lay undisturbed. Haunted by happier memories, he left and secured the door.

Forcing out frustration with a loud exhale, he returned to the garage and heaved the wooden door open across its track to one side. Remaining hopeful, he checked corners and behind stacked lumber and tools before driving his car in.

Again at the back porch, he paused, reluctant to go inside and put more distance between him and his coyote familiar. He reminded himself that Waapake often ventured into the woods alone, howling or scratching at the door to be let in. Pressing upon Keir and choking all of nature’s movements, the unearthly force paralyzed that logic. He trembled as the cold damp seeped through his quilted parka, though a film of sweat beaded under the band of his knit cap.

A rivulet down his spine roused him—how long had he stood there, mind and body suspended? The yellowing of dawn marked the passage of time—underscored that night had ended with Waapake still missing.

Keir’s fingers on the doorknob triggered a mantra: He’s fine and will be home soon. With each boot and garment Keir tossed off in the mudroom, he repeated the assurance.

At the doorway to the wide country kitchen, the wall phone captured his attention, although he didn’t want to bother his friends for help.

Waapake will be home soon. With every step, Keir recited the mantra so he might reach the sitting room without succumbing to his escalating fear.

What if he’s injured? No. He’s fine and will be home soon. He reassured himself. Two more steps and Keir reached the center prep table, where he spread open palms over the top’s cool, white tiles. In stark contrast to the limed oak cabinets, the black phone on the far wall loomed large, within arm’s reach of the doorway to the next room.

What if he can’t get back? Keir took a wide stride, but his ankle wobbled.

What if he’s dead? Keir denied the thought, though an image of his father’s white, embalmed face resting on a satin pillow rose unbidden. Forcing himself to forget the vision, Keir repeated the mantra and lurched to the next counter. He yanked the receiver off and dialed Logan’s number.

***

Keir waited at the back door for the two cars that pulled into his driveway at eight-thirty.

Rowe’s black Studebaker glided past—long, black, and sleek—and parked near the garage. As he and his girlfriend Jancie stepped out, Logan’s Nash sedan barreled to a stop. Dried salt and road grime camouflaged much of its forest-green paint; Logan, the new high priest of Coon Hollow Coven, rarely had time to tend to his car or appearance since his appointment.

The swing of a white-blonde braid rounding his car was a common sight. His girlfriend Aggie had quickly learned that spending time with Logan often meant accompanying him on business. No one minded since she’d been instrumental in ferreting out witches who conducted black magic at last October’s Samhain.

Logan looked like the community’s savior he’d become after claiming the position from a long line of malevolent Tabards. An aura illuminated his golden curls in the angled morning light. Keir was proud of his friend’s accomplishments; Logan made things happen and would coordinate an extensive search for Waapake. Holding a quilted coat under one arm, Logan planted a misshapen gray fedora on his head and dug hands into the pockets of his rumpled suit coat. He hauled his lanky frame next to Rowe, who served as one of the high priest’s eight Coven Council members.

In contrast, Rowe stood tall with his broad shoulders relaxed. His dark brown hair hung in a tidy ponytail past the fine camelhair overcoat’s collar. His composure always soothed Keir’s nerves like a balm. While both men wore the Thirties-style double-breasted suits dictated by coven dress code, their hiking boots affirmed their commitment to finding Waapake. By way of greeting to Keir, Rowe touched the brim of his black fedora perched jauntily over one eye and offered a gloved hand to Jancie as she navigated the ice-covered walk.

Neither girlfriend chose to follow the specifications for female coven members. Dressed for the woods, the women wore jeans, hiking boots, and thick parkas. Jancie’s jeans clung to every curve, while Aggie’s had a looser fit like what farmers wore. Keir still hadn’t grown accustomed to their casual style; although locals, their witchcraft traced to the New Wish coven several hours south where Indiana met the Ohio River. Some Coon Hollow families insisted the way of life here needed to remain fixed according to what existed at the time of founding. They believed breaking tradition would have a negative effect on Coon Hollow’s unique witchcraft. Logan and Rowe opposed that outdated thinking and Keir agreed—tonight, he needed every type of magical insight available to find his coyote.

A deep breath loosened Keir’s lungs and admitted hope and trust; the two men had been his closest childhood buddies. He held the door open. “Thanks for coming so early.” The group filed into the mudroom, but no one removed outerwear or stepped farther inside.

“No problem.” Logan blew on his cupped hands, then pulled a pen and notebook from the inner pocket of his suit.

Rowe pointed his square chin toward the pad. “Are we here on official Coven Council business? Do you want me to take notes, too?”

Logan shook his head. “I’ve got it. It’s become routine; seems like the only time I’m not high priest is while I sleep.”

A laugh escaped Aggie’s lips. “Wrong—you sometimes argue with people while you’re asleep.”

Logan shrugged and flipped to a clean page. “What’s up with Waapake? Replay the details.”

“We went down into Owls Tail Creek near where it bends at the fork,” Keir said. “That deep ravine.”

Logan nodded and scribbled, more gray storm clouds gathering over his cobalt irises each time he glanced up.

“I needed a willow branch. Out of nowhere, a wind full of dark power pressed into my lungs, disorienting me. Then Waapake disappeared. I called and searched all along the creek but didn’t find any sign of him. He’s not been back here, either.”

Brushing strands of her long red hair aside, Jancie faced Keir. “Which direction did the wind blow? That might us give a clue.”

“From the north.” Impatient for her response, he searched the depth and sincerity of her hazel eyes. Jancie’s magic aligned with the south wind, a trait she’d inherited from her mother, who was a New Wish witch. Though Jancie had only recently discovered her powers, Keir respected her skills—strong enough to remove Adara Tabard both from her poisonous reign as high priestess and from Coon Hollow.

Aggie pulled up the sleeve of her corduroy parka and examined a golden beryl tied to her wrist with a leather thong.

Keir inched closer. “Waapake’s mother’s stone. Is her spirit speaking to you?”

“Yes. Even before you called, I saw flashes of light inside. Brighter now that I’m here; Mother Coyote’s spirit is sparking about something, but that’s all I can tell.”

“May I?” Keir asked. When she nodded, he cupped a palm around the pulsating stone and closed his eyes. Pinpricks of yellow light flashed in his mind, too small to reveal anything.

He touched his other hand to one of his amulets, a silver phoenix—his power animal—and appealed to it: Please help me know what Waapake’s mother is communicating. He waited a few seconds but received no response. How could he expect otherwise? Faced with a crisis and no time for decorum, he hadn’t bothered—couldn’t calm himself enough—to enter the Lower World realm, where the bird resided, before making his request. The lights flickered in the perimeter of his mental vision, and he ground his teeth. He’d taken shamanic journeys with the phoenix hundreds of times. Why now, in this time of need, did it fail him? He released his hand from Aggie with a sigh. “I can’t read it.”

Rowe clapped him on the back. “It’s okay. We’ll find him. Let’s get organized.”

“At least the job will be easier now that the freezing fog has stopped.” Logan looked into each of their faces while securing his note-taking supplies. “Let’s split up. Aggie with me at the creek, and Jancie and Rowe, you two look around here and in the adjacent woods. Keir, which group do you want to join?”

“I’ll stay close to Aggie since she has a connection to Waapake’s mother.” Keir slipped into his parka and pulled on his knit cap. “I appreciate the help.”

Logan put on his own coat, not bothering with the zipper. As if reminding himself, he said, “It’s a cold morning. Dress for it. And keep your cell phones handy. Once we’ve searched our starting points, we’ll move toward each other. My staff members have been notified. They’ll join us, if needed, to extend the search.”

As they departed, Jancie touched Aggie’s arm. “I have thermoses of coffee in the car. Let me give you one.”

While his friends finished preparations, Keir unlocked his garage and gave the large door a shove, in case Rowe and Jancie needed to look inside. Before Keir could take a seat in the back of Logan’s car, he had to move aside miscellaneous folders, papers, sacks, and articles of foul-smelling clothing. The trash didn’t faze Keir; a close proximity to the window was all he needed.

During the drive, his eyes chased every slight movement. Eyes gritty from a sleepless night complicated his attempts to avoid blinking. With the fog lifted, both the fauna and breeze sprang to life. There was no sign of his coyote, unless his sight failed him or Waapake lay wounded, motionless. Keir recalled the mantra.

The coffee he’d consumed while waiting for his friends to arrive left him wired, even more impatient. His leg muscles twitched, ready to scavenge the ravine, and his eyes strained to ravage the slopes. Waapake’s fine and will be home soon.

Once Logan parked at the side of the road above the creek, Keir bolted from the car. He avoided the trail and cut a path through the brush.

The others separated and entered the ravine far to the north and south.

If Waapake had been injured, he’d keep under cover. Yet a voice in the back of Keir’s mind told him that wouldn’t matter; if he passed within a hundred yards, the coyote would be sprinting toward his master, drawn by both scent and the thread of combined power that connected them. But what if that bond failed? Had been destroyed through accident or wanton attack? Could Waapake locate him by smell alone?

Keir called for the coyote. The same loop of questions replayed till he blocked it with another shout. And another. His cries and the questions blurred, and an inseparable cycle overtook his mind. He gritted his teeth and forcibly latched onto the first word of the mantra. He took a stride through a thicket, then silently said the next word. Stride, word, stride, word. Until the word home from the mantra scraped his throat as if he’d screamed it aloud.

Through the din, he heard Logan’s baritone commanding Waapake to show himself, Aggie’s soft voice appealing to the sycamores to use their network of interconnected roots to find the missing coyote.

Still, the word home remained lodged. Tinged with connotation Keir couldn’t face, he fought against it, swallowed hard to displace the concept. A hazy but familiar image gripped him. To escape its grip, he invited a rush of adrenaline, increasing his pace to a run—until gravity sent him careening along a dangerous decline plated with ice. His hiking boots skidded ahead of him. He fell backward, landing in a wad of damp weed stubble with one leg mashed beneath his weight.

Ahead stood the majestic willow. Its skirt of branches swept to and fro across the ice-covered stream as if in disbelief, wanting another dance and sweet kiss with the water—the woman in the willow had known Waapake was in danger; would she know where he was? Keir had to ask her.

He rubbed a bruise on the side of his knee and sunk to a one-legged kneeling position. The throbbing prevented him from standing. With his mental shields weakened by the pain, the word home rallied another charge. He grasped the trunk of a spindly sapling swaying along with him. The full-on image that had chased him down the slick slope now hit with ferocious clarity—his father lying dead on the lawn. Even though it’d been six years, Keir’s grief remained fresh; many times, he’d tried to free himself of the burden, begging his power animal to take it away. Blame clung to his soul like a vulture gnawing on carrion.

In the moment he’d stepped away to gather roofing shingles from yards away, his world changed forever. His father counted on Keir to be there holding the ladder. The bone-shattering scream still reverberated inside his ears. In the mental tableau, he shot toward the scream to watch his father freefall from the third floor and smack the ground with a life-wrenching thud.

The concerned face of a woman appeared and escorted Keir back to the present. Aggie’s clear blue eyes crinkled as they peered into his. “Are you okay?” She took hold of his upper arm to offer support. “Did you fall?”

Keir sucked in a lungful of air, his face slick with sweat. “Um, yeah. I twisted my knee. I don’t think it’s broken, though. Did you find Waapake?”

“No. I crossed and checked on the other side. Logan’s still over there. But look!” She pulled up her sleeve to reveal the gem. “It’s flashing brighter.”

“Oh. Let’s hope it’s a message.” Like before, he covered the gem and called upon his power animal’s assistance, this time from its favored Lower World Realm, where Keir mentally took a seat upon a nearby limestone boulder.

In his journey, the phoenix flapped its wings wildly, then vanished behind a flare of yellow light blinding Keir’s inner eye. The force that assaulted him wasn’t his power animal, nor the spirit of Waapake’s mother—pain from his knee shot to his gut, rendering his bowels watery. He struggled to look away from Aggie’s beryl but could not.

The piercing light claimed his thoughts, abducted him far back to a place he didn’t ever want to revisit. A blonde teenage girl lay with hands folded over a bouquet of pink sweetheart roses resting upon her chest. Molly’s favorite flower. The same type he’d purchased for her years ago as his date to the Winter Solstice school dance, a month before they’d broken up. Actually, before he’d ended things. Despite support from Rowe and Logan at his side, when Keir approached her coffin, her mother’s stare sliced through him; she pinned him with blame for her daughter’s suicide, left him forever wondering how he might have prevented Molly’s death.

Keir blinked rapidly to dispel the vision, which thankfully relented, only to morph into the face of his mother the final time he’d seen her—before they lowered her into the grave. So young, at age seven and an only child, he clamped onto his father’s hand and bit his lip to withhold waves of rising sobs. His mother had the same tow-headed hair that Keir did as a baby, before it eventually turned black like his father’s. Her soft locks caught the sunshine peeking from behind a cloud—sunlight sent to restore her life. At that moment, men closed her casket, shut her off from what might’ve saved her. He flinched and a hand gripped hard onto his—if only he’d stopped them, let the sun save her.

Something shook his hand. “Keir, what did you see? Is it Waapake?” Aggie’s gentle voice guided him back to reality. He opened his eyes upon her face.

“No.” He coughed, ridding himself of the vision’s clinging fragments. “But the reading told me what I needed to know.” Whatever odious force had spoken, be it guardian or foe, he knew he could not endure the same path of guilt he’d walked with Molly and his parents.

Aggie tilted her head as if to question.

“I will not lose Waapake. I can’t lose him.”

Chapter Four: The Dreamcatcher

With his injured leg elevated on a pillow, Keir lay covered on his sitting room couch, plagued by a dull headache after the long night. He needed sleep but stared into space, unable to drop his guard, his restless mind sorting through methods to contact the spirit world and understand what had happened to Waapake. Though a bag of ice numbed the swollen knee, his rattled nerves impeded his shamanic journeying. His friends had eased his physical ailments before they left. His inner turmoil refusing that comfort, he wadded up the blanket, his fists tense and trembling.

The muffled clatter of pots and pans reminded him Jancie remained behind to clean up breakfast dishes, while Logan, Rowe and Aggie had gone to meet with Logan’s staff to expand their search for Waapake.

A sunray parted the dark green velvet drapes and blinded Keir. He jerked his torso upright and reached for the drape but paused. Hanging from the latch of the tall window, the old dreamcatcher’s white web glistened and stirred Keir’s treasured memories.

Waapake had been a pup and unaccustomed to being indoors; the slightest sweeping sound of branches against a window upset his sleep. To help impart calm and peaceful dreams, Keir crafted the magical apparatus and hung it above his favorite leather couch, where he wished to nap with his restless familiar. Keir’s job often required him to work during the night, when spiritual and astral energies could be heard clearer in the relative stillness. Chuquilatague, the Cherokee shaman, had taught Keir the value of short sleep sessions to keep the mind alert and receptive, always ready and reliable to serve those in need.

After fashioning a hoop of wet willow wood, Keir had stretched a web of animal sinew tied to seven points. That significant number represented both the cub’s age of seven months but also the teachings of the seven grandfathers Keir hoped to impart to his familiar: wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility, and truth. From the lower curve, he hung a wooden bead, painted blue to evoke tranquility, and a feather.

The catcher had worked to attract all sorts of Waapake’s dreams into the web. When bad dreams came, they were caught in the webbing, where the growing light of day caused them to vaporize and perish. Good dreams, knowing the way through the web’s center, slid down the feather to the pup sleeping below on the couch.

The sweetness of those memories drove a stake deep into Keir’s heart. Steely tension gridded his brow. As he started to close the drape, the dreamcatcher’s bead spun. Odors of damp fur turned his head, expecting to see Waapake nearby. The feather brushed Keir’s cheek with the rough, wet slurp of his coyote’s tongue. Despite missing the familiar, hope washed over Keir. He clung to the positive energy and reached for the catcher.

He caressed the smoothness of the hoop; he sensed he must return to the great willow at Owls’ Tail Creek, the tree that had donated the wood. Something there might help him find Waapake. Would the unseen woman offer more knowledge? Or had Keir overlooked some other clue? For guidance, he studied the sunlight playing upon the straps of sinew.

The metal clank of the front door’s striker interrupted his meditation. He eased his swollen knee over the edge of the couch and stood slowly to test his balance.

Jancie whisked from the kitchen and through the dining room on her way toward the door. “I’ll answer that.”

“No, I can get it,” Keir protested and took a too-large stride that he paid for with a wobbling, painful limp.

She hesitated and hung close, watching, while he braced his weight against every piece of furniture, doorway, and chair-rail woodwork trim he passed.

Nearing the door, he was grateful his magical striker Tenskwatawa advised the caller, “Have patience. The master of the house has encountered a slight injury, but he’s on the way.”

When at last Keir managed to pull open the massive oak door, he met Tall Sam’s head crooked downward. His apprehensive, brown eyes jumped over Keir. The farmer tore his worn cap off and clutched it with thick-fingered, calloused hands. “I was wonderin’ if you’d made headway with the snuff tin my pappy favors. I know you said you’d try to work on it on your trek to the creek last night. But Shaman Keir, if you’re not up to—”

“I’m well enough. Just twisted my knee. Please come in.” Keir leaned aside, using the wall for support, and beckoned the man.

“Well, if you’re fit.” He loped into the foyer, his angular frame and outdoorsy Carhartt jacket in stark contrast to the crystal chandelier above him.

“Hello, Sam. Good to see you.” Jancie drew near and offered Keir an arm.

“I can manage, but would you please bring the snuffbox from the pocket of my parka?” Jaw set, Keir limped unassisted into the outer parlor where he received clients.

“I can do that.” She addressed the guest, “Sam, would you like some coffee or tea?”

The farmer’s lanky frame hunched more than usual, arms bent forward, as if ready to catch Keir. Sam peered at her from beneath hooded brows. “Yes, ma’am. Coffee would be appreciated.”

She scurried to the kitchen.

Although Keir’s large Victorian estate home was registered a well-preserved historical home, he enjoyed sharing it. Its grandeur, softened by the patina of use, was far more welcoming than the sterile office space in the Coven Council building where he began his practice.

Holding tight to the arm of an overstuffed club chair, he lowered his weight, then dropped with a groan when the injured knee bent. The chair’s supple-but-worn leather accommodated more easily to his stiffness than what the desk chair might have offered. His toes, clad only in socks, dug into the Turkish wool rug’s pile and braced against nagging throbs of dull pain.

While Keir settled himself, on the opposite side of a small table, Tall Sam drew his flat lips to a grimace, in apparent empathy, as he perched uneasily on a ladderback chair. In comparison to even Keir’s healthy joint, Sam’s knobby knees poked high above the level of his hips like the gangly limbs of a grasshopper. Too-short trouser legs exposed weather-dry skin above his socks.

Jancie slipped in and delivered the beverages and snuffbox.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Sam’s hand dwarfed the large mug.

Exiting the room, she called over her shoulder, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Thanks, Jancie.” Keir ran a thumb across the snuffbox lid—but was blocked from detecting what, if any, spirit-presence remained.

Sam addressed Keir. “I appreciate you takin’ time to help us. Grandpa Clement’s spirit is uneasy, been keepin’ us up nights with his moanin’.”

“I did work on this but haven’t had time to check the results. If you’ll allow me a minute.” As a matter of ethics, Keir needed to be certain it was safe for Clement’s spirit to reenter. Keir cupped the tin in his palm. To focus on whatever energies might remain after he’d freed the unwanted badger’s spirit to the wind, he closed his eyes and cleared away most of his extraneous thoughts—all except interruptions from the periodic throb coursing through his knee, a reflexive mental path he couldn’t ignore. He steadied the joint against the base of the chair’s arm, which at least allowed a longer span between waves of pain.

When the next assault abated, he began his shamanic journey. He imagined his body tiny and dropping deep into the Earth’s surface at a tin mine. From there, he intention was to stream with those elements into the actual article resting in his hand. But during the initial rush away from the mine, a figure of a badger distracted him, sent him off course where he smacked against an impenetrable wall, dense as granite. His thoughts, still in free-flow, splattered in all directions along the hard surface.

The wall morphed into the backdrop for a firing squad and he faced execution. Artillery fired a barrage of images at him: faces of his parents and girlfriend under the pallor of death. He attempted to block the visions, not answer them with responding thoughts—the fusillade proved too great; sticky jaundice-yellow blame flooded every mental escape route. He struggled to retreat, even wished for the next throb of physical pain from his knee to propel him from this hell. Striving for an exit, he dropped into a quagmire of guilt—a trap, where he fell easy prey for visual spears depicting his coyote lying mangled from torturous death.

Only Keir’s injured knee could save him from this purgatory. He inched his free hand forward. With his perceptions diminished during the meditation, he could only sense the presence of support underlying his hand. When that ceased, he presumed he’d reached the terminal point of his thigh—the swollen knee. He swallowed hard to free as many of his faculties as possible from the snare of guilt, then dug fingers hard into the joint. A rush of excruciating pain liberated him, flashed him back to the real world. He snapped his eyes open, gulping lungfuls of air as he clutched the chair arms—the pain was real and welcome.

His conscience hissed, Guilt is real, too. You cannot hide.

A remembered voice of his mentor chided him, “You must never deny the world of non-ordinary reality, the world of hidden things.

“Shaman Keir, are you all right?” Sam crouched in front of him. “Let me get Jancie.”

Keir hung his head. Sweat beaded along his brow. He touched the initials engraved on the snuffbox; he’d let Clement George Byre and his family down. “I’m okay,” he said too late. Sam’s footsteps sounded through the back of the house. No one heard Keir—not even himself; his ears wouldn’t accept the lie: he was not okay.

Jancie’s quick, light steps pattered behind Sam’s boot-clad footfall. With a gentle touch on Keir’s arm, she asked, “What happened?”

He levered from the chair. “I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t continue. I don’t know whether the tin is safe or not. Need more time.” Keir’s shoulders slumped as he felt Sam’s gaze penetrate him. Keir couldn’t bring himself to see the disappointment.

“Not a problem, Shaman Keir.” The farmer’s thick sing-song dialect sounded sincere, but Keir knew it only masked what he truly felt. “There’ll be another day. You take care of yerself first.”

Keir accepted Jancie’s arm, and she asked, “Do you want to go back to the couch?”

Keir shook his head. “I must find Waapake. I can’t let him die. I can’t bear the …” His words trailed off, unable to voice what he now knew: that guilt had its sights on his connection to the spirit world and maybe more.

Sam tilted his head. “Waapake’s gone missin’?”

“Yes, last night when we were at the fork of Owls’ Tail Creek.”

“Logan has organized a search,” Jancie added.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. “A lost familiar can cause a world of hurt. Can I round up some kin and lend a hand to findin’ him?”

Keir reached for the farmer’s arm. “I appreciate your help, Sam. It means a lot.”

“No problem. I’ll get three or four others and head down there right away.” With a nod and long paces, he left.

As soon as the front door clicked shut and Sam’s steps along the walk faded, Keir sagged against the back of the chair and looked down. His hissing conscience had been correct. The viscous yellow guilt now mixed with self-blame and a host of other shortcomings all roiled in his gut—a pain far greater than from the joint’s inflammation. I can’t endure this, not again. He glanced at Jancie’s patient face and pried himself from the chair. “I need to gather two things, then go back to the willow’s woods.”

Keir lurched, with Jancie bracing one arm, from the office to his private sitting room where he collected his grandfather’s cane. The carved serpent head had been worn smooth by its previous owner’s sure grip; within Keir’s hand, a measure of that man’s steadfastness became his, and he held the cane with gratitude.

Steeled, he denied the groan that rose in his chest as he leaned across the couch, snatched the dreamcatcher, and held it for Jancie to see. “I made this for Waapake when he was a pup. Before Sam came over, I felt positive energy coming from it. I have to go back to the willow where I last saw Waapake. This hoop came from that tree. There’s something there I need; I can feel it.”

Jancie helped him to the mudroom and fit the dreamcatcher into his coat pocket. “Do you want me to go along? I’ll drive you there.”

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate that.”

After a quick call to Rowe to inform him, she pulled on her outside gear and wrapped an arm around Keir’s shoulders as they crossed the still-icy back walk to the passenger side of his car.

Once seated, she started and inched the long Packard from the garage so slowly that Keir commented, “Really, I can drive. If you’ll just come along in case my knee gets worse.”

“I’ll be fine—it’s just backing these long sedans makes me nervous. I’ve been driving Rowe’s Studebaker lately and have gotten the hang of shifting.”

Keir nodded and settled in, his fingers sensing the dreamcatcher’s energy while he scanned the roadsides.

Jancie turned onto the creek road, and Keir straightened. “See something?” she asked.

“No, but there’s a humming along the web’s strings, slight but definite.”

“Oh, that might be good.”

A couple miles down the road, she pulled off and parked behind Rowe’s car. Six vehicles lined the berm; the willingness of others to help, heartened Keir.

She glanced at him. “I’d like to go with you. The steep walk will be hard.”

He paused, considering. Her presence might interfere with the unknown energy, but without her, he wouldn’t likely reach the willow. “Thank you.”

Standing on the ravine’s rim, voices calling Waapake’s name echoed back and forth along the narrow corridor. Keir tucked the dreamcatcher into the inside pocket of his parka, took a firm grip on the cane, and allowed Jancie to cradle his free elbow.

Despite the day’s start overcast with icy mist, by midday the sun shone bright and warm, thawing the freeze. He removed his knit hat and gloves, then pointed with his chin toward the trailhead. “That path will be the easiest. Fewer steep drops.”

She descended ahead of him, often stopping to offer him a handhold or cautions about patches of slick mud, exposed roots, or where to step for good footing.

He didn’t mind the slow pace. It gave him a chance to listen for the clairvoyant woman who’d tried to warn him last night.

After a great deal of exertion, he arrived at the willow’s bank panting, sweating, and dizzy. Where the creek opened to a clear sky, the sun’s warmth became intolerable. He peeled off his coat and laid it aside while he sat on a rock, regaining his composure and studying the surroundings. The rapid pulse drumming against his ears made it impossible to hear much beside the loud shouts from other searchers. In this state, he’d miss what he came for: the woman’s soft soprano voice.

He adjusted his breathing with long inhales and exhales, forcing his body to calm. When at last he felt steady, he waved to Jancie and said, “I need to do this part alone.” He slid off the rock and limped to the willow’s curtain of branches. After a wave to signal Jancie of his whereabouts, he crept, with an awkward three-limbed crawl, inside the inner chamber.

Lacking the moon’s enchantment, the lights of the Otherworld fae were dark, yet still radiated plenty of magic. On this fair day, while stretches of the trail began the first thaw, within the great willow, spring had arrived. The leaf litter, stirred by his hands and feet, smelled alive with a fresh organic scent. Lines of ants crisscrossed his path. Other insects, within the trunk’s bark, chewed and popped with gusto as if gorging on their first meal of the season.

Despite this activity, the visionary woman was absent. Was she a faery? Should he return at night? With his knee in such poor shape, the trail was difficult enough to navigate in the daytime. Impossible if he traveled in the dark. Not until he healed. Desperate, he entreated the unknown, turning all around as he spoke. “If you are present, please speak to me. You foresaw my coyote’s disappearance. I need more details. Please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Help me.” He sat still, listening but hearing only wood insects and trickling water.

Several minutes later, Jancie’s voice broke his watch, “Keir, are you still there?”

As he stirred, the motion set off new pain in his knee. Advanced swelling now pushed against his pant leg. It needed attention; he couldn’t stay long. Inching to the edge of the enclosure, he saw the dreamcatcher’s sinews glinting in the sun—he’d forgotten to test its abilities.

He reached for the catcher, too late—a white crow swooped in, snatched it with a dagger-like beak. The bird hung in the air, taunting him.

Keir grabbed a rock and hurled it near the crow. “Drop it!” he yelled, hoping fear would force the bird to release its hold. Instead, it flew upward. “Damn it. That’s the same bird that scolded me in my backyard.” He eyed Jancie with a scowl.

“Could it be a witch’s familiar? Who uses an albino crow?”

“No one I know.” He stared after the bird as it disappeared into the southern sky, then bent to pick up his coat. “If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”

Beside the parka’s open zipper grew a tuft of green growth, bearing a single white flower—five white-pink petals surrounding a yellow center. “Hmm. Perhaps I spoke too soon.” He touched one of the petals. “In the middle of January, this isn’t by chance. They don’t bloom here until March. Last night’s wind lady must’ve left me a windflower.”

Jancie knelt beside the flower. “That’s where the dreamcatcher was lying.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “That means Waapake’s dreams are still alive: I will find him.”

Chapter Five: Perceived Reality

Adara curled her lips and snarled back at the caged coyote. She’d have to be content with him for now, although snarling at his master would be so much sweeter.

As if able to read her salacious intentions toward his master, Waapake lunged at the bars and growled. His bared canines gleamed in the stark light from the single, naked bulb. The light swung, set into motion not by the stagnant basement air but by magic seething from both witch and familiar. Shadows loomed out of dank corners sending spiders creeping in search of cover across the mildewed concrete floor and stacks of warped crates.

She flinched, then steadied herself and laughed inches from the coyote’s drawn muzzle. “How nice. You must have read my designs for your master.” She clucked her tongue, considering how to include Waapake in her plan. “Perhaps you can be useful to convey to Keir just how serious my terms are. I’m about to write him a note, informing him how he can earn your safe release. A desperate plea from his familiar would do so much better to underscore the urgency. I assume you can communicate with him through the spirit world; a familiar of a seer would need that skill.”

With a wave of her hand, she replenished water and kibble to bowls inside the cage, then reversed her efforts, whisking away all provisions, including the blanket wadded into the corner. “My mistake—suffering will encourage your desperation to communicate.” With a smirk, she spun on a heel of her dress boots and made for the stairs.

A low snarl followed her up, rasping into the word “bitch.”

She lifted the hem of her tight skirt into one hand and made a graceful sashay that wordlessly proclaimed her indifference. At the top, she turned and swept aside the long wave of black hair that covered the scarred side of her face. She wanted not only a better view of the captive but also to appear more deserving of the moniker—bitch. With her best condescending tone, she replied, “Very good, Waapake. Channel that rage toward your master.” She laughed and flicked off the bulb, pleased that cracks of daylight seeping from around the outer cellar door did nothing to lift the imposing gloom.

Satisfied, she shut the door on her basement prison. Back against the door, she invited a calming breath to fill her lungs. But with the tranquility, a shred of guilt cracked her resolve—was she being too harsh?

The coyote’s distressed howl pierced her conscience.

Suffering from her own past barked through her chest and nipped at her heart. Times when her mother favored Adara least of three daughters—or didn’t favor her at all. The derision and neglect had branded Adara. Left her vulnerable even through the years she served as high priestess of Coon Hollow Coven—the only sibling to follow the tenures of their father, mother, and many Tabards before. Inadequacy bit Adara’s windpipe, gnawed at her spine until she cowered, arms shielding her chest.

On the toe of her black boot lay a notebook page scribbled with her mother’s handwriting. “Adara? Is that you?” Grizela Tabard’s grating voice verbalized the words in accompaniment to her cursive slashes.

Adara tried to kick the paper off, but a low draft replaced it, twice.

Her mother, now deceased and living there as an empowered house spirit, continued her caustic interrogation. “I thought that New Wish witch, Jancie, had finished you off last September. The way you’d let your guard down and pined after that Rowe McCoy, you deserved it. I thought I was finally free of having to teach you—”

Adara shut out the reprimand and retracted into the all-too-familiar shell where she’d spent most of her childhood. Head down and eyes glazed, she tried not to watch the script knifing the paper in unison with the cutting tone. She longed to close her lids or look away, but doing so would only exacerbate her mother’s lecture. Adara’s focus fell onto her upper arms. She clutched them with her unkempt hands, their nails only serving to illustrate Grizela’s low opinion of her. Bare of decoration, the finger where a silver marcasite snake once coiled during Adara’s priestship still felt exposed. Pride had swelled her heart when she wore that ring, passed down through the generations from the first Tabard priestess, her great grandmother. Adara’s nails, though still long, were now ragged, unpolished claws. Nothing resembling the manicured talons she maintained before her exile and recent weeks spent roaming the Hollow as a badger.

She’d wasted from her former self, the lost pounds straightening her feminine curves. Additionally, despite what she’d embraced as her new purpose—a new direction which promised fulfillment—something had withered inside. Adara now identified more with her badger animal form: its anonymity freed her from being identified as the failed priestess.

She folded further into herself, accepting she deserved her mother’s denigration and let the verbal assault continue to pummel and injure.

Adara’s head dropped lower, chin on chest. A glint of black against her chest caught her gaze. The onyx pendant—her father’s focus amulet, used to gather and enhance his magic that he’d left to her upon his death. It was the only thing she owned of his personal possessions, yet a generous gift, still containing a large portion of his incredible power at her access. But she longed to have more of him, a real interactive presence. She often wondered why Tercel Tabard’s empowered spirit had never returned to the family home.

The ponderous 1915 Victorian house breathed with countless deceased aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents—all except her father. The relations claimed residence in an array of inanimate objects, from old but fine leather wing chairs, tufted ottomans, and shabby window seats to Irish lace doilies, brocade wallpaper, and silver tea sets. When deemed necessary to ally with Grizela’s current mission against Adara, the others criticized her from within black and white photographs which hanging in every room, save the kitchen and her bedroom—her only areas of reprieve.

Even in quiet times, their icy glares were constant reminders that she’d inherited the family home by default, after her older sister and brother died in an accident and younger sister went mad. Grizela survived her husband and overruled the fondness for Adara he’d expressed in their will. She rubbed a thumb across the black gem’s smooth surface and thought of her father. I can understand why you didn’t want to spend eternity with Mother. Who would?

For that same reason, Adara dreaded returning to the Hollow and especially to the homeplace. She considered ridding the house of the soul-bearing artifacts and items, but doing so would dismiss her own soul’s empowerment, its ability to remain eternal in the real world. And though she detested the fact, she needed their collective Tabard power. Vengeance had beckoned her home. She’d lost her battle with Jancie Sadler, a novice witch who’d gotten lucky, thanks to some research into an historical family curse. Adara didn’t much blame the girl, although plenty of Coon Hollow witches who’d helped her did deserve retribution for besmirching the Tabard name. She owed that much to her father.

