Thanks for stopping in! My apologies for the less-than-stellar versions of these novellas included in the original print of The Slooswell Witches. Both novellas are included in plain text on this page, or if you’d prefer to download them, you may do so here: Wayward Stranger and Blinding Brilliance. These are in PDF format.

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WAYWARD STRANGER

One

The shadow being loomed over me, over the entirety of the woods. Wesley’s voice was a blip, an insignificant wave in a torrent of howls and whispers. How did it know me? What did it want? 

None of these questions mattered, as my lungs threatened to be crushed under the weight of whatever it was.

And then, another voice joined the cacophony. One that seemed to battle the creature, its voice a song in the dissonance. 

Marlowe!

I snapped from my pain-inducing reverie, realizing that Marlowe was in the dark of it with us. Between Wesley’s brandished shield of magic, and her stream of words, the shadow being shrunk back, not small by any means, but enough for me to come to my senses.

“Run!”

I couldn’t tell you which one said it, but I did. I ran and ran and ran. Far beyond the edge of the woods, far across the land that took me there. 

I was by the edge of the westbound interstate by the time I stopped, chest heaving, stars clouding my vision. “Marlowe? Wesley?!” I shouted, gasping for air. I could scarcely hear footsteps behind me. 

“I will always be watching,” a voice called directly into the exhausted dark of my mind, “I will always be waiting.”

And then, as if every stray cloud suddenly left the sky, so too did my vision and thoughts clear. I was dizzy, on the verge of being sick.

Vera was waiting for me, her immaculate cream-colored sedan pulled to the shoulder of the interstate with its flashers beaming through my haze. “Get in!”

I hustled toward the back passenger door, frantically pulling at the door handle as she unlocked it. 

“The hell was that?!” I hollered, the sound reverberating in the small space. “What the hell was that?!”

Vera looked at me, through me, consternation playing at her features. “What did you bring here?”

I blinked slowly, the stars still dissipating from my vision. “Excuse me?”

“I have lived my entire life in Slooswell. All my years in this town, I have never encountered such a thing. It must have come with you. Because of you.”

I replayed every word the creature said, though at half speed and some of it garbled, even now. I hated the implication of her scathing words; it’s not like I meant to bring anything with me. That was the whole damn point of coming here. “I don’t freaking know!”

She stiffened. “Well you better figure it out.”

Wesley and Marlowe both were rushing toward the car now, hurriedly climbing in and slamming the doors shut. I wrapped an arm around Wesley, who was beside me in the backseat, and the other hand found purchase on Marlowe’s shoulder through the small gap leading to the front. “Thank you,” I heaved, “thank you.”

“I’ll have to find my truck at some point,” Wesley breathed heavily through his words, looking all around. “Where did we come out?”

“The other side of Slooswell,” Vera replied coldly, “the periphery.” She eyed the trees as if waiting for something. 

We all sat in the silence, uneasy at the foreboding feeling emanating from beyond the concrete dividers of the interstate. 

* * * * *

Behind the closed and locked doors of the Tender’s Rest, I began stripping out of my costume. Twigs stuck in– and to– every possible surface. Outside my door, I could hear Vera and the others speaking heatedly. I didn’t love being the topic of an argument; once I heard Vera spit my name, I sunk down against the bedside. I didn’t want this. I didn’t do this. I don’t even know what the hell this is. 

Wesley and Marlowe’s voices both got louder. I slid into a dress and a cardigan, and padded out barefoot. As I rounded down the stairs, the arguing snapped to silence. Vera glared at me icily. I returned her stare, frustrated and exhausted. 

“You better not tear up this town, girl,” she said, with such excruciating animosity that her words alone could have killed me.

“I was trying to save it,” I replied plainly, thrusting my hands forward. “That’s why we went there in the first place– to figure it out in case it was bad.”

“In case it was bad. You sound like a child,” she seethed, “you knew it was bad! You called all of us!” 

“I didn’t know what it was,” I roared back. My patience was wearing thin, knowing that Vera was sliding back into her old territory about outsiders. “But I will handle it. You told me yourself that the White Deer brought me here for a reason.”

“I didn’t say it was a good reason,” she observed with malice. She snapped on her heels, and strode toward the front door of the Rest.

“For what it’s worth, Vera? I’m grateful that you came.” I called. 

She did not look back.

“That went down like a lead balloon,” I slouched against the bannister. 

Marlowe huffed, distractedly brushing her fingers through messy jet hair, eyes still on the front door. “Some people act as if everything goes perfectly all the time, and that nothing is ever out of place. Some people never have to worry about whether things go their way– how convenient it must be to be perfect.” She scoffed. “Small town mentality.”

I winced. She was right, unfortunately, in the sense that Vera would blame me for literally anything that ever went wrong in this town again. Which wasn’t fair– Slooswell could come up with a chaos all its own, no Gardner blood required. I shook the thoughts away. “Thank you both again for coming to the rescue,” I smiled wearily. Wesley sat on the bottom step, and wrapped one arm around my leg. “I’d be so lost without you two.”

Marlowe smiled at this, coming in for a hug. “Tessa, my dear, we must always save the people worth saving. The ties of found sisterhood can be strongest of all.”

“Oh! Where’s Vera?” A voice asked from behind us all. Missy strode out, four steaming mugs in hand. “I brought some tea, terrible situation it sounds like. Sorry I couldn’t assist.”

I frowned, pointing to the door.

* * * * *

“Don’t you worry about her,” Missy cooed at me, sipping the fourth drink herself, “she works herself up in a tizzy, has some sensible yet dramatic blowout, then meanders back around like some kind of hopeful, aloof cat. She can’t predict what happens next any better than the rest of us.”

The tea was a wonderfully flavored mixture, pomegranate and hibiscus and some warm herbal note beneath it all. I inhaled the steam, letting it seep into my bones, my thoughts wandering over everything that had happened. I had used my powers to escape the Folk, but not the creature in The Woods. Why? Would they have worked? Could I have repelled the being alone? It felt like ice had lodged itself in my heart. It would all come to a head, sooner or later. 