Adara tried to return earlier but was too weak, her power still drained. It took four months to heal and reconnect to her magic after what Jancie had done. And in that time, those same witches preyed upon Adara’s dearest friend Sibeal Soot. The coven’s female seer suffered unwarranted defamation and loss of clients, likely due to her association with Adara. Poor Sibby. Entrapped in an unfortunate love spell and made the laughing stock of the community.

Winter would not have been Adara’s preferred season to settle scores, despite the sharpness of her power element, the north wind; turbulent spring storms better matched her personality and would also do well to camouflage her deeds. However, her concern for Sibby ran deeper than any preference. They’d been best friends for thirty-eight years, since the start of grade school.

Bolstered by the passing of Yule, the time of new beginnings, Adara had paid a visit to the Hollow, a test to judge how she’d be received. Their looks of horror sizzled power through her veins—glorious and heady, like a perfectly aged bourbon. Her reputation still drew a delicious reaction; she couldn’t resist the intoxication. The time was right to exact revenge.

While acting as high priestess, Adara wore her father’s pendant sparingly, wishing to rule on her own merits. Now, without protection of her former office and its Coven Council, she needed all of his magic if she wanted revenge.

She rubbed a thumb across the smooth onyx and imagined her father’s face, his cheekbones high like her own. His power pulsed through her veins, and with it, resolve—the only way to prevent Grizela from detecting her presence. Adara regained composure, expanded her chest and straightened her spine.

The page fell from her foot and fluttered limply on the rug. The script grew dim and her mother’s voice sputtered a string of expletives. “Adara! How dare you turn away …”

With a deft twist of ankle and hip, Adara crushed the note into the rug as she moved past to Tercel’s roll top desk in the parlor. She shimmied into his large desk chair as he let her do when she was a child. Both then and now, it was her throne. The satin of her dress slid across its polished wood. She opened the top drawer and selected stationery embossed with an elaborate “T” and a silver ball-point pen. She’d missed these accoutrements during her temporary exile—if it could be called that—from the Hollow. But the retreat had nourished her soul and realigned her connection to the north wind.

She paused to admire the finery she’d taken for granted during her reign as priestess. In those years, a singular goal—power—routed her path, as if she’d worn blinders. Her thirst for power was limitless and addictive; she consumed it like wine, euphoric whenever coven residents revered her for not only magnanimous rulings but also for crumbs of benevolence. Especially for the paltriest courtesies. Fully backed by the founding families, who persuaded others through coercion, fear, or magic many shades darker than white, she could do no wrong. The ride had been amazing—until her father passed during the first year of her term.

Grizela’s then unrestrained scorn made the void left by Tercel’s death impossible to fill; Adara scavenged for rushes of power like an insatiable junkie. She lived desperate to see her father’s spirit return, searching everywhere for him. Men who possessed hints of her father’s suave demeanor, soft-spoken with resolute strength, became her weakness. She hated to admit, but Grizela was correct—Rowe McCoy had been Adara’s undoing—and so had Keir Sheridan.

During her recuperation, she’d worked hard to escape her obsession with power. That was behind her now. Only vengeance remained, a refreshingly simple goal. Or put in a more positive manner—part of her new outlook—clearing the air for a fresh start. Both men would suffer her counterblows, although she secretly wished the seer might enjoy it as he had before.

She stretched her legs long beneath the desk and began her message to him. Exact wording was critical, to be both specific and elusory: absolute in that Keir’s delay or refusal of her offer would result in his coyote’s ultimate death; explicit in that her terms dictated reconciliation of their past relations from when she and Keir shared office space in the Council building; yet ambiguous enough to be tempting.

She expressed the more precise objectives with ease, but the cryptic content gave her pause. Should she apply a spell to that portion in order to force Keir’s cooperation—or a step further—his acceptance? Would intimidation or force give her what she truly desired from him? On the other hand, could she chance having her heart shattered again? She tapped the pen against the desk’s raised lid, weighing the risk.

A car outside interrupted her decision-making, replaced it with dread. She’d spent the past weeks hiding out as a badger to remain undercover. Only when she’d abducted Waapake did she resume human shape and return to the Tabard house. She rose and peered through a crack in the brown velvet drapes. No one knew she was here.

Except for Sibeal, who wedged herself out of her Studebaker and wobbled toward the front sidewalk.

Adara loosed a held breath. She scurried to meet her friend at the door and pulled her inside by the arm. “Shouldn’t you park in the garage? I don’t want people to know I’m here, at least not yet.”

“Can’t see the point. I’ve been routinely checkin’ on your place, while you’ve been gone.”

“Oh, thank you for doing that. You’re a dear.” Adara linked elbows with Sibby and walked her to the parlor. “But maybe next time. I don’t want to raise suspicions.”

Sibby honked a laugh through her ski-slope nose, setting her belly jiggling. “Then you shouldn’t have been roamin’ ’round the coven like some daft badger who forgot to hibernate.”

“Well, by the looks of you, dressed in that pink-flowered dress, it’s no wonder I mistook the season.” Adara eyed her friend as they settled on a camel-hair settee. Rather than a tight bun, Sibby’s hair hung in salt-and-pepper curls past her shoulders like she’d worn in school. “I didn’t think you owned anything other than black.”

“Tyne likes me in pink. Says it makes my cheeks glow.” Sibby’s hallmark cackle rose an octave to an outright giggle, her complexion soon matching the camellias on her bodice.

Unsure how to reply to this odd change in her friend’s behavior, Adara kept quiet and concentrated on dampening the shock frozen on her face.

“Tyne is wonderful.” Sibeal’s saccharin drawl nauseated Adara; the prongs of the love spell set at Yule hadn’t loosened.

“Sibby, you’re under someone’s magic. This isn’t—”

“Yes, Tyne’s. I never thought I’d find someone.”

Adara bit her lip. Frumpy and plain, though with a good heart, her friend had never known romance. She’d stood by, not receiving a single glance, while men fell over Adara. Sibby had tried to comfort Adara when Grizela ended her one true love and forced them apart with threats of fierce magic. Maybe Sibby had been the lucky one: never having her heart broken, never having her hopes trampled, never knowing the disappointment when lust never turned into love. Adara reconsidered. “Tyne seems like a nice man and is certainly talented in his profession. No one comes close to his knowledge of magical tools. But is he treating you well?”

“Oh, yes. We’re havin’ so much fun. We go out to dinner in Bentbone and even Bloomington. And to shows. We’re goin’ ice skatin’ next weekend.”

Adara nodded though only managed a concerned smile. “How’s your business going? Do clients say anything about Tyne?”

“The strangest thing—my regular patrons haven’t been around much since Yule, but I’ve picked up some new ones, friends of Tyne’s.”

“Oh? What are they like?”

“Nice mostly. They ask lots of questions about me but don’t seem to believe I can’t foresee my own future.” Sibby slapped her knee and giggled. “Goddess knows, I want to know if Tyne intends to propose.”

“You said most are nice. What about the others?”

“A few want me to have the Summer Fae King remove the spell he placed on me and Tyne. Think I’m doin’ him harm.”

“And what do you say to them?” Adara leaned in, then drew back when Sibby beamed.

“If it’s a spell, then fae magic is grand.”

“How’s your income lately? Are those new customers requesting full readings?”

“Not so much. But Tyne’s seen a boom in business, and he takes me to dinner most nights.”

Adara picked at a snagged fingernail. “Aren’t you worried about not being able to pay your bills?”

“Nah. Love is enough. You should try it.”

Adara pursed her lips. “Wish I could.”

Sibby placed a hand over Adara’s. “I know. Your mom took Dwayne Sadler from you. That was over twenty-five years ago, and there’s been no one since.”

The sudden shift in their conversation struck a nerve—Adara pulled her hand away. Sensing the claustrophobic shell beginning to encase her, she shrugged it off, rose, and moved to the writing desk. “Could you please deliver a letter to Keir for me?”

“Glad to.” Sibeal’s sickening, ever-present smile widened beyond what Adara could endure. “Does the messenger get any hints about what devious magic the mysterious Ms. Tabard might be up to?”

“Just settling some unfinished business from my term as priestess.” Adara whisked the letter from the desk, and hurriedly reread the last lines she’d pondered earlier. Not allowing time for second-guessing, she folded the page, stuffed it in the addressed envelope, and handed it to Sibby, who raised a bushy brow.

“And what else? I know you too well. What’re you up to?”

“Nothing. Really.” Adara escorted her friend out the door and hoped the love spell would block her from consulting her tea leaves to discover more—or that bliss would make her forget altogether. “I’m glad you’re happy but be careful.” Hands shaking, Adara closed the door and turned the latch. Her friend’s dilemma, the question of perceived reality, twisted her own thinking about her note to Keir—was she thankful she didn’t apply a spell to it?

Chapter Six: Your Life as a Dream

A rasping cough dragged Keir to the edge of waking. Hot air seared his throat; despite cool night air in his bedroom reassuring him of his whereabouts, the nightmare’s fiery assault within would not abate. Even when his lungs rattled against ribs and his palm slid across a sweat-slickened cheek. He mentally reached for lucidity. However, the shadowy dream held him fast at the threshold of consciousness.

Unable to get free, he gripped the pillow and braced himself for what the illusion might reveal. Perhaps that was where truer clarity lay; dreams often provided insightful shamanic journeys. He would not run from the force cloaked in darkness. Between sputterings, he mustered a confident grin and voiced a mental greeting, “Game on. If I win, you reveal who stole my coyote.”

In response, fever rose from Keir’s injured knee and spread across his torso, flames licking at his neck.

Desperate to keep the fire from commandeering his mind, he flailed arms and legs against endless layers of blankets and sheets.

The more he battled, the tighter the bedding stuck to his damp skin, as if the challenge pleased the nightmare’s spirit.

With eyes welded shut by the internal blaze, Keir opened his mouth and panted, gulping cool air to calm himself. Surprised that he possessed a means to stand his ground, he took a breath in gratitude—the next in stealth, waiting for the nightmare’s move.

Keir’s vision scanned every detail of his mental vista. An apparent wind sent gray shadows into rhythmic motion amidst a shroud of blackness—or was that merely a façade? Did the shadows conceal who had stolen his coyote? He studied edges of the billowing vapors.

The oscillations lured him into the tranquility that promotes deep sleep: an obvious tactical deterrent of his adversary.

With hands clamped to wadded bedding, Keir resisted and roared, “Show yourself.”

As if his breath moved the shadows, a blue-black shine gleamed along one edge. A wisp of hair? Or fur—the guard hairs of Waapake’s tail? Keir’s pulse raced. He lunged forward into the dreamscape, hand poised to yank away the filmy curtain. Upon contact, the shadow dissipated like water through his fingers. In its place stood the familiar backyard apple tree, its trunk encircled with his mother’s favorite bench of chipped white wrought-iron—the safe spot from which he routinely began meditative journeys. Yet now, he felt anything but safe. He stalked around one side of the tree, desperate to know the hidden spirit’s identity.

Keir jumped back. Behind the tree lay an open coffin, the ashen face of his mother contorted by decay on display. Her once golden hair was now gray and matted with maggots. Clutching his stomach, he folded double. Limited by a half-sleep state, his fortitude was no match for the nightmare; it fed on his secrets, his weaknesses. It knew he couldn’t turn away and was bound to restoke his guilt for her death. Keir gazed upon her grotesque features, searching for but not finding a shred of her original beauty or a flicker of her living soul—the price of his failure.

Only when her vermin crawled up his legs did he beg for mercy, call to the dark spirit to end their game. While he scratched and rolled to and fro across his bed to rid his body of the assault, a thud jolted his eyes open. His thoughts cleared, and he was back in the reality of his room, the hardness of the wooden floor pressing against his hip.

He pushed to a sitting position, back against the bed, and checked the clock. He’d been in bed four hours, but it felt like he hadn’t slept at all. That might’ve been worthwhile if the nightmare had provided useful information. Or had it? He’d remained largely in control of his senses so the journey should’ve been instructive. Did he learn anything about the identity of Waapake’s thief? The clump of black hair at the shadow’s edge proved mysterious. When his hand neared the shadow curtain, he’d detected the presence of a spirit somehow connected to Waapake and wanted to interact.

But Keir’s guilt had cost him that valuable connection, creating a formidable wall. To the blame he already shouldered for three deaths, another impenetrable component of stone, cement, rock, or razor wire added to the growing barricade. Years ago, he’d accepted the limitation as his fate. He couldn’t bring back his loved ones from the dead. Shouldering the guilt was his penance. Sometimes he’d found ways to cope with the inadequacy. Other times he charged into the void of regret, allowing pain to pummel his soul, like what his parents and girlfriend must have experienced before they passed. Only then did Keir feel justified in being alive, while they were gone.

Rather than learn from his mistakes, he seemed destined to tread the same worn path, failing to protect Waapake and, therefore, deserving to endure more guilt.

Keir ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. Permitting grief to burn him as atonement for his shortcomings was weak: the easy way out—I’ve not lost Waapake. He’s alive, has to be alive. Don’t give up hope. How can I reveal who’s behind that shadow?

He pushed onto his knees. To his surprise, the swelling in the knee had lessened, and it supported his full weight, though muscle cramping radiated pain up the thigh. Ignoring the discomfort, he crawled to the rug where Waapake usually slept. A mix of silvery and dark fur covered the fabric. He grabbed a handful and bundled it together with a length of twine to make a new dream-gathering tool. That should guide his sleep to where he needed to go, the Middle Spirit World. There, he could return to the exact time of Waapake’s abduction and watch as an observer.

With the device hanging from his headboard, Keir resettled into bed and invited sleep.

Hours later, his six-thirty alarm freed him from a restless night. In dreams, he’d glimpsed the apple tree’s bench. Nothing else. He rubbed sleep from the corners of his eyes. Neither well-rested nor enlightened, he scowled at the wasted night.

His seven-fifteen Monday appointment would arrive soon. He pushed out of bed with a groan and held his aching head. Rather than waste effort to attempt opening a talking channel with the shadow spirit, why hadn’t he set a curse on it? That would be simple enough and easier. From the bathroom mirror, a hollow-eyed, whiskery face leered—a visage from the dark side who sought to do harm.

Years ago, on mornings after long nights of study, his teacher Chuquilatague often advised Keir that sleep and good health were essential: mind, body, and soul must be in balance to remain on the right side of shamanism.

With a splash of bracing, cold water onto his face, Keir renewed his commitment. He must only perform acts of goodness and see with his heart rather than his eyes or, worse yet, his afflicted ego. Only what the heart sees is truth.

With an unguarded heart and coffee mug in hand, he flung open the door to greet one of his regular clients. “Good morning, Mrs. McGivern. How are you today?”

Rosalie glanced his way long enough to utter a clipped “humph,” which indicated she expected whatever malady afflicted her to be relieved and fast. “Wish I could do that.” Before he could ask for an explanation, she moved forward, head downturned toward her feet. Only when the composition soles of her oxfords were anchored to the surety of hardwood past the rug did she lift her gaze.

In his office parlor, she took her usual perch on the stiff horsehair settee. He’d given up offering the more supportive leather club chair that would ease her arthritic discomfort. Instead, as her spine creaked against the firm, tufted upholstery and vertical lines wrinkled her upper lip, she set an equally rigid eye on him. “I’m needin’ help with my rheumatism today.” She rubbed the knobby knuckles of one hand, then the other, and gestured toward him with her pointed chin, its hairy fuzz capturing the side table’s lamp light like an aura. “So darned swollen, I can’t hardly grip the handle of my coffee cup. Have to hold it with both hands. Pleases my lil’ granddaughter when I act like her, but don’t do anything for me. Can only put off my quiltin’ so long, you hear.”

Under threat of the iron-gray glare that echoed the steely tint of her hair, Keir stumbled into the club chair nearest his desk. He truly perceived her affliction, accepted it as real, however not with his heart, which was necessary for true shamanic seeing and healing. His head ached from lack of sleep. His thoughts flashed along a chaotic circuit. Overfilled with his own worries, his heart went numb. Failing to remove the barricade, he stuffed the awkward empty space between them with the expected response, “Yes, I can understand.” The words rang empty, devoid of heartfelt empathy. In order to help his client, he needed to first reestablish his own balance. But how while Waapake was missing?

“Well, get on with it. Find a spirit that will help me. What you usually do.”

Keir blinked against sandpapery, tired eyes. He tried again, this time employing his sense of hearing, latching onto the tenuous strain in her voice, but couldn’t internalize that emotion. Struggling to grasp what steps he should take, even his logical and egoic mind abandoned him.

He needed his familiar. Animals, by nature, were attuned to altered realities. Before, whenever Keir had been recuperating from an infection, Waapake would aid his journeying. A quiet drumbeat or gentle humming created a bridge from coyote to seer; the animal’s spirit allies would gladly cross over and assist Keir—one of many reasons he missed his familiar. He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m having a difficult time—”

“Everyone knows your coyote’s gone missin’. I’m sure it’s hard and hope he’s back with you right quick.” Rosalie’s gnarled fingers scrubbed her afflicted knuckles. “I was just hopin’ my request wouldn’t be too much. You’ve done these healin’s so many times. Seems like it’d be routine since you can see in the dark.”

Keir shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. “I wish it were that simple. The best I can do is advise you to try the carving of the jay we used previously to treat your indigestion. Address the bird’s spirit as before but specify your new request.” As lines formed between Rosalie’s brows, he added, “And there’s no cost for today’s appointment.”

“I’d ’spect not. I can’t sees’ how a cure for indigestion’s gonna do my rheumatism any good.” She scooted to the edge of her seat, then rose. “I ’preciate your takin’ time to meet with me. And I sure do hope you find Waapake.”

Keir showed her to the door with leaden feet. He racked his mind for something of value to leave with her. Hand on the knob, he paused and made an attempt to bless her. “As winter snows turn to spring rains, may the pain of your rheumatism ease. As without, so within.” Though the words met his aesthetic, the tone of his voice sounded hollow, failing to impart anything from the spirit world. He opened the door and asked, “I’ll see you in two weeks?”

She called over her shoulder, “I’ll let you know. Depends on whether Sibeal can fix me up.” The mention of his competition, the other coven seer, shot a stab of pain through his impenetrable heart, which now bled a stream of grief and self-blame. Rosalie turned away and stumbled into his next client, arriving early. “’Scuse me, Chester.” She addressed the man with a lower tone, perhaps out of kindness to Keir. “Best to reschedule for later. Seer Keir isn’t quite up to snuff now, what with his coyote gone missing.” Though her words stung, the fact she could muster the kind of compassion he needed for healing frustrated him far more.

With bewildered eyes scanning Keir, Chester stepped onto the porch. “Heard from some that searched for Waapake how difficult it’s been on you. Is there anything I can do?”

“Thank you, Chester. Please let me know if you learn anything about Waapake.”

The stout coven cobbler leaned in. The firm grip of the artisan’s able hands grasped Keir’s into both of his. “Will do. But if you need anything else, please call me.” The man’s eyes gleamed with sincerity as he squeezed and released. “You take care now.”

Keir watched him leave. The people of the Hollow were good-hearted. They deserved his best. He had to find a way to cope, to not slight them with his plight.

He turned back inside, sank onto the hall seat’s cushion, and dropped his head into his hands. How in the matter of days had he lost so much: Waapake, the faith of his clients, possibly his livelihood?

There had to be a way to stop this downward spiral. What would Chuquilatague advise? Shamans were human and did face personal difficulties that hindered their ability to connect to the spirit world. How did they recover their balance? Keir swallowed hard—did some never regain their sight?

There had to be another way, something else he could try. He lifted his chest, back arched, eyes toward the heavens. Considering everything he and others had tried in the search for Waapake, his nightmare came closest to revealing useful information. His connection to whoever stood behind the shadow was tangible. If Keir could better harness the power of his dreams, he might discover the key to finding his familiar.

He rested the back of his head against the wall. He’d worked with clients’ dreams—invoking them, analyzing them, deterring them—but not with his own. He reviewed his mentor’s lessons. “Create a dream gatherer.” The new one, comprised of Waapake’s fur, had failed. The dreamcatcher picked off by the white crow might’ve helped. “Ask for guidance during a dream.” Keir had already tried—the spirit behind the shadow thwarted him in a sort of game. If it truly was a game, perhaps the spirit would enjoy a rematch—or expected one.

Eager to test the idea, Keir sat straighter. That’s it. I’ll chase the spirit through its dream world. His hands trembled so much he’d never be able to fall asleep. But he had no more client appointments today. Would a warm bath or full meal allow him to nap? Impatient, he couldn’t wait until nightfall. He rose and paced from the front parlor office and back. Images of Waapake, injured or worse, fought with Keir’s plan until the cramp in his thigh intensified and dictated. Sleep was not possible.

He massaged the muscle and employed exaggerated knee bends as he made his way to the bookcase behind his desk. There he located the notebook he’d created during his studies with Chuquilatague. Keir thumbed to their discussions about dream work and found one lesson he’d never tried: Your Life as a Dream. His handwritten notes described a practice where the shaman intentionally views everything in his waking life as a dream symbol.

Reality—manifests as a detailed and solid dream.

Sensory input—registers as hallucinations of the dream state.

Indications for use: to gain insight into worries and concerns; to better understand main themes of one’s life; to enable new perspectives that will foster solutions to difficult problems.

Keir ran a finger down the page for clarity; all of his mentor’s lessons had proved deceptively simple. Yet, even without guidance, Keir had to try.

He set the book down and surveyed the room he knew well, looking at each object with fresh eyes, as if from a distance and clouded by the haze of a dream. New features of the metallic sheen of a lamp base captivated his attention. In the rug, colors he’d never noticed before leaped up at him in vivid display. His pulse quickened. The technique worked. However, while discovering nuances of his home was interesting, that seemed unlikely to provide information about Waapake.

Despite the persistent leg cramp, Keir managed to drive to the fork of Owl’s Tail Creek. He parked in grass ruts trampled by earlier search vehicles. On the way back into the ravine, the wind strangely accelerated in the protected valley. He zipped his parka and rummaged in his pocket for hat and gloves but paused when faint, sweet notes whistled through the trees. Was that the song of the visionary woman? He followed the sound. His heartbeat, reverberating against his windpipe, matched the cadence of her melody long before his ears registered the poignant notes. Did her music hold a message as before?

He hobbled closer to the great willow, then stood quiet, opening his senses. The tune lifted from his heart to his vocal cords, and he hummed along, yet heard no words.

He checked his focus, which, in his excitement, had slipped back to viewing reality. He took a deep breath and adjusted, now seeing the area as the tableau of a dream.

Bare tree trunks near the willow glistened with thousands of fae lights. Ice patches covering the stream refracted late morning sunlight into a brilliant display of ever-changing hues. He stared, mouth agape, at the wonders of nature and fae in every direction; the winter world, placid in reality, came alive in the dreamscape.

A sudden chill came over him. The song stopped as a gust lashed his bare head. He tugged the knit cap over his ears, closed his eyes to the dazzle, and listened. A single, soft note resonated within his heart, then his vocal cords picked up the second and following tones. He hummed a melodic phrase and opened his entire being to the music.

The woman’s song slowed to a mournful dirge that rattled Keir with sorrow. His self-blame resurfaced, the cramping in his leg spreading across both legs and arms. He shook out his limbs in an attempt to dispel the discomfort. A tidal wave of sobs rushed from his diaphragm and flooded his chest. Despite all, he kept his eyes shut tight to maintain contact with the clairvoyant spirit’s message. Even when the song triggered tears of grief to drip from beneath his lids. Who was he channeling? Was it a faery intent upon having a laugh at his folly? Or the nightmare’s shadow spirit reopening their game?

He ceased his humming and sucked in a breath in order to demand her identity. The moment he stopped his accompaniment, she changed the song. The rhythm quickened with such a joyful emotion that Keir couldn’t help but rejoin; the lively reel tempted his feet to tap, his knees to bend, arms to sway. All traces of cramping vanished. Euphoria intensified his humming. He sang, matching her phonetic vocalizations that morphed into words: pardon, unchain, spring, freedom. Whatever their meaning, he didn’t care, intoxicated by bliss, his wall of self-blame crumbling.

When his throat rasped from shouting those words, again the woman altered their song. This time to a tranquil, lilting cadence, which brought Keir to settle himself in a seated position amid a patch of sunlight. One phrase comprised her lyrics—accept peace. Only his heart sang along with her, but that was more than enough to fill him with all the hope he needed.

She brought her tune to a close, and the air stood silent, filled with an afterglow of serenity. In that still point, he understood her message: in his life he had only been open to the extremes of duality, at the expense of embracing abiding peace; while caught in a web of grief, he had forsaken acceptance. Her message rang true, yet puzzled him. How could this help solve the problem he faced?

The woman answered, softly, not in song, as though from within the willow behind him. “If you use this mindfulness to fight Waapake’s captor, you will win.”

He flinched and twisted to look back but saw no one. With eyes clamped shut in case his connection to her required deep listening, he blurted, “Who are you?”

“I am Unole, whom you need not remember.” Her voice blew to him upon a breeze.

“I do remember you. You’re the daughter of Chuquilatague, and also of the wind. Thank you so much for helping me. Is my Waapake alive?”

“The Coyote Stars sought me on his behalf. It is possible he is alive, or not. What I know is, to keep your balance and find him, you must accept either outcome: death is a rite of passage as much as birth.”

“Yes, it is. Do you know where Waapake is?” He dug a boot in the dirt, an outward display of raging impatience which he quickly checked.

“Sadly, no. I only tasted his captor’s energy—extreme, relentless, and vain—a dangerous yet weak foe.”

“Then, if I understand you, I must remain mindful to outsmart the captor—a simple but demanding task. You are certainly your father’s daughter.” He waited, hoping she’d accept the compliment. “And I wish to always remember you.”

A faint giggle sounded nearby, although he may have imagined what was only twigs clattering as bits of melting ice dropped.

“In thanks, I want to offer you a blessing: as the sun rises and warms the earth, as the moon rises and blesses all life, may my soul fill with gratitude for the goodness and kindness that is all of you.”

A soft “thank you” followed more tinkling of twigs. Her heart still held the purity of youth, like the girl her remembered, but he marveled at how her powers had developed.

“May I reach out to you again?”

“Yes, upon the wind of the willows.”

Keir opened his eyes to reality, trusting her song would remain in his heart.

Free from any physical pain, he climbed the hillside and drove home. In the calm of nightfall, he would call upon Waapake’s captor and initiate their game holding a new advantage. Like Rosalie said, I can see in the dark.

After parking the car in the garage, he checked the box for mail. In addition to usual bills, he found a curious letter bearing a heady energy. It was addressed with a familiar cursive script and smelled of a vanilla and patchouli perfume that triggered a reflex—heat prickling the back of his neck—he fought to deny. While walking toward the porch, he slid a finger under the envelope flap and withdrew the note.

Dearest Keir,

Please be informed that I have possession of Waapake. I have every intention of returning him but for a price. I hope you might find my terms pleasing, so we can resume our previous clandestine relations. Once my offer has been met, I will return the coyote unharmed. If not, I cannot guarantee his safety.

Yours,

Adara M. Tabard

Keir crumpled the note inside his fist.

Chapter Seven: Sanguine-hued Regret

With Adara’s letter wadded into Keir’s fist, heat blazed across his face. Fierce winter air bit into the resulting sweat on his exposed skin before he could reach his front porch. He shivered with a clammy chill—a reaction he’d experienced too many times around the high priestess years ago. Recognizing the response, coarse sandpaper scratched his soul with loathing for her, but also for himself—allowing her to still affect him.

Inside, he strode toward the office, making a too-sharp turn into the doorway. His injured knee caught and sent a jag of pain up his thigh. He groaned and rubbed the sore muscle, limping through the room to where he tossed her note onto the desk. The leather chair made a like noise as he sank into it, his hands clutching the injury, body trembling.

“Shit.” That badger in Tall Sam’s snuffbox. Keir should’ve known. She stayed around in her animal form after her grand entrance at the Yule party at Fable resort’s opening. Why didn’t she leave him alone? Keir winced at both his stupidity and pain.

How could he fight her?

He leaned into the support of the chair’s high back, his knee drawn close, fingers methodically working the knotted tendons. His mind grappled for ways to rescue his coyote from that woman. He considered the direct approach: standing up to her was long overdue. Jaw set, he resolved to go to her home and demand Waapake’s release. She would laugh in his face, raucous notes accompanied by the caw of her ruthless crow familiar Dearg. He could handle that; he was no longer the boy-trying-to-become-a-man he was when they met. However, could he stand firm if her pitch guttered to that raspy trill which rendered him a virtual Pavlov’s dog amenable to her bidding? He wiped a hand over his still damp forehead, unsure.

He never knew whether she’d captivated him with her incredible magic or her high standing in the community or both. As a young man wanting to establish himself as a seer, Keir stood in awe of her power, unlike that of any witch he’d encountered. The slightest curl of sanguine-hued lips warming her alabaster complexion and chiseled cheekbones beguiled both men and women alike: as if her lipstick contained an ineluctable ingredient; or the blue gleam of her raven-black hair emitted an enchantment; or the scent of her perfume, a potion. He aspired to command attention as she did, to be as vital to the coven. Her essence intrigued him, though he knew better and regretted. Chuquilatague had taught him to deal with tribespeople who would scale a shaman’s shoulders for political gain, the silver-tongued and golden-eyed as he spoke of them.

Needing a place to practice besides his father’s home, Keir accepted Adara’s offer and rented a room within the Coven Council building—which conveniently housed her own office. He’d been naïve, not comprehending the agenda she hid behind the black satin of her priestess robe.

He cursed himself for taking too long to understand Adara was a woman people loved to hate: dangerous yet so compelling, they struggled to turn away. She did little to improve life for Coon Hollow’s residents, aside from providing extravagant sabbat and esbat celebrations, where she displayed her charms and reaped their adoration. Unknowingly, he’d been her pawn, playing a key role in those festivities.

He reached for the coat stand near his desk, brushing a hand over the display of crystal talismans and velvet robes edged in braided trims. He winced, remembering how she’d dressed him to look every part her equal. Before the end of his first year, with her endorsement, he built enough clientele to earn a living, a good one—a bittersweet achievement after his father’s fatal accident months before.

Keir returned to the desk and buried his head in his hands. Minutes ago, Unole convinced him of her method, principled and moral. It was likely her father’s method as well. Each of Chuquilatague’s lessons proved invaluable, yet so direct, they required skill and practice to implement. Keir rubbed his temples. How could he remain mindful? Sure, he knew Adara’s weaknesses and well. Definitely enough to use them against her. But she possessed the trump card and meager compassion. She could destroy him by divulging just a few words.

Under the desk, the pain in his knee throbbed anew. The intensity roiled his gut, and he clutched a hand to his abdomen. Fever burned a trail across his forehead, and saliva pooled in his mouth. He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat and staggered from the office. With sweating palms, he grappled to hold the cold porcelain of the powder room’s toilet, dry heaving. He rested a cheek against the rim and waited to regain steadiness. When at last able to stand, he leaned on the lavatory. A splash of icy water onto his face realigned his priorities: he had to get Waapake back. Dragging a towel over his skin, Keir returned to the parlor office desk.

He snatched the phone and dialed Logan’s number. There had to be a way for the current high priest to protect Keir, some legal means to stop Adara’s bribery. Could he admit it all to Logan, tell one of his best buddies that he’d withheld secrets? Keir let out a sigh. Logan and his friends would understand, after the stories were wrenched from his gut.

Worse than that, far worse—the truth Keir had worked hard to conceal would become known to the community. Not everyone would accept his explanation, and they’d churn the Hollow’s gossip mill. Clients would be lost. His reputation ruined. Damn her. He slammed the receiver into its cradle. Why now?

Since last autumn at the Mabon sabbat, when Jancie had fought and won a battle that unseated Adara and sent her into exile, his life had taken a positive turn. He began to enjoy his profession as he’d originally embraced it with his soul, according to his own values. Stepping out of her shadow, he moved his practice into his home. Residents came to understand he offered them more than her devious brand of glamour; he accepted their most difficult requests, rolled his sleeves and got dirty using his magic at their houses, barns, and cellars. His sincerity and dedication persuaded many of Sibeal’s patrons to employ his services. For the first time, he tasted the sweetness of hard-won pride.

Keir shook his head. Why did he think he deserved that anyway—after failing the loved ones he’d lost? A throb of regret sliced through his temples. The pain was too great. He couldn’t face more, couldn’t lose Waapake.

Keir unfurled the crumpled letter. The script made his eyes burn with rage. Her perfume on the paper, heady vanilla and patchouli tantalizing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, elicited a new kind of suffering deep within him.

“Damn her.” His voice cracked as he shoved her note and all that lay behind it onto the floor: he had to see her and face the consequences. There was no other way.

He rose and glared at the snarl of books and pens, where Adara’s handwriting perched in undisputed dominion. He stuffed it into his pants pocket and prepared to leave.

Chapter Eight: The Inner World

Keir threaded his arms into a jacket, swung open his back door and narrowly missed colliding with Rowe on the stoop.

“Whoa. You’re going somewhere in a hurry.” Rowe spun aside and grabbed for the railing. “Did you find where Waapake is?”

“Yes. Adara has him.” Not wanting Rowe to read anything from his inflection, Keir kept his tone flat.

“Adara? How—is she still around after showing up at the Yule party?” Rowe’s nostrils flared, eyes darkened and pinched together.

“Yes. She sent me a note.” Keir dropped his gaze as he brushed past and moved down the steps.

Rowe followed. “She found him. That’s great news, isn’t it? Are you heading there to retrieve him?”

Keir set his sights on the garage and hobbled ahead, best he could with the ache in his thigh.

“Slow down on that leg. Let me go with you. You don’t know what she’ll do.”