Too many things were giving chase, and I was starting to lose my balance in running.

“You sure you’re good?” Wesley was at my side still, looking up at me as he asked the question. “You can always come to my place.” 

I nodded. “I’ve got Lumori to take care of, and things to make sure are in place here.”

His eyes lingered on me, the warmth of them making me quiver. “Okay. Just call if you need me.” He stood, planting a lingering kiss against my lips as he passed. “G’night, everyone.”

A chorus of goodnights passed, and not long after, it was just Missy and I left. 

“You’re a kind girl, Tessa Jones,” Missy said suddenly, her eyes paring me down to an honest core, “don’t ever let some grumpy old crone change you.” 

I half-heartedly smiled, giving her a hug. “Thanks for the tea.”

* * * * *

The Wisteria Room felt too small for all the things I needed to think about. The walls were closing in, suffocating, as if the very air was soaked with the weight of the decision I was trying to make. I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers absently tracing the edge of the old journal in front of me, its pages crinkled and half-filled. 

I hadn’t written a single word yet, but I could already feel the heft of the letter that needed to be written.

I was supposed to be at peace in a place like this, tucked away in some cozy B&B on the edge of a town where no one would think to look for me. But I felt like a fugitive, a shadow lurking in a place I didn’t belong. And no matter how many times I tried to breathe through it, I couldn’t stop feeling the gnawing anxiety clawing at the back of my throat.

I picked up the pen, the tip hovering over the blank page. It was a dangerous idea, writing to them. To my mother, who had always been my rock, my safe place in any storm. The one who would wrap me up in her warmth, kiss away my fears, and tell me everything would be alright. Or to my grandmother– sharp and steadfast, with wisdom that went deeper than any spell or incantation. They were both witches of great power, both had always been there for me. They loved me.

But, in addition to everything else, the Fae were actively hunting me. I had felt them– their cold, predatory presence, their whispers just out of reach. I couldn’t risk dragging them into this. If I called on either of them, I might as well be signing their lives away.

But they were strong, too, and they would know how to help me.

The sound of a soft snicker snapped me out of my thoughts, and I looked down at the familiar curled at my feet. Lumori, my chaotic little mess, was fiddling with the collar around his neck. His form flickered between a swirling mass of sparks and smoke, his tiny, barely-visible eyes gleaming. A sort of murrrumph? noise came from somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” I murmured, not bothering to look up. 

He bounded closer, his ethereal body dissipating before reforming at my side.

I let out a soft sigh, the heaviness of the situation threatening to swallow me whole. “I didn’t ask to be hunted, to be chased through worlds that weren’t mine. I just wanted to right a wrong.”

“You don’t get to pick your fate, Tressa. But you get to choose how you face it.”

My vision snapped to Lumori, his smoky form flickering again as he sat on the edge of the desk, his collar almost glowing in the dim light, head tilted slightly to one side. 

That voice, a mimicry of a memory. Had he just channeled one of my own thoughts…?

“Did– did you just–”

Lumori’s shape shifted slightly, the wind around him picking up for a moment. “You write the damn letter. You ask for help. And if they’re foolish enough to come for you, then we fight. That’s what we do. We fight.”

My grandmother’s voice poured from him, all edges and ferocity and power. That one was not a memory, but a perfect imitation, a thought given shape in someone else’s vocals. 

But something in me, something buried deep under the layers of fear and doubt, stirred at the idea. Maybe, just maybe, he was right. Er, maybe Gramma was right? Either way, I was running out of time, and I couldn’t fight this alone. And it was okay to need help. 

I looked down at the journal again, absently running my fingers over the worn leather cover. The thought of reaching out to my mother, of seeing her soothing words on the other end of the letter, brought a small warmth to my chest. I could picture her now– sitting in her garden, the sunlight catching strands of her strawberry blonde hair, a smile that always made me feel like everything would be okay. She would want to help. She always wanted to help.

I took a shaky breath and finally lowered the pen to the page. My hand trembled as I began to write, the words spilling out as if they had been waiting for this moment, this choice.

Dear Mama, I wrote, my heart heavy with the weight of the words. I need you.

* * * * *

I stared at the letter for what felt like hours, the words I’d written etched on the page, a confession, a plea. I need you. My hand hovered over the letter for a long moment, the desire to reach out to them, to beg for help, warring with the gnawing fear that sending it would lead to disaster. I leaned back, my breath coming in shaky gasps. I couldn’t send it.

My fingers were numb from the sheer damming of my magic. I closed my eyes as a tightness settled deep in my chest.

Turning to a fresh page, I stared down at the notebook, pen lingering just above its surface, carefully running through any and every word I could use to get my point across. Then, the answer finally occurred to me: I would just write the address to the Tender’s Rest, leaving the rest of the page blank save a tiny tendril of my natural magic. “Find me,” I begged, willing my imprint onto the paper, “please.”

* * * * *

I pressed the letter down, smoothing the edges with my fingers as if trying to erase my hesitation. I folded it in half carefully, then slid it into an envelope– plain, unassuming, and utterly without a hint of the desperate plea it contained within.

This was better, I told myself. This was safer. The Fae weren’t stupid, but they wouldn’t know the full extent of my need unless I gave it to them. I took a deep breath and stood up, carefully placing the envelope on the desk. It was a step closer to the safety I needed, a thread of hope to cling to in the chaos.

But no matter how I tried to tell myself that I’d done the right thing, my heart clenched painfully in my chest. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up.

Two

The days leading to Halloween were quieter than I hoped for, which sounded strange compared to my usual, desperate plea for normalcy. I had delivered the letter directly to the post office, and surely it had reached its destination by now. Even so, would they understand the message? I hadn’t signed it. I would just have to trust my magic to find a way.

Still, that didn’t stop my thoughts from racing.

Marlowe’s Halloween get-together was gearing up, and would be followed by a party at the Rest. I was prepared for neither, given the state of my nerves, but I had resolved to show up for both. 