Keir hissed out a breath through clenched teeth, blocking a torrent of curses about how very well he did know her vicious side. He locked his concentration on maintaining a steady pace.

At the corner of the garage, Rowe caught and turned Keir by the arm so that the two faced each other. Squinting with a look of confusion, Rowe asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just concerned about Waapake—his health.” Keir fought to push the truth away to keep it from reflecting outwardly. “An injury might’ve been what caused him to get separated from me.”

“Didn’t Adara say how he was?”

Keir shook his head, not trusting what might leak from his voice. He waited a heartbeat, and when his friend didn’t ask more, he tugged his arm free.

A single step later, Rowe hurled the expected interrogation. “There’s something you’re not saying.” With that statement, a door to Keir’s past creaked open, one he thought he’d locked years ago.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just in a hurry to get to Waapake, and I’d rather go alone and take him to the vet.” Keir tossed a reply over his shoulder, attempting to dismiss the topic.

He waited until Rowe began speaking, before grasping the garage door handle and giving it a shove. Not hearing the next inquiry would relieve Keir of having to respond, a lame excuse but his best option at the moment.

Metal grated against metal—a foreshadow of his coming encounter with Adara? To better escape Rowe’s probing, Keir moved around the back of the car, steadying himself with a hand trailed along his car’s trunk and fender. The cold steel infused his spine with the strength necessary to outplay the former high priestess.

Rowe skirted by and leaned against the driver’s door. “We’ve been friends a long time. Tell me what’s bothering you. I’d be glad to go along and help; I can drive since your leg’s bothering you.”

The icy metal crystallized Keir’s commitment as he met his friends’ gaze. “I can handle it.”

“If it involves Adara, no one should handle her alone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Rowe folded his arms. “I needed all of you guys to get her off me last year. And after that, it took most of the coven for Logan to put a dent in her ring of followers.”

“Move aside.” To force his friend to concede, Keir set his jaw and held his gaze steady on Rowe—a standoff. Neither moved for several seconds.

It was Rowe who buckled and cast his eyes away, though he remained against the car door. A muscle twitched along his temple, a sign of his anxiety about Adara, when she wanted nothing but to seduce him. Devoid of compassion, Adara had applied a dangerous, irreversible charm to an innocent girl, made her a pawn in a larger plan. The magic cost the girl her ability to bear children, confused her mind, and left her ailing mother without care. Could Keir take on Adara by himself—conversely, could he risk her harming anyone else?

Rowe’s hand on Keir’s shoulder jolted him from deep thought. “Keir, what is it, man?”

“Nothing. Past mistakes haunting me.” Even that much of an admission forced Keir to look away. How could he tell his friends the truth?

“You protected me and Jancie against Adara. I owe you one now.”

“Thanks, but I have to do this alone.”

Rowe lifted his fedora and rubbed his forehead. “Okay. But if you need me or Logan or the girls, just ask. We’ll have your back.” Though Rowe voiced his acceptance, he remained where he leaned, eyes burning into Keir as if trying to detect more—luckily, none of his friends possessed mind-reading magic.

The sound of car tires crunching over the gravel driveway ended the inspection. Keir and Rowe moved outside where Aggie’s old, emerald-green Nash sedan sputtered to a stop.

Jancie stepped from the passenger side and announced, “Rowe, Logan told me to have you either call him or report to the Council office right away. He left you a message on your cell.”

“Thanks. I left it in the car.” Rowe hustled to his own vehicle and she joined him.

The interruption let Keir escape Rowe’s scrutiny, but now Aggie’s car blocked him in the garage, unable to pursue the real confrontation. He yelled, “I’m on my way out. Could you move your car?” With luck, the girls had come to find Rowe and would soon leave.

Aggie smiled his way and approached. “Oh, before you go, can I ask you something? Logan and I just retraced the crime scene and found something. Is this yours?” She rummaged in her purse and withdrew a black leather glove that looked like one of his.

He dug into his jacket pockets and located the mate, along with Adara’s crinkled note.

“Thanks.” He accepted the damp glove. “I must’ve dropped it when I was there a few minutes ago.”

“I spotted it in a patch of ice near the great willow. Strange thing—when I picked it up, there was a single white windflower in bloom underneath. Didn’t see any others. Did you learn anything new?”

“Uh.” He stared at the glove, marveling that Unole had remained there after he left—how her essence had discovered his lost item. “Yes, I guess I did.”

She looked at him with expectant eyes.

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Try me. Maybe it’ll help me find Waapake.”

“Um, it’s a long story. I do know where he is, and I was on my way out to see if I can get him.” He checked on the likelihood of avoiding Rowe and found him huddled close in conversation with Jancie. They were both looking his way, then averted their gazes the moment Keir’s eyes met theirs.

“Fantastic,” Aggie yelped and dug in her bag for the keys. “I think Rowe’s about to leave, and I’ll repark there.”

“You and Jancie will be staying?” Preoccupied, Keir had forgotten.

A small laugh escaped her lips, reminding him of Unole’s bell-like laughter. “Jancie told you she’d be back to cook dinner for everyone. We’re all so busy searching, it’ll give us a moment to catch up on news about Waapake.”

“That’s right. She did. I forgot. But I do appreciate it. I’ll let her in before I go.”

“I thought I’d help her, if that’s okay.”

“That’s great. Thank you.” He shifted the glove to his other hand and retrieved his keys. Brushing the leather released an odor. Not of musty tanned hide. Instead, it was delicate, white, and floral—jasmine, flowering tobacco, and other fragrant plants he remembered by sight, but couldn’t name, from the Cherokee reservation.

He walked Aggie to the back porch, and Jancie waved goodbye to Rowe as she caught up to them.

“Keir has to go somewhere now,” Aggie said to her. “I’ll move my car and be right back.”

Jancie nudged Keir’s shoulder. “Hey, I didn’t see you limping when you walked to the porch. That knee must be healing.”

Keir looked back at the cane he’d left propped against the trunk of his car; he hadn’t needed it, hadn’t felt any pain. He smiled. “I guess it is.”

“That’s great. But I’ll get your cane in case you end up needing it later.” She dashed to gather it and waited a moment to return with Aggie.

As Keir leaned in to unlock the house door, in the close space, again he detected the scent on the returned glove. Compelled, he lifted it to better experience the feminine fragrance of Unole’s essence.

“What is it?” Aggie asked, now behind him. “Fae magic?”

“No, not fae magic. I’ll explain later when I’m not in a hurry.”

“Maybe a good story to share during dinner.” Jancie stepped into the mudroom, wasting no time removing her coat and heading toward the kitchen.

Keir hung in the doorway, conflicted. He fingered the burning note inside his pocket, forearm muscles taut. Yet like a persistent honey bee after nectar, a whisper in his ear reminded him to outwit Adara with a powerful sense of calm—Unole’s message, her own gentle strength—rather than with the rage boiling within him.

Aggie twisted her lips to one side and touched his arm. “Maybe talking about what you learned will help you sort things out.”

Her past connection to Waapake and the coyote’s mother made Keir pause. He nodded and motioned for Aggie to enter.

She slipped out of her parka and proceeded to the kitchen. “I’ll make us some tea, then we’ll talk.”

He perched on a stool at the center prep table, while the pair maneuvered around the kitchen as if it was their own. The two New Wish witches possessed culinary magic few in the Hollow could match. They preferred his large country kitchen and sprawling home as a gathering place for their group of friends.

After a few minutes, Aggie set two steaming mugs near him and one beside Jancie, who had taken a spot over the opposite counter, while multiple knives chopped herbs under her magical guidance.

From her seat on a stool beside him, Aggie blew from her tea and took a sip. “Last night, I tried to appeal solely to the tip of my wand that is threaded with Waapake’s fur. I thought it might tell me something about him. The end vibrated a bit, but I couldn’t isolate its magic apart from the rest of the wand.”

“Interesting. I wondered how your wand reacted to his disappearance.”

“It operates fine, but that only tells me I’m tapping into Waapake’s heritage, not anything specific about him. I’ve never tried to use my wand to contact the sources of its three powers: the matriarch sycamore tree Nannan; my Gran; an ancestral coyote. This morning, I went into Nannan’s woods to ask her if that sort of communication was possible since she donates power to one of the tips. She told me to use the wand’s cumulative energy, from all three sources, to call upon Waapake’s direct ancestors. Gran’s energy inside the third tip might reveal something that can be pieced together with info given by the other two sources.”

Keir peered at Aggie through the steam rising from his mug. “Our matriarch sycamore might be onto something useful.”

“I’ll try after nightfall when powers transmit better.” She swiveled to face him. “Now tell me what you discovered near the great willow.”

Keir related how he’d connected to Unole through her wind song.

Rapt by the tale, Jancie hadn’t noticed one of her pots had boiled over, sparking and foaming like a cauldron potion. “Darn.” A flick of her fingers and the spill vanished. “Chuquilatague’s daughter has some fascinating magic. I can harness the south wind’s clouds to create weather at my desire, but communicating on the wind is difficult. I’m still new to witchcraft. Is her song skill rare?”

Aggie replied, “In New Wish, I know two elemental wind witches, sisters, who use it like a telephone between them but only inside our tiny valley and with each other. Nothing like what Unole did. Very cool.”

“Native Americans are keenly aware of spirits in the natural world,” Keir added. “As children, long before they realize they possess magic, they are taught to revere nature. I gained much more than shamanic skills while studying on the reservation.”

Aggie pointed to the returned glove resting on the counter. “That has Unole’s magic on it, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Smell.” He passed it to her. “I don’t think it was an accident you found it and brought it back to me. It’s her way of reminding me how to best free Waapake.”

Aggie sniffed. “Mmm. White wildflowers. Jasmine, tuberose, flowering tobacco. Jancie, you’re the herbalist. What do you make of this?”

Jancie directed the stove, lowering all four burner flames, and grabbed the glove. Eyes closed, she appraised the scent. “You missed heliotrope and night phlox,” she said, then gave her analysis. “A masterful blend—gentle yet resolute, designed to not be overlooked.” She returned it to Keir and stood straighter, her jaw set, as if Unole’s magic affected her own will. “Rowe said you know Adara has Waapake. Is that true?”

Keir choked on a swallow of tea.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She leaned closer, face stern. “I’m not surprised after her appearance at the Yule party. Neither is Rowe. He said you wouldn’t let him help you retrieve Waapake or explain why not, so I won’t press.”

Keir let go of a shallow breath. “Thank you.”

“After what she did to my dad and what she planned for Rowe, she deserves the B-word many times over. Whatever happened between you and her in the past—well, it’s her fault, not yours. I can sense your rage. Its heat is oozing off of you—or boiling over, like that pot of potatoes.” She tipped her head toward the stove.

Aggie’s gaze briefly met Jancie’s before she addressed Keir. “With all that anger, do you think you can follow Unole’s advice—stay centered and not fly off?”

“I thought so.” He studied his hands. “But, well, Adara is the one holding Waapake captive—for ransom.”

“What the hell?” Jancie fisted a dish towel. “That woman has no limits.”

Aggie’s hand trembled as she set her mug down. “Is Waapake okay?’

Keir looked from one to the other. “I don’t know. She sent a note and said he was, but—”

“Her word means nothing,” Jancie spat.

Aggie reached across and freed the towel from her friend’s torment. “I’ve never met Adara, but by Jancie’s reaction, I think you need to get a better handle on what Unole is saying.”

“You’re right, and I would like to talk with Chuquilatague as well. But he’s old and can’t travel easily.” Keir studied his tea as if the golden brew could supply an answer. “Waapake’s in danger. Going to the reservation will take time I don’t have.”

Jancie swallowed hard, then after a pause, said, “I have a feeling Rowe can distract Adara for a while.”

He studied the lines of tension etched on her forehead. “Are you sure you want to make that offer, put him at risk again?”

“If it means teaching that woman a real lesson, stopping her from harming other, then yes, I am.” She forced a breath out through her nose. “I’m sure Rowe will agree.”

“I can’t endanger others.”

Jancie scoffed, “Try to convince Rowe or Logan of that once they learn the truth.”

“Maybe I can help so they don’t need to be involved,” Aggie mused. “Let’s see how Nannan’s directions work tonight to tell us more about Waapake’s situation.”

Under threat of an incoming storm, nightfall arrived early, pleasing Keir. He’d spent the past hour pacing the house and checking at the windows. In the kitchen, he announced, “Aggie, the gloaming hour has begun. Let’s try your wand.”

“Be right with you.” She finished setting the table and met him in the mudroom for their coats.

Holding the large messenger bag that always accompanied her, she followed him outside.

“I’m coming, too,” Jancie called before the door shut and, moments later, joined them at the apple tree.

As if a child had colored the western sky with crayons, broad swaths of pink and orange streaked behind the winter-bare tree line. Keir marveled at the intense hues, but closer inspection revealed a more impressive sight. Along his property line, upper branches of the forest trees were tangled with what appeared to be enchanted cobwebs. Glistening white filaments were bedazzled with frozen gems in all shades of amber. His breath caught when he spied the apple boughs draped with the same mystic garlands.

“Ooh,” Aggie cooed, her neck craned as she whirled, arms wide, beneath the tree.

He cupped one of the golden jewels, its light pulsing against his palm with obvious warmth. “Remarkable. I’ve never seen anything—”

“I wonder …” She removed the wand from her pack and revealed two of the three ends already activated. The glow, radiating from a large amber gemstone fixed to one tip, bathed her face in soft, orange light. “Wow. Look at my Gran’s gem—and how Nannan’s tip is vibrating.”

Jancie came alongside, and a shiver shot through her. “You’re lucky to have the matriarch tree of Coon Hollow eager to share her magic with you.”

“Yep, I am.” Aggie glanced twice at her trembling friend, then wrapped an arm around her. “Where’s your coat, girl?”

“I have to hurry back inside and take the roast chicken out but didn’t want to miss anything; you do some cool stuff with that wand.”

“The spirits are already stirring.” Keir stared up at the light display. “Their magic’s putting on a good show.”

“Only the coyote part of my wand isn’t responding,” Aggie said in despair. “Not sure what to do about that.”

“Let me see if I can clear my head enough to journey, at least enough to trigger your connection.” He sat on the wrought-iron bench encircling the tree’s trunk. From there, the usual point of origin for his shamanic journeys, his mind should naturally drop into the soil and follow the tree’s roots to enter the Lower World. He stilled his thoughts and imagined the skim of ice under his feet. Intrusions of molecules other than water created spaces in the crystalline structure. Channeling ahead to the out-of-body journey, he focused on one such rift that would permit his passage to the softer, porous dirt beneath.

He pried into the crevice, his body shrinking as he traveled. However, something pushed back from the other side—hard. He rolled away, and a maggot spewed slime onto his face, its stench roiling through his stomach.

The larva’s cavernous mouth smacked closer as Keir inched backward.

He grappled to find a handhold along the ice and pull to safety. At last, his fingers gripped something substantial. He levered his weight, only to collapse a few feet away from the oozing predator when the hard mass broke free. A chalky shard remained clutched in his hand—a bone fragment riddled with pinholes, signs that decomposers had rotted the once-living remains.

Keir’s heart lurched. He’d entered the world of his mother’s coffin, fabricated by the nightmare spirit—Adara’s dark playground. She’d been the one challenging him in that mind game. Panic sucked air from his windpipe. He gasped, suffocating.

“Keir! Are you okay?” Aggie’s soft voice filtered down to him. “What you’re doing is working. Give me your hand.”

Her warm touch curved his fingers around something smooth, a rod.

“The coyote tip of my wand is humming. Can you hear it?”

Grateful to be relocated, rescued from Adara’s clutches, he tightened his focus around the wooden shaft, even though he couldn’t hear anything. At once, he detected the strength of the coven’s matriarch sycamore: a new portal to the spirit world. Her roots threading across the entire Hollow grounded him, supported him as he climbed the wand’s trunk. The air grew crisp. A breeze blew against his face, whined and yipped in his ears. Encouraged by the sound, he shinnied farther until his body wavered to one side from what must have been a precarious perch, then paused there to listen.

The wind howled like distant animals—coyotes accompanying nature in song. Heartened, Keir worked himself a bit higher and detected the inflow of the wand’s three powers—he was nearing the terminal divisions. His weight now swaying, he dared not rise higher. But there was more to know, more to be revealed from the three twigs. He followed the direction of the howling. With a groan, he extended an arm overhead and reached until his side ached from the stretch.

The moment his hand latched onto the sycamore’s smooth wood, his mental vision exploded with a panorama of stars and night sky. Myriad astral bodies formed a river across a midnight sea. Beside him, softer fae lights glowed along the white web-like filaments he’d seen in the apple tree. With Nannan’s assistance, he’d passed into the Middle World of Spirits.

The Upper World had to be close. If he could get there, a teacher would be waiting. He reestablished his intention, in hopes it might boost him higher: I seek the knowledge of Waapake’s ancestors to tell me how to save him.

Amid the river of stars, one shined brighter and whiter. Its rays widened into lobes of a flower—a windflower. Unole’s clear voice sang overtop the coyotes’ wails: I will be your bridge, so your heart may open to teachings of the old ones, the Coyote Stars’ lineage. The intoxicating scent of white night phlox punctuated her pauses.

Tears clouded Keir’s vision. How could this young woman possess such strength, such goodness? And a desire to help him?

The mist in his eyes seeded a dense fog all around him. He blinked and the vapor had vanished with his passage to a new dimension. Only he and the Coyote Stars filled the Upper World. Unole’s presence had disappeared, but her invisible grace still tethered him on this journey and he was grateful.

The teaching of the Coyote Stars transcended the language of words, the message transmitted into his being as pure light, pure emotion, pure knowing: Waapake would remain whole and healthy only long enough for Keir to do what was right, wasting not one moment on wrong-thinking or wrong-doing.

Keir remained long after the teaching ended, listening to the chattering chorus of yips and howls growing distant.

At last, he climbed down the wand and opened his eyes to Jancie’s and Rowe’s etched brows and Logan’s blue eyes darkened with storm clouds. It was Aggie’s smile that Keir reached for. Through her wand, she’d been with him. He pulled her into a quick hug, then announced to the others, “Waapake is safe for now, and will be long enough for me to visit Unole and Chuquilatague. I must find a way to stop Adara from harming Waapake and anyone else.”

Chapter Nine: New Moon

The next morning Keir rescheduled the rest of his client appointments for the week. He locked the house and hurried toward his already-packed car but paused at the apple tree, now unadorned and silent. Although needing to get on the road, he squinted at the skim of ice coating its branches, tried to discern a trace of last night’s magic. What made him hesitate—did he need proof his shamanic journey had been real? He chided himself for requiring reassurance; Chuquilatague had trained him to question but not doubt.

By the time Keir drove from the Hollow heading toward the highway south to Louisville, the meditative lull of the car’s engine crystallized his goals: he did want validation. Not of Unole’s methodology but, instead, of how he could be succeed using those skills. And of why she championed him.

Recognizing the niggling sensation of doubt, he slapped a hand to his forehead. A lesson from Chuquilatague on that topic would also be welcome. Keir chuckled. Chuquilatague would teach more than he wanted to hear—though maybe as much as he needed.

Along the seven-hour route, Keir took limited stops. He had to arrive by late afternoon to be present for the short window of time when the tribe would observe tonight’s new moon. Winter’s sun set early, which left only about forty minutes for the blessing.

Luck was with him, the roads clear of snow and ice. He had made good time and, by four o’clock, turned into the wooded lane leading to his reserved rustic guest cabin.

Awenasa still worked as the Cherokee hostess for the reservation’s special guests. When he called last evening, she immediately remembered him and promised to ready the lodging he’d called home for a summer five years ago.

He turned into ice-skimmed gravel tire tracks that led to his cottage. It hadn’t changed. Rough-hewn round logs, not the squared variety used around Bentbone and the Hollow, made the cabins seem more alive, almost a different but distinct species, amid the maples and oaks of the dense forest. He climbed out and stretched road-weary legs while walking to Awenasa’s larger family house a few yards away. The silver patina of its weathered cedar siding beckoned with homey comforts.

The minute he stepped onto the porch, the door swung open, and the hostess popped out with a smile covering much of her broad face. “Keir, we’re honored to have you visit us again.” She handed him a key. “Word spread fast of your coming; the new moon observation should be well-attended.”

“That’s great. I’ll stow my things inside and hustle over to Chuquilatague’s.”

“We’ll have a place set for you at breakfast tomorrow.” With a backward step and wave, she set him on his way.

Keir hurried across the lane. His long-as-a-boat, thirties-style sedan dwarfed the tiny guesthouse, appearing smaller without its summer-lush bushes. He grabbed a knapsack and small suitcase from the car and headed toward the screened porch. A new coat of red paint on its trim dispelled some of the evening’s approaching chill. He stomped off ice and dried leaves, then opened the front door. A rush of familiar products Awenasa used for cleansing soul and home—burnt white sage mingled with lemon-pine soap—revived good memories.

On long summer nights, he’d joked and laughed till his sides ached with Awenasa, her husband, mother, and grandfather, as their children chased fireflies. When the family retired, he followed a circuitous glowing path, bug to bug, back to his lodging, studying well past the witching hour.

He placed his heavy bags of winter clothing at the foot of the bed and surveyed the adjoining sitting room. Everything looked the same, tidy and spartan, save for a few new additions. A bright wool throw hung from an arm of the comfortable bentwood rocker—his favorite reading spot—now turned to face the laid fireplace. The wood box brimmed with logs, while a handmade willow basket overflowed with kindling. The cozy atmosphere made him wish he was here under happier circumstances, not on a rescue mission for Waapake.

His gaze drifted onto a clock, which jolted him into motion—he recalled the message of the Coyote Stars: not a moment to waste on wrong-doing. He scurried to his car and sped along the backroad’s twists he knew by heart.

Though hidden during summer, his mentor’s cabin peeked through bare-limbed trees as Keir turned down the short lane. He parked near the back stoop, which was simple and utilitarian as always.

The home’s front faced away from the driveway to take in the vista of tree-lined hills sloping to the distant valley. Chuquilatague had built the place as a young man, orienting it to full advantage for his meditations.

Keir walked around the side, where the collection of hanging talismans, charms, and wind chimes had multiplied several times since his last visit. He suspected many were payment for the shaman’s services. Chuquilatague, always receptive to negotiating fees, never turned away a person in need. During Keir’s three-month training, he couldn’t afford the entire sum and paid a portion in labor for the reservation, working at everything from spiritual guidance to planting vegetable gardens.

As he rounded the front corner, he found his mentor seated in a porch rocker and covered with thick fur hides. Motionless like a heron waiting and watching for fish, only the glitter of his brown irises revealed the extraordinary activity of the man’s vast intelligence.

Keir understood not to interrupt his teacher’s mental preparations.

Spine straight, silver head held high and proud, Chuquilatague gazed toward the dusk as it embraced the horizon. Atop the chair’s wide arms, his wrinkled hands, with palms still broad enough to accept the problems of his entire nation, lay relaxed, ready to serve.

As if he received the awaited sign to break his meditation, the wise man acknowledged Keir, not with a greeting but a meeting of eyes. Silent recognition was bestowed as a way of paying reverence to another: thought must come before speech. Keir respected the custom and tried to emulate it in his own practice as a shamanic healer, taking time to see his clients prior to any discourse.

At last Chuquilatague spoke, his baritone a few gravelly notes lower with advancing age. “The sun peeked out late today, breaking the season’s gray shroud; I knew you had arrived.”

Keir bowed his head. “It is my honor to be in your presence once again.”

The old teacher removed the skins from his lap and rose slowly, as if allowing each vertebra and joint to accommodate. With arms spread wide, those accepting palms turned toward Keir, who stepped into the invitation and joined in an embrace. The muscles of Chuquilatague’s shoulders and back had shrunk, his body revealing the limitations of age. However, his spirit remained sharp and bright, infusing Keir with immediate strength and confidence.

Although their hug seemed to last only seconds, when they separated, Keir was startled to find dozens of tribespeople gathered on the large lawn before the porch. Several men laid a bonfire, while children bounced around their mothers. With animated faces and gestures, elders informed guests about the ritual of tonight’s observance.

Car doors shut and loud conversations echoed from the rear of the house. People filed in, voices quieting to whispers as they formed a fragmented circle in the ceremonial space.

With the bonfire prepared but unlit, the helpers joined those gathered, now silent, in anticipation.

Royal purple ribboned the darkening sky. The last newcomers filled in shadowed spots, leaving an opening nearest the porch where the wise man would soon take his position.

Though difficult to determine, Keir estimated at least one hundred spectators were present. Beckoned by a bonfire attendant, he moved to stand near the circle’s mouth.

Chuquilatague threw off his fur robe, stepped to the edge of the porch, and raised his arms to the heavens. A single skin of an innocent fawn cloaked his shoulders against the cold though he didn’t shiver. He wore light-colored doeskin pants and tunic that captured the last light of day. Many present gasped at his remarkable radiance.

Keir’s breath caught, his heart filled with reverence.

According to previous ceremonies Keir had witnessed, the wise man would remain in that stance until the new moon took its precedence in the sky. The glow shining on the wise man faded, and he closed the circle. Although the black moon lacked visual impact, suddenly its enormous spiritual power blanketed all.

Chuquilatague opened both arms and heart, as if drawing every person close. Starlight reflected from pale, gray dove feathers of his headdress as he turned to face each. “We are blessed to have guests with us tonight to observe this auspicious occasion. I will explain the significance of our ritual for them and for all. The reasons we do things are worth repeating: to refresh our hearts and to plant seeds in our young ones.” Exuberance filled his words. Despite the shadows covering his face, Keir knew his mentor was smiling; there was nothing Chuquilatague loved more than teaching children.

“Everything of importance we do in a circle. The world’s power works in circles. We will remain happy and flourish so long as our circle is unbroken. The boughs we will offer in a fire to the new moon tonight were once parts of a living tree. It was nourished by the circle’s four quarters: the east gave the tree peaceful light; the west provided rain; the south, warmth to foster growth; the north, cold to encourage rest; and the wind taught lessons of strength and endurance.

“All of nature thrives in a circle. Mother Earth is round, as is the sun and moon, all circling along paths through the sky. Seasons follow a great circle in their changing. Our own lives follow from one childhood to the next, generation to generation: a circle. All as the Great Spirit intended.”

As if on cue, the heavens directly above lit with myriad stars, their light twinkling on the tips of Chuquilatague’s head feathers. His dazzling connection to the spirit world made Keir envious.

The wise man lifted his arms to the inky blackness now lining the western horizon, stretching across distant rolling hills. “The new moon brings us a unique gift, the opportunity to cleanse our spirits. Please join me in appealing to the astral body as it rides toward its setting point.”

People turned with him to look over the vista, their spirits open and trusting, ready to receive his prayer.

When everyone settled, Chuquilatague again stood, gripping that silence for several moments.

Keir sensed his teacher’s essence mingling, caressing all present. As a student, Keir practiced this technique of reassuring and encouraging those gathered. Something he continued during the sabbat holidays and esbat full moon observances he led in the Hollow.

The shaman spoke, his tone resonant and empowering. “Join me as I cleanse myself and release anything that is no longer of service to me, be it thoughts, beings, or situations. I appeal to the moon of new beginnings to help me reach toward my highest and greatest good: across all planes of my existence, across all universes, and across all lifetimes. I ask all less-than-loving energies be transformed for the purpose of the highest good for all.” He gestured to the assistant beside Keir and continued addressing the group. “The fire will now be lit. When its flames rise and signal the new moon, I will pass the talking feather to anyone wishing to share his or her personal cleansing. Then, another will be selected.”

The man beside Keir, with two others, set the kindling afire then retook their positions.

Chuquilatague once more lifted his arms and attention to the dark expanse above. Moments later, he swept air toward the sky, encouraging the fire higher, beckoning the moon to receive the offering. He withdrew a single feather from his headdress and passed it to a nearby matronly woman signaling with her raised hand.

She clutched the feather between both hands, touched it to her forehead encased in a knit cap and said, “I am so grateful for Chuquilatague’s new moon blessing. It just came to me how my family will cope with roof repairs we cannot afford. We’ll cook up a feast to feed everyone able to donate money or labor. Rather than worry and stress, I’ll look forward to a party with our neighbors. It’s my wish that others here are also blessed tonight with new outlooks.” Her enthusiasm incited many to raise their hands, and she gave the token to a burly middle-aged man.

He took a single step into the circle and proclaimed in a brusque voice, “I am indeed blessed, as we all are, that Keir Sheridan has returned to pay us a visit. During his summer among us, he brought my family immeasurable good will. Because of him, my mother died a happy woman, at ease with her passage. And we can more easily celebrate her life than her final suffering.”

Keir strained to see who spoke such kind words about him, but firelight silhouetted the man’s face. When he moved back in line, the fire revealed Salal. He’d been more than grateful that Keir eased his mother’s mental stresses while suffering with cancer. Though the disease ultimately took her life, she embraced her final months with joy and gratitude rather than despair.

Salal handed the feather along, and a teenaged girl captivated the crowd with her story before passing the privilege to speak to the next. In turn, dozens expressed their gratitude for new beginnings.

Each story reassured Keir: good often eclipsed bad in the world. I will overcome Adara and save my coyote.

When the dove feather passed to the far side of the fire, the voice of a young woman rang clear, though her form remained in shadow. “I, too, am blessed this night. I have learned the coming spring will restore my health and give me a purpose so I may do good for others.” Within her hands, the feather’s gray vane sparkled with starlight, like it did with Chuquilatague, and all noise ceased.

Her tone, high-pitched and angelic—at once familiar to Keir—prompted him to listen more intently.

“The new moon sent me two signs.” Her words flowed in fluid notes upon a melody.

He heard her voice not just with his ears but with his entire being—knew it as Unole’s song.

She continued, her ariose speech danced across the golden flames. “First, I sighted my namesake blossom, a single windflower—the first of the season—pushing strong through snow and ice, as I will continue to do.” Keir wondered what illness she referred to. “And second, a connection to the spirit world’s Coyote Stars, enabled me to help another in need.”

At the word coyote, he flinched. Did she refer to him or to Waapake?

People nodded and murmured encouragements, those near Unole urging her to step forward. The bonfire’s glow caressed the smooth tanned skin of her high cheekbones and broad forehead. She dressed in cream-colored doeskin like her father, but the resemblance didn’t end there. Strands of long hair, hanging to her waist, gleamed with firelight. Alongside her face, narrow braids woven with white ribbons sparkled with starlight that dripped onto silver beads adorning the bodice of her fringed dress.

Seeing her, Keir lost his spiritual contact with the new moon, and his jaw went slack. The awkward teen he remembered had transformed into a graceful and beautiful woman. How had five years changed her so much? How had he not noticed the budding powers and charms of his teacher’s daughter until now?

Although the feather passed to other speakers, Keir’s gaze remained fixed on Unole. He marveled at how the firelight and starlight took turns kissing the curves of her nose and cheeks.

After Chuquilatague closed the night’s observance, participants expressed thanks to both him and Keir. Unole also received a line of well-wishers, and the tinkle of her distant laughter commanded Keir’s attention—sometimes to the distraction of those speaking near him.

When the bonfire was dampened, Keir started from his daze, surprised that most of the participants had departed.

The last couple of tribe members engaged Unole, while Chuquilatague, with a swelled chest and a chuckle, approached Keir. “She’s more in demand than I am now, grown into her powers and a fine young woman.”

“I can see that—and your pride is obvious even by this dim starlight.”

They shared a hearty laugh, and after thanking the helpers, Chuquilatague led Keir to the porch. His teacher paused at the base of the steps and scanned the sky, whether to muster strength to ascend or read something in the spirit world was unclear.

Unole waved goodbye to the visitors as she joined her father and Keir.

With Chuquilatague focused on the heavens, Keir took a half step forward to greet her, then froze. Words formed but stuck in a muddled mess within his mouth. What should he say to someone possessing such power, grace, and beauty? With the awkwardness growing by the second, he thrust out his hand. “Thank you is not enough.”

She briefly slipped soft fingers against his. “You are wrong—the reward of being able to help others again is thanks enough.”

“Are you doing—” Keir wanted to ask about her health. A blush rising across her cheeks tied his tongue.

Thankfully, Chuquilatague looked down and broke the growing silence with a chuckle. “The starlight is not so dim as you might think: it speaks loudly. Though maybe your ears, Keir, are filled with sounds more pleasant than the voices of stars.”

Too late, Keir faced deeper shadows in the direction of the woods, in an attempt to hide whatever might be visible with the rush of heat rising up his neck.

Unole touched her hand over an escaped, soft giggle.

“I can’t understand why the Coyote Stars are out tonight.” The wise man gestured for them to view the display. “Even with the dark of a new moon, this is not the correct time of year: it is indeed a sign.”

“What do they say to you, father?” Unole asked.

“They remind me of the importance of animals: how in the beginning of all things, wisdom and knowledge belonged only to them. The Great Spirit did not speak directly to men; he sent specific animals as messengers to tell men they must learn from the beasts, the stars, the sun, and moon. The Coyote seems overeager to teach us.” His gaze shifted between daughter and student. “Does this lesson apply to either of you?”

Both nodded and Unole said, “The Coyote Stars have been speaking to me, sending messages from Keir’s coyote who is in danger.”

“Waapake? The pup I gave you? What’s wrong?”

“He’s been stolen,” Keir replied. “I’ve come to figure out how to get him back.”

Chuquilatague stroked his chin. “I’m confident we will be successful because I now better understand what I just read: Great Coyote intends to use Waapake as his messenger. Both of you must open to the lessons he will teach you or Waapake will perish from this earth.”

Chapter Ten: Wild Chicory

Desperate to know what the Great Coyote wished to teach him, Keir glanced at the Milky Way of Coyote Stars from the rail of Chuquilatague’s porch.

The teacher lumbered up the steps and toward his door. Keir opened his mouth to question him but reconsidered. The wise man’s evening habits included retiring early. To show deference, Keir waited in silence; his presence would serve as enough encouragement.

Standing on the steps, Unole seemed torn between following her father and remaining with Keir.