* * * * *

The air in Marlowe’s studio apartment was thick with the scent of dried flowers and incense, a haze that curled in the corners of the ceiling like errant shadows. It was dark, yet warm, the kind of cozy where the night felt like it had wrapped itself around you, making everything inside seem alive with whispers.

I stood near the edge of the room, a glass of something spiced in hand, watching Wesley chat and laugh with a few of the others. His smile was warm, making the atmosphere feel just a little bit brighter, and in the midst of the flickering candlelight and the low hum of conversation, it almost felt normal.

The tables were cluttered with tarot cards, crystal balls, and half-burnt candles. A small group gathered around a seance table, their heads bent in quiet concentration. There was a softness to everything here– the old records on the turntable, the quiet trickling sound of water from the tiny indoor fountain in the kitchen, the way the walls were lined with shelves of old books, jars filled with strange things, and the faint glimmer of protective charms hanging from every corner. This was a veritable sanctuary, and felt like a place between worlds, a place where history and mystery were one and the same.

I sipped my drink, the pomegranate punch of it sharp against the edge of my senses, and glanced around again. The others were drifting through the evening, picking up on the various threads that connected us all: a tarot reading here, a few laughs over misreads there, a quiet conversation over which spirits had decided to join us for the evening.

But, for all the laughter and the enjoyment, my mind kept straying back to the feeling that had been gnawing at me all night; that vague, unshakable sense of something being off, like I was standing in the middle of a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from.

Maybe it was just the weight of the previous days– the lingering scent of the creature, the pull tugging at the back of my mind. It was also the waiting, hoping that someone in my family would understand my message and swing to the rescue. Somehow.

Besides, on All Hallow’s Eve, it wasn’t uncommon for me to feel a little… liminal, given the thinness of the veil between worlds. Especially in spaces like this, where life and magical energy were in full swing… yet I was suppressing all that magic, and it compounded tenfold.

A laugh broke me from my thoughts. I looked over and found Wesley by the window, talking to a costumed fiery witch who had just come in. He was grounded and personable, always the opposite of my quiet restlessness. One of the many things I loved about him.

I couldn’t help but smile.

I tore my gaze away from him, feeling a tug at the edges of my awareness– something lingering in the dark. I rubbed my wrist absentmindedly. Marlowe had been busy, flitting between groups of “witches” and Witches alike, but her presence was everywhere, a delicate intensity that filled the place to the brim. She came over to me, her steps nearly silent on the old wooden floor. I could feel her before I saw her, the pull of her aura tugging at mine like two magnets.

“You look like you’re somewhere else,” she said softly, her voice a murmur over the music in the background.

I shook my head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just… just a feeling. I’ll shake it off.”

Her eyes flicked toward Wesley, then back to me. “Are you sure? Given the things we’re encountered recently…”

“I’m sure.” I forced the words out, trying not to let the doubt in my voice seep through.

Marlowe studied me for a moment before nodding slowly. “Well, I am here for you. Always. A snap of the fingers will have this place emptied, should you need it. Now, a tempt of fate for you?” She held gilded tarot cards forward, their edges shining in the low light.

I smiled meekly, and pulled one.  

The Tower.

The night, once filled with laughter and light, suddenly felt like too much. And the air, thick with magic, seemed to pulse with something hungry and waiting just beneath the surface. I felt the shift in a visceral way, the space between the living and the dead thinned to a razor’s edge.

“Hmm,” Marlowe hummed, “you fear change. You fear destruction. So, brick by brick, you resolve to keep yourself safe, shutting everything out, all while building a tower that cannot continue to stand. It will fall, Tessa, and you will have to face that.” She planted a kiss on the card, her blood red print covering half of the art, and handed it back to me. “Let those you love help you in the wreckage, in the fallout.”

She turned, gliding away towards another group. I tucked the card into my shift, fidgeting with errant strands of hair. I might have been dressed up as a peasant-girl-turned-vampire, but I felt exactly zero percent enthused.

“Hey,” Wesley’s voice was so close to me, I jumped. 

“Hey.”

He rubbed along my arm, avoiding the tattered cuts of fabric. “Everything all right?”

Before I could respond, a loud bang echoed from the direction of the seance table. Everyone turned, startled. My heart skipped. The table had cracked, the wood splitting down the middle as if something unseen had forced it apart. The room fell silent.

Wesley stepped up beside me, his face pale. “What the hell was that?”

The crack in the table began to glow, a faint purple light spilling out from the edges.

I turned to Wesley, then Marlowe, my throat tight. “We need to figure out what’s going on. Now.” I snatched the closest candelabra from the mantle, brandishing it like a weapon, spilling melted candle wax in an arc ahead of me. My eyes frantically scanned the room. 

Marlowe’s voice was far away as she spoke the words, her face lit only by the candle she now carried. 

“This night, the veil is thin; ghoulish reverie awaits. 

Do not tarry, my dears, else you’ll meet a ghoulish fate!”

 She turned to me, her blood red lips pulled into a grin. “Everyone, prepare to take your leave,” Marlowe shouted over the spooked crowd, “the Tender’s Rest awaits!”

I stared, confused, chest heaving.

“A little magic trick to commemorate your Halloween festivities,” she hollered and flourished a bow, her long, silken sleeves swooshing through the air. “Merry Hallow’s Eve to all, and to all a good fright!”

Everyone began clapping, shouting their surprise. 

You’d have thought someone took a sledgehammer to my nerves. I felt scattered and a little exhausted. “Great trick,” I commended her, trying to hide the heaviness behind my eyes. 

* * * * *

The night was thick with storm clouds and something else– something other– as we shuffled toward the front porch of the Tender’s Rest. The Halloween party at the B&B was a major event of the year for the locals; of course, anything Robert touched turned to gold, and as such, the party was expected to be a blowout. The old house had been transformed into a haunted mansion, complete with cobwebs, flickering candles, and the occasional shriek or howl from far-off closed doors. There were costumes galore: witches, vampires, ghosts, and even a few things I couldn’t quite place. A veritable crowd was here, mingling with an almost magical ease– Mart and his wife, both in matching bat costumes, the mechanic I’d only met a handful of times was Frankenstein’s monster, and Wesley, who had settled for a simple vampire look. No complaints from me; he looked good in black.

I stepped inside, shedding the cold autumn air with a sigh of relief. The low hum of music filled the space, a mix of eerie melodies and upbeat tracks. The clinking of glasses, soft laughter, and the faintest trace of a lingering spell dusted the room. I made my way over to the food table first. There were pumpkin pastries, candy apples, and an array of things that were, frankly, far too cute to eat. It was the sort of spread that screamed “town-wide effort,” with everyone contributing something.

Wesley found me after a few minutes, offering me a glass of something dark and frothy with a mischievous grin.

“Here’s to a Halloween with no major incidents,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching around his faux fangs. “Fingers crossed.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, taking the glass. His charm always had a way of settling my nerves, but tonight, any chance of relaxation had already eeked away from me. The lingering energy from the seance trick still buzzed under my skin. Moonlight was just starting to glint through the windows as he planted a kiss on my cheek, just before walking away. 

“Duty calls,” he shouted as he turned, “all right, kids, who’s ready for a spooky tale?”

The shrieks from every direction made me smile, watching everyone crowd around him, eager and waiting. Wesley had a talent for storytelling– his deep voice carrying a weight that made even the most ordinary ghost story sound thrilling.

“It was a stormy night, much like this one,” Wesley began, leaning in with his trademark intensity. “The old man, desperate for riches, made a pact with the devil himself–”

A loud bang interrupted him, so sudden and harsh that the room fell silent for a beat. The door, old wood and hinges creaking, rattled again. I felt my pulse quicken, but the rest of the crowd seemed to think it was just part of the show. They laughed nervously, glances flicking all around.

Wesley paused, eyes narrowing. “You’re telling me we’re getting new guests already?” he asked, half-smirking. “I guess the devil’s looking for a seat at this party.”

I could feel the prickle of something familiar at the edges of my senses, the tug of old magic. The kind I’d known my entire life.

Before I could even stand, the door flew open with a snap.

And there she was.

Gramma Betta Nyrine Gardner, in her old-fashioned shift dress, dirty boots, and a dark purple cloak that billowed behind her like something from a forgotten era. The energy shifted when she stepped inside, an aura of ancient, unshakable power clinging to her presence like smoke.

Her eyes, emerald and intense as ever, snapped to me almost instantly, ignoring every other body in the room. A small smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, her voice curled.

I swallowed, the room falling quiet in that strange way that only happens when someone like my grandmother enters a space. Wesley stood up, offering her a polite smile, though there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes. “Can we help you, ma’am?”

She glanced at him, a slight simper forming at her lips. “I’m here for my granddaughter. Not for you, young man.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted. There was a subtle hum now, like a distant drumbeat echoing in my bones, as though the walls themselves couldn’t contain the power Gramma carried with her.

I barely heard Wesley’s voice over the roar of blood in my ears. “Then you– how?”

I didn’t get the chance to answer before Gramma cut in. 

“I come when called.” Her gaze shifted back to me, narrowing. “Tressa Rae, we’ve got some talkin’ to do.”

I could hear whispers from all around the room. Tressa? Who’s Tressa?

Oh no.

Three

I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples as I led Gramma up the creaking stairs to my room. The guests below, still buzzing from the surprise entrance, had returned to their conversations, but there was a nervous energy in the air. The night was changing, and everyone in the house knew it.

Gramma’s boot heels clicked sharply on the wooden steps behind me. I could almost hear the unspoken judgment in her silence, the way she took in every detail of the house, as if measuring it against some unseen scale.

I pushed open the door to my room and stepped inside, the familiar, comforting chaos of my space greeting me. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering moonlight of the nearby window. 

And of course, Lumori was waiting in the corner.

He slithered out of the shadows like a living smoke cloud, its tendrils of shifting darkness trailing like ink in water. His form flickered– now a swirling mass of static, now a shape vaguely mammalian, now simply a void. Made of no real substance, only energy, the embodiment of wild, dark magic.

At his presence, Gramma let out a sharp laugh. She stepped forward, eyes gleaming with something almost amused, almost impressed.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice heavy with that familiar tone of knowing. “So you’ve made a friend. Not the kind I would have expected, but then again, you were always a wild one, weren’t you?” She laughed, a slight cackle. “Most witches get cats.”

The elemental hissed, a low rumble like static building to a crackle. She leaned down, letting the smoke curl around her knotted knuckles.

“That’s a long story,” I sighed and squeezed my arms close to my chest, watching her as she examined the elemental’s shifting form with genuine curiosity. “You got my letter.” 

Gramma’s eyes flicked back to me, the playful edge of her smile disappearing. There was something sharper now, something that cut through the rest of the night’s veneer of festivity. “I did, and you’re lucky I could suss out the magic,” she said, voice low and serious. “It was so small. I’m here because something’s coming, aren’t I? And don’t you dare tell me nothin’s wrong.” She looked at me, a glint of sharp knowing in her eyes. “You can hide it all you want, but I’ve been around long enough to recognize when things are off.”

I stared at her, fingers digging into the edge of the dresser next to me. My gut twisted. She was right, of course.

“There’s a lot,” I said, my voice growing more and more unsteady.

Gramma arched an eyebrow, her gaze never leaving mine. “Don’t give me that oversimplification. You’re a death witch, girl. I taught you better than that. This–” She gestured vaguely at the elemental, which was swirling in a particularly agitated way– “isn’t what’s causing the problem, is it?”

I clenched my jaw. “Lumori’s fine. But there’s something out there, yes. In The Woods.”

Her expression hardened. “That’s why you look like you’re about to be sick, huh?” Her voice was deceptively soft, a knife edge just before the plunge. “Something’s happenin’, then. Somethin’ bigger than anything you’ve ever dealt with.”

I felt a jolt, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Lumori let out a low, echoing hum, sensing the shift in my energy. I swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest.

Gramma tilted her head, watching me like a hawk, waiting.

“I’m trying to handle it,” I finally said, the words coming out in a strained whisper. 