Chuquilatague gripped the knob of the cabin’s front door and peered over his shoulder. A smile teased one corner of his mouth. He enjoyed teaching them patience. With forced directness, he said, “Tomorrow. We’ll talk in the morning. All will keep until then.” He glanced toward his daughter.

She hesitated and faced Keir. Her tense expression revealed conflict between the honor she was required to pay her father and the pursuit of her own wishes.

Keir held her gaze and briefly laid a hand over hers resting on the railing. A gesture he hoped at least showed he understood her dilemma—though maybe more, about how amazing and pretty and talented he found her. He struggled to remove his hand from the intoxicating warmth of hers. He flashed her a smile, gave a nod to his teacher, then moved away from the porch to his car.

After the short drive to his own guest cabin, he paused at his driver’s door and studied the Coyote Stars, several twinkling with unusual brilliance. Were they trying to communicate? Exhausted from the long drive earlier that day, he ruled out a mental journey to the Upper World to speak directly to the Great Coyote. Despite Keir’s tiredness, his chances of success would have been improbable; like Chuquilatague said, those spirits preferred to speak to humans through animals. Under Keir’s recent stress, his power animal had been as inaccessible as Waapake. How could Keir access that vital lesson? Unable to find a logical way, his mind dissolved into a blur with visions of Unole glowing in her white doeskin as she did at the new moon ceremony.

Cold nipping his face and hands, prompting him back to reality, he went inside and prepared for bed. He needed sleep since his work with Chuquilatague to retrieve Waapake would begin at sunrise.

Keir flicked off the bedside lamp and settled into the warm, wool blankets Awenasa had provided. Despite weariness dragging on his eyelids, the energy of new beginnings from tonight’s moon observance enlivened his thoughts. The clock on the nightstand read only eight. Too early for his normal bedtime. His body, no matter how tired, refused to relax. He picked up a light-hearted novel he’d unpacked beside the lamp. Under the dim bulb’s haze, he read the opening of the next chapter. The content leaked from his brain as if it were a sieve; he reread and, still, the plot didn’t latch onto him. Instead, his mind strayed to what the Great Coyote might say. After another failed attempt with the book, Keir tossed it and the covers aside.

He rose and padded across creaky wooden planks to the fireplace. Recalling how the bonfire’s flames soothed him during the New Moon ceremony, how the talking circle bolstered his faith that good would prevail, he opened the flue and lit the kindling.

Once the twigs popped with orange bursts and yellow fiery tongues licked the logs, he dropped into the rocking chair and set his mind adrift.

Sometime later, he jerked awake—head slumped sideways with a stiff crunch in his neck. A few embers smoldered in the grate, not enough to ward off the cold air rushing down the chimney. A shiver jolted through him. As he moved to the bedroom, a twinge stabbed from neck to shoulder. The bed’s cold sheets offered no relief from the cramped muscle. He pulled the blanket close and rechecked the clock. At least he’d managed a couple hours of rest in the rocker.

The remainder of the night passed fitfully, his sleep tormented by unanswered questions about Waapake, Adara, and Unole. Keir gave up and rose an hour before dawn.

Desperate for caffeine, he made a cup of extra-strong black tea, which helped, but not enough. He needed what Awenasa called her black-as-a-snarling-bear coffee. From his front window, he peeked through tree limbs at her dark home and waited. Fifteen minutes later, inviting yellow light shone from her kitchen. When a ribbon of smoke curled from her chimney, he headed over.

***

Bolstered with a hot breakfast of eggs, sausage, homemade muffins with apple butter, and several cups of Awenasa’s home-ground brew, Keir drove into the pink of sunrise to Chuquilatague’s.

When Keir parked, his teacher beckoned him from the cabin’s back door. “Come in. Be welcomed.”

Keir stomped snow from his boots on the stoop and shrugged them and his parka off at a bench just inside.

“Did Awenasa feed you?” Chuquilatague asked as he picked up a steaming mug. “Can I offer you anything? Tea or coffee?”

“No, I’m stuffed. Awenasa does breakfast in a big way.” Keir laughed and followed to the sitting room. The place looked much the same as he remembered, except a new blanket covered the couch’s upholstery, worn through years ago, and an overstuffed chair had newly acquired the same treatment. Despite limitations of his teacher’s age and the fact his wife had passed, the house appeared clean and tidy—possibly owing to Unole’s care since she still lived there.

Groaning, Chuquilatague lowered into the draped chair. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss. Though I know you come with great and grave needs, I am filled with joy to see you. To be able to help you makes my heart full like the brooks breaking their banks with water from winter’s melting snow.” He positioned an uncooperative knee upon the chair’s footrest. “I was not surprised by your visit to us. I heard of your coming many sleeps earlier, in my dream journeys.”

Keir almost stumbled into his seat on the sofa. Had his mentor also witnessed the trap of Adara’s nightmare, her dark playground? A lump lodged in Keir’s throat. He’d planned to tell Chuquilatague all about his involvement with that woman, talk through the dilemma he didn’t feel comfortable revealing to his friends.

Now, after meeting Unole, everything had changed. Even if he wouldn’t encounter her much in the future, he respected her and wanted her to think well of him. Didn’t want her to judge him by acts he regretted. However, he was desperate for guidance to outwit Adara. “I’m honored to have a connection to you through our dreams, and also through your daughter. Unole used her magic—her windsong—to show me how to get Waapake back. I have no doubts about her method, but the person who stole him—”

“The witch woman Adara can be very cruel, I know.” Chuquilatague gave a solemn nod. “And you must stand strong against her.”

Keir gripped the sofa’s arm. How had his mentor known the identity of Waapake’s captor? The question reached his tongue—he swallowed it back when a white floral scent wafted into the room, announcing Unole’s presence. Had she heard her father’s mention of Adara just now? Heat rushed up Keir’s neck, burned along his clenched jaw as Unole passed by.

“May I join you?” She looked from him to her father as she made her way—floated with the grace of a young doe—to a wooden chair across a small table from where he sat.

Keir almost blurted out yes but stopped, waiting for their elder to respond first—though her presence did make Keir more uneasy about the direction of the conversation.

“Of course.” Her father met her gaze. “We will benefit from your capable mind.”

With the front of her hair swept into a braid, her open face revealed happiness in both her eyes and smile that caused Keir’s heart to hammer. She selected a book from the side table, crossed her long legs, accentuated by tight jeans, and tucked them underneath her seat.

“Keir.” A knowing look crossed Chuquilatague’s face as he waited for his student’s acknowledgement. “In order to outwit your coyote’s captor, you must keep only one thing in mind: all things in the world are two. In our minds, we are two: good and evil. We see things in two clear ways: things that are good and those that are evil. We have a right hand that strikes out in acts of evil, and we have a left hand full of kindness and compassion. One foot may lead us on a path toward evil. The other foot may take us to do good. Both limbs, both routes, are always available: all things are two.”

“Thank you for your guidance.” Keir faced Unole. “That’s like your message about finding the right path.”

She beamed. “There’s always an option for peace and happiness with every step we take; you must be able to see both paths to know where to place your feet.”

“Well said, my daughter.” Chuquilatague rewarded her with a slight smile, then continued addressing Keir. “I sense your struggle in trusting your ability to follow the right path. Why? What clouds your judgement?”

Keir picked at an imaginary piece of lint on his pant leg, not wanting to respond in front of Unole. “After the summer I studied with you, my father died. I stepped away when …” His voice broke, the words lost. Finally, he managed a raspy whisper. “I could have prevented it.”

His mentor leaned forward, eyes set on Keir. “In that same year, I lost my wife, Unole’s mother. I know the language of grief, but that language should not be practiced; grief must be released. Misfortunes happen to the wisest and best of men. Death will come; it is natural and cannot be planned. It is the command of the Great Spirit. We must obey. Misfortunes are not particular to our lives, yours or mine; they grow everywhere. Do not hold that grief close to your chest, for it will become guilt and eat at you like a cancer.”

“Yes. I admit I have allowed that to happen.” Keir looked away. “I … I made mistakes, and am now paying the price. Or Waapake is.”

Chuquilatague stared at him for several long moments with an inscrutable smile that made Keir squirm.

The wise man’s eyes widened—wild, black pools rimmed in white—as if affecting some penetrating magic. Could he read the secrets Keir had buried? Witches from the Hollow required great skill with complex spells, potions, or allied spirits to read minds. The native shaman did possess unique powers, far beyond the scope of Keir’s training.

He fidgeted, tracing edges of the crystal talismans hanging from his neck. If he blurted out something about his past involvement with Adara, a more or less meaningless morsel, would that end this scrutiny?

While considering what and how much to reveal, he registered a mysterious aroma—rich, dark, and aromatic. He sniffed to gain a better sampling, but the air held only traces of lingering burnt sage and musky animal furs and hides. When he returned to normal, shallow breathing, the unknown scent returned. He flicked his gaze to the wise man, who still perused him.

Though Chuquilatague’s expression had relaxed, again unreadable, his right hand now clamped the armrest of his chair, fingers curled, knuckles blanched.

Making eye contact, Keir noticed something soft brushing against both sides of his mind, from inside the temples to behind his ears. He started to flinch and sucked in a breath to arrest his movement.

Chuquilatague remained placid, yet his nails gouged the upholstery.

Keir froze stock-still, analyzing the odd poking inside his skull, as if by an eagle’s flight feather, alternately tickled and poked with both vane and shaft. Every fiber of his being worked to trust his teacher’s unusual methods.

With his breath barely fluctuating, the strange aroma returned, this time filling Keir’s head—roasted wild chicory, a common wildflower often used to unbar physical locks. Coon Hollow witches, those skilled in herbology, would gather together in total silence at midnight of Midsummer’s eve and use gold knives to harvest baskets of the weedy plant. No witch he could recall used the plant for tasks beyond opening boxes or doors. Chuquilatague was employing its power to unbolt and read minds—how?

The brushing sensation intensified to a gentle scraping. From the fibrous ends of the stems? Motionless, Keir was afraid to even breathe or make the slightest movement that could terminate his brain, shred every memory of his past and hope for his future—or even kill him. He suspected Chuquilatague’s powers were vast, but this ability went beyond Keir’s estimations. His trust wavered—was he overreacting? Wondering about Unole’s reaction, he slid his eyes to one side, in her direction.

She was either unaware or unaffected, pouring over an open book in her lap. If Keir could manage to move and draw her attention, would she be startled, even frightened, or accept her father’s technique as commonplace and compassionate?

Undecided and unable to test for an answer, he pressed the point of a talisman’s crystal into a fingertip. Its sharpness jolted his perspective, and he clung to threads of trust. Head fixed, he dropped his eyes down to the carnelian stone in his palm and understood the reason for his sudden clarity. Until now, he’d been unsure whether the gem did any good to counteract doubt and negative ideas, silence anger, and bolster courage, as was intended.

To perhaps aid Chuquilatague’s mental probing, Keir relaxed his bunched shoulders and tight face, best he could—though he kept his mouth clamped against any secrets that might escape. Chuquilatague knew him well, both his shortcomings and strengths. The cost for exposing a few more indiscretions to his teacher was far less than doing so with Unole. The thought of her learning the worst about him before anything else ran down Keir’s throat like bitter poison.

At last, after what felt like several long minutes, the wise man stirred in his seat.

Both the chicory fragrance and the scraping against Keir’s mind ceased. He slumped back into the couch, hand still clamped on the carnelian.

Chuquilatague rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, then casually deferred to his daughter. “Your opinions from a female’s viewpoint?”

With hands neatly folded over her book, she reported to him, as if answering her own test question. “To lessen those consequences to himself and to Waapake, avoiding darkness and evil, he must walk in peace, accept peace.”

“A well-thought response—peace is indeed the correct trail. Does that make sense to you, Keir?”

Mentally spent, words for a response escaped him. He nodded, relieved that his head moved freely without any internal obstruction.

“The true problem lies in finding the trail of peace, then staying the course; that is why Great Coyote will use Waapake to teach you—” Chuquilatague glanced at Keir, then rested his gaze on his daughter. “—both of you.”

The topic of the lesson came as no surprise; Keir swallowed hard, realizing how he’d failed to embrace the peaceful methods Unole had sung about. He looked to her, prepared to admit his failure, but her reaction startled him.

Perched on the edge of her chair, a hand flattened against her chest that did little to stop her body from shaking, she gaped at her father. “Me? Waapake will teach me?”

The wise man nodded.

Chapter Eleven: The Forest Glade

Strolling into the starlit forest glade, Unole slowed, giving Keir the chance to catch up and walk alongside. Did she dare to think he felt the same about her? She held her breath, counting heartbeats drumming in her ears. Ten beats pounded louder and faster, until she couldn’t count anymore and his footsteps crumped the hard snowpack behind her. She glanced his way. His light blue eyes reflected the star shine, sparkling like the rapids of a swift trout stream on a cloudless summer day.

“Wow.” He motioned across the clearing and tilted his head back. “I thought it’d be dark since the moon has already set. Look at those stars.”

She squinted after his gaze in an attempt to read the vital lesson. “A river of Coyote Stars, what we were hoping to find.” She mouthed a silent appeal to the spirit. When Great Coyote’s reply came as a smug smile and the winking of sly stars, she shot him a scowl.

“Do you think the Great Coyote is trying to teach us something?”

“I’m sure he is. I wish I could understand him without an animal translator. I can’t guess what single topic might teach both of us a lesson.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked. She felt the heat of his stare warming her cheeks as if kissed too long by a May sun overeager for summertime.

“Well, my mother passed four years ago, but I do not grieve; I’m happy she’s with the Great Spirit. It fills me with the greatest joy that one day I will see her again when my time is here, whether later or sooner.” However, her voice quivered, recalling how close she’d come to that final journey just months ago. Her anxiety was not because she’d told Keir a lie; she accepted and honored both life and death. It was the passage itself that terrified her; all change seemed difficult, dying perhaps the hardest.

Since her recovery, she’d dedicated time to studying that ultimate passage. Her father appeared at ease with the last trail, and she envied him. Whether his scholarly wisdom allowed deeper understanding or his advanced age prepared him for acceptance, she didn’t know. Whenever she asked, he redirected the conversation. Did his avoidance mean the topic was too raw, too much in his thoughts, because his time was drawing near? She considered her own preoccupation with dying. Did her soul long to fly free, like a darting starling, from the confinement of her corporeal body—was that what Great Coyote had not revealed yet?

“Hey, are you all right? You seem far away.” Keir brushed her bare hand, his fingers warm and inviting from his jacket pocket. His touch grounded her in reality, back from the world of her ancestors, a place where her mind often drifted since death had paced at her sickbed window. She didn’t trust death’s lies: that the crossing would be easy, no matter how many wildflowers bloomed in the meadow where her mother and family waited to welcome her.

She sucked in a breath, inhaling life into her, and clung to Keir’s hand.

He threaded his fingers between hers, his grip alive and firm, as if he wouldn’t let go—exactly what she needed most. He asked again, “Want to talk about it?”

“Just wondering when my time will come.”

“A serious thought for someone so young.”

“Doesn’t everyone think about death?” She glimpsed over and found him watching her with an open face and smile that invited dimples to his cheeks.

“Not about my own,” he blurted.

The difference in their views planted seeds of silence and tension that grew between them. She wanted to explain, but how? She felt his forthcoming question—one she must not answer if what her father had spoken earlier was true—with her heart before he asked.

“Is that because you recently suffered—”

Desperate to change the topic, she elbowed him and mustered a scrap of a wisecrack through an uncertain laugh. “No, you’re too busy thinking about other people’s deaths, faulting yourself because they didn’t have more days to live.”

“Ha. Could be. Some say it’s more valiant to think of others rather than yourself. Maybe it’s a defense—training myself to keep that orientation so I’ll respond better next time, not lose another …” Keir’s voice cracked, and it was his turn to become lost to some distant place.

He must have been thinking of Waapake. His terror over losing his coyote had been strong enough to travel to her upon the willow’s winds. But the hitch in his tone, had it voiced another concern? Perhaps over losing me? Did he think that much of me?

As if in response, a scolding voice so unlike hers grated through her mind: A handsome catch like him wanting you? Are you kidding? Both the message and icy chill that followed belonged to the same north wind who’d fought her along the stream. At that time, she knew the formidable force only as Waapake’s mysterious captor, fighting to keep Unole from hearing and helping Keir during the abduction. Now, for the first time, she recognized that force—Adara.

Unole dropped Keir’s hand and whirled around, checking the woods on all sides. She’d first met the witch scrabbling for her own life in those same shadows. The witch woman’s power now seethed from the darkness, yet she’d left more than a month ago. Why had she returned—to retaliate against Unole for trying to stop her from stealing the coyote? When attacked, Unole hadn’t known the identity of the north wind. If Adara knew that fact, would she still seek revenge? Unole couldn’t comprehend what the witch woman wanted with Waapake. Or with Keir—was her reason enough to divulge Unole’s secret to him?

“What’s wrong? What’s out there?" With his gaze fixed on the forest, Keir darted in circles around her. “Stay behind me.”

A weight pummeled her chest, not unlike death when he sat upon her, squeezing air from her lungs. She couldn’t tell Keir about the witch woman’s presence. While he faced another direction, a badger sped between trees marking a trailhead, then fled along that path. Unole forced a stilted sigh, unsure whether she’d imagined or escaped the danger, and touched his arm. “It was just a forest animal out hunting. I thought I heard something else.”

With a gentle laugh, he retook her hand. “Over four hundred miles away, and I’m still on edge. I guess you’re right. I am guarding the lives of those I care about.” He turned toward her, the chiseled angles of his cheeks and jaw aglow with Great Coyote’s lights. “And I care about you, very much.” He touched a hand to the hair along one side of her face.

Chin lifted toward him, she smiled.

He dipped his head and bent to touch his lips against hers. His kiss throbbed with heat. Longing to fill that void, she parted her lips, and he deepened the kiss. Strong arms enfolded her, and her body responded, every nerve twinging with happiness. His embrace, pulling her tighter, confirming she truly was alive. She pressed against him, reveling in the gifts of life and of knowing him. She allowed her breath to mingle with his. For a blissful moment, they became one lifeforce, one magnificent soul. Nothing had ever felt more alive.

An owl hooted on the edge of the clearing and brought an end to her rapture. She pulled back, breathless and slightly dizzy, while he spun her close behind him and, again, took a defensive stance.

Once he spotted the flying owl, he turned and eased a bit, running a hand along her back as he gazed into her face. “You are both beautiful and wise. In ways I don’t understand, your soul sings to mine. You were right about another thing. I’m not at peace. I can’t even stay on the path when an owl hoots. But I do know where to find the trailhead.”

She shivered. Had he seen the badger? Felt the air tremble from the witch woman’s magic?

“It’s in the Hollow.” Keir continued. “I need to find Waapake so he can teach us what we need to learn. I wish I could spend more time here with you, but I have to go home tomorrow. The Coyote Stars already told me if I wasted time, Waapake would face serious harm.”

She clutched his free hand, not wanting to let go. “I know. I heard them. I was with you.” She bit her lower lip, considering whether to warn him against mentioning her name to Adara. Perhaps that would be enough to prevent him from learning her connection to his coyote’s captor—that truth might bring dangerous complications Unole couldn’t anticipate.

His eyes searched her face. “I promise I’ll be back.” He kissed her again, and her secret became lost in a recess of her mind.

She pushed a hand across his broad chest and shoulder until her fingers played in the silky hair at his neck.

“Unole!” the tight voice of her aunt cut through the bare winter woods. “Unole!”

“Who’s that?” Keir’s husky voice rasped into her ear.

“My elogi. She’s been caring for us since my mother died. I’m sure she wants me to drink a healing tea or take some herbal bath or some such other remedy.” With a hand cupped to her mouth, she called, “I’m here, Elogi. I’m coming.”

“She took care of you while you were sick?” he asked.

Not wanting to open that discussion again, Unole only nodded and led him along a shortcut to her house.

At the edge of the lawn, she spied Elogi’s gray head under the porch light. Huddled in a shawl, she scurried to meet them and snatched Unole by the elbow. “What were you thinking? It’s time for you to …”

Her elogi’s reminders droned on though Unole only noticed Great Coyote’s frustrating tricks. He teased her with what she longed to do, kissing Keir’s black hair with gleaming blue starlight. Far worse, the spirit still withheld what could mean everything to Keir, to her, to them: how to save Waapake.

Chapter Twelve: Failed Gambit

The drive back to Coon Hollow filled Keir with foreboding. Instead of the happy anticipation of visiting old friends, he now faced formidable odds he couldn’t afford to lose. He had to contact Waapake, either directly or some other way. Keir assumed Adara was holding his coyote at the Tabard house. Perhaps surveilling the place and watching for her to leave might give him a chance to enter and free his coyote. Or at least check on him. In no way would that end Keir’s entanglement with that woman. He’d ultimately have to face her—one on one, without endangering his friends. But perhaps the Great Coyote’s lesson might better prepare him for the encounter.

As the miles passed, Keir recalled what he could about the layout of the Tabard property. Although he’d driven by countless times, on only a few occasions had he been inside, after Tercel and Grizela Tabard, then Adara, had each won their elected positions as high priest.

When no more details surfaced, Keir’s mind drifted to Unole and Chuquilatague, their unusual powers—so much seemed different. His use of the potentially dangerous technique of mind-brushing with enchanted chicory startled Keir. During his summer studying shamanism, he’d never witnessed his teacher performing such extreme acts. However, a mystifying aura often cloaked Chuquilatague when he returned from meditative treks through deep woods, the smell of ancient magic clinging to his bare chest and arms. Though curious, Keir never doubted his teacher’s commitment to using his powers for good—until now. He battled a grain of uncertainty while attempting to cling to that belief.

In a different way, the changes in Unole also overwhelmed him. He remembered her as an awkward, gangly teen. Now she was a graceful, lovely young woman. She’d grown into powers possibly inherited from her talented father, with vast wisdom of the spirit world. More than that, the way her soul connected to his, through her song and in the incredible energy of their kiss, amazed him, spun his mind in circles. How was that even possible? He longed to return to her.

He depressed the accelerator, matching the current speed of his life, the pace of thoughts whipping in his mind. Driving into the Hollow, he turned directly onto Owls Tail Creek Road toward the Tabard house. No need to wait a moment longer.

***

Juggling an armful of grocery bags at her back door, Adara inserted the key from among half a dozen on a ring. A great force, like that of a violent wind, shoved back, and the entire collection clattered onto the cement floor of the enclosed porch. “Hmm. That’s curious,” she murmured to her white crow familiar Dearg perched on the arm of an old wicker glider. With her palm hovering over the suspicious lock, Adara applied a clearing spell, eliminating wisps of foreign, gray magic. The emission was too slight to analyze. However, she had a hunch who’d forced entry. She licked her lips and opened the outside porch door for Dearg. “Be my eyes and ears.”

“Right you are, dearie.” He flapped away along the house perimeter.

Surprised to find whoever entered had relocked the door, Adara retrieved her key, which the lock now accepted. She cracked the door and checked the dark hallway before she crept inside, keeping a lookout for the normal but tedious household hazards.

From within a black and white framed photograph, Aunt Claudesia shot up from her rocker and snapped her fingers at Adara, who usually ignored the old biddy’s reprimands. “Don’t you know how to put better wards on this place? There’s someone—”

Adara whisked the picture down and set it along the baseboard, silencing her deceased aunt. Now was not the time to humor Claudesia and allow her the satisfaction of spoiling either Adara’s good mood or fortuitous luck.

Ahead, she needed to take more care with tattletale pieces of furniture like the Lockwoods’ bench that—depending upon the its allegiance—would be sure to alert either her or the intruder. Most likely to whomever last did the Lockwood family a good deed—an honor Adara would never qualify for. When rumbling sounded from the basement, she smiled and tiptoed the gauntlet, finding the basement door ajar.

At the head of the stairs, she paused to drink in the glorious tableau: Keir Sheridan kneeled beside his coyote, hands massaging the animal’s temples, probably engaging in some of their insipid private communication. She and Dearg understood each other better with brief and to-the-point communication.

Adara would have loved to witness Keir’s desperation the moment he discovered he could open the cage but not release his cherished familiar. She’d set the additional ward with a definite intention, beyond making sure Waapake remained captive. Her plan worked. Almost. If only Keir would scoot that tight ass of his a foot farther into the cage. Have patience, girl. A good predator waits for the right time to strike. She stood silent, while the bats flapping within her stomach stirred up a wingding.

Keir inched forward, rewarding her restraint. Nose to nose, coyote and master each murmured incoherently—probably in one of their shamanistic journeys to witness the birth of a flower, or ride atop a cloud, or slide across a sun ray. All the places he’d never taken her—never even asked. Their mind-travels only happened if she tricked him into sharing the dark world of her night visions. All that was about to change. She’d changed and wanted to share his light, his joy in all that was good.

She drew her arm up, aiming the first shot to start the game. Their past relationship thrived under the guise of a game—with rules that validated their indulgences—so it was natural to greet him that same way. Only a fingerful of power, to conserve what she’d worked hard to restore, would swing the cage door shut. Keir would become her captive, subservient to her whims and desires, as before—better than before. Her absence during the past months would make him beg for more, worship her. A flame of magic burned at the tip of her finger, its long, crimson nail. Since returning to the Hollow and devising her scheme, she’d grown her nails longer, how he once enjoyed them.

A growl sounded from inside the cage, unfortunately from the coyote, not Keir. Waapake lunged at the warded opening. As if he struck metal, his claws scraped, shrill and grating—shredding Adara’s daydream.

Keir kicked the closing cage door open, rolled free, and jumped to his feet. “I want my familiar back.”

Waapake paced the side of the enclosure closest to his master.

“Hello, Keir. Did you think it would be that simple? Ask and receive?” Her smile broke into a laugh. “There is the matter of a payment, as was indicated in my note. Did you get it?”

He stood tall, his chest broad, legs planted wide. Confidence not only made him a better opponent, her anticipated victory more satisfying, it also enhanced his appeal beyond her wildest expectations. Unable to resist the strong lines of his broad shoulders, the set of his squared jaw, she sauntered down the steps and stopped a few feet away. The right distance for her eyes to fully taste him, and for him to be tempted by what he once had.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It is that simple. Release Waapake now.” His voice remained calm, too calm for someone who’d narrowly escaped entrapment. And far too passive for one eager to engage her challenge. His blue gaze met hers. Something about his eyes had changed, now lit with numerous glittering stars. Unexpectedly, the steady huskiness of his speech and scintillating eyes, along with the resolve he exuded, made her skin tingle. Their usual game might take an intriguing twist—she couldn’t wait.

At the mention of his name, Waapake snarled.

She tipped the slightest glow of red power over each nail and showed Keir—her gambit. She closed the distance between them. “Remember these? How you loved their scratch?”

He said nothing, staring at her hand as she curled the talons toward the bare skin of his neck.

“You want me to mark you, don’t you? Brand you as mine again?” She traced one nail along his jaw. “Don’t you?”

The coyote growled.

“No. I don’t.” Keir shoved her arm away. “I’m serious. Release Waapake now and no one will be harmed.” Despite his hushed tone, his voice burned with a threat. He’d accepted her gambit—how delightful.

Nail tips still aglow, she licked her crimson lipstick to add a tempting shine and proceeded to advance their match to the next level. “You’re saying, if I don’t release him now, you’ll hurt me? Is that a promise?”

She waited for him to take her bait but only received an unflinching stare.

The caustic laugh she’d intended came out as a simpering squeak, which she quickly modulated into a purr. “Hmm, I might enjoy reversing our roles.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. But if you won’t free Waapake, I will destroy you.” His calm manner, the flatness of his tone, and resolute stare—she hadn’t expected this. What new tactic was this?

As she fumbled with an earring, the fire on her nails extinguished. She hadn’t thought what she’d witnessed yesterday in the woods would make any difference. Doubt clouded her view of him. She batted them away, grappling for a new artifice to entrap him.

He faced the cage, his hand stretched toward the single, small window. “Allied spirits, please come to my aid.”

In the corner, Waapake sunk into a crouch, waiting to pounce free.

In a flash, white power accumulated within Keir’s open palm. He slung it at the upper corner of the cage.

His shot blasted Adara with realization as painful as if the strike had hit her—he didn’t want her. What she’d seen between him and Unole had been real.

His magic disintegrated one side of the cage and damaged the ward.

Adara jumped in front of him. Despite the crushing awareness, she crossed her arms and curled her lips into her best confident smile. “If suffering is one of our new rules, then know this—I saw you kiss Unole. You know my terms. Another woman isn’t part of them. Until you end things with her, you won’t get your familiar back.”

Chest hammering, she paused, gulping air. “In case I wasn’t clear, if you continue seeing her, I will spill your dirty secrets to the entire coven, when you were all too happy to be the high priestess’ boy toy. Your career will be done. And Waapake will die.” By the time she’d said her piece, her eyes were strained, wide and hot with the same fire that seeped from her nails, scorching the palms inside her fists.

Finally, Keir came to his senses and lost that sickening composure. In the next moment, however, rage quivered from his tensed muscles. He picked up a wooden crate lid and flung it at her.

She dashed aside as it clattered into a set of garden rakes.

He glared at her, nostrils flaring, eyes now dark as storm clouds. “You’re right about one thing—suffering is now part of our game. Expect to feel it.” After a look at Waapake, Keir strode for the cellar door, yanked it open, and took the outdoor steps in two strides. He left the door open: the light of his goodness flooding her basement.

Chapter Thirteen: Illusions

Keir whipped his car around a curve abutting a sheer limestone cliff. His tires skidded across a patch of ice, before spinning over loose gravel. “Damn!” I don’t need this on top of Adara’s threats. The tires’ tread grabbed. The car stopped a few feet from the rock wall.

The side of his head collided with the door’s metal frame. Its coldness tethered him to reality, opposing the dizziness spinning his head. He almost welcomed the disorientation, understanding why many sought refuge in alcohol and drugs to escape insurmountable problems.

He sat back and fingered a small bump forming above his temple. Once prickling in his limbs abated and he regained some composure, he righted the car onto the road toward home. More cautious, he drove slowly. Even slower approaching his house but not for safety.

Everything I use for my shamanism—journals, books, crystals, drums—will be a cruel reminder of how my career is about to be wrecked.

He idled past the lawn.

I’ll go mad in there. All those old things handed down through generations. Everything will scream how I’ve dishonored the family name.

Darker than the surrounding dense woods, a surreal twilight cloaked the property.

The veil of death hangs over the place for all their deaths I could’ve prevented.

He gripped the wheel, refusing to turn into the driveway.

On the shadowy front porch, a translucent form paced. Recognition triggered Keir to stomp on the brake—the illusion looked like Waapake. Has Adara already retaliated and killed him? A death so agonizing it binds his soul to wander in perpetual torment?

Desperate to confirm his suspicion, Keir thrust the car’s shifter into park. Though his pulse thrummed where his fingers gripped the door handle, he hesitated. Could he guide his familiar’s anguished soul to a true place of rest? He’d performed hundreds of such procedures for clients, but would his distress block him this time? Regardless, he had to try. He owed Waapake so much; peace in the hereafter would only repay a small portion. Keir’s heart was trying to rip through his chest, but he still resisted.

Something didn’t feel right; he hadn’t expected Adara to react so soon to his counterthreat. Although deplorable in almost every way, she’d never been one to rush a decision or force implementation of a plan. Adara was the devious planner, always self-indulgent and appreciating the subtle nuances of her own wickedness. He could surmise why she’d become such a person; her family seldom supported her, other than some consideration from her father Tercel. Grizela loathed her daughter, envying her talents with witchcraft and her stunning looks even more.

Charcoal fur striped the shadow coyote’s raised spine, the marking pattern a muted but exact match to Waapake’s. Is it really him?

Transfixed with the vision, Keir flung the door open and stood, mind and heart at war for control of his legs.

The shadow coyote paused at the top step and met his gaze. Through the dim light, Waapake’s yellow slit-shaped pupils glowed, mesmerizing Keir while something unseen grasped his limbs. Propelled forward like a puppet under a master’s direction, he surrendered command of his legs. A few steps later, hot blood rushed into his groin and the charade ended. Keir halted. The vision was false—embodied by Adara.

Although she never realized her mother’s jealousy, Adara clearly knew her effect on men in general—and on him specifically. Mouth dry, he mopped a hand over sweat beading across his face. Despite his chagrin, at least one thing was now certain: Adara loved the slow burn, whether with seduction or torture made no difference. Since he hadn’t seen his familiar’s ghost after all, Keir was assured that Waapake still lived and trudged back to the car.

He collapsed, emotionally spent, body exhausted, into the seat and gave the house another glance—the false coyote had vanished. Waapake would have first hurtled his soul to meet Keir, followed by whatever ghost-like shroud remained of his body bounding like a happy hound in chase.

Yet, some odd phenomenon remained. The home’s security lights failed to penetrate the phantasmagorical darkness; their lopsided yellow halos shined only beyond the property lines, not on the house. If Adara was responsible for that veil of death, Keir wasn’t going to investigate. He drove away, not accelerating beyond second gear as he crept the few miles, hoping to find Rowe at home.

Adara had taken the stakes of her game too high. He had no choice but to go all in.

***

Keir clanked the knocker against Rowe’s front door and waited only a few unanswered moments before he called, “Rowe, are you there? I need to talk.”

Receiving no response, he paced the wide porch. Should he try Logan’s? Keir checked his pocket watch, stunned by the late hour of two in the morning. Hadn’t it just been dusk? Either he’d lost track of time or Adara’s illusions stole it from him. Logan kept late nights; he might still be up.

As Keir stepped from the porch, the sharp hoot of a nearby owl made him flinch. He spotted movement hidden within cover of the lawn’s red oak, its dry, brown leaves clinging with stubbornness until cast off by new growth. After a second hoot, he asked, “Busby, is that you?”

Rowe’s familiar—a large barn owl, winged into view and perched on a porch rail. “Master is home. Doing my best to rouse him for you.” He let out a round of shrill whistles.