Gramma’s laugh was short, humorless. “That’s the problem with you, girl. You think you can handle everything on your own. But the truth is, you can’t. I need you to tell me everything– not just the easy bits.” Her eyes softened for the briefest of moments, a flicker of something older and kinder beneath the steel resolve. “You don’t have to be alone in this. Hell, you never were.”

I turned away, unwilling to yield to the sudden knot in my throat. Lumori swirled nervously around me, his form flickering and warping as if it could sense the tension. Then it all spilled forth from me– the Sun Folk, the running, the fear. The Moon Folk, too. The frustration and exhaustion, the desperate desire to just be fucking normal for once. 

“I was trying to save all of us. I didn’t want this,” I said softly, more to myself than to her. “None of it.”

Gramma’s footsteps echoed through the room as she stepped toward the door. “No one does. But you’ve got more strength in you than you give yourself credit for. And you’ve got me. We’ll figure it out. Together. Now, show me to whatever this wonderful food smell is. I’ve got one hell of a hankerin’ after that trip.”

* * * * *

Gramma’s presence was a salve– albeit, a spiky one– to my nerves. I knew she could handle anything in the whole wide world, and she’d help me handle this; she could do it without the Slip, too, with all the knowledge she held within. I wondered, though, if she had spoken to mom at all, or if mom even knew about the letter; I hadn’t expected Gramma showing up, especially alone. She was happily chattering with Missy, layering compliment after compliment on the cooking that filled the parlor. Missy beamed, filling the room with a warmth that even the fireplace couldn’t contend with. 

The smell of roasted marshmallows filled the air as I settled into a metal folding chair near the hearth, cradling a mug of warm cider between my hands. The party had spilled out into every room, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. 

“Want a plate?” Missy, hostess supreme, was already sliding a platter of food my way. She had a knack for keeping everyone fed, and tonight, she’d outdone herself. Spatchcocked chickens lined the length of the biggest console table, while a dish of mashed potatoes swimming in garlic butter sat nearby, golden and decadent. Missy had also made her famous caramelized onion bread, the crust so crisp it practically begged to be torn into. And in the center of it all– marshmallow brownie pie. The kind with a flaky crust that crumbled in all the right places, topped with a swirl of whipped cream.

“Missy,” I said gently, “it’s a Halloween party. You don’t have to wait on us! Or feed us so decadently.”

“Oh tosh,” she countered with a wave, “that’s my gift to you all tonight. This is what I live for!” 

I didn’t reach for my fork, though. I was still waiting for the jitters of the night to settle into something more manageable. But as I glanced over at the table, I noticed Gramma sitting at the far end, deep in conversation with Wesley. His calloused hands were cradling a glass of wine as they spoke in low murmurs, but even from across the room, I could see the soft smile on his lips. Gramma smiled in return– he had that effect on people.

It was comforting. Gramma never hesitated about anything; she’d tackle this with every bit of ferocity.

Beside her sat Marlowe, who I hoped would give a good impression; she was powerful, able to conjure a poem from a shadow, an incantation from the hum of the earth. She was vital to my life here in Slooswell. Marlowe was wearing one of those intricate masks with silver filigree and blood red feathers that contrasted sharply against her jet black dress. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she caught my gaze and lifted her glass of mulled wine in a silent toast. I raised my own mug in response, and she winked, a signal I understood well enough. 

Every bit a goddess, and don’t let them forget it.

She’d been by my side through more than I cared to count, and was always there to help me shake off some of the burden I’d been carrying.

A shriek of laughter from the front door pulled my attention away. A small group of trick-or-treaters in adorable costumes had arrived, their pumpkin-shaped baskets nearly overflowing with candy. I watched as Missy ushered them inside, offering them hot cocoa and homemade caramel apples. She’d thought of everything tonight. Of course she had.

The sounds of soft conversations, the laughter of children, and the clink of silverware on plates melded into a soft hum, filling the room with a cozy energy. It was more than just the food or the party, though they were undeniably comforting. It was the people. It was the fact that tonight, I wasn’t alone in this– I had family, my real family, right here with me. I finally set my cider aside and reached for a plate. A scoop of mashed potatoes, a slice of chicken breast, and yes– one generous serving of brownie pie. The first bite melted in my mouth, sweet and bitter all at once.

“Feeling better?” Gramma’s voice was low, but it carried across the room to me, almost as if by magic.

I nodded, then reached for the wine glass Wesley had offered me earlier. “Yeah. Just needed a moment, I think.”

“And now that I’m here,” she said with a small grin, “we’ll get this sorted.”

Her words were soft, but solid. Like the foundation of the house around us. The shadows weren’t so frightening when you knew someone stood by your side, especially when you couldn’t just use your powers to fix it all.

I guess I would need to talk to her about that, too…  

I took a long sip of my wine, savoring the warmth of it as it spread through me. The chatter of the party buzzed around me, but Gramma’s voice cut through the noise, pulling my attention back to her. She was watching me with those sharp, knowing eyes of hers, the same eyes I’d inherited. The weight of her gaze was familiar, an old blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Tomorrow,” she began, her voice quiet but purposeful. “We’ll head out into the woods. Do a little… rootin’ around, as it were.”

I raised an eyebrow at her choice of words. “Rooting around? You mean like a foraging scavenger hunt?”

Gramma chuckled, the sound rich and dry, like leaves crunching beneath boots. “Sorta. The forest’s full of old things, old magic. We might find somethin’ to help with this situation of yours.”

I glanced over at Wesley and Marlowe, who were deep in conversation now, their heads tilted together. Missy had excused herself to tend to a few more partygoers, so for a moment, it felt like the two of us were in our own little world.

I set my glass down on the table with a soft clink. My stomach fluttered nervously, though I wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the thought of the trek back into the woods. “I mean, it’s not exactly a quick fix situation.”

Gramma leaned back in her chair, the flickering firelight making her silver-streaked hair look like it was aglow with magic. “Magic rarely is, darlin’. It’s never just handed to you on a silver platter. You have to go lookin’ for it, sometimes in the most unexpected places. I’ve spent all my life in the woods, listening to the whispers of the old roots. You’ll see. We’re not going to the usual spots, either. We’ll find somethin’– somethin’ that might just tip the scales in your favor.”

There was always something about Gramma’s magic that felt like walking on a tightrope– daring, unpredictable, but somehow exactly what I needed in the moment.

“And what if we don’t find anything?” I asked, voice softer now. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her– it was just hard to swallow the idea of putting all my hope into something so uncertain, given the absolute shenanigans of my life recently.

She smiled, but it wasn’t the comforting kind of smile I was used to. This one was sly, knowing. “Oh, we’ll find something. The forest remembers. And I’ve never failed to find what I’m looking for when I’ve got my wits about me.” Her eyes flicked to the door for a moment, watching the trick-or-treaters continue their rounds. “Besides, you’ve got a few more tricks up your sleeve than you’re giving yourself credit for. There’s more to you than just death, child.”

I blinked, her words stirring something deep inside of me, a small flicker of warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I’ve been… I’ve been feeling a little lost,” I confessed, the vulnerability creeping out before I could stop it. “Like I’m not sure where I fit anymore.”

Gramma’s face softened, and for a moment, she looked like the woman who had raised me– gentle, steady, full of the quiet strength I could never seem to grasp for myself. “You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. Some fresh air will help you see things clearly. We all need help sometimes, even the strongest among us. I’ve been in your shoes more times than you know.”

I let her words wash over me, the tension in my chest loosening, if only a little. A sudden thought struck me, of darkness and shadows, and I couldn’t help but ask, “What if we find something dangerous?”

Gramma’s grin widened, and her eyes glittered with mischief. “If we do, then we’ll deal with it. There’s no such thing as a hunt without a few risks. But you’ll be fine. You’ve got your Gramma with you. And I’ve never lost a hunt yet.”

I swallowed, feeling the pulse of the old magic that ran through our blood. I wasn’t entirely sure what tomorrow would bring, but something in me– something deeper than the fear– grew ready to face it. Gramma always had a way of making me believe I could handle anything.

“All right,” I said, nodding slowly. “Tomorrow it is.”

Her eyes twinkled, and she reached over, giving my hand a squeeze. “Good. We’ll get this sorted, sweetheart. And maybe we’ll have a little fun while we’re at it.”

Four

I escorted Gramma Betta to the room Missy had graciously assigned her, down the hallway from my own. Liatris Room, it said on its gilded plate. I quirked my lips. “Odd, she doesn’t use scientific names on the rest of the rooms.”

“Because Blazing Star doesn’t have the same drawl as Magnolia or Azalea, I’m afraid,” I heard Missy from behind me. 

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You got me there,” I conceded, “but it’s a great flower all the same. And perfect for you, Gramma: tall, prickly, need I go on?”

“Ohhh,” she crooned back, “she’s a whip crack with jokes.”

I smiled, suddenly fifteen again, sitting on our old wooden fence together, watching the sunset and trading quips back and forth. It created a different ache in the pit of my belly, how I missed that place.

The room was glittering in bursts of pale purple and warm green, the rugs and bedclothes all in the same matching verdant field shade. Starburst sculptures adorned the walls in tall clusters, just like the namesake flower, various hues of indigo and mauve. 

“I like it,” Gramma Betta finally said after a minute or two, dropping her bags onto the hardwood floor. 

Missy beamed. “Well, it’s yours as long as you need it. Tessa here has been such a peach during her stay!”

Gramma crinkled her nose. “Te–”

“Thank you so much, Missy. As always,” I interrupted, knowing what was coming. I turned toward Gramma and hauled one bag up onto the bed. “Want me to help you unpack?”

* * * * *

It felt like hours had passed by before we finally pulled the last items from her bags. Various tinctures, herbs, spell components, dowsing rods, the least of all spare clothing, all organized into the drawers and dressers in the room. There were about a million things I wanted to ask, all clogged up in my throat. Gramma Betta took one sidelong glance at me.

“All right, spill it. What’s wrong?”

“Is mom doing okay?” I blurted, louder than I intended. 

“She’s fine, child. Takin’ care of the homestead. She knows I’m gone, and she knows I came to find you. Other than that, she’s safe.” 

I sighed deep, exhaling the tension. “Good. Good. I’ve been so afraid of everything. I’ve been trying to protect everyone, and–”

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” She placed a hand on my knee, sitting on the bed next to me. “There will always be fear, when you love somethin’. Fear of harm, fear of ill intentions. But we can’t be scared forever, and most of all, we can’t be scared to take action. Do it scared– that’s what us Gardners do. Now, what else?”

I thought for a moment, letting myself zone out before replying. “Why did they take the Slip?”

She raised an eyebrow. “The Sun Ones? Because it’s powerful. You know that. It holds secrets we mortal folk shouldn’t have. They thought they deserved it more than us, so they connived and schemed until they took it.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was theirs in the first place, somewhere along the lines of history. But I won it fair and square, and it’s been ours ever since.”

“Why didn’t you fight to take it back?” The question was almost painful to ask; I wasn’t accusing her of not being brave enough, but I pondered it all the same, and my filters were bare to nonexistent.

She stared at me, calculating. “Tressa, I am singularly no match for the Sun Throne. I’m old, darlin’, and I was in no position for fightin’. I wasn’t gonna have anyone else fight my battles, either, so I was bidin’ my time, figuring out a plan. And then someone younger and smarter than me stole it back without a fight.”

I couldn’t help smiling.   

“We are the only coven we have; I have nothin’ beyond our family, and that’s sparse these days. I wasn’t about to endanger your momma or you in that endeavor.” 

I thought of the coven here in Slooswell, tenuous and semi-splintered as it might be. Vera hadn’t spoken to me at all since The Woods, and it had been a while for Cynthia and Esmé, too. Elowen had come into the bookshop a few times, to check on the Broonie and shore up the wards, but even she stayed to herself most of the time.

“But we’re in danger all the same, ain’t we?” She interrupted my thoughts before they spiraled further.