The door opened and Rowe croaked, “Busby, what is it? Do you want in?” He poked his head out and peered drowsy-eyed toward the commotion. “Oh, Keir. What’s going on? Come in.”

Busby rotated his head, the disc-shaped white face panning Keir’s motions on the porch, then flew inside after him. Without a word to the men, the owl flew upstairs.

“Sorry it’s so late—I thought it was earlier. I can come back in the morning or give Logan a call. He’s probably still up. Things happened and I need to talk.”

Before Rowe could reply, the enormous hall tree, inhabited by the empowered spirit of his deceased Uncle Bertrand, bent toward Keir and proclaimed, “Nothing doing. You’re as good as family. Known you since you were a toddler. Please, make yourself at home.” The antique’s oak boards creaked as it removed Keir’s parka. “So sorry ’bout my complaining joints. This hour don’t do my arthritis any favors.”

Rowe motioned Keir into the parlor. “Have a seat,” Rowe said. Dressed in only t-shirt and boxers, he tucked his hands under his armpits and sat leaning forward at one end of a leather couch.

“I messed up again.” Keir slumped into a wide club chair. “Chuquilatague told me how to orient my focus when I went against Adara, but she outplayed me. On my way back to the Hollow, I drove straight to her place, eager to try his advice. She wasn’t there, initially, so I broke in and—”

“Warded?”

“Not the house. In the basement I found Waapake in a cage, warded only after she showed up. That was part of her plan to trap me in there as well.”

“Is he okay?”

“He seems fine. I think I could blast him free of both cage and ward if she wasn’t there—that’s not the problem. It’s that, well, at the reservation I met Unole again. Couldn’t believe how she’d changed.” Keir briefly closed his eyes, allowing his mental image of her to raise a smile on his lips. “Pretty, smart, and commands some amazing power now, too.”

Rowe chuckled. “I know that look. Finally, a girl got to our honorable shaman.”

“Yeah, maybe so.” Keir leaned forward, pressing forearms against his thighs. He stared at the floor, trying to hide the sting of Rowe’s description of him as honorable: nothing could be less true. He mustered the will to continue and straightened. “Things were going great with her and with learning how to free Waapake. But when I got back to town, somehow Adara knew I’d kissed Unole. Adara threatened to spill what had happened between us years ago to the coven if I don’t end things with Unole.”

“Sounds like a sticky love triangle, if you ask me,” Jancie said as she swept in, her long silky robe flowing open to reveal bare legs and a short matching nightgown.

Busby sailed after her and settled onto a tall brass bird perch.

“More dangerous than sticky,” Rowe added. “Remember what happened to Lenore when she got caught between me and Adara?”

“How powerful is Unole?” Jancie pulled a throw from the back of the couch, nestled next to Rowe, and covered both of them with the blanket. “Can she help you fight Adara?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. She’s plenty skilled but recently suffered some serious illness. I’m not sure she’s capable.”

“Oh, is she all right?” she asked.

“I think so. She appears to be on the mend.”

Rowe cleared his throat. “What exactly went down between you and Adara?”

Keir scrubbed a hand over his eyes, then released a long, slow sigh as he met his friend’s gaze. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. Hell, what does? She will destroy my career and ruin my life, unless I do what she demands.” His gaze landed on each of them. “When I was in my first year working as a seer in the Council building, with my office down the hall from hers, we had a fling.” He rubbed the back of his neck, delaying more details so he could measure their responses. He could only withstand so much humiliation in one evening.

“Whoa—was it good?” Rowe blurted, eyes wide.

Jancie sucked in a breath and elbowed him in the ribs so hard, he winced.

Keir’s mouth twisted into a nervous half-grin, their humor easing the tension. “At first, I didn’t want anything to do with her, but she persisted. I needed clients, and she promised to fill my schedule books if I agreed. I was desperate. And foolish. Now I’m answering for my mistake. And so is Waapake.”

“What does she want now?” Rowe asked.

“Beyond wild sex? Who the hell knows?” Keir shrugged. “To own me, I guess.”

“So, what do you want?” Jancie claimed the blanket that Rowe had tossed off.

“Not her,” he spouted, looking away. “I want to be recognized for my own merits, not handed success because I’m banging the high priestess.”

Jancie nodded. “And what about Unole? How does she fit into all this?”

“She’s genuine/ Real. She likes me for who I am, not because of ulterior motives. She makes me feel like I’m strong, powerful, in control.”

Jancie eyed Rowe with a smile. “Is that how I make you feel?”

“Every day, babe—except when you beat me at arm wrestling.”

Jancie beamed and Keir quipped, “Good comeback.” After they shared a laugh, Busby clapping his beak to join the fun, Keir added, “Unole’s what I want; I can’t give her up, but I don’t want her to get hurt. And I won’t have sex with Adara ever again. I’m not that stupid guy I used to be.”

“We all make mistakes,” Rowe offered. “It helps us learn.”

“Yeah, trouble is I don’t see any way out of this one. Adara will kill Waapake. I’m pretty sure of it, enough not to take any chances. Even more sure she’ll tell all to the coven—and enjoy every whisper of gossip that polishes her ego.”

“You got it there.” Rowe glowered.

Jancie faced Rowe. “Can you, through your position on the Coven Council, or Logan, as high priest, do anything to stop her?”

Rowe shook his head. “Not much. We can report Waapake’s kidnapping to the sheriff, but magical familiars are regarded as pets, nothing more than basic property.”

Keir blew out a breath. “No, there isn’t anything more we can do. Adara’s will is stronger than iron. My career is finished. I might as well start over. I could offer services as a shaman around the reservation. That way, at least I can be with Unole.” He hung his head and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I just hope I can save Waapake.”

Rowe slid Jancie’s leg off his and sat forward, his voice brusque, grating. “You’d actually leave the coven?”

“I don’t see any other way—what do I have to lose?” Though Keir wondered if moving to the reservation might push his relationship with Unole too fast.

“Your friends for one.”

“I don’t know,” Jancie countered. “Having spent time at the New Wish coven, I can see how new surroundings might help give a new perspective.”

Rowe glared at her, his jaw slackening. “You’re serious?”

“Why not? A few months or year away, especially where he could learn more about his powers might be good.”

He turned toward her, redness flaming beneath the dark stubble of his beard. “You had to go there. It wasn’t by choice.”

“I had a choice. I chose to save you from Adara,” she snapped, then continued to Keir, her voice softened. “It was a necessary trip, but I learned so much about myself and my witchcraft, how to count on both when things got hard.”

Still staring, Rowe surged to his feet. Raking a hand through his hair, he met the ponytail elastic and yanked it out as if unable to tolerate any restraint.

“Keir, some time away could be good,” Jancie said. “Your new relationship with Unole might open up powers and change the way you see the world—love can do that.” With a bemused expression, she crossed her legs and gazed up at her boyfriend.

“I can’t believe you’re saying that,” Rowe yelled, then tried to contain his anger. “He’s like family—my brother. The coven is his home. Your mother came from New Wish and so did your magic.”

“Keir studied at the reservation for an entire summer.” Though she smiled and held her head in a casual tilt, her voice ratcheted louder. “They accept him. It’s a comfortable, safe retreat where he can learn. How is that different?”

Rowe tossed his hands in the air and strode away from her, pacing the room.

“I understand what each of you are saying, but you’re missing a key point—I don’t have any choice.” Keir’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “Just wait till Adara tells all and see how my clients react. There won’t be anyone left who’ll trust me.”

“I can talk to them, tell them not to listen to her. So can Logan.” At the edge of a desk, Rowe planted his hands and leaned forward. Supported by two of his deceased-but-empowered relatives, Uncle Ernie residing in a silver cigar cutter and Wona’s spirit within a letter opener, he faced Keir. “We can get the word out.”

“Thanks. It’s worth a try. I’ll prepare a statement for my clients and diffuse what I can. I’ll be around for a while to establish communication with Waapake and try to get him out.”

“I’ll message Logan and Aggie right now,” Jancie offered. Fingers flying over her phone’s keypad, she added to Rowe, “I’m asking Logan to contact you ASAP about negating Adara’s defamation. Aggie’s wand connection to Waapake might help us free him.”

“Great. Ask her to contact me first thing tomorrow,” Keir replied. “If I can get Waapake, I’ll leave soon, before the onslaught of insults. The rumor mill can go on without me.”

Rowe snorted and stomped toward the stairs.

Keir stood, and tiredness smacked him, his head reeling. He needed to sleep, but not at home with that veil of death. “Do you think I could spend the night here? I don’t—”

She jumped to her feet and tossed off the throw. “Not a problem. This big place has plenty of guest rooms. Take your pick.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He paused. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you and Rowe. I’m sorry.”

“He’ll be fine.” She shrugged, then headed toward the stairs and motioned for him to follow. “He loves you like a brother and wants to protect you.”

“I may need him if it comes down to a fight to free Waapake,” he said as they stopped outside of her and Rowe’s closed bedroom. “I can’t bear to lose my coyote. I’d sacrifice my honor to get him back. Chuquilatague said there’s a lesson Waapake must teach both me and Unole. He’s already taught me so much. Let’s pray it won’t be his last.”

Before they parted, Jancie reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, though he couldn’t tell whether her gesture indicated optimism or sympathy.

Fresh grief slithered down his spine and curdled his stomach as he dropped into bed. He lay awake listening to tree branches scratching against the window pane. The sound reminded him of the great willow, and Unole. He needed to speak with her, even if just to hear her lovely voice, to help him remain calm. Clinging to the hope that they could talk through the willow tomorrow, he welcomed sleep.

Chapter Fourteen: Winds of Change

The window above where Unole studied rattled, shaking in the wind like a percussion instrument. Chimes hanging from the porch ceiling added a soft melody. The breeze begged to be joined, sung to, harmonized with. However, she couldn’t hear it well enough through the glass, or perhaps through the expansive aura her father exuded while meditating. Unable to focus on her lessons, she crept across a corner of the sitting room where Elogi’s honking nose snored in time with Father’s rhythmic chanting. Considering their din, it was no wonder Unole couldn’t engage with the wind. Coat and scarf in hand, she slipped from the cabin and shut the door behind her with the slightest click.

A few steps across the lawn, she spread her arms wide, welcoming the midday warmth. The wind danced amid golden rays, twining hints of springtime into the length of her braid and fringe of her scarf. Is this euphoria because Keir is thinking about me? Tempted to find out, she wanted to explore the forest where the wind spoke more freely. Houses and roads inhibited all of nature’s songs. She glanced over her shoulder at the cabin—closed tight and still enchanted.

Elogi hadn’t discovered her absence yet but would soon. Unole missed the freedom her illness had stolen. Since her close call with death, it seemed like the entire tribe, or at least all of her father’s clients, mothered her. She watched for every chance to regain control from Elogi’s smothering protection. Day by day, Unole strengthened and Elogi moderated but not fast enough to suit Unole.

She scurried along the trail toward the stream, where the wind had carried Keir’s fears to her during Waapake’s abduction. Ahead, current rushed the streambed’s corridor, traveling upon the sharpened wind. One puff that bounced from a trunk seemed to whisper Unole’s name or at least its first syllable—was it her imagination? She cupped an ear upstream. A long, drawled “o” encircled her with a kittenish, spiraling breeze. Then a louder “lee” swept the entire bank and ruffled a patch of white petals: Keir was calling to her.

She hurried to the display, the same place she’d spotted the single windflower before. Now at least a dozen blossoms pushed toward the sun—all since Keir and she walked these woods together. She kneeled and enjoyed her namesake flower, smiling at what was a sign of his goodness. Softened by today’s wind and sun, the earth squished beneath the knee of her jeans. The stain brought no worries, not when her world was springing back to life.

She rose and lifted an arm, palm open to catch a passing breeze. With a twirl of her fingers, she sent it back the way it had come, carrying her song with Keir’s name repeated in the melody.

Although she could have sung his name for hours—it gave her such joy—she listened for his reply. His reliance on the great willow to harness his words to the wind’s voice required longer.

During the interim, she dipped her fingers into the water. Fish and amphibians wriggled toward her, possibly drawn from their winter torpor with the happy tunes.

She also kept alert to the threat of Adara’s north wind, though no dark notes struck Unole’s ears nor any frigid gust iced her cheeks. It was the witch woman’s badger form that concerned Unole more. When in the glade before with Keir, the magic of human shifters confounded her, perhaps because the wind’s voice more easily commanded her attention. She did her best, checking and rechecking the shadowed brush along the banks.

Hindered by the limits of her own powers, she wished she’d learned how to track like a trapper or hunter. Only if the witch woman’s magic wafted to Unole, would she become aware. Or if a badger came close enough to hiss at her. Maybe take a nip at her like Adara had when they’d met last September before Unole’s illness.

A fresh breeze tossed her braid around, carrying Keir’s reply, more spoken than sung, in ragged notes translated by the tree’s spirit. “Glad to hear you. I miss you.”

She gulped too much air and almost burst with eagerness to respond. But when he continued, and his notes rose to an edgy pitch, she sputtered the breath out without a message. He’s in trouble.

“Adara will not release him. She saw our kiss and is jealous.”

Unole’s gaze raked the surrounding brush. Can Adara read the wind and gain access to his message? Few could unless, like Keir, aided by of a matriarch willow.

His words flowed faster, more urgent. “She threatens to smear my name, my honor. Unless—”

Breath whooshed from Unole, and her voice churned ripples atop the current. “I stand with you, always. As one.”

Several tense and empty moments followed. Unable to bide longer, she sang another line. “Let me be your path of peace to help you win Waapake’s freedom.”

Again, she waited, but this time took no joy in the splendor of spring. Silence settled across the streambed. No wind. No response. She rolled river pebbles under her boot, back and forth faster and faster, matching the acceleration of her pulse. She sucked air deep into her lungs and forced out a louder intonation of the same song. “Please hear me. I will gladly be your path of peace that you may hold to so you can free Waapake.”

She pressed a hand to a tree trunk to steady herself, her breath shallow, eyes fixed upstream.

On the far bank, the undergrowth rustled. She shifted her gaze to the noise. But nothing emerged.

Still no reply came from Keir. She dug her nails dug into the tree’s bark.

Too far for her to help with anything but a bit of song, Keir faced serious problems.

Why would Adara do those unspeakable things—imprison an innocent coyote and seek to malign an honorable man, the man I care for—now, after all I’ve done for that witch woman?

She blinked at the sunlit sky, seeing the Coyote Stars with only her heart, and selected one special star. She asked Great Coyote to let it sparkle with her favorite color, the purple of spring crocuses, to shine on Keir and help him when she could not. Though the magical protection was small, her love was great.

She dropped to her knees and recited a lesson she’d revisited more than once since her encounter with death. “I wonder in both life and love, for they last such short times. I open my heart to the unknown, though it may bring me fear or pain.” She shivered. The prayer gripped her with a new and deeper meaning. Her heart cracked as she stammered the last line, “I believe the Creator will guide me, for there are rewards to gather from the winds of change.”

Chapter Fifteen: The Lesson

Slunk low in the passenger seat, Keir waited for dusk, patience eluding him. He squirmed, bothered again by a cramp in his thigh. To surveil the Tabard house, he and Aggie had chosen her green Nash sedan. Though it barely functioned, having been stored in a barn for decades, Adara likely wouldn’t recognize the car; Aggie acquired it when she moved to the coven last October, after Adara vanished.

According to the Coven Council, adherence to a lifestyle from the time of the coven’s founding supposedly helped isolate members from new ways that might adversely affect their witchcraft. However, the uniqueness of the relic cars they must drive allowed everyone to easily identify the drivers. Secrets were hard to keep—Keir didn’t know how he and Adara managed to hide theirs for more than four years. Even his best friends hadn’t known. He readjusted the position of his aching leg. If only he’d never fallen into temptation in the first place. What a sucker he’d been.

The tedious fading of sunlight left Keir too much time alone with his shame. At first, he and Aggie had attempted whispered, idle conversation. That soon became strained, both of them preoccupied with unspoken worry for Waapake. Keir’s past mistakes pursued him, grief and guilt burrowing into his nerves, jolting him with blame for Waapake’s suffering and possible death. To hold onto a shred of sanity, Keir forced the thoughts away, clinging to visions of Unole and the gentle tone of her song.

That afternoon, from where he’d sat under the great willow, she’d prompted him to accept her peace as his own, use it in the battle he faced. Recalling how he’d not been able to acknowledge her offer, he balled a hand into a fist.

Earlier that afternoon at the bend in Owls Tail Creek, Aggie stood guard, while Keir sat beneath the great willow’s bower. His fingers entwined several twigs, supple from the first flow of spring sap. As he talked with Unole, the sap tingled against his skin, oscillated blood in his veins, read the message in his heart and translated it to rhythm that floated atop the wind. Awestruck by magic he’d never witnessed, their communication was as unique as Unole. Another reason he admired and wanted her. Not knowing how to control the transmission, all of his longing spilled unfettered into the tree and swept southward before he could stop it. What if his desire had been too much, too soon, and frightened her?

Keir quickly formed a more purposeful message, rather than the ambling giddiness he just sent. He focused on the new complication with Adara, how she knew of his interest in Unole and their kiss at the reservation. Armed with that information, she now threatened to ruin his name, end his career in the coven, and kill Waapake. The sap fluctuated with his warring emotions. The willow’s branches swayed and kicked up a powerful wind, stirring the current beneath.

Seconds later, Unole’s pointed reply reverberated through each of the willow’s branches as she volunteered to be the path of peace he could use to stop Adara.

As Unole’s notes faded, Rowe’s and Jancie’s voices joined Aggie’s outside the great willow’s canopy. Rowe parted the low-hanging branches.

Not only had his entrance disrupted Keir’s concentration, the sap ceased vibrating against his hand, the wind stilled, and the creek’s burbling current quieted to a trickle. No matter how he tried to convey, thank you for your path of peace, to Unole, he could not. Repeated attempts, after Rowe exited the willow’s spread, yielded nothing. Keir swallowed hard and surveyed the sluggish streambed. He didn’t want to leave her hanging but what choice did he have? At least he’d managed to send some sort of positive message, albeit blathering infatuation.

Now, waiting in the car parked down the road from Adara’s, he replayed the scene, unable to account for the sudden curtailment of their dialog. Gathering darkness saved him from that confusion but thrust him into a similar yet more dangerous dilemma: how to speak with Waapake.

Keir faced Aggie, who stared blank-faced into the distance as if engaged in mental preparation. “Ready?” His question startled her into action.

She inhaled sharply. “I think so.” In one swift motion, she lifted her wand, its tips vibrating and amber stone aglow. The three ends contained gifts from three magical beings: her grandmother’s enchanted amber, the matriarch sycamore Nannan’s power, and Waapake’s hair infused with the power of all coyotes. “Fully operational.”

“Good. We’ll need it. Let’s make this quick and not get caught.” He pushed open his door and cut across the road to where snowplows had crusted forest underbrush beneath piles of snowpack.

She followed and they crouched, stalking toward the Tabard property. Using the tall boundary hedge as cover, he turned and continued toward the side of the house. When the back-porch gable came into view, he moved dense branches aside until he spotted the cellar door. For a moment, he prepared his mind, let it drift to Unole and the peace she wore easily like an article of clothing—even after facing a serious illness and her mother’s death. A sense of calm stroked his cheek, softening the sharp edges of his mind. Could he hang onto that with what lay ahead, yards away?

He needed more, a stronger link to Unole, and looked to the sky. Is she looking at the same Milky Way of Coyote Stars right now? One star with a purple-blue brilliance, along the ribbon of hundreds, twinkled brighter than the rest—maybe the Great Coyote would guide them tonight. If so, he hoped for useful instruction rather than a hard lesson.

He gulped a steadying breath and glanced at Aggie.

Though not shaking, her fingers white-knuckled the wand’s base as she extended it. She reminded him of Unole. Only a year younger, Aggie also possessed plenty of strength.

Keir again parted the hedge foliage. On his signal, she threaded the wand into the space, then held back the branches at one side, while he grasped the wand’s tip laced with Waapake’s fur.

Keir closed his eyes and began a mental journey toward to his familiar. He started by slipping into the ground beneath him. Into the soil he dropped, down, down, clawing for the bush’s roots. He entered a wide one so his path into the branches would be straight and swift.

Once there, in line with their plan, Aggie’s power glowed like a beacon, guiding him to the location where her wand contacted a bush limb.

He made an easy jump to the wand itself and hurried deep within the coyote portion. Waapake’s hairs resonated. Keir spread his hands onto points along each hair, marking them with his own power. Then, the hard part—more waiting.

Waapake must now respond. Keir perched on the terminal end of one strand shaking with Aggie’s power. Selected for their stiffness, rugged guard hairs had been threaded into wormholes along the wand’s wood. The quaking, unforgiving surface beat against his legs, punishing his already cramped thigh.

After a few minutes, he grasped the scaly hair with his hands to lessen the strain on his legs. He wondered how Aggie endured this extended output of her energy. She was one of the strongest young witches he knew; he didn’t doubt her magic or personal stamina. But fear of the unknown snaked seductively through his body, tempting him to believe Adara could and would do anything to thwart him, including attack Aggie.

Palms bruised and legs rubbery with fatigue, Keir couldn’t withstand. He shifted to dismount the hair. His scraped hands stung, oozing blood. One foot had just touched down onto the wand’s wood when he sensed Waapake’s aura, weak at first but building.

With a new burst of strength, Keir regripped and reestablished his seat.

Waapake’s essence shoved Keir backward and covered him in happiness—as if the coyote’s tongue licked his entire body.

Despite the need to remain quiet and avoid detection, a laugh built from low on Keir’s diaphragm and would not be stifled. When the joy of their reunion at last subsided, he transmitted a crucial message along the magical bond. “Keep yourself safe. Call to the Coyote Stars—they are our allies. I will come tonight at the cellar door. Is Adara home?”

A wail reverberated along the hair where Keir sat. Howled syllables twisted and morphed. “Food was provided, but she did not appear.”

“Be watchful. I am coming.” Keir slid off and raced back through the wand, scanning wildly for entry to the bush. He took the nearest branch, hoping it was the same he’d used to enter. It was not—his memory had failed him or Aggie had moved. With too many possible reasons and too little time, he chose not to retrace his path. Instead, he wound forward around many curves and angles, some so tight he barely squeezed past. At the junction of trunk and roots, he couldn’t locate the wide, straight root from before.

His mind labored to return as fast as possible from the underground. In the real world, his body coiled to spring into rescue mode. The wild, out-of-body experience disoriented Keir.

He thought he heard a coyote howl.

The mournful cry persisted and Keir ran headlong into a knobby growth, where a bent and narrow root blocked his path.

Was the cry the Great Coyote teaching him the lesson? Now—while in process of journeying? It was all Keir could do to reconnect his mind and body.

Keir rubbed the side of his head and banged shoulder. He righted himself and retraced his steps to the last junction where he’d made a wrong turn.

The wailing surged again with renewed intensity.

He found the correct route and raced full speed through the large root tunnel.

Was one animal or many crying out? Were they the coyote ancestors who’d visited him during his last journey on Aggie’s wand?

He surged from the soil and sprang back within the housing of his own body, immediately focused on what his ears perceived—a single coyote—Waapake.

The forlorn cry pierced Keir’s heart. He had to save him. “Wait here,” he said to Aggie, then shouldered between a cleft in the hedge. Peering all around, he saw no movement, no lights shining from the house windows. He levered through the bush and darted across the driveway to the cellar door.

Footsteps sounded from behind. He dropped into cover of the outside cellar stairwell and checked back.

Aggie traversed the drive, gravel crunching under her feet.

Keir waved, then turned, descending the steps to the basement door. His coyote’s wail pierced the metal, the knob resonating like a tuning fork against his palm. As he rattled the locked door, Aggie came alongside.

He recited an opening spell, and she touched her wand to the lock. It gave way and he opened the door. Unable to see in the basement’s total darkness, he hesitated.

In that helpless moment, a blast of light seared his eyes, his optic nerves throbbing.

Only Waapake’s vicious growls accompanied the assault.

Keir swung a fisted arm in the direction of the light but met only air. “Aggie, stay back.”

A grip, strong as steel, clamped onto his shoulder and pushed him backward through the door, while the light remained fixed on his face. When the door clicked closed, the light extinguished.

Thuds sounded from inside the basement, as if Waapake lunged at his cage walls.

“Rowe?” Aggie’s voice quavering, uncertain.

His eyes still blinded, Keir couldn’t validate what she saw.

Shuffling sounded both in front and behind. A gentle hand hooked his elbow and guided him to the steps.

He negotiated the first as a raucous cry of a crow cackled above him—the same as the one at the creek that stole Waapake’s dreamcatcher. Keir twisted, trying to focus on the bird, and a laugh accompanied its harsh caw, nearly matching the discordance.

As Keir turned back to the recognizable laughter, his vision accommodated. Under the dim glow cast by a security lamp, Adara stood beside Rowe, flashlight dangling from her hand. Despite his friend’s squared shoulders and crossed arms, by his contorted grimace and pallid skin, he appeared as if he wanted to vomit. Oppositely, Adara looked a remarkable vision: she wore a black satin evening gown that clung to every curve, her face powdered white and adorned with glimmering earrings and dark red lips.

It took a moment for Keir’s eyes to see, and a moment longer for his brain to understand.

He grappled for Aggie’s arm—but an instant later suspected her as part of this deception—and pulled free to brace himself against the railing. Had Aggie set him up? Did they really wish him to be under Adara’s control? He dragged up the steps, mind reeling. His emotions whirled within his mind, like the vortex of a tornado poised to cyclone through the rest of his body, long before any words could form.

At the top, he turned to face them—surprised to find Aggie standing behind him, her eyes wide, body shaking. He glanced at Rowe, his childhood friend, who’d only yesterday called him family, his brother. “What the hell are you doing?” Keir demanded, trying to bite back the anger which escaped with every word.

“Whatever it takes to keep you in the coven.” The hollow-sounding words came out of the dark—out of nothing Keir knew.

“You’re siding with her? You said you’d refute her accusations against me. Are you now planning to help smear my name?”

“No. Just stopping the rumors before they start.” Rowe’s words were tight, measured.

Leaning a shoulder against her newfound ally, Adara cast a casual grin, her advice lilted and smug. “He’s got it right. Let’s make it easy for everyone.”

“At what cost?” Keir shouted. Ignoring her, his eyes tore at Rowe. “Mine or yours? Are you willing to step up to the plate—play her game—and jeopardize your relationship with Jancie?”

Rowe held Keir’s stare for only a moment, then dropped his gaze.

“I thought not.” Keir turned and strode into the darkness—not caring whether Aggie or anyone followed in support. The noise of his boots against the gravel driveway crushed the discourse continuing behind him.

Only Aggie’s shrill, frightened tone pierced the rumble. “What’s wrong with you? Did she put a spell on you?”

Relieved to not hear more, Keir couldn’t decide which jabbed the pit of his stomach harder, Adara’s expectations or Rowe’s justifications.

Keir turned onto the road’s asphalt and forced his legs into a faster rhythm, ignoring the complaints from his cramped muscles. He widened his stride, pressed harder, struggling to keep pace with the turmoil churning inside him.

A small patch of starlight shone upon him, so bright and isolated, he paused to crane his neck upward as Aggie caught up to him. A cloud trailed away, revealing the same purple twinkling star.

He replied to the Great Coyote, If this was your lesson, I failed…again.

Keir chucked all hope, steadied himself with a deep breath, and prepared for what lay ahead—blinders on, not looking back.

Chapter Sixteen: Bad Medicine

At the door to Rowe’s house, Keir blew past Jancie and headed toward the stairs. “Is Rowe here?”

“No. He’ll be back soon though. Is everything okay?”

Not wanting to encounter Rowe, Keir relied on Aggie, who entered behind him, to explain. Gripping the banister, he glanced over his shoulder. Her downcast look set the tone.

“What’s wrong?” Jancie touched Aggie’s arm.

He took the steps two at a time. From his guest room, he listened, best he could, to their conversation and, more importantly, for Rowe’s arrival while hurriedly packing belongings.

Jancie’s piercing exclamation carried upstairs. “I can’t believe he did that. What was he thinking?”

Aggie squeaked a nervous reply.

“I know he’s desperate to keep Keir from moving away. But geez—there must be another way—this puts Rowe back into Adara’s clutches. After I worked so hard, risked eveything, to get her off him. I just don’t get it,” Jancie said, her voice flaring loud and fast as a locomotive.

“Me neither.”

Hard steps on the stairs shot adrenaline through Keir. Jaw clenched, he prepared to square off against Rowe.

Muffled by the blood pounding in his ears, Keir didn’t register Jancie’s voice calling to him until she stood at his open door. “What can I do to help?”

Registering her concern, he bit back the adrenaline and shoved aside his anger. He shouldered his duffel and picked up the suitcase, weighing what he should say. Extreme accusations could unleash undeserved rage on her and cost him time to defend or explain. “Try to knock some sense into your boyfriend.” Close within her personal space, he locked his gaze onto hers until she moved out of the way.

She descended the stairs as he reached Aggie, white-faced at the bottom, and passed her. Jancie cried, “Where are you going?”

“Not home.”

The two women caught up to him at the front door. Jancie opened it. Her lips pursed, she gave a single nod. “Good.”

“Be careful,” Aggie patted his shoulder. “If you need anything, call me or Logan.”

“Or me—but send a text instead.” Jancie’s voice quivered to a ragged whisper, as if choking on the realization of what lay ahead. “This isn’t going to be easy dealing with Rowe.”

Her eyes flitted in all directions, but when Keir captured her glance, her throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He regretted the confrontation that would pit her against her boyfriend. Keir reached his free hand to touch her arm. “Thank you.”

She bit her lip, then rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “It will all work out.”

He hurried though the door and across the dark lawn to his car. While stowing his bags, oncoming headlights shone along the road. Thrust back in fight or flight mode, he jumped into the car and sped in the opposite direction. Pulse thundering in his ears, eyes glued to his rearview mirror, he took the first turn; no good would come from a clash with Rowe tonight. The hot, angry words would separate them with a wall of flames that could ravage their friendship.

Keir drove toward the reservation, glimpsing the Coyote Stars peeking between the hills, and reminded himself: it will all work out.

***

In the early morning hours, Keir turned onto the lane for Awenasa’s cabins. During a stop for gas, he’d made a quick call to reserve his lodging. She only laughed and said she knew he’d be back, just not this soon.

He dampened his headlights to not disturb her family or other guests. A sliver of a crescent moon helped him park and drag his gear to the cottage’s porch. He located the key under the ash bucket where she said she’d leave it.

Inside, he smiled, finding the furnace already on and the bed turned back. He dropped his bags and wriggled out of coat and boots. Sprawled on the mattress, he sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

At sunrise, outside Keir’s window, a pair of jays squawking in fits and starts woke him. Listening to their endless quarrel, he wondered whether he and his best friend would ever agree again.

He lay in his street clothes, hadn’t risen once during the night. By the nightstand clock, he’d only slept five hours yet felt surprisingly refreshed. After the past two days—including two seven-hour drives, a heated encounter with Rowe, and too many illusionary showdowns with Adara—Keir needed to recharge.

He stretched and made for the main room. When he collected his bags, a thermos and plate of muffins greeted him from the kitchen table. Neither had been there last night. Beneath an edge of the plate, a note read, “Doubted you’d have time for breakfast but knew you’d need some black-as-a-snarling-bear coffee. Chuquilatague is expecting you.”

Keir grinned, poured himself a steaming mugful, and scarfed down a blueberry muffin. He marveled at her thoughtfulness but wondered whether she’d alerted the shaman, or took it for granted he’d already be aware of his arrival. Musing on that, he went to the bathroom to bathe and dress in whatever he could find. Rumpled jeans and a French-cuffed dress shirt for his coven suits—mismatched but at least clean.

An hour later, he parked at his teacher’s cabin. Keir stepped from his car and filled his lungs. His chest expanded high and wide with the mountain air. Free of manipulations and exploitations he left behind in the Hollow, the air here smelled even more refreshing. Jancie had been right: this place was his safe haven, though bittersweet without Waapake. Keir clenched a fist. I will save him.

Chuquilatague opened his back door and stood on the stoop, a pensive expression on his face. From behind his shoulder, Unole beamed. Compared to her father, who dressed in drab khakis and a threadbare flannel shirt, she looked like a bright spring flower in a turquoise silk blouse, red miniskirt, and fringed suede boots.

Impatient and wishing to dispense with formality, Keir hurried to meet them and rose to the first step.

The wise man’s hand extended to rest upon Keir’s shoulder. The action blocked him from advancing, as Chuquilatague explained, “What we do today requires extreme focus. We will take every precaution.” For several moments, his contemplative gaze read his student’s face. Lines on his brow and creases along his mouth etched deeper.

Keir clenched his teeth, bracing for the gravity of their impending discussion, aware that what he was about to learn would require his utmost skill and responsibility. He stood quiet, outwardly calm but struggling to restrain anxiety; any sign of weakness might prevent his teacher from proceeding. Under this close scrutiny, Keir didn’t dare slide his eyes the slightest angle to Unole, no matter how much he needed her peacefulness. His eyes must remain fixed, proving his confidence and strength for the task Chuquilatague intended. The more Keir forced his emotions to calm, the more they frothed with impatience or boiled with rage.

Chuquilatague blinked slowly and cleared his throat—a dismissal? Did I fail the test?

His thoughts churned. He reached for the wise man, to prompt him to reconsider, but stopped short of making contact.

In that instant of internal chaos, a fragrance floated to Keir—the white floral of honeysuckle—Unole’s gentle restraint. Could Chuquilatague detect her scent? If so, would her aid disqualify Keir? Before he could evaluate the possibilities, his mind floated upon the sweetness with secondary notes of tuberose and flowering tobacco.

A wide smile sliced between the deep-set wrinkles of his teacher’s face. His hand, still on Keir’s shoulder, gave a brief squeeze. “Be welcomed. I knew of your coming with the last setting sun and have already prepared our study.”