I nodded. 

“I wasn’t gonna let our legacy go, if that’s what you’re thinking. We were witches before the Slip, and we would be witches after it, too. If it never came back, I’d have just taught you lot everything I could before…” She trailed off. “It might not have been as powerful, or the same, but still.” 

Her eyes suddenly sparkled, alight with magic. “Let me see it.”

I led her back to my room, locked the door, and carefully pulled the encyclopedia from its drawer. It had a brightness all its own, glowing an amethyst shade as Gramma Betta came closer. “Ah, there she is,” running her hand across the book containing our legacy, still folded up tight, still sealed. “That’s my girl.”

Five

The grounds were thick with fog, the damp chill of fall settling into my bones as I followed Gramma through the mossy woods. Her steps were sure, though her old joints creaked beneath her. I’d long since stopped asking about the aches in her knees; she’d always just wave me off with a wink. “Doesn’t bother me, girl. I know how to make things work.”

I studied the treelines all around us. The whispers in the trees felt close, and sharp. 

Gramma stopped, her hand lifted. I watched in awe as the shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally around her, following her every move. She flicked a finger through the air, a low hum vibrating through the ground. Something was hiding in the fog– something Gramma was eager to get.

“You wanna find the Helpful Folk,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, “you’ve got to make ‘em want to find you. Don’t go rushin’ in, demanding answers.” She raised an eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder at me. “This isn’t the kind of thing you force, girl.”

I noticed how careful she was, not saying my name. 

“You gotta coax ‘em. And you gotta make sure it’s you they’re lookin’ for.” She crouched down near a cluster of moss-covered stones, pulling a small leather pouch from the folds of her cardigan. The pungent scent of dried herbs filled the air as she tipped the pouch, spilling a few colorful berries, dusted in gold, onto the ground. They glowed faintly in the dim light, an iridescent shimmer catching the mist.

“The key,” Gramma muttered, rolling the berries around in a circle, “is to make them curious. Pixies, for example, love sweets, but they’re mischievous, see? You want to control the bait, not have them runnin’ away with it before you can blink.”

I knelt beside her, the dampness of the earth seeping through the knees of my jeans. “You think they’ll actually come? Or help?” Help seemed way less likely.

She chuckled softly. “If we’ve done it right, they will. But if you’re serious about finding them, you’ve got to respect ‘em. They’re spirits, enlightened creatures. It’s not about chasing them down– that’s a threat. It’s about inviting them.”

I frowned, unsure. “I don’t get it. If they’re spirits, how come I can’t feel them all the time? I’m supposed to feel these things, right?”

Gramma looked up at me, her eyes gleaming. She reached out, brushing a finger down my cheek. “The dead are easy to find, sugar. They leave marks– cold, hollow spaces that you can follow. But living, ethereal spirits? They don’t always leave traces. You gotta call ‘em the way they want to be called. That means knowing their rhythms. Their whispers.”

She stood, brushing the dirt off her hands. “Now, watch.”

She raised her arms slowly, as though reaching for something unseen, something just beyond the veil. She muttered a low chant, her voice deep and resonant, threading through the mist. I felt it then– like a sudden, sharp chill crawling under my skin, a pulse of something ancient, something that hummed in time with my heartbeat.

I held my breath, watching her intently. Slowly, the fog seemed to thicken, swirling in tighter rings around us. The glow from the berries brightened. A soft giggle, like the flutter of wings, brushed through the air.

Gramma’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “That’s it. You hear ‘em?”

I nodded, my throat tight. The giggles grew louder, the unmistakable sound of tiny feet skittering on bark, wings brushing against the wind. My pulse quickened, the hairs on my neck standing at attention. Pixies. I could feel them now– quick and curious, playful and sharp.

Gramma gave me a knowing look. “Told you. Find the right rhythm, girl. Find the right call, and they’ll come. Now, let them show you what they want you to see.”

I settled in, letting my gaze soften to a bare blur.

As the first pixie flitted out of the fog, its glow casting eerie shadows over the trees, I swallowed my nerves. Gramma’s eyes gleamed as the creature fluttered closer, its wings a blur of shimmering light. It darted in a tight circle, giggling to itself in the way only something too clever for its own good would. Others followed, appearing like flashes of fireflies, weaving between the mist and the trees, their tiny voices overlapping, all of them speaking at once, too fast for me to catch everything.

“What have we got here, hmm?” Gramma asked, her voice steady, though her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Curious little things, aren’t you?” 

The pixies flashed about, snatching up the berries one by one. 

“Tut tut, little ones, you can have the berries if you answer a question I’ve got. Have you seen a big shadow creature around these parts? Or– oh– maybe a white deer?”

The pixies froze mid-flight, their wings fluttering in place like they’d hit an invisible wall. A few of them exchanged quick glances, their tiny eyes flashing with uncertainty. They zipped around us, flicking in and out of the fog like sparks from a fire, their voices quick and high-pitched.

“A shadow?” one piped up, almost too fast for me to understand, but the tone was clearly skeptical.

“Deer, deer, white as snow! Yes, yes! But shadow? Shadow’s bad,” another added, darting around us in circles, its wings casting tiny reflections on the foggy ground. “The shadow moves, like this!” It flicked its fingers in the air, mimicking a quick, jerking movement, then flared its arms wide, as if to show something enormous.

Gramma leaned forward, her expression as calm as ever, though I could tell she was measuring every word the pixies said. They were quick and slippery, not easy to pin down– too light to grasp, too playful to take seriously, and yet they always knew something. That, I thought proudly, was something I did know.

“Tell me more about this shadow,” Gramma pressed, her voice gentle but firm. She poured more berries onto the ground. The pixies flittered again, their bodies so fast they blurred in the fog. 

“Feels bad! Bad-feeling, that one,” a third one squeaked, its wings buzzing rapidly, a high-pitched shriek following its words. “It eats, eats, eats!” Then it vanished, reappearing behind us with another giggle, the sound of its wings like the rustle of tall grass in the wind.