Keir released a mental sigh he dared not show, or Chuquilatague might change his mind. Keir tried to catch Unole’s eye so he could offer her a smile of gratitude, but she’d already turned into the house. As he followed, he marveled at how Awenasa had been correct about not needing to alert the shaman. Never had Chuquilatague put him through such a confrontational greeting. What did that indicate about the magnitude of their impending discussion?

Seated in his customary, well-worn overstuffed chair, the wise man gestured across the room for the others to be seated.

Keir took a spot on the couch, this time at the other end from where he’d sat earlier. Perhaps the extra distance from the shaman might inhibit another encounter with his uncomfortable mind-brushing technique.

Instead, Unole assumed that seat. Exposed below her short skirt, her bare thigh, two feet from his, presented a different but equally invasive mind-altering force. Only when Chuquilatague spoke was Keir able to tear his eyes away.

“Three visions of you meeting Waapake came to me, each controlled by the witch woman.” Chuquilatague glanced at his daughter. “Unole shared your conversations through the winded willow. Also, the Coyote Star she chose to protect you related visions.”

Keir gaped at her. “That purple star? It was you helping me?”

“Of course. Who did you think it was?” She drew a hand to cover her giggle, though her dark eyes shined bright and unwavering, as if lit from within by the Coyote Stars that seemed to follow them everywhere.

“I thought it was the Great Coyote laughing at me for failing his lesson.”

At that remark, the shaman burst into a guffaw that clattered amulets hanging against his chest. “Great Coyote did teach his first lesson, and you mastered it, for you are here.”

Keir tilted his head. “How is that?”

Rather than answer, he looked to his daughter. “Unole, you also realized the same learning, at the same moment. Do you know what it was?”

Hands clasped in her lap, she squarely met his gaze. “To not dwell overlong on the past, but look to happiness lying ahead.”

Keir reflected—his conflict with Rowe had not been arbitrary. And as a result, Keir embraced Jancie’s words: all will work out. Heartened, he lifted his chest and replied to his teacher, “Yes, I did move forward away from both evil and anger.”

“Very well.” Chuquilatague steepled his fingers. “Both of you have achieved.”

“I’ve come to stay here permanently. I’d like to work as a shaman for the reservation or assist your practice as you might need,” Keir added with a cautious grin toward Unole.

Her cheeks lifted, crinkling the corners of her eyes, and his grin warmed to a smile.

“In time, that may well be your correct future, and with my health waning, I might appreciate your aid. However, evil still clings to you like a parasite; you must first remove it to embrace a full life. To do so, let us now build upon that valuable first lesson. It will be different. You won’t walk away, as was the case in the first learning, but will take a stand for what is good.”

Keir fingered one of his own amulets. He’d not escaped last night’s cozenage with Rowe and Adara’s deceit. He shouldn’t have expected any different; Chuquilatague’s trainings were never easy.

“You must now destroy the witch woman’s evil.” The teacher dug in his pocket and withdrew a folded paper. “To do so requires serious medicine, such that I have not shown you before. This medicine is only taught at the end of a successful apprenticeship, when a practitioner fully recognizes the difference between good and bad works. The implications of this medicine can be grave with irreversible consequences.”

Unole shifted.

“Please read this silently.” Chuquilatague raised the page, then handed it to Keir. “Do not speak the words.”

Keir read the incantation, noting references to a progression of colors, which he knew would impart a psychological impact. Hairs raised along his arms—his suspicions about his teacher’s dangerous practices had been correct.

Unole leaned into him in an attempt to view the verse.

“May I share this with her?” Keir asked.

“You may.” The two tight words shook from low in Chuquilatague’s throat.

As she read, a whimper escaped Unole—a sound of weakness Keir never expected to hear from such a strong woman. Her shoulder, pressed against his, trembled.

“What is it?” He looked into her ashen face but received no reply. He reread, allowing the verse’s images to linger in his mind, then addressed his teacher. “The color progression—”

“From black to white, as evil is transformed to good. If recited with focus, those words are powerful. But it is the intent of the shaman’s focus which forms the consequence. I have always trained you to do good, avoid temptation of the slightest evil because it will feed upon you. Evil is always a parasite. You must block it with a peaceful heart—if not, this medicine will cause serious harm, even precipitate death or loose a soul from a body.”

Though Unole clamped her arms against her sides, her shoulders shook as she ran from the room.

Chapter Seventeen: The White Crow

Locking herself in her bedroom the rest of the day, Unole refused to answer her father’s repeated calls through the door. Her heart ached having to disrespect him; she was the one at fault, not him, by hiding a secret. However, if she told Father, he would press her for more, maybe even forcing his way into her thoughts with his mind-brushing, for knowledge she wasn’t ready to give.

When she saved Adara’s life last autumn, Unole didn’t realize the chain of consequences that would haunt her. And now, possibly put her in serious danger if Keir misused the medicine her father gave him to battle the witch woman.

Only Adara and the Death Spirit knew what Unole had promised. Though her choice had been a coward’s, she made it—an irreversible deal bound by black magic—of her own free will. She didn’t tell her father because not even his great magic could waive her obligation.

At first, the implications of the deal seemed benign, as insignificant as a single snowflake among the many that fell during the past winter. Her life continued as if nothing had happened. She never expected to be in such a dire situation.

A gentle knock sounded against her door, and Elogi urged, “Unole, I have soup for you. You’ve missed dinner. You must eat.”

Unole rose from where she curled in the old quilt on her bed and admitted her aunt, not for soup but for her blunt sensibility.

Elogi laid a tray on the small dresser. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, her hazel eyes glinting yellow with concern. She took a seat beside Unole on the bed and cradled her hands. “You won’t speak to your father. Why, Little Windflower?”

The softness of Elogi’s hands and the scent of her rose perfume reminded Unole of her mother. If only she were alive to hear her fears. Elogi shared the same golden eyes as her sister; the resemblance was close enough and Unole’s need great enough, her anguish spilled. The dam she’d spent months constructing, but never tested, now failed. “I wish I could share my burden with him, but it’s better if he doesn’t know. He can’t undo my mistake and will only worry.”

“He is already worried.” Elogi searched her face. “Do you claim to know all of his medicines?”

Unole looked down, unable to deny the question.

Elogi stroked Unole’s braid for some time before speaking. “He will love you, no matter what mistake you made, and do his best to help you.”

Unole lifted her head to see her father standing silently in the doorway. She jumped to her feet and fell into his open arms.

“My Little Windflower made a bargain with death.” His ragged breath puffed against her ear.

“How did you find out?” she asked into his shoulder, unable to face the fear shaking through his arms.

“Do you think you are the only one who can talk with the wind?”

She responded with a quizzical look, but what she saw in his eyes surprised her more. Normally as unflappable and penetrating as an owl’s, they were now crinkled and bloodshot like she’d seen on all-night gamblers stumbling from the casino into the morning light. What had she put him through?

“I learned from your mother, though she was better, gifted like you. In my crude way, I stared down the wind until it told the promise you made to escape death.” With trembling fingers, he touched the side of her face, and tears seeped from her eyes. “You are correct; I cannot undo that deal—too dark. But now I better understand what Great Coyote said to me. He has the power to absolve you, as well as Keir, and will act through Waapake.”

She rubbed the dampness from her eyes. “Does Great Coyote want Keir to use your bad medicine?”

“No. Only for him to use it with care, to do good.”

Hope restored, a new purpose shot through her. “Where is Keir now? Is he still here or did he go home? I have to see him.”

“He came twice today asking for you. I knocked to tell you, but you didn’t answer.” Elogi replied. “He said he’d try again in the morning.”

Her father’s eyes glittered with understanding, and he stepped back to the doorway. “Eat and rest now so tomorrow you can tell him the cost of bad medicine. He must hear your words for his heart to understand.”

***

With the first light of day, the cobwebs of sleep vanished from Unole’s mind. She rose and quickly bathed but took care dressing.

She selected items which once belonged to her mother, in the delicate pastels she’d favored. The dove gray silk blouse swished over Unole’s shoulders. A scarf would entertain her friend, the wind, and keep him close to help her with a special favor. Around her neck, she wrapped her mother’s silk scarf, still blushing with ballerina pink and rose perfume. Unole fixed her hair in a loose ponytail rather than a braid and tied it with her mother’s sky-blue ribbon—more playthings for the wind. In the dresser mirror, within her own eyes she saw her mother’s and Elogi’s eyes, conveying their love.

Unole missed her mother every day. She should have been with her now—if Unole hadn’t cheated death. Today, she needed her mother’s spirit. That meant looking across the bridge between life and death again, no matter how much it frightened her. Resolved to move forward with what she must do, she tried to tie the scarf, but the silk stuck to perspiration on her neck.

In the kitchen, she perched on a chair and gripped the table’s edge as she focused on long, steadying breaths.

When the knock she awaited finally came, she sprang to the back door and greeted Keir. “Morning. I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he said, stepping past as she moved aside. “That is serious magic. Scares me, too.”

“I’d like to take a walk to the stream. Thought you’d like to see where I hear your windsong. Before we go, do you want breakfast or coffee?”

“No, I’m good. Awenasa and her grandmother spoiled me already.” He patted his dress shirt above where it tucked into his wool trousers. The gold chain of his old-fashioned watch draped from belt to pocket. Along with an ordinary red buffalo plaid jacket and well-worn hiking boots, he carried off the odd combination with a style that seemed effortless. As a teen, she swooned over him—never imagined he might be hers some day. If only it could last.

“Those ladies can sure put on a feast.” She pulled on her coat and led him across the lawn to her favorite trail. While the sun warmed the cold air, the wind played no part; it remained absent, as though waiting to see the outcome of her appeal to Keir.

The narrow path only allowed them to walk single file, which suited Unole since didn’t want to make conversation—the important message she must deliver bound her tongue to only those words.

When they reached the stream and stood side by side, she raised her arm and whirled her fingers in the air, hailing a wind. Soon a slight breeze caressed her skin. When strong enough to toss strands of her hair and Mother’s ribbon, Unole offered a request in Cherokee, “A-yo-hi-S-di U-ne-ga Go-ga A-le A-s-gi-ti-s-di U-ni-si-la-dv.” Once satisfied her song traveled out of the reservation, she said to Keir. “I thought of something that might help you talk with Waapake. It may take several minutes to see if the wind brings it to me.”

“That would be great. Thanks.” With a grin, he scanned the banks and overhanging limbs that conversed with the water’s babbling. “So this is where you heard my voice.” He took her hand. “You’re so talented, I can’t imagine—”

“And I can’t imagine how you travel on mind journeys like my father. I’ve tried and failed many times.”

He turned toward her and touched her scarf. “Ah, silk. So much like you, delicate, soft, and shimmering with grace and beauty, yet one of the strongest fabrics.” Along the river of silk, his fingers traveled to the back of her neck, shivering her with a waterfall of pleasant tingles. He caressed the nape of her neck, while his other arm encircled her waist, pulling her toward him.

She looked into his handsome face and rested her arms along his strong shoulders. Her one hand playfully brushed the silver feather dangling from his ear until the devious wind caught his patchouli cologne and wove it around her. She forgot everything except her desire to taste his lips. She leaned into his intoxicating warmth. Needing more, she slid one hand inside the collar of his jacket.

He dropped his head lower and found her lips, her tongue. His hand strong at her back, he tightened their embrace.

So close, Unole felt his heart beating, their breath mingling. Their souls had already entwined through their windsongs; now their bodies shared the same intimacy. She kissed him back hard, willing the wind to make time stand still.

Keir inched a hand inside the waist of her open coat and stroked her back. With the rustle of his touch through the silk of her blouse, her skin purred. However, too soon the fabric’s sensation reminded Unole of her mother and the real purpose of meeting with him today.

She pulled back, enough to read his eyes so she could be certain he understood what she had to say. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course. What is it?” His grin lifted dimples, making his face even more handsome, and her difficult task more challenging.

Against the heaviness of her heart, she struggled to raise the corners of her lips.

He touched the side of her face. “What’s wrong?”

“When you use my father’s incantation, you must not do so with anger—it is of extreme importance that you keep your mind at peace, always.”

“I agree and have been trying hard to do that, but sometimes, especially with Adara, it’s—”

“Especially with Adara, you must not hold onto anger while you recite the verse.” The space between them now too tight, she stepped back, desperate to breathe. “If your head is filled with anger and rage, the medicine will become darker, dangerous: bad medicine always comes with a price.”

He tilted his head. “I know all of this and I agree—it is important. Don’t worry.” He took a step closer and touched her arms. Such a gentle gesture, almost meaningless, yet so dismissive of what she was trying to convey: he didn’t understand.

She trembled as the words she must say lodged in her throat.

“Unole, what is it?”

“You must not let the medicine kill Adara. Do not kill her.”

“I’ve never wished the woman dead, regardless of how much I hate her.”

She clutched his hands. “No! You must not hate her. If you do while you recite the medicine, it will kill her, and …” She bit her lip to keep more of her secret from leaking out.

“And what?” He searched her face.

“Something horrible.” She couldn’t tell him. If he knew, he wouldn’t stand up to the witch woman: Keir’s reputation and career would be ruined; Waapake would be killed, and more grief would weigh upon Keir; and neither he nor her would receive Great Coyote’s teaching—judging from her father’s reaction, that might be the worst outcome of all. She looked away and murmured, “A string of pain that many will feel.”

He grasped her shoulders. “What will happen? Tell me.”

Refusing to meet his gaze, she pleaded, “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

She grimaced and squirmed in his tight grasp. I can’t tell him, can’t put myself first—I love him.

His blue eyes shifted to the color of an incoming storm and pierced her as if he could journey into her mind, invade her thoughts. “Answer me. What is the risk? I have to know.”

The loud caw of a crow interrupted him. Bearing a dreamcatcher in its claws, the white crow she’d summoned flapped straight for them. Caught off guard, Keir loosened his hold.

Unole freed herself and spun to one side. Between gulps for air, she repeated her previous request, this time in English, “Bring me the white crow Dearg and the dreamcatcher.”

Adara’s familiar, under Unole’s command, dropped Waapake’s web into her waiting hands. She said a silent thank you to the wind and another to the spirit of her mother, both standing with her as the request was honored.

Unole held the dreamcatcher out to Keir. “You should be able to use this to speak with Waapake.”

His eyes narrowed, Keir asked, “Dearg? Adara’s familiar, now white? What connection do you have to her?”

When Keir clasped the web, Unole’s spell broke, and the white crow dropped to the ground, writhing.

The sinews of the web were thickened with dreams resembling fanciful coatings of hoarfrost. She clashed her hands together. “Look, Waapake’s dreams remain. It should work.”

“Nope. Won’t work,” Dearg sputtered. His wings flopped wildly like trout the fishermen pulled from that very stream. He teetered onto a branch hanging low over the water, then used a passing gust to straighten his misshapen feathers and fill his wings. The bird launched into flight and circled before calling out as he sailed away, “Master just killed the coyote.”

The dreamcatcher tumbled from his shaking hands as Keir slumped to the ground and moaned, “No!” With hands covering his face, now pale as death, he rocked back and forth. “Unole, why shouldn’t I kill Adara?” His voice was icy, each word bitten off with precision.

“Because I was the one who saved her life.” Her heart lurched. She fought against the urge to comfort him; nothing she could do now would ease his burden. Unable to face him, she turned and ran. She’d been too late. She couldn’t blame Keir for hating Adara. Or hating her.

She’d failed. With each footfall she mouthed a prayer to Great Coyote, begging him for a miracle. Doubt crept between her prayers—his messenger, Waapake, had died.

She ran faster and faster, trying to escape that doubt, that horrible news. Tears welled in her eyes. The wind tried to dry them, offering her comfort, but the salt remaining stung and blinded her. At last she could run no longer. She dropped to her knees, the rocks and dry grasses scraping her bare skin. She grimaced against the pain and rubbed her stinging eyes.

She gulped clean, cool air, yet another gift the wind provided, one she didn’t deserve. She thought of her father’s teachings and realized her shame did nobody any good. Her vision and heart cleared. Brushing debris from her skin, she rose to her feet.

I am ready to be brave—no, more than brave. Mother, I look forward to reuniting with you.

Chapter Eighteen: Welcome Home

As the final rays of sunlight smeared like blood above the western hills, he pulled onto Rowe’s driveway. Bolstered by adrenaline and caffeine, Keir had driven almost non-stop from the reservation. However, during the trip and now, even more, after he’d arrived in the Hollow, he questioned whether returning was the right choice—if he should have stayed to find Unole.

Why had she run from him? Her erratic behavior confused and frightened him. Along at least a dozen forest trails, he’d searched and called her name before alerting her elogi and Chuquilatague of her disappearance. Keir told them what happened between Unole and the white crow. Assuring him they would find her, the shaman urged Keir to go back and set things straight, attend to his grief, bury Waapake.

He vaulted from the car, though his legs wobbled and his eyes blurred as he stumbled to the front porch. When he lifted the striker to knock, the door opened.

Rowe stood in the doorway, motionless and silent, his face unreadable.

Anticipating what he feared most, Keir clenched a fist. If only the present stillness could hold off the future: that Waapake’s death wasn’t certain, that Keir might forgive his best friend, and that the confusion with Unole would untangle.

After a long moment, Rowe sputtered, “I’m sorry.” With those two definitive words, the dark and twisted future careened onto Keir.

He exhaled through his nose, attempting to release pressure from the building stress. His brain throbbed against his skull. Ribs encroached upon his lungs. Acid spewed from his stomach to his throat. Any attempt by Rowe to shirk blame would shred their friendship to enmity.

Tension clouded the air, as if a thick fog separated them. Rowe’s gaze met his for a milli-second, then darted away like a fly avoiding the approaching swat. That evasiveness—he clearly wasn’t supposed to see—grated against him. His fisted arm tightened.

“I didn’t think she’d—”

The feeble tone of the excuse snapped Keir’s restraint. He coiled his fist to his shoulder and jabbed it out. Fueled by rage, Keir smashed his knuckles against Rowe’s jaw.

He stumbled backward and fell on the rug. With a hand to his jaw, Rowe said, “I deserved that and more.”

Keir paced back and forth outside the door, working off emotions churning his stomach, clinching his muscles. At last he halted and glared at Rowe—who had the good sense to be still—and spat, “I don’t want your apologies. Tell me what happened.”

“I went over to check on Waapake the morning after you left to make sure he had enough food and water. When Adara asked about you, I tried to reassure her you’d come around—didn’t tell her you’d gone to the reservation. As I left, strong winds started to blow from the north. Suspecting Adara was channeling that force, I parked down the road. Soon, a black cloud whisked up and away.”

“Which way did she travel?”

“South.” Rowe levered himself onto a hall bench, inhabited by his Great Uncle Wallace, who reached out to aid him. “I approached the house again and she was gone, so I let myself in to see Waapake. He was alone and okay. I checked several more times. Nothing different until night, when lights inside told me she’d returned.”

Keir stepped across the threshold, closed the door, and leaned his back against it. His mind buzzed like a hive of swarming hornets. Unole claimed to have saved Adara’s life when she’d retreated from the Hollow nearly dead after fighting Jancie, Rowe, and Logan. During that battle, Jancie’s southern winds clashed against Adara’s from the north in a ferocious electrical storm. Badly beaten, she escaped upon the force of her own gusts. Most believed she’d died. He wondered whether she could have been carried that far and survived the journey to the reservation. Had she gone there again yesterday and spied upon the meeting at Chuquilatague’s?

Rowe’s ringing cell phone interrupted his thoughts.

“Yeah. He’s here. I just told him.” Rowe addressed Keir. “It’s Logan.” Rowe’s brow furrowed as he listened to the high priest. “Thanks. I’ll let him know. Within the hour, I’ll get over to the Council office to man the phones and make calls. Try to head this off.”

“Head what off?” Keir asked blankly, his mind reeling about possible connections to Unole.

“Seems Adara has told the local gossips about her fling with you—her interpretation.”

“Shit. Didn’t the woman get enough vengeance by killing Waapake?” Keir tilted his head back, then lowered it, his gaze pinning Rowe against the seat’s back. “How did you learn he was dead?”

“Jancie and I fought most of last night. She finally knocked it into me that I was responsible for Waapake since I’d given you no real choice but to leave. Early this morning, I unlocked the Tabard’s outside basement door and entered.” Rowe grimaced. “Found him limp in a corner of the cage. I never expected—didn’t know what to do then. I came back here and told Jancie. She gave up arguing and walked out—said we were over.”

Keir slumped alongside on the bench, head in his hands.

***

At Estelle’s after-dinner party given on her behalf, Adara twisted more than necessary to set her tea cup on the side table. However, the overextended reach served well to hike the side slit in her skirt and give the males in attendance, especially the two councilmen, Art Kerry and his handsome adult son Kyle, a good view. She felt their gazes heating the bare skin of her thigh. She trusted Sibby, seated across Estelle’s parlor on the long brocade couch, would report the full effect after the gathering ended. By her actions, Adara wished to negate any possible doubt about the credibility of the forthcoming disclosure. Not that anyone could dispute her influence on men any more than a bitch in heat would keep a person from sleep.

When the murmurs settled, she turned back and surveyed the room filled with at least thirty of the most influential members of Coon Hollow’s coven, founding families and respected leaders. Through the years, most of them were staunch supporters of the Tabard family’s leadership.

Four of the eight Council members were in attendance: the two Kerry men, Sibeal, and her boyfriend Tynewell Tynker. Under that strange love spell, he posed no threat. He’d go along with whatever Sibby wanted him to believe. Nathan Wells wasn’t there. No surprise since he was a loner. Clarence Douglas hadn’t come. No pity. Adara didn’t miss his progressive righteousness which often blocked her actions as high priestess. No one expected Oscar Burnhard, who was suspended pending the outcome of his criminal charges. But she thought Rowe would be present. And maybe even Logan. However, those absences presented no real problem.

It was the Kerry family, or Art’s wife Kandice, who commanded the coven’s social scene. She coordinated the highly successful coven market, which brought in enough tourist revenue to provide income for a third of the members. Dressed in a smart pearl-gray suit and matching heels, Kandice spent ages gaggling at the dessert table, filling her plate with only two confections.

With a smile and a slight nod to her hostess, Adara addressed the group. “I want to thank Estelle for opening her home on such short notice.”

From her perch on the arm of the upholstered chair fully claimed by her husband’s girth, the woman replied with a dismissive gesture. “We’re just happy to welcome you home, aren’t we, dear?” Her bony arm fluttered across his wide shoulders. Even when the steely curls of her bob brushed his bald spot, the man sat silent, knees relaxed outward. Though his hooded eyes gleamed, fixed on Adara.

She muffled a chuckle. Apparently, Estelle hadn’t told him the abbreviated version of what Adara was about to reveal. Joe knew her too well and clearly was anticipating a good show, which she intended to deliver. “It’s wonderful to have such a warm welcome and to be back living in my old homeplace. Those I visited with at Fable resort’s Yule party may know that I spent the past few months away recuperating. Not only to restore my powers, but to renew my focus. It turned out to be a surprise opportunity. Taking time off from the busy schedule as high priestess allowed me to realign my purpose, rededicate myself to enhancing life here in the Hollow.” Her voice rang clear and strong as she met each pair of eyes. The truth of that ultimate goal, zinging through her entire body, bolstered her to relate—even justified—the misinformation she was about to tell.

“High Priest Logan is doing a remarkable job.” Kyle interrupted her prepared speech, his tone deep and assertive, his broad shoulders leaned into the crowd. “With him, our Council has ferreted out criminal rings and enacted legislature to bring advancement to the coven.”

“Sometimes change can be good, but not always. Take you and your father for example. Art worked on the Council for years under my guidance, and my mother’s before me. His decisions made on behalf of the coven are tempered with experience. Yours are perhaps more impulsive, as may be those of the new high priest.” Without breaking her rehearsed delivery, she captured the glare from Kyle’s narrowed eyes. Her lips curled ever so slightly, but she took no pause as she seamlessly continued her persuasion.

“Although I’m only a little older than you, Logan, and your peers, I have decades of Tabard history in coven leadership at my disposal. Without adequate background to moderate careless and impulsive decisions, we stand to lose much of what we treasure in our lives here, what we’ve worked hard to attain.

“That is the very reason I returned: to bestow knowledge for the sake of the greater good. And is why I must disclose the darkness of someone who serves you all in a high position. What I must make public is difficult for me—it reveals my own shortcomings, but I now walk a higher path and am willing to suffer any reproach.” This portion of her speech rolled smoothly off her lips. More than anything, she wanted people to believe she was righteous and honorable, like Keir. Can I pull it off?

Time for her planned dramatic pause. Desperate for a steadying breath, Adara gulped air, her lungs refusing to relax. Instead, she silently counted to ten, allowing the impact of her words to sink in.

No one dared to speak, not even Kyle, but many shifted in their seats or watched her from over of their cups. Though their expressions were unreadable, she did own their rapt attention.

“When I began my term in office, in interest of progress, I appointed a second seer, Keir Sheridan. I did so at the request of our members, many wishing to have equal representation of genders in that coven role. As an inexperienced seer, he lacked a client base and consequently the funds to rent an office. To lessen those dilemmas, I offered Keir space in the Council building and worked to establish his clientele. I realize now I shouldn’t have aided him.”

As the bitter lie puckered her tongue, Adara’s hands shook. She tried to still them, then stopped; nervousness would add well to her credibility. Her eyes slid toward the door. If only Keir would appear in this last moment. In past, his dimpled smile was enough to brush away the guilt from her web of deception. What prevented him from doing so now? Especially after she’d changed, now reached toward his lofty standards?

The door opened and footsteps sounded in the foyer. Her heart sped.

A moment later, an older couple, Herta and Tom, tiptoed in. The woman announced, “Sorry we’re late.”

Heat crawled up Adara’s spine. She could wait no longer, had to proceed with her plan. Her best seemingly wasn’t good enough for Keir. He’d chosen that naïve girl, Unole, instead.

Adara moistened her lips. “I should have exposed Keir Sheridan’s true nature sooner. My appointment of him should have been revoked. It was during his initial year, when he had little work and perhaps too much time, he … um … made advances toward me … of a sexual nature.” She cast her eyes downward to affect an air of embarrassment and dishonor. “I knew better, but didn’t wish to lose the seer everyone had requested.” She sucked in an audible breath. “I found myself engaged in a year-long relationship with Keir Sheridan that included kinky sex, submission, and bondage.” She rubbed one of her wrists, in an attempt to signify she had been the victim and avoid statement of an outright lie. Only then did she look up and gauge responses.

Della Washburn, directly in Adara’s line of sight, tipped her cup. Tea dribbled down the woman’s leg, creating a welcome diversion for Sonia and Glendy on either side as they hurried to clean her up with overzealous care.

Others broke their blank stares and looked away when Adara’s eyes met theirs. Some faces had gone pale, others red, whether from embarrassment or betrayal, she didn’t know—didn’t care. Either response worked for her.

Only when Kandice Kerry hopped up and managed to bolt out of the room on four-inch stilettos did Adara worry.

The socialite’s movement set the room into motion. Too many, from all corners of the room, volunteered with napkins to help poor Della, while a throng gathered to console Adara.

Concerned about whatever Kandice was doing, Adara slipped away into the dining room to refill her cup.

Kandice spoke heatedly into a phone, her crimson nails blurring through the air as if a warning flare to whomever she spoke. Adara considered approaching the Councilman’s wife to reinforce her argument. She needed the woman’s confidence but changed her mind when she spied Kandice’s husband and son.

The same hue of red flamed up the necks of both councilmen. Art’s thick peppered brows knotted together, his eyes zeroing in on Adara. His son ground his teeth. When Kyle’s gaze locked on hers, he lurched from his seat, parted the crowd, and headed straight for her.

The group around her was embroiled in besting each other about obvious signs they missed that would have revealed Keir’s dark side. Glad for that, she set her cup down and excused herself without concern though not soon enough.

Kyle reached for her arm, and she dodged between a clutch of large women toward where the hostess stood in the foyer.

Adara drew a shaking hand to her chest—the fluttering reminded her of her role. She accentuated the trembling a degree, then, feigning the need to steady herself, grappled for Estelle’s arm and said, “Thank you so kindly for this tea. I … I think I must leave.”

“You poor thing. I’m not at all surprised.” The hostess clutched an arm around Adara’s waist. “What an ordeal. It took such courage to tell everyone the truth.”

As if on cue, Sibeal appeared with her hexed boyfriend in tow like a puppy dog, and offered, “Let me drive you home.” She whispered in Estelle’s ear and waited only long enough for the hostess to redirect Kyle to where Tyne hovered, before leading Adara out the front door. Sibby chuckled. “Don’t think you’re going to convince that young one.”

“No. But I’d hoped to get his mother on my side. Not sure who she spoke with on the phone while in the kitchen.”

“Wish I could help, but Kandice has never cared for me. Too stylish and uppity for my frumpiness. The way the two of you used to compare notes on shopping, I figured by your new outfit alone she’d be with you.” Sibby heehawed as she plopped into the driver’s seat and drove off. “Your talk seemed to go well. You’re a darned good actress—though I could tell some parts were the real deal.”

“Do you think the others could tell the difference?”

“Nope. Tyne couldn’t. He flinched at all the juicy bits. Afterward, everyone I heard was wantin’ to formally remove Keir from his position. I enjoyed that bit the most. Can already feel my wallet gettin’ fatter.”

Fidgeting with her black polished nails, Adara questioned Tyne’s competence as a reliable indicator. A dull ache lodged in her chest, not from her lies but from knowing that Keir hadn’t shown up and saved her. She’d held onto that hope until the last possible second, like miserable sappy women who needed a man to justify their existence.

She should’ve known better. She’d seen him through the window at Chuquilatague’s sitting on the couch with Unole tight against his shoulder. Tears leaked from Adara’s eyes. Though tempted, she couldn’t alleviate the pain by seeking revenge upon the girl. Even by her previous darker standards, she couldn’t rationalize that action: Unole had saved her life. Adara swiped the corners of her eyes and set her mouth in a scornful scowl—she didn’t allow people to make her cry.

After a moment, she asked Sibby, “Will you help me set some wards around my house? Double the power seems like a good idea, considering the reaction of those two Kerry men.”

“Will do. I can stay the night if you’d like,” her friend chirped in a perversely happy tone that matched the look on Tyne’s face at the party.

Sibby’s reaction was so far out of line from Adara’s dire situation, she began to doubt her best friend and declined the offer.

As they rounded a curve, the Tabard house came into view. A yellow Studebaker roadster was parked in the driveway. And Rowe leaned against it. Adara’s spirits immediately brightened. Of course. He needed her empathy, now that Keir had rebuked him and moved to the reservation. They could console each other, become better friends. He saw the new light in her heart, even if Keir didn’t.

Chapter Nineteen: Exposed

Left alone while Rowe tracked down Adara, Keir paced the enormous first floor of Rowe’s manor house. His friend hoped to convince Adara to stop spreading rumors. Stronger action, allowing her no choice, might have proved wiser: favors from that woman came with a price. Keir meandered around furniture in the larger parlor, through the connecting foyer, and to the more formal receiving room.

Preoccupied, he didn’t notice the wide wingback chair, inhabited by the empowered spirit of Rowe’s Aunt Tilly, until her arm swept him up in a wide arc and said, “Give your soul a rest and sit a spell.” She spun him into her plump cushions, scarcely different than the big woman’s hugs when she lived. What she likely intended as comfort during his time of grief, instead smothered him. No matter how he squirmed, Tilly wouldn’t let him free.

The clanking of the knocker provided a welcome escape, or so he hoped. Walking through the entryway, he sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders before opening the door.

Matilda MacElroy’s mouth dropped open. She froze for an instant before whirling on the heel of her black oxford. She took the steps so fast that her prim salt-and-pepper bun bounced and catapulted hairpins, as if a detonating weapon to deter him from following.

“Mrs. MacElroy, please wait.” Keir chased after her. At least two feet taller, he easily outpaced her and halted on the walk ahead. “What’s wrong?”

She lifted her nose in the air, her throat straining against the starched white collar of her dress. “I came to speak with Councilman McCoy—not the likes of you. I have business with him concerning the annual magical, puppet-animation show. To tell him your assistance with the children is no longer welcome.”

“What? Why not?”

She quirked a brow. “People now suspect you might be a pedophiliac or pedophile or some such, from your abhorrent preferences. I’ve already gotten three calls from concerned mothers.”

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm his scrambled thoughts. “What is this about? I’m not a pedophile.”

“You’re a pervert.”

“No, I’m not.” He lifted his open palms. “I’m the same shaman you’ve trusted for years to care for your entire family.”

She hissed in his face, “Not any more, you sadist. You tied up Adara, that poor woman, and whipped her.”

“She forced me to do those things. I had no choice.” His mouth went slack as his client crossed her arms and eyeballed him with irises as gray as the weathered tin of Rowe’s garage roof.

“Pffft. How could a woman force any man to do those sorts of things?”

He bristled at these accusations, his neck and face hot. “She was the high priestess and capable of black magic. I was a kid who needed a job.”

“You’re telling me she paid you for those services—as a gigolo?” She choked out a hoarse, mocking laugh.

“No, you don’t understand.” He reached for her arm, but she flinched away and marched toward her car. He followed a few steps. “Wait. Mrs. MacElroy, please. I can explain.”

She never looked back, never met his gaze even when she turned to get into her car.

As he watched her drive away, his stomach clenched around a hardening pit.

He leaned against the trunk of the lawn’s oak tree and looked up for Busby, who wasn’t there. Twilight shrouded the sky in indigo and purple, a time when wildlife gave their last squawks, trills, and whoops before settling into nests or burrows. Yet, no sounds came from the woods across the road or from the banks of Owls Tail Creek behind the property.

He remained there watching the sky darken to inky black. Waapake was gone. Keir’s closest companion, a true soulmate, took a part of his magic into death. He had never felt more alone: his clients—at least the straight-laced ones like Mrs. MacElroy—had cast him out; his friendship with his best friend was stretched thin; Unole had run and hid from him.

He glanced at Rowe’s house. It seemed to be retreating into the night’s shadows and away from him. That didn’t matter; he couldn’t stay here. Not after hitting Rowe. And it wasn’t home—but where was?

Freezing mist prompted Keir toward his car though he had no destination, no goal.

He drove to his own house. Numb from all he’d lost, not even stakes of failure and guilt driven into him by the family home and its handed-down keepsakes could bring pain.

The surreal veil of death still cloaked his home in darkness. Security lights shone solely outside the property lines in strange, malformed arcs. That also didn’t matter; he didn’t need to see anything or feel anything.

He turned onto the driveway and cast a half-hopeful look at the porch in case Waapake’s spirit happened to wait for him. But nothing stirred there or around the garage where he parked. The bucket and log, his coyote’s toys, hadn’t moved—weren’t even stirred by Adara’s deceiving north wind.

Keir trudged toward the back door, shielding his wounded soul with a trance-like stupor.

In the mudroom, he avoided turning on lights to resist facing reality. His body worked methodically to kick off boots and hang up his jacket.

Feeling his way from room to room, he sank into the soft leather of a parlor chair. He grimaced into his hands, willing tears stuck in his throat to flow and purge the ache throbbing against his skull. No sobs would come. Instead, the effort intensified the pain, creating knife-like jabs at his temples.

The phone rang and shot an excruciating stab into the base of his brain. He stumbled to the kitchen and picked up the landline. Thirty-nine messages flashed on the answering machine.

“Keir, is that you? How you doing?” the cobbler’s hearty voice greeted him.

“Hi Chester.” Keir didn’t know how to answer the leading question and avoided it. “What can I do for you?”

“From what I’ve been hearing, I suspected you might not be doing so well. Just wanted to check on you. Have you found your coyote?”

Keir squeezed his eyes shut. He’d assumed everyone knew about Waapake. “He’s dead. Adara—”

“Oh, dear God. I am so sorry. I didn’t know. What happened?”

“Adara killed him.” Keir’s words rang hollow, tinged with his own disbelief.

“Adara. Um. I wanted to ask you about her.” Chester’s voice flattened.

“What has she been saying about me?”

“Uh. Did you have a relationship with her that … um … went sour?”

Keir let out a heavy sigh. “She appointed me as a coven seer, started my career, then expected favors—sexual favors.”

Silence hung on the other end.

Keir bit his lip, afraid to say too much or the wrong thing like he had with Mrs. MacElroy.

“Couldn’t you have said no? Told her it wasn’t right?” Chester shot arrows that Keir couldn’t dodge.

“I could have. But she would’ve used her influence and black magic to block my career. I should’ve found another way to begin my practice. I was young and made a mistake.”

“You had the chance to say no and didn’t?”

Keir leaned his forehead against an upper cabinet. “I wanted to. She set me up with a long list of referrals, recommended me to everyone at the first sabbat celebration, let me fill my schedule book. Then told me what she expected in return and that she’d ruin my career if I didn’t comply. I didn’t think I had a—”

“You didn’t think. That was the problem. Right there. You wanted to do all those nasty things to her, tie her up and have her. Stuff like that has a price.”

“I’m becoming too aware of that. But you have to understand, I never wanted to engage with her that way.”

“Shit, most of us men have fantasized about being with her, and we don’t act on it.”

“No! I never wanted—”

“Too late for that now. You knew you shouldn’t have done all that. You played with fire and have gotten burnt. Your familiar’s dead—can’t say that I blame Adara after you took advantage of her. What a world of hurt that woman must have been shouldering. Might have been what weakened her powers and set her up to be driven out—and coincidentally replaced by your friend Logan. You got what you deserved.”

“No. I don’t deserve that.” Keir replaced the phone into the receiver. He couldn’t bear to hear more, would only have lost his temper. His numbness had been pared away as easily as peeling an apple, leaving him vulnerable.

He slumped to the floor, the cold tiles biting his flesh, his exposed soul. Shivering, he curled in a fetal position and cradled his stomach where the hardness had doubled in size. At the spot his hands laid, a convulsion seized his chest. He clamped his shoulders forward to repress the assault, resisting the emotion he knew too well. Straining, his shoulders quaked. His muscles spasmed, intensely in the recently injured thigh now immobile with stabbing pain. He clenched his teeth and denied tears that surged from the sob shaking his throat.

He could withhold no longer. Fatigued from his decades-long battle, he relinquished to grief. Moans split his lungs. His cheek, resting against the icy tile, burned with hot tears. The contrast in temperature jarred a thought loose.

He’d turned the furnace back—shut the whole house down to move away—when he’d left for the reservation. Why had he come back? To be pummeled by accusations? Told he deserved to endure Waapake’s murder as punishment?

Though he’d anticipated all of these consequences when he decided to move, he believed somehow the distance would subdue Adara’s fire and buy him enough time to find leverage to stop her. Had Rowe set her off? Or information relayed from the white crow? Or from some connection to Unole he couldn’t understand? He should have stayed to find Unole, made her explain. She’d run from him—was it over between them?

Struggling to sort out the truth, he recalled the events along the stream when they’d last talked: what she’d said, the silkiness of her hair, the softness of her curves beneath the rustle of silk, her lips pressing hot and needing against his.

His body now exhausted and overwrought, Keir left it behind. His mind gladly discarded the snarl of confusion, welcomed a single-pointed focus: Unole. Her smiling face beamed in his mind’s eye. He breathed deeply of her sweet scent, and white flowers cascaded past. He imagined reaching to touch one, a delicate windflower. Using extreme care to not break its stem, he lowered to stand beneath the milky corolla and prepared for a shamanic journey down the slender pale green stem into the Earth.

The soft loam was warm against his aching body. As if swimming, he pushed soil aside to follow the stem’s transition into roots, rootlets, and root hairs. From there, he hopped from one windflower to another and another. So many, he lost count. The sequential movements retained his mind on the pure, singular meditation of Unole—the peace he desperately needed.

At some point, he latched onto the root of a different plant that lacked her perfume. Instead, the root vibrated with a soft, distant soprano. Was it her song? He scrambled inside the porous root and hurried up through the underground network to the widened tree trunk. The reverberations grew more intense, and a few feet higher, became a melody. He dared to traverse into narrower branches that swayed precariously in the breeze. Still, from that vantage, he could not hear words or know if the song was, in fact, Unole’s.

He went mad searching up and down the branch for an opening. At last, he came upon a knothole and poked his head out to hear her voice.

Lovely though bittersweet, it floated past him like a soft cloud with the promise of spring but also weighted with the solemnness of gathering storms. Like how a single tear might sound.

While her ariose voice fluttered around his ears, he couldn’t experience her notes with his whole being, as he had before under the great willow. Desperate for that feeling of joy, he wriggled and tried to push through the knothole but couldn’t. He ran along the inside of the branch, searching for a larger opening. Nothing. He withdrew inside the trunk, then raced at top speed into another branch—in case she ended her song and his chance of connecting with her vanished. He slowed at bends and twists, where growth spurts or wounds might have torn the tree’s bark. Still nothing.

Not deterred, he pushed on into narrower passageways, which must have been twigs. Unole’s brilliant soprano hummed along the inner walls; he had to be close to the outside.

With his next step, his feet swept out from under him. Caught in an outflow of sap, he floated within the green of a swollen leaf bud. Arms flailing, he pushed to the surface and hopped to an adjacent flower, a magnificent fluffy catkin of a female willow. Water gurgled beneath him. Owls Tail Creek? At that height, the water lay far below. He clutched the flower’s center and chanced a second look. What he saw took his breath away—Unole knelt on the bank where he had kissed her that morning.

He cried, “Unole, I’m here.” She didn’t notice. He tried again, louder. And again, yelling.

Despite the lack of wind, the twig carrying him began to sway gently, and he held tighter.

She stirred and looked in the direction of the branch. Her eyes narrowed, searching.

He called to her once more, and her face lit as she broke from song and spoke directly. “Keir, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Above you.”

“You’re here on my willow.” She jumped to her feet. “I can’t see you, but I hear your voice upon the tree’s wind. I thought you’d left for good … mad at me.” Tears filled her soft brown eyes, though the redness rimming them suggested she’d been crying for some time. Bits of dry leaves and twigs poked from odd angles in her misshapen braid.

“How could I be mad at you? I miss you so much. I wish I hadn’t left.” He related the caustic accusations being hurled at him, how clients were leaving his practice, the fight he’d had with Rowe.

“Have you seen Waapake?” She touched a hand to the willow’s trunk, and instantly Keir perceived her meaning with his heart.

“No, I’ll collect his body tomorrow and arrange a burial. I hope Adara will at least allow me that much—”

“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. I love you and want to be with you.”

Her lower lip trembled as she said, “I want that too, to be with you. But you must make Adara understand. You have to clear your name, no matter what lies ahead. Like my father said, you have evil clinging to you. You must become free of it to go forward into a happy life.” She looked down and her voice cracked. “For the same reason, I, too, must release darkness that is clinging to me.”

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I think we can help each other. I would like to come to you in the Hollow. Tomorrow, if you’ll allow me.” She gazed up, her eyes still wet, flickering with new glints of yellow.

“Of course. Is being so close to Adara safe?”

“As safe as being here. She visits the reservation whenever she pleases, announced or not, in her animal form as a badger.” Any trace of happiness on her face dulled, replaced by a cloud of grim sadness. “I’ll come, only if you promise you will cast out the evil. At whatever cost.”

He didn’t understand the bargain, but his heart trusted her, and his whole body ached to feel her in his arms. “I promise.”

“You will use the medicine my father gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will come. I’ll leave tonight. Wait for me to arrive before you use it.”

Chapter Twenty: The Phoenix Fire

The thud of approaching footsteps yanked Keir from the streamside destination of his shamanic journey. Unole’s face was etched in his memory, and he thrashed to reconnect with her.

Instead, surrounded by empty space, nothing registered. He scanned the blankness and finally spied a phoenix bird—his power animal—who might answer his questions. “Phoenix! Hello. Where have you been?”

“I was with you during every journey you took. I tried everything to make you see me. Used my wings to sweep wind into your face.” The fiery bird continued speaking with its usual reedy but calm voice as it whipped an inferno’s heat at Keir’s face. “Even perched on top of your head once. When Waapake vanished, so did your focus.”

“I wondered. Well, I’m glad to be able to see you now, but can’t say I’m any calmer.”

“Your new friend has given you a gift of insight. Wait for her. You need her. And she needs you.”

A hand clasped Keir’s shoulder, gently shaking him. He ignored the interruption and clung to his vision of the phoenix. “How can I help her?”

“I have set a fire in you. Use it to do what is right and good.” The bird spread its wings, a grand display of flames eclipsing its form.

“Wait! Please tell me how I can help Unole. I have to know,” he pleaded as he lost the bird in a sunspot—the blinding harshness from an overhead ceiling lamp. Eyes squeezed shut, Keir resisted the transition out of the spirit world. “Please, tell me. I have to help her.”

“Keir, what is Unole’s problem?” Rowe’s voice broke Keir’s last hold on the journey.

He squinted at his friend’s worry-etched face and groaned, “I don’t know. She asked for my help but didn’t explain how. She’s coming tomorrow. To be here when I confront Adara and collect Waapake’s body.”

With an arm around Keir’s shoulders, Rowe guided him from the cold floor to the sitting room couch, where he wrapped him in a throw. “It’s freezing in here. Where’s the thermostat?”

“On the wall beneath the staircase.”

Rowe switched on the furnace, then called as he headed for the kitchen, “I’ll fix some tea and be right back.”

Keir’s teeth chattered, and he pulled the blanket to his chin. Waapake always curled close to keep him warm on cold nights. A lump formed in Keir’s throat—so many reasons to miss him.

A few minutes later, Rowe returned with two steaming mugs, handed one to Keir, and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “So, were you journeying?”

“Yes, but it was odd. Not like any of my other trips. I hadn’t set an intention or even prepared to journey—it just happened. Surprised the heck out of me.”

“You must’ve needed to learn something. Make any discoveries?”

Keir related highlights of his mind traveling. He set his cup down and tossed off the throw. “Did you see Adara? Get a commitment from her to stop?”

“Yes and no. I did see her at her house. She’d just returned from a gathering at Estelle’s organized solely for Adara’s purposes of smearing you. I asked her to zip her lips.” Rowe hung his head. “She refused.”

“Shit. Why not?” Keir’s fingers dug into his thighs. “What’s in it for her? Or does she still want to get back at me for some reason?”

“Maybe a little. She said she wants coven members to think differently of her—better, as someone who wants to do good things for others.”

“Time to think gave her time to regret. That’s not a surprise. But does she really believe she can convince people she’s changed?”

“It would take a lot more than words for me to believe.”

He eyeballed Rowe. “That night you tricked me, I thought she had you persuaded, the way you sided with her.”

“Like I said that night, I had to find a way to make you stay.” Rowe glanced over, as if testing Keir’s response. “You were desperate and wanted out. I can’t blame you. I would have done the same. But at the moment, I was being selfish. Couldn’t face losing one of my best friends. I hadn’t thought through the details, just knew we could find a way out—wasn’t going to tie you to that woman.”

“Could have fooled me, as well as Aggie—”

“And Jancie.” Rowe blew out a hard breath. “I can’t make her understand.”

“After all of this is done, she’ll probably come around.”

“Yeah, maybe now that you’re here to stay.”

Keir hesitated, his mouth set in a hard line. “I’m not staying—came back to bury Waapake and set things straight. I have to clear my name, stop Adara from telling lies, regardless of where the future takes me. I can’t allow her defamation to follow me.”

Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, Rowe met his gaze with silence.

Keir was grateful for his friend’s quiet consideration. He accepted the unspoken invitation to relate the vehement protests made by Chester and Mrs. MacElroy. When Keir finished, he looked at Rowe and waited, likewise granting him the floor.

The muscle at the side of his jaw twitched. “I had no idea—didn’t think they’d take those stands so fast, without letting you explain or asking for clarification. I understand what you must do; you have no choice.” He blinked back dampness clouding his eyes and briefly looked away. “You might have, if I hadn’t mucked things up. You’ve got my support now, no matter what it takes or where you’ll choose to go.” Rowe clasped the hand Keir extended with a firm grip as he asked, “What’s the plan?”

“Chuquilatague gave me an incantation and taught me how to use it to block Adara’s revenge—negate it from her character.”

“Wow.” Rowe gaped with an incredulous expression. “Can’t wait to see that.”

“Geez, I hope it’s half as entertaining as it sounds.” Keir let out a nervous laugh.
Unole will be here to advise and assist my preparations. She has a stake in the outcome, though I’m not completely sure of the details. When Adara left, almost dead after her battle with Jancie, Unole saved her. Somehow the act has tied them together. I wish I knew more—she won’t tell me.”

“I want to be with you when you go to Adara’s.”

“You sure you want to take on the risk?” Keir asked.

Rowe nodded. “We’re friends.”

“Thanks. It means a lot.”

“Also, I think Logan should be there,” Rowe added. “As high priest, he can be more confrontational.”

“Good idea. This evening. I’ll follow up on my phone messages. Try to head off the damage.”

“I’ll help.”

The front door knocker Tenskwatawa announced, “Tall Sam’s approaching,” shortly before his metal clanked. “Master, are you available for a visitor or shall I turn him away?”

“I’m coming, Tenskwatawa. Please let Sam know,” Keir replied.

Rowe made to stand, but with stiff unsteadiness, Keir hauled to his feet and said, “I’ve got this.”

Rowe lifted his brows. “You sure you want to handle this one?”

“Yes. It’ll be a good test. If Sam, who’s normally true blue, opposes me like the others, we’ll know better what we’re up against.”

“Shaman Keir, are you there?” the client called, his slow way of speaking clipping faster than usual.

Keir hurried to open the door and let the man in. “Hello, Sam. Can I help you?” His memory snapped to the last shamanic service he’d performed for the farmer, ridding Grandfather Clement’s silver snuffbox of the unwelcome badger spirit—Adara. Since Yule, she must have been using the container as a hideout while spying on him and Waapake—formulating her plan of deception. Keir ran a hand across his forehead. All this time, right under his nose.

Rowe hung in the doorway to Keir’s office, as if blocking the way to keep the client from getting comfortable and staying overlong.

The farmer tipped his cap to each. “Evenin’, Councilman McCoy, Shaman Keir. I’m wantin’ to … to …” He whipped off his cap, as if it were preventing his words from coming out. “I’ve been hearin’ some gossip and it ain’t good.”

Keir’s pulse raced but he struggled to keep his thoughts positive. “I’m glad you came to me to learn the truth.” He gestured toward a wooden bench in the foyer. “Would you like to sit down?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stand.”

Rowe forced a breath out of his nose, whether releasing or building tension, Keir didn’t know but began his defense. “I suppose you’ve heard things involving Adara when she was high priestess.”

“Yeah, and with you.” Sam’s honest brown eyes narrowed, etching lines deep between them. “Shaman Keir, what people are sayin’ ’bout you is mean-spirited, that you forced her into some sorta kinky relation. Tied her down with chains and whipped her, then made her do it to you—it’s not true is it?”

“Most isn’t true.” Keir swallowed hard. “When I started my job, with no office and no clients, she offered me a room in the Council building as well as referrals, in exchange for sexual favors. She threatened to block my career. Heck, I was green and stupid; I made a mistake—thought I had no other way than to accept her offer.” He paused, hoping for encouragement or at least empathy, but Sam stayed quiet. “I never bound or incapacitated her in any way—I swear. She wanted to be in control.” His voice rasped to a whisper. “Which did include bondage and acts I’d rather forget.”

A cough sputtered from Rowe’s lips.

“For how long?” The few tight words revealed nothing about Sam’s inclination, nor did the way he was wadding his cap.

“About a year.” Keir shifted from side to side while searching for something credible to defend that unearthly long length of time he’d serviced Adara. “Until I’d built enough rapport with my customers and trusted they would recommend me on my own merit.”

“So, you were sexually assaulted, then,” Sam clarified, his gaze sizing Keir up.

Keir gave a single nod. “I feared for my job. She appointed me and could just as easily end my career by smearing my name—like she’s doing now.”

Sam pressed his lips together, as if weighing every word Keir had said along with every hair on his head, then proclaimed in his usual slow and reassuring cadence, “I’m with you, Shaman Keir. You’ve done my family a world of good. We all make mistakes when we’re young.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Keir sagged against the nearby wall.

The farmer waved his hand holding the cap in a half circle. “It concerns me that a whole heap of people don’t know the truth.”

“That’s a real problem we have to address.” Rowe pushed off from the doorframe and came closer. “We will make calls to defend Keir and spread the truth.”

“You can count me in.” Sam met their gazes, his jaw set.

Keir stepped forward and offered his hand to his client.

Sam readily accepted and Rowe joined, grasping their united hands with both of his own.

Keir proclaimed, his voice strong, resounding, “The unrest Adara is spreading will be stopped. I’ll check her actions, no matter what it takes. This is more than personal—it’s a fight for the coven and what is right.” The fire of the phoenix burned in his soul.

Chapter Twenty-one: Crimson Stains

Keir sipped his coffee and watched the sun rise. Eager for Unole to arrive, he’d woken early and crept through the house, while his friend was asleep. Rowe’s offer to spend the night was supportive but also necessary since they’d stayed up late forming plans with Logan, who dropped by at eleven. They’d drawn up an expanded list of coven members, divided between the three of them—four, counting Aggie—to call during early morning.

The previous night, Tall Sam, Rowe and Keir talked with two dozen of his clients. Results had been mixed, with more than Keir expected condemning him outright. However, most were reluctant to commit to either side. Only one asserted his innocence but refused to stand with him when he confronted Adara.

Midmorning, a car chugged onto Keir’s driveway. A half-rusted Ford Pinto, neither sufficiently old nor new enough to blend in with vehicles that usually drove the coven roads. He recognized the vehicle as one of several dilapidated cars that never left Chuquilatague’s front yard. At least it made the seven-hour drive.

Outside, he waved and hurried to Unole. He wanted to sweep her into his arms but stopped short—awkwardly too short—when he saw her cautious smile and eyes darting in all directions. His hands floundered until they located his pockets.

Lucky for him, she had her back turned, collecting things from the car.

“How was the last part of your drive?” He took a large bag from her.

“Good. The short nap helped, like you suggested. I’m not used to driving at night.” She moved ahead of him to the back porch.

Inside, the smell of bacon greeted them, and Rowe called as the couple entered the kitchen, “Hello, Unole. I’m Rowe.”

“Nice to meet you.” Her hunched shoulders eased, and she flashed a wider smile.

Keir set her bag down, then helped her out of her coat. His fingers brushed the silk of her top. Its fluid softness—like the reservation stream rippled by her windsong—begged him to touch her, but he resisted. Her black hair hung loose over her shoulders, picking up the iridescent hues of her indigo jeans and sky-blue tunic.

“Thought we needed a hearty breakfast in preparation for this day.” Rowe waved a spatula toward a loaf of bread. “Keir, why don’t you make toast? Coffee’s almost done brewing.”

“Sounds great. I’m hungry. How can I help?” Unole offered.

“Thanks,” Rowe said. “Ordinarily, my girlfriend Jancie uses her magic to whip up a feast in a snap. I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with simple, non-magical fare.”

Unole lifted her brows at Keir.

“Jancie and Rowe disagreed on how to deal with Adara kidnapping Waapake.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The smile dropped from her face, and she wrung her hands.

“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” Rowe said in his usual easy manner. “Now that Keir and I are working as a team, like friends should, she’ll probably come around.”

Despite his reassurance, Unole bit her lip.

Keir interceded. “You can help set the table, while I make toast.” After she gave a nod, he squeezed her hand, then led her to the cabinet where dishes and glasses were stored. He dropped slices into the toaster and assisted her with setting places at the breakfast table as he asked Rowe, “Do we expect Logan for breakfast?”

“He and Aggie will be over soon. No idea if they’ll be hungry.”

“Ha. Logan’s always hungry.” Keir accentuated his laughter for Unole’s benefit, hoping to help her relax—and did his nerves some good as well.

Before they sat down to their plates, Rowe started another skillet of bacon.

Within minutes, the back door opened and Logan called from the mudroom, “Mmm. Bacon. Just what I need.” He wandered in and shrugged the parka covering his suit coat to the back of a dining chair.

Aggie entered moments later, head down and talking on Logan’s cell phone.

Eyes rimmed with shadows, neither of them looked like they’d slept much. That sluggishness didn’t stop Logan from wolfing down several strips of bacon before Aggie, now off the phone, asked with a laugh, “Didn’t you just eat?”

When she spied Unole, Aggie’s laugh trickled out and her face brightened. Before Keir could swallow and make introductions, Aggie swept past, wrapping an arm around Unole’s shoulders.

Unole—to Keir’s relief—returned the embrace, her eyes twinkling as she said, “I’d know your spirit anywhere.” Smiling, the two hugged like best friends meeting at a school reunion.

The three men stared at them until they pulled a few inches apart.

When Aggie became aware of their attention, she explained, “Waapake’s mother lived for a while near my Gran. Even after Coyote Mother was relocated to the reservation, she returned to visit her before she passed.”

“Coyote Mother’s affinity to witches was what made my father gift her son, Waapake, to Keir as his familiar,” Unole added.

“Look! Mother Coyote’s spirit recognizes you.” Aggie displayed the pulsating golden beryl stone on her wrist to Unole, which prompted another hug between the pair. “It does feel like I’ve always known you,” Aggie said with a grin, then peered around. “Jancie’s not here?”

“Did you expect her?” Rowe’s eyes went wide.

“She said she was thinking about it or maybe showing up later at Adara’s. A lot of people will be there to witness what happens—at least those Logan and I spoke to.”

“You told her I was helping Keir?” he asked.

“Yep. She was happy about that but wanted to see for herself.”

“Sounds like her,” Rowe gave a sharp retort and took an even louder slurp of his coffee.

“Hopefully, you two can work things out.” Unole’s voice flattened, the glimmer in her eyes upon meeting Aggie now strangely faded.

Logan checked his pocket watch while munching another piece of bacon. Through the mouthful, he said, “Aggie, grab some food if you want. We need to leave soon. I made an appointment with Adara for ten-thirty—just didn’t tell her others would be joining me.” He glanced at Keir. “You ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be. I’ve meditated on Chuquilatague’s focus, studied and memorized his incantation, then centered again.” Keir patted the inner pocket of his suit coat. “And have the verse and notes with me in case I need a quick reminder.”

Unole touched his arm and searched his face. “Thank you.”

Something in her touch made Keir’s bothersome thigh tense. “I’m glad you’re here, but should you go with me to Adara’s. Is it safe? I can tell you’re worried.”

“It will be safer for everyone if I’m there.” Not waiting for his response, she picked up dirty plates and went to the sink to help Rowe clean up.

Keir did his part, then grabbed his fedora and carnelian amulet from the office desk. When he returned to where the others gathered in the mudroom, Rowe was checking the placement of his pocket watch. “Think you’ll need that?” Keir asked.

“Let’s hope not,” his friend replied and angled his own hat in a jaunty tilt. However, a muscle twitching in his jaw belied the apparent nonchalance.

Unole shot Keir a quizzical look.

“Rowe’s an animator and can place his power into inanimate objects. His pocket watch contains his energy, as well as some from his ancestors. Using it, he can throw that power in a fight.”

Rowe leaned closer to them. “You mean in defense.”

Keir swallowed hard at his poor choice of words. Unole couldn’t have missed his blunder. He’d been in many battles alongside his friends and, and discounting Rowe’s recent, atypical betrayal, knew what to expect from them. It was Unole who worried him; she’d crumbled when the enchantment on the white crow broke. That sort of response today—at the wrong moment—could endanger her or others.

“You guys, dressed in your old-time hats and striped double-breasted suits, look like gangsters heading for a heist,” she quipped with a nervous laugh.

Logan paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to survey the other two men. He flashed a stiff smile. “Funny, I was thinking how I felt more like an old-west sheriff with his band of deputies—not a coven high priest backed up by a Council member and a seer.”

“Time to roundup the outlaw,” Rowe cracked, adding only a morsel to Logan’s levity. No one laughed.

Keir rode with Rowe, in the backseat with Unole. When Adara saw the black Studebaker arrive, Keir wanted her to know right away she didn’t hold sway over his best friend. What he couldn’t gauge was how she might interpret Unole’s alliance.

They drove behind Logan and Aggie into the Tabard driveway. Five coven-style cars were parked along the road. Among them, Keir recognized Tall Sam’s wooden stake-bed pickup, but also Estelle and Joe Webber’s Buick Roadmaster and Tynewell Tynker’s Packard. The Webbers would support Adara to the end—as would Sibeal Soot, if she’d accompanied Tyne. Keir had always counted the magical tool specialist among his friends and supporters. However, after how the fae spell affected Tyne at Yule, he didn’t know what to expect.

Sam left his truck and came alongside. He opened Keir’s door and said, “I’ll stay near the cellar door just in case you all need help at that spot.”

“Good backup plan.” Keir stepped out, patted Sam’s shoulder, and rounded the car to open the door for Unole. With his back to the house but visible for her, he rubbed his fingers along his carnelian amulet; affirmation they both needed that his anger was in check.

She cupped her hand over his on the gemstone. The reassurance spread wider, beyond himself, as if they were somehow joined. The strange sensation lingered long after she let her hand fall.

As they waited at the front door behind Logan and Aggie, Keir whispered in Unole’s ear, “Thank you.”

Sibeal greeted them, her peppered hair hung loose in bouncy curls like a school girl’s. She looked vibrant, less matronly, as if gaining a large chunk of his client base took years off. “Welcome, High Priest Logan and guests. Please come in.” Her cloying voice modulated several degrees louder—too loud for addressing someone directly before her. “Keir, what a nice surprise. We thought you were at the reservation.”

The group entered and Logan stopped at the end of the foyer as he spoke into the parlor. “Ms. Tabard, we’ve come to gather the body of a dead coyote familiar named Waapake belonging to Keir Sheridan. I have reason to believe that the body is here in your house. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is true and you may take the body. It’s no longer of use to me.”

Keir didn’t need to see Adara to know a look of manipulative glee belied her artificial, dispassionate tone.

“I should not have to remind you, as a former high priestess, killing of another witch’s familiar is an offense. You will—”

“Have Sheriff Barnes contact me,” she said with an audible smile, and Keir envisioned her lips curving into a lacquered red bow. With the same lipstick she had smeared and stained and ruined dress shirts he couldn’t afford to replace as a new seer.

“You may not know that Sheriff Barnes was suspended as a result of his involvement in a gambling ring led by Councilman Burnhard, who I dismissed for that reason.”

“Oh, silly me. I should have known you’d make changes.”

The muscles across Logan’s back and shoulders tensed. “You will be summoned to stand before the Coven Council.”

“But I wasn’t responsible for the animal’s death.”

Keir exchanged glances with Rowe beside him.

“Three coven members witnessed the coyote caged in my basement,” Adara said, her tone affected and monotonous, as if the questioning bored her.

Logan took a half-step and moved Aggie behind him.

Keir shifted his weight but failed to gain a better view.

Adara’s derisiveness persisted. “And of those three, one also happened to be the last person to see the animal alive.”

His jaw clamped, Rowe dug into the pocket containing his watch.

Keir grasped his carnelian and tried to dispel the tension spitting from the hard pit in his stomach—it hadn’t softened, no matter how much he’d meditated.

“I’d been away for a day and was surprised to return and find it dead,” Adara reported smugly.

Blue magic tinged the upper edge of Rowe’s pocket, and he pushed next to Logan.

As if again blinded by the intense beam of Adara’s flashlight, Keir couldn’t think. He cast out the possibility of blame Adara tried to pin on Rowe. Anger surged. White-hot and seething.

From where he stood, Keir strained to view Adara. By the way Unole quivered, he wondered if she could see more—or did she detect and fear his simmering anger?

He gulped a steadying breath, felt slightly more at ease, then took her hand. Her fingers trembled, icy cold against his own hot skin. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and noticed her tears. He held her tighter and she leaned into him, her peace acting like a salve to his temper.

“Also, when I returned home I found traces of Councilman Rowe McCoy’s magic where he jimmied my outside cellar door lock.” Adara proclaimed, throwing a razor-sharp argument point at the bullseye. “It’s still there. Check for yourself.”

Charged magic dripping from his wrist, Rowe strode to the main room, yelling, “You bitch! You’re a liar! You’re just trying to smear my name, too, since I rejected your offer for sex the other night.”

“I had no intention of killing the beast,” Adara snarled, a cornered cat. “Logan, go to the basement and see for yourself what magic remains on the corpse.”

Not waiting, Rowe stomped forward and a door flung open.

Revulsion—no, allegiance to his friend—propelled Keir, along with Logan, to the parlor.

As though attending a gala and she was the guest of honor, Adara wore a shimmery black evening gown that betrayed her and clung like a coating of noxious motor oil. She dripped with her family’s power-encrusted gems—the serpentine ring belonging to her great grandmother and elaborate black pendant worn by her father—used by all Tabards for additional power in difficult situations. Whether Unole wished it or not: Adara was prepared for battle.

Logan glared at her, then headed down to the basement.

Sweat beading on his face, Keir locked his gaze on the stairwell and tried to dissociate from his emotions. He had to keep his thoughts free, his heart clean; only then would blame be properly dealt, the woman’s evil stopped.

He motioned for Aggie and Unole to descend ahead of him. For his past mistakes, he would gladly accept whatever foul black magic Adara might hurl, rather than have them harmed.

Aggie complied and hurried after Logan.

Despite Keir’s attempts, Unole refused. “She won’t hurt me.” She trembled but held her head high and looked squarely at Adara, who mirrored the younger woman, both staring and shaking, neither speaking.

Unole’s confidence mystified him—or did she trust Adara? Only when he turned away, did Unole move to follow.

While clinging to the railing, he watched over his shoulder and was relieved to see the others of Adara’s party, Tyne and Sibeal first, file down after Unole.

When Keir faced forward, his sight filled with the crumpled mass of silver and tan fur which lay limp in a corner of the cage. He missed the bottom step and half fell, half lurched into the open enclosure. Kneeling, he caressed what remained of Waapake.

Logan drew near and knelt. After a few moments, he quietly asked, “Do you sense any magic?”

“I … I’m not the best at that. Spirits talk to me readily. Sadly, Waapake’s is absent. I can feel bits of Rowe’s and Adara’s magic, not how they were used.”

Logan whispered, “Tyne is capable. Do you trust him?”

Keir glanced up at where the Councilman stood in the corner between Sibeal and Adara. “No. Not under that fae love spell.”

“Me, neither.” Logan rested his hand on Waapake’s head, murmured a silent blessing, then crawled from the cage.

Unole took his place. With one hand on the coyote, the other on Keir’s shoulder, she sang a prayer in her native tongue. He didn’t know the words, yet the meaning was clear. Her soprano filled the room, replacing the musty shadows with both sadness and hope, a farewell from reality but also a happy reunion in the spirit world.

A loud knocking sounded at the outer basement door. Rowe unbolted the latch and let Tall Sam and several others enter. Distant voices indicated more had arrived.

When Keir heard his name shouted in an offensive manner, he tuned out all other jeers. He turned from the group and cradled Waapake’s muzzle to his chest where a lump tightened in his throat. He longed for their reunion in the unseen world. Why hasn’t your spirit come to me? Where are you? He rocked back and forth, trying to recall possible missed signs or vaporous forms.

After death, familiars routinely made contact with their owners to say goodbye. Some couldn’t bear the parting and returned in new animal forms. He’d assisted many witches with reconnecting to those reincarnations, every time a joyful homecoming. Keir passed his hands along Waapake’s body, checking for spiritual remains. Empty, without a trace. This wasn’t normal—what had happened? Had Waapake’s spirit been so tortured in passing that he now wandered lost?

Bile from Keir’s stomach rose into his throat. He looked to where Adara stood.

While even her friends’ faces revealed sad eyes filled with compassion, hers pierced him with cold contempt.

He handed Waapake’s body to Unole’s open arms and moved from the cage. His skin prickled as adrenaline surged. He strode to the center of the room and faced Adara. “What did you do to his spirit?”

Conversations around the room silenced as she stepped closer and drew out each hurtful word. “That is a question you need to ask your dear friend Rowe.”

“A spirit will only be displaced, left lost, after facing horrific death. What did you do to Waapake?” His hatred spilled out, hotter, louder.

For a moment she grimaced, her mouth in an ugly twist as if she’d tasted something bitter in his accusation. Then, she leaned forward and spewed a laugh in his face. “I hope there’s room at the reservation for both you and Rowe.”

“You’ve hurt too many. Your distorted sense of right and wrong only justifies your selfishness.”

“Two little boys always so righteous, helping others, everyone except Adara. Now their reputations have soured. No one will want their help, especially not Adara.”

“Adara, stop!” Unole pleaded. “This will only bring pain.”

“Unole, shut up. I owe you nothing. I repaid my debt.”

Before Unole would exit the cage, Adara slammed the door in her face.

Keir spun to the cage and yanked at the immoveable door, his stomach roiling, palm filling with white power.

Unole reached fingers through the bars overtop his fist of gathering power and quenched the flames. Eyes damp, she begged, “No. Use the medicine now. But only for good.”

Keir protected her with his body as he turned back to Adara.

The vile woman lifted a hand, nails ablaze, and thunder cracked outside.

His physical body tensed, desperate to exact revenge. Keir couldn’t tell if his heart and mind were open enough. Clinging to the hope of internal peace, he wished no harm to come to Adara and recited Chuquilatague’s spell:

Bring me your soul. I am a black owl of the night.

Your name is Night. I hunt your heart.

Adara slashed through the air, unleashing her storm. Lightning jagged down the cord of the overhead pendant light. The bulb popped with a shower of sparks.

Keir feared Unole’s metal cage was her next strike. Determined to complete the incantation, he projected his voice louder than the claps of thunder:

Bring me your soul. I am a brown owl of the night.

Your name is Night. I hunt your heart.

Adara’s lips quivered, shoulders tightened, despite the power glowing red at her fingertips.

The strength of the medicine shook through Keir, like a surge of adrenaline that made him dizzy and strong at the same time. He laced his fingers through the cage bars, to hold Unole’s hand, and persevered:

Bring me your soul. I am a yellow owl of the night.

Your name is Night. I hunt your heart.

“Stop!” Adara moaned, her voice shrill, face ashen, but Keir persisted through the final couplet, afraid the medicine would overtake his conscious mind.

Bring me your soul. I am a white owl of the night.

Your name is Night. I have your heart.

Elbows tight to her sides, Adara slunk to the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks. She waved a hand to open the cage door, and Unole crawled to where Keir sat. Adara whimpered to no one in particular, “I am so very sorry. I have done so much wrong. I killed Waapake with oleander poison.” Curled into herself, sobs shook her body as she cried against her hands.

All watched, but no one moved to comfort her, not even Sibeal. The magic was of a sort not seen before in the Hollow—apparently not in New Wish either, by the way Aggie gaped, her shoulder pressed into Rowe’s.

Adara wailed, lamenting a host of wrongdoings—a complete change of character, as though her very soul had transformed.

The only one in the room seemingly able to speak, Unole said to Keir, “Now, Waapake’s soul should be free. You might be able to use the dreamcatcher to contact his spirit. Or ask Great Coyote. He will know what happened to Waapake if the Milky Way is still present. Maybe the purple star I bade to …” Shockingly carefree, she rambled on, but Keir failed to comprehend, transfixed by the conversion happening before him.

At once worried the incantation had affected Unole as well—he spun to face her. But she only smiled at him as she had at the stream. Nothing seemed unusual other than whatever worried her had cleared.

Aggie’s scream split the room.

A silver blade in Adara’s hand glinted with light shining from the open door. Her other hand clutched the neckline of her dress, embers at her nail-tips singeing the fabric.

Rowe, already standing, lunged for her as Keir jumped to his feet.

Adara sliced a gash across her own throat, blood splattering everywhere.

Keir pressed a hand to the wound, but his actions were useless. Red spurted from between his fingers, hot and throbbing with her erratic pulse. He cried, “Call for help!”

Others echoed his request inside and out.

Logan must have already placed the call. He moved closer, answering questions into the phone, “She’s in and out of conscious. Yes, still breathing.” Her blood stained both Keir’s and Rowe’s arms, shirt fronts, pant legs.

Rowe tore off his jacket and pressed it against the gaping wound. Within moments, red bled through the fabric.

Adara’s eyes fluttered open, tiny slits. Her voice sputtered, hoarse and dry, “Tell Unole I’m sorry. I can’t live with all the guilt.”

Yells grew louder outside. Hopefully the ambulance had arrived.

“Hang on. I think the medics are here.” Keir tried to sound calm, reassuring. Despite all the loathing, he never wished for her to die. He had performed Chuquilatague’s medicine as directed—unless his perceptions were unreliable. His teacher would never have recommended this outcome. Had Keir done something wrong?

He smoothed her hair, matted with blood and recalled the earlier remembrance of his dress shirts ruined with her crimson lipstick—a gruesome foretelling sign.

The ambulance was too late. Adara’s last breath slipped from her lips, and her body sagged lifeless.

A woman’s voice—Jancie’s—yelled through the open basement door, “Keir, come out here. It’s Unole—she’s … dead.”

Chapter Twenty-two: The Grave

Keir raced up the stairs and overtook Jancie. Near where Unole lay on the driveway, a pair of medics were putting their equipment away and opening a sheet to cover her.

“What happened?” he blurted and attempted to kneel beside Unole, but was motioned back by the female medic.

“I’m sorry, the area must be kept clear as a crime scene,” she said in a polite but firm tone. “This young woman’s death needs to be investigated.”

Logan, standing close with Aggie, countered, “I’m the high priest of this coven, and my word supersedes local law enforcement. I authorize the okay for Keir to have a moment.”

Both medics quietly moved aside.

Keir dropped to his knees and cradled Unole’s hand.

Through sobs, Aggie choked, “Right after Adara cut herself, Unole ran out and I followed. She only made it this far before she collapsed. She coughed and wheezed, her body convulsing. Jancie got here right after Unole fell and started CPR.”

“Did that help?” he asked Jancie.

“At first, yes. With my help, we could detect a pulse, but only for a few minutes.”

He touched a hand to Unole’s still-warm but pale cheek. Fresh pain seized his chest; the loss was too great. He’d accepted that Waapake would likely die before him, the lifespan of a kept coyote only twelve or so years, though he was only five. But Unole was Keir’s future; he imagined his life ahead with her. With the swiftness of a falling axe, death cleaved away all hope and replaced it with suffering. Impossible to fight, he gave way to grief. His tears left a damp trail as they fell on the silk of her blouse.

She had begged him repeatedly to not kill Adara. Is this the outcome Unole expected? That her own life would be taken? How was that possible? He bent low and whispered near her ear, “If your spirit can hear me, know that Adara’s final words were to you. She was sorry that she couldn’t live with the guilt.”

A breath whooshed into Keir’s lungs. Repeating Adara’s message, it took on new meaning. Chuquilatague’s incantation, good medicine, had cleared Adara of evil. Evil that allowed her to live with her wrongdoings, justified hurting others, had been her protection. Her armor gone, a lifetime of guilt pummeled her, drove her to take her life to avoid the pain. In that final act, her suicide, Adara knew Unole would die as well and apologized—possibly hoping for forgiveness.

What Keir didn’t know was how the two women had been connected. He ran through details of conversations for possible clues. Unole had saved Adara’s life. Sometime after that, Unole had become ill and faced death herself. Yet, nothing linked her life to Adara’s. Or Adara’s death to hers.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away from his internal struggle. One of the medics, a middle-aged woman with kindness in her eyes, asked, “Whenever you’re ready, we need to take the body. No rush.”

Keir nodded and took hold of Unole’s hand as he sat back. He couldn’t let go; this goodbye was years—decades—too soon.

Though immobile, unable to move on, Keir noticed a gurney wheel past carrying the shrouded body of Adara. To the morgue. Both bodies would be housed in the same facility. Keir cringed. Spirits usually clung to their corporeal bodies for hours, days, a week, before finding their afterlives. Whether intentional or not, Adara caused grievous harm to others during her death—and could still cause more hurt afterward. Or might the two women’s spirits be compassionate toward one another? What had linked them in life? That question burned hotter than a sabbat bonfire in his mind.

He gently rested Unole’s hand upon her chest and rose, though his eyes didn’t see. Images blurred past him too fast. He took a stumbling step and an arm caught him.

“Let me take you home.” A dark head of hair came into view. Rowe’s deep voice registered. “I’ve put Waapake’s body in my backseat.”

Keir allowed Rowe to guide him. Each step seemed leaden. Even in the midday light, colors in the environment around him were dim, and the air smelled bitter, as if something was missing. A few breaths later, he realized why. Unole’s perfume, her white flowers, had scented the air around him for a long time: a beautiful standard against which nothing could compare.

Seated in his office desk chair, Keir swilled coffee, willing it to assuage his shock for at least a few minutes while he made a call. He dialed Chuquilatague’s number.

The clairvoyant shaman hadn’t even waited for Keir to utter a hello before he said, “I was expecting to hear from you.”

He slapped his forehead and stammered. “How?”

“Great Coyote told me he taught both you and Unole your second and hardest lesson. Each of you met it with courage and pure hearts.”

Keir dragged his hand over his eyes. “I don’t think you understand what happened.”

“I know my daughter has died.”

Shock strangled Keir’s tongue for several moments before he uttered, “With all due respect, I don’t see how that is an accomplishment.”

“It may not be for you—depends upon how you proceed with the next lesson. But I trust my Little Windflower. She will make the experience, the lesson, into something as grand as the first blossom of springtime.”

“Another lesson? How could she? She’s … gone. Are you—” Keir bit his tongue to block a string of confused accusations, which would violate the decorum expected while communicating with his teacher.

“Yes, one last lesson. Be watchful. It will come,” Chuquilatague said, his voice resolute and calm. Keir had learned early in his training to never doubt his teacher, but this guidance defied logic. Had the old man’s mind slipped into senility?

Unable to continue on their current topic, Keir turned to what he’d initially dreaded with a new measure of relief. “There is the matter of burial. I can arrange to have Unole’s body shipped home. What do you wish?”

“After the holiday of Imbolc and its full moon in two days’ time, call me again. I will look forward to your call and have an answer.”

“What are we waiting for?” Keir blurted though Chuquilatague had already disconnected. Keir stared at the phone in his hand.

Despite the thick gray clouds, the late afternoon sun did its best to warm the earth. Keir sliced the frozen ground underneath his apple tree. The newly-sharpened blade Tall Sam had provided sunk a few inches. At least more than his own dull shovels, which Rowe and Sam used to turn the softer soil beneath. Half an hour later, they had fashioned a grave Keir deemed suitable for Waapake.

After they rested from their toils, and Keir finished gathering items he wanted to remain forever with Waapake’s spirit, they rejoined under the apple tree at sunset. Logan and Aggie were also present, and Jancie arrived last—though she stayed beside Aggie rather than Rowe.

Logan and Rowe lowered Waapake’s body, wrapped in a white sheet, into the grave, his head facing south toward his birthplace on the reservation.

Keir knelt and placed the old bucket, filled with his coyote’s treasured toys, beside his front paws. He remained in a crouch, while Aggie sang a verse of her own:

You’re no longer by our sides,

But there’s no need to weep;

You’ve left sweet memories,

We’ll be overjoyed to keep.

If loneliness brings us sorrow and dismay,

We won’t despair long, for you’re just a memory away.

Her song was so similar to Unole’s message, Keir couldn’t help but cry.

When she sang the lines once more, Jancie joined her. Though neither possessed Unole’s vocal talent, together they sounded like angels come to alleviate Keir’s heavy heart.

His lungs accepted a deep, expansive breath. He considered the dreamcatcher in his hand, whether to include it in the grave as part of his farewell. When the girls’ reached their final line, he followed the lyrics to a memory: Waapake, as a pup, slept underneath the protective web.

Maybe Unole hadn’t been babbling with fear when she urged him to use it to communicate with Waapake. Keir pocketed the dreamcatcher, stepped aside, and allowed Rowe and Logan to fill the grave.

Chapter Twenty-three: The Veil Lifts

A strong breeze rattled Keir’s window pane, but that wasn’t what kept him awake. He’d not slept, half watching for either Waapake’s spirit to come around or whatever ambiguous sign might indicate the start of Great Coyote’s last lesson.

Since Chuquilatague’s view of his daughter’s death had been deranged, Keir was less hopeful about the latter. He whole-heartedly accepted the presence of a spirit world, had dedicated his career to working with that realm. However, to be glad for a loved one to pass, and so young, was unthinkable. He stared at the ceiling, pondering what meaning he must’ve missed in his teacher’s typically cryptic guidance. Does he find pleasure in making me figure out his meaning? Or is the discovery process an expected part of my training?

Weary from wrestling with the unknowable, he rose and pulled on sweats, a parka, and boots and trekked to the apple tree. He sat on his mother’s bench, letting his eyes rest upon Waapake’s grave.

So many deaths that came too soon should have—could have—been avoided. If only he had … he clenched his eyes shut to cut off the thought. According to Chuquilatague’s analysis of the Great Coyote’s previous lesson, Keir had done nothing to cause Adara’s or Unole’s deaths. Did he accept that? Could he?

He looked up at the Coyote Stars of the Milky Way. The purple Unole had set to watch over him remained bright as ever, twinkling like Venus and just as quiet. He needed answers. Where is the last damned lesson?

The way that Adara died haunted him. He’d always considered her his polar opposite. Rather, she carried as much self-blame as he did, but coped by hiding it—even from herself—beneath a veil of evil. Underneath, she was no different than he. She’d shouldered her burden until she couldn’t continue on. He shuddered, fearing the same fate awaited him.

Unole had made him promise to use her father’s medicine. Why? He recalled the terror in her eyes—she knew Adara’s death would mean an end to her own life. She must also have known what Adara’s true nature would be like without her dark veil. Unole wanted him to view the parallel to his own struggles. She chanced death to allow him that insight. Her selflessness blossomed new love within his heart.

Bitten by the night’s cold air, he dug his hands into his pockets and discovered the dreamcatcher. He held it up, between his line of vision and the purple coyote star. The web refracted the star’s light into rainbows glistening along the threads. Perhaps the sinews were coated with a resin that shimmered. The colorful beams spilled down the beads and feathers at the base and onto his arm and lap, in the same way that good dreams were transferred to the protected sleeper.

He whirled around, searching for Waapake’s spirit. Instead, he heard clear, flute-like notes of the bittersweet melody Unole had sung to the dead coyote—farewell to reality but welcome the coming spirit world reunion. A wordless version emitted from her star. The music poured over his soul, and he embraced its message: death was natural, not an end, because the dead lived on in those who treasured their memories.

He lifted the dreamcatcher higher, allowing its light to spill over his head and shoulders, his chest and heart. The memories of each person he’d loved and lost glowed like polished silver, each a treasured keepsake. This was how to remember their lives, not by counting the days they didn’t spend on earth.

As he returned to the house, light from the security lamps shone in full circular patterns, not distorted by the veil of death—when had it lifted?

***

Gliding through twilit woods of the Hollow she’d never traversed, Unole recognized the great willow, not by sight, but by the way her voice reverberated from the limbs, rocks, and water. Shapes still registered, remaining in her soul, after the flesh and blood of her mind became lost to her.

She detected Keir as a ball of energy beneath the willow’s weeping sway. A few feet nearer, the patterns formed a rough image of him leaning against the trunk as he stared at the water. With her own energy sweeping to and fro with the willow’s sad dance, she read his emotions: loneliness, disappointment, and sadness—though thankfully not self-blame or regret—tethered him with manacles. Despite that, wisps of lightness floated from his head with love and acceptance.

She hesitated, enthralled with the outcome she’d hoped for when she convinced him to use her father’s medicine. It had been a terrible risk, one she feared. She had lost, though by Adara’s hand, not his. Knowing that he benefitted, she could fully welcome the transition to the afterlife and reunite with her mother. Despite death, with death, she found reward beyond all measure.

After a few moments longer, she touched her energy against his.

He flinched and looked around.

“Keir, it’s Unole. Can you see me?”

His eyes narrowed for an instant, then the lines cutting his forehead eased. “Yes, I can. Is it really you?” His voice broke with emotion. He reached his arms around her, and she longed to feel his embrace instead of cold, empty air.

She couldn’t bring herself to answer his question and, instead, replied with one of her own. “What do you see?”

He stroked a hand across where her head might have been. “Your black hair is glossy with blue highlights from the near-full moon.”

“It is a lovely moon, full tomorrow for Imbolc. What else about me do you see?”

“Your brown eyes shine with your star’s purple light.” At arms-length, he smiled at her.

“My star remains to guide you … always will. Great Coyote won’t allow it to fade. What else do you notice?”

“You smell sweet like jasmine and tuberose.”

She sighed at his confusion about what was real and what wasn’t. “You see and smell these things from your memories alone. I am not alive, only a formless spirit transitioning to another place and another shape which I do not yet know.”

“No!” He yanked his arms away. “You look real and feel real. I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry. I came to say goodbye. We didn’t have that chance. I can’t go on without letting you know—”

“Know what?”

“After watching my mother die, I stupidly feared death. I was wrong. When I saved Adara’s life, I accepted a bargain that she would do the same for me if ever I needed—and she did. The deal was facilitated by Death’s Spirit and I learned too late—only he stood to gain. He tied our lives and deaths together. If one passed, so would the other.”

“Why?” Keir cried, his face contorted, then he briefly looked down. When he looked upon her again, his expression revealed an ease of acceptance. He said with a calm voice, “We both made mistakes.”

“Yes. We’re both free of them now; we freed each other by exchanging gifts. There’s one last thing you must know: you are brave and strong to be able to imagine me, not as a lifeless corpse, but as a free and happy young woman who loved you. My spirit will always love you.”

His lower lip quivered. “Unole, I love you. Please stay with me—in whatever form you must take, now or when you find your afterlife.”

Before parting, she touched his lips, surprised and saddened to find them coated with light from her own star, which prevented her from tasting his soft skin. She was swept away, her energy whirling her into chaos she could not control.

Chapter Twenty-four: Imbolc

A sob clinched Keir’s chest, but he caught it before the tightness unleashed more tears— overcame the joy. Unole’s love would remain with him always. The thought made him smile.

As he turned from the great willow, a vaporous form appeared in the distant woods. Passing through tree trunks and thickets, the spirit barreled straight for him.

Keir clutched a hand to his chest. No cover would protect him; he had nowhere to hide.

Four legs racing at top speed, translucent ears flapping, wisps of silvery hair flowing—Waapake!

Arms swept open wide, Keir ran to meet him.

Panting with his tongue lolled to one side, Waapake leapt for his master, and the two tumbled to the ground.

Keir hugged Waapake’s furry neck, as warm and tangible as his own body. Yet he’d passed through solid trees. “Are you real? Or is my memory fooling me again?”

“Look!” Aggie’s voice cried out and she bounded along the trail to join them. She dropped to her knees and petted Waapake, her eyes moist, a smile lighting her face. “The coyote tip of my wand vibrated, told me to go to the creek’s bend.”

Keir pulled her in with one arm, his other around Waapake. Keir’s heart drummed warmth throughout his body. Grinning wide, he tasted the salt of his tears.

The others, Logan, Rowe, and Jancie, rustled through the brush to encircle them.

Still rubbing the coyote’s fur, Keir sat back and conveyed a question through his touch as he also asked aloud, “How are you alive?”

His familiar pointed his tan muzzle skyward, then barked, “Great Coyote says his third and final lesson is now done. You’ve made peace with loss.” He galloped off in the direction he’d come.

“Wait! Come back! Don’t leave me.” Keir floundered to his feet and stumbled after him, his friends also in pursuit.

Waapake disappeared behind a wide oak. He’d left Keir, just like Unole did.

Keir ran faster, his heart thundering as if it might break his ribs. “Waapake!” He leaped over an outcrop of brambles in order to see behind the tree but saw nothing.

When he was thirty feet away, Waapake stepped out, his body now fully opaque, paws crunching dried leaves underfoot. Behind him stood a vision of Unole, a diaphanous ghost.

Keir cut his pace to a cautious walk, trying to make sense of the sight before him.

Close behind him, Aggie let out a gasp.

Waapake slowly moved forward. Unole followed, her form taking shape, depth, and texture with each step. Her silk blouse shimmered, her hair shone with blue luster. A wide smile lifted her cheeks and framed the starlight in her eyes.

Keir touched a hand to her cheek, and flecks of green brightened her hazel irises. Afraid to ask the question lodged in his throat, he couldn’t breathe, just stared. Am I losing my mind?

Unole leaned closer and brushed her lips against his. The heat of skin touching skin sparked joy within his heart.

He grabbed her tight against him.

She’s real.

In the distance, car doors shut and voices murmured as the woods rustled.

Several minutes passed with Keir stroking her hair, while they both wept happy tears. When giddy laughter overtook them, Logan touched Keir’s shoulder. “I … um, some of the coven members asked to celebrate Imbolc night with you. To show their support for you as their seer. I expected you’d be here at the bend with the willow to mark the sabbat. Told them to join us at moonrise. I didn’t know … if you want me to turn them away …”

“No.” Keir pulled back from Unole, though kept his arms at her waist. “It’s fine—it’s great, I think.” He glanced at her and asked, “If it’s what you’d like?”

“I would like nothing more.” She beamed and took his hand. “We can gather at the great willow.”

Rowe held out his hand to Jancie, who accepted with a smile, and they led the way back to the stream.

Beneath the willow’s bower, Keir and Unole faced each other, hand in hand with Waapake between them.

The others took positions around the perimeter. When they linked arms, fae lights flickered along the swaying branches. As more coven members arrived, they created additional rings around the tree.

Blinded by brightening lights and the sight of Unole before him, Keir didn’t know how many gathered. Judging from the intensity of the fae lights, which were stirred by surrounding positive energy, maybe hundreds—the strength of their goodwill swelled his heart.

Logan’s voice rang clear. “Let us now honor the sabbat.” Murmurs silenced and he continued. “Light of a full moon upon a willow is auspicious, especially on this night of Imbolc, the threshold between winter and spring. The willow reflecting in the water brings the full moon’s magic to Earth, which may have helped bring Unole and Waapake back to us.” He paused, neither lighting candles or inviting the four winds.

Keir didn’t know whether the high priest was uncertain about how to continue, given the recent tragedies, or waited for him, as seer, to offer a customary sabbat lesson. It took Keir only a moment to formulate a meaningful message. “In recent days, we have seen and experienced death. We must recognize death as a transition not to be feared any more than the peace found beneath a willow lit by a full moon. Let us now be transported to a place of peace as we welcome the Goddess transforming into a maiden, the Sun God becoming a man on this Imbolc night.”

Celebrating what both death and life had offered him, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Unole’s.

A long moment of silence engulfed those gathered. The only sounds were from the tinkling of fae along the willow’s limbs and the gentle rush of the current swelled from snowmelt at winter’s end.

At last, when people stirred and Keir swept the curtain of branches aside for Unole to pass, he asked her, “Your father told me to call him after we observed Imbolc. He didn’t want to talk about your death until then. How do I explain—”

“You know you don’t need to,” she said with a lyrical laugh. “Great Coyote has already told him.”

**The End**

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A Note from the Author

If you enjoyed reading about Jancie’s adventures in Witch’s Windsong, please look for other books in my Coon Hollow Coven Tales series. The series, written to be read in any order, is about one community. Its residents may pass in and out of various books, but each book has its own unique and special story to be told.

Also, if you liked this book, I’d very much appreciate if you’d help spread the word and post a review on Amazon, Goodreads I’d very much appreciate if you’d help spread the word and post a review on Amazon, Goodreads, blogs, or wherever you like to talk about books.

I love to hear from readers. At my website MarshaAMoore.com you can contact me, read my blog, and find my social media connections. To be notified about my new releases, exclusive prizes and giveaways just for subscribers, and best of all, opportunities to receive advance copies of my newest books in exchange for honest reviews, sign up for my newsletter. As a thank you gift for subscribing, you’ll receive my paranormal romance short story, Ruler of the Night.

—Marsha

Other novels and stories by Marsha A. Moore

For details and excerpts please visit

MarshaAMoore.com

Coon Hollow Coven Tales:

Genre: urban fantasy romance

Those be the witches who draw bliss and bane from the smallest slip of nature—strong old ways.

If you think you’re brave enough to venture deep into Coon Hollow Coven’s forest ravines, consider this—rumor has it that their witchcraft lives and breathes through souls of dead kin. Why else would they uphold a 1930s lifestyle from the time their founding families settled the southern Indiana hill country? Folks from the neighboring small town of Bentbone mostly don’t mind…or at least try their best to keep safe distance from coven members. But for some townies, nothing will keep them from falling into those witches’ bliss and bane.

COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES series was inspired by the neck of the woods where Marsha A. Moore spent her favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The tales are set in a fictitious community, south of Bloomington, and the books are rich with a warm Hoosier, down-home feel.

If you like mysterious goings-on in secluded hill country villages & deep forest ravines, sprinkled with heaps of witchy magic, mysticism &adventure, then you’ll love Coon Hollow Coven Tales.

A note to readers: ALL THE COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES NOVELS CAN BE READ AS STAND ALONE BOOKS. The series is about one community, and its residents may pass in and out of various books, but each book has its own unique and special story to enjoy.

Witch’s Moonstone Locket

A local witch might have the griever’s moonstone locket, which allows the wearer to talk with the dead. Determined to find that locket, Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival. This opposes her father’s strict rule—STAY AWAY FROM WITCHES!

Twenty-three-year-old Jancie Sadler was out of the room when her mother died, and her heart still longs for their lost goodbye. Aching to ease her sorrow, Aunt Starla gives Jancie a diary that changes her entire life. In entries from the 1930s, her great grandmother revealed how she coped with her own painful loss by seeking out a witch from nearby Coon Hollow Coven. The witch wore the griever’s moonstone locket, which allowed whoever could unlock its enchantment to talk with the dead.

Determined to find that locket, Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival held in her small southern Indiana town of Bentbone. This opposes her father’s strict rule: stay away from witches. But she’s an adult now and can make her own decisions. She meets Rowe McCoy, the kind and handsome witch who wears the moonstone. He agrees to let her try to open the locket, but they’re opposed by High Priestess Adara and her jealous desire to possess him. Desperate for closure with her mother, Jancie persists and cannot turn away from a perilous path filled with magic, romance, and danger.

Witch’s Moonstone Locket is a stand-alone book in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series. If you enjoy mystic adventures and have ever wanted to speak to the dead, then you’ll love Marsha A. Moore’s quest for the elusive gemstone.

Buy Witch’s Moonstone Locket and join the search!

Witch’s Cursed Cabin

Aggie alone must stop Coon Hollow's evil curse or both the living & dead will suffer.

Eager to be on her own away from home, twenty-year-old Aggie Anders accepts a relative’s invitation to live in Coon Hollow Coven. Although she’s a witch from a different coven, what locals say about the Hollow confuses her. How can witchcraft there live and breathe through souls of the dead?

Aggie’s new residence in this strange southern Indiana world is a deserted homestead cabin. The property’s carriage house serves as the coven’s haunted Halloween fundraiser. It’s a great opportunity for her to make new friends, especially with the coven’s sexy new High Priest Logan.

But living in the homestead also brings Aggie enemies. Outsiders aren’t welcome. A cantankerous, old neighbor tries to frighten her off by warning her that the homestead is cursed. Local witches who practice black magic attempt to use their evil to drive Aggie away and rid their coven of her unusual powers as a sun witch.

Determined to stay and fit in, Aggie discovers not only that the cabin is cursed, but she alone is destined to break the curse before moonrise on Samhain. If she fails, neither the living nor the dead will be safe.

Witch’s Cursed Cabin is a stand-alone book in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series. If you enjoy the legends of banshees, customs of Samhain, and everything Halloween, then you’ll love Marsha A. Moore’s battle between a young witch and black magic.

Buy Witch’s Cursed Cabin to see if this Samhain will be the coven’s last!

Blood Ice & Oak Moon

Esme Underhill is about to discover a darkness hidden inside her that could destroy her chance for independence and possibly kill her.

Esme’s mother took her young daughter away from Southern Indiana’s Coon Hollow Coven to prevent her from learning about the unusual witchcraft she had inherited. When Esme is twenty-seven, her beloved Grammy Flora passes away and leaves her property in the Hollow to her granddaughter. With this opportunity to remake her life and gain independence, Esme attempts to emulate Grammy Flora as a wildwood mystic who relies on the hedge world of faeries to locate healing herbs. But fae are shrewd traders. When they open their world to her, she must meet the unknown malevolence of her birthright.

Thayne, the handsome king of the fae Winter Court, faces his own struggle to establish autonomy as a new regent. He is swept into the tempest of Esme’s unfolding powers, a dangerous threat to his court. His sworn duty is to protect his people, despite Esme’s beauty and allure, which tear at his resolve.

Both Esme’s and Thayne’s dreams of personal freedom are lost…unless they can trust each other and overcome surmounting dangers.

Blood Ice & Oak Moon is a stand-alone book in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series. If you enjoy the ancient magic of fae and hedge witches that lingers still in deep forest ravines, then you’ll love Marsha A. Moore’s conflict when a young hedge witch comes into her powers.

Buy Blood Ice & Oak Moon to enter the mystical woods of the Hollow today!

Witch’s Mystic Woods

The Lockwood witches are the only tree mystics known to the Midwest, and soon Larena will be the last. Their heritage is crumbling—but not if Larena can save it.

With loving care, Larena helps her mother Irene face the final journey of severe dementia. Corporate vultures, envisioning a mall project, are circling to take the Lockwood land and antique store by eminent domain upon Irene’s death. Their success will lay claim to the souls of Larena’s deceased father and grandfather, both tied for all eternity to the family’s land.

Using rare, inherited magical skills, Larena communicates with trees and crafts their wood into enchanted furniture, which bring blessings to future owners. An unscrupulous witch, working with the corporation for a share of the profits, sabotages Larena’s mysticism to curtail her livelihood. One charming vulture, Reid Peterson, preys upon her heart. Armed with only grit and attitude, Larena fights to stand her ground.

Local seers and fae alike foresee a shift with the concurrence of Winter Solstice and the coming new moon. Otherworld energies will then become available to an unnamed person in desperate need. Larena must be that person—or her heart, home, and heritage will be wrenched away.

Witch’s Mystic Woods is a stand-alone book in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series. If you like mystical adventures, vivid characters facing insurmountable odds, and shadowed realms, then you’ll love Marsha A. Moore’s struggle of heritage vs. corporate takeover.

Buy Witch’s Mystic Woods to join the tree mystics in the Hollow’s magical forest ravines today!

Enchanted Bookstore Legends:

Genre: Epic Fantasy Romance

Series description:

The Enchanted Bookstore Legends are about Lyra McCauley, a woman destined to become one of five strong women in her family who possess unique magical abilities and serve as Scribes in Dragonspeir. The Scribes span a long history, dating from 1,200 to present day. Each Scribe is expected to journey through Dragonspeir, both the good and evil factions, then draft a written account. Each book contains magic with vast implications.

Lyra was first introduced to Dragonspeir as a young girl, when she met the high sorcerer, Cullen Drake, through a gift of one of those enchanted books. Using its magic, he escorted her into the parallel world of Dragonspeir. Years later, she lost that volume and forgot the world and Cullen. These legends begin where he finds her again—she is thirty-five, standing in his enchanted bookstore, and Dragonspeir needs her.

When Lyra reopens that enchanted book, she confronts a series of quests where she is expected to save the good Alliance from destruction by the evil Black Dragon. While learning about her role, Lyra and Cullen fall in love. He is 220 years old and kept alive by Dragonspeir magic. Cullen will die if Dragonspeir is taken over by the evil faction…Lyra becomes the Scribe.

Seeking a Scribe: Enchanted Bookstore Legend One

Heritage Avenged: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Two

Lost Volumes: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Three

Staurolite: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Four

Quintessence: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Five

Shadows of Serenity

Genre: Women’s fiction mystery/Magical realism

Joyce Runsey spends her life savings to open a yoga studio in an historic Victorian St Augustine house, only to discover the property is haunted. A female ghost’s abusive and very much alive husband still tortures her by using dark witchcraft. The disruptive energy thwarts Joyce’s ambition to create a special environment to train students to become yoga teachers.

Joyce engages in a deadly battle with not only the tormented spirit, but also the dangerous husband. To protect her students from harm, she must overcome mounting obstacles. An unknown swami pays an unexpected visit to give advice on how to free the anguished ghost. Can Joyce comprehend and follow the wise man’s guidance in time to save everyone who depends on her?

Short Stories:

Le Cirque De Magie

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Table of Contents

- Witch’s Windsong
- Visit Marsha A. Moore at:
- Table of Contents
- Chapter One: The North Wind
- Chapter Two: Wind Woman
- Chapter Three: Guilt
- Chapter Four: The Dreamcatcher
- Chapter Five: Perceived Reality
- Chapter Six: Your Life as a Dream
- Chapter Seven: Sanguine-hued Regret
- Chapter Eight: The Inner World
- Chapter Nine: New Moon
- Chapter Ten: Wild Chicory
- Chapter Eleven: The Forest Glade
- Chapter Twelve: Failed Gambit
- Chapter Thirteen: Illusions
- Chapter Fourteen: Winds of Change
- Chapter Fifteen: The Lesson
- Chapter Sixteen: Bad Medicine
- Chapter Seventeen: The White Crow
- Chapter Eighteen: Welcome Home
- Chapter Nineteen: Exposed
- Chapter Twenty: The Phoenix Fire
- Chapter Twenty-one: Crimson Stains
- Chapter Twenty-two: The Grave
- Chapter Twenty-three: The Veil Lifts
- A Note from the Author
- Other novels and stories by Marsha A. Moore