“Not always from around here,” another pixie chirped, its tiny face twitching with excitement as it hovered near my ear. “It’s hunting! Hunting! It likes to play… but not like us! Not fun.”

I glanced at Gramma, who was nodding slowly, her hands still folded neatly in front of her. She was letting them talk. They were scattering, zipping in and out, and I could barely keep track of them. Their voices came in bursts– sharp, quick, almost unintelligible.

“And the deer?” I asked, trying to bring some clarity to the confusion. “What about the white deer?”

“We liked it!” the first pixie shrieked, zooming up to Gramma’s face with a startling speed. “It was bright, shining– beautiful!”

“The deer’s not for you,” another added cryptically, before darting back into the mist. “It’s not for them either.”

A few of the others burst into a flurry of chatter, all overlapping. They seemed excited, but I could tell they were also hiding something– something they didn’t want to reveal. 

Gramma held up a hand, enticing them all with a flick of her wrist. “Easy now, easy. You’ve seen the shadow and the deer, but there’s more, isn’t there? What else have you seen? Is the shadow coming back?”

They fell silent for a brief moment, hovering in place, as if they were calculating the decision of whether to speak. Finally, one of them zipped forward again, its voice low and teasing.

“You’ll see,” it giggled. “You’ll see soon enough. It’s coming.”

“Enough games,” Gramma said, her voice sharper now. “Tell me, will the deer help? Will it stop the shadow?”

The pixies didn’t answer. Instead, they darted in and out of the mist one more time, a burst of laughter trailing behind them as they flickered through the air, and then, just like that, they were gone– vanished into the fog, leaving only the echoes of their voices.

I blinked, still trying to process the whirlwind of their words. Gramma glanced over at me, her expression unreadable.

“Well, now we know a little more,” she said, standing straight and brushing her hands together. “The shadow’s hunting. And the deer,” she paused, lips curling, “well, it may not come to our aid at all.”

“But what does that mean?” I asked, my mind still tangled in the pixies’ riddle. “The deer’s not for us? And what about the shadow– not always from here? Does that mean I–?”

“We’ll find out soon,” Gramma interrupted gently. “The pixies, they can twist things, like all Folk do. They hold their knowledge above everyone else’s, especially a human’s. But they always leave a trace of truth. You just gotta follow the trail… and trust that you’ll know what to do when you get there.”

I looked out into the fog, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The shadow was out there. And the white deer… well, it seemed like it was going to be a lot harder to find than I’d thought. But if I was going to stop what was coming, I’d need to know what Gramma knew– and what the pixies weren’t saying.

I watched her, the fog thickening around us, my thoughts still tumbling over the pixies’ cryptic words. The mist made everything feel more distant, as if the woods were a place caught between worlds– both real and not, full of hidden things.

I took a step closer to her, the sound of my boots muffled by the damp earth. “Gramma,” I asked quietly, “how do you know about the White Deer? I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about it before, and I didn’t mention it to you. How do you really know about it?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned her face toward the trees, eyes narrowing like she was straining to hear something just beyond reach. The pixies had vanished, but the air still hummed with their energy. Gramma seemed to feel it too. She sighed, low and slow, before she turned back to me with that look– like she was gauging how much to say.

“I reckon I’ve known about the White Deer longer than you’ve been alive, sugar,” she said, her voice soft but steady. She bent down, grasping a stray leaf off the ground, fingers working with the careful precision I always admired. “This land’s got stories. Lots of ‘em. And my family was here longer than most. We knew the trees, the roots, and the wind better than we knew our own skin.”

I stared at her, the pieces starting to click into place. “You mean… this was your land? I always assumed we were from out east.”

She nodded. “My great-great-granddaddy had a piece of land here long before we ever had a name for it. We had been here through every season, through every storm, and when the leaves turned in the fall, we heard the stories in the wind. It was always  like that… before things changed. Folk around here would tell stories about the White Deer– some called it a spirit, some said it was a protector. But the truth? The truth’s a bit more complicated.”

I took a step back, caught off guard by the way her words shifted. The woods felt suddenly colder, the fog thicker, like the trees themselves were listening. “What do you mean?”

Gramma’s eyes flicked back to mine, sharp and unblinking. “The deer’s a guardian, yes. It protects against the shadows and haints that hunt these woods, like the one you’re feelin’ now. And, in these parts, when there’s an imbalance– when something isn’t right– the deer comes for reckoning. And you might find yourself tangled in things you didn’t ask for.” She paused, her voice quieter now, almost like she was talking to herself. “There’s always a cost for that help.”

I swallowed hard, her words sinking in, matching Vera’s warning from before. “I’ve heard that twice now. What kind of cost?”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “Not always a fair one. Those who seek the deer… they’re often asked to give something in return. Sometimes it’s a price they didn’t fathom they’d have to pay.”

I felt a cold shiver creep up my spine at the implication. “And the shadow?”

“Ah,” Gramma’s voice dropped, her gaze now distant, like she was seeing something far away. “The shadow’s old. Older than any of us. It’s not natural, Tressa. We call it the wayward stranger, same way people use Folk and Kind Ones for the others. It isn’t always the same shadow, I suppose, but I’d bet anything this one is.”

I felt the chill settle deeper into my chest. The pixies had been right to warn me. They weren’t just mischievous little creatures, they were keepers of this knowledge. The deer wasn’t just a harmless spirit; it was a part of the balance of this land– and whatever bargain it had to strike to keep the shadow at bay, it would require something. Something big.

I stared at Gramma Betta, trying to wrap my head around it all. “You’ve seen the deer, haven’t you?”

Her smile was thin, almost wistful. “Oh, I’ve seen it, all right. In the way the fog thickens and the air gets heavy. In the whispers that run through the trees, just before the sun sets. It comes and goes, as it’s needed. It can’t be tamed, but it can be called. But… like I said, you don’t ask for the deer’s help unless you’re ready to pay.”

I felt my heart beating faster as I tried to push the fear aside. The deer was part of the reason I was here, according to Vera. But the deeper I dug into these woods, the more I realized how little I knew.

“What happens if we can’t make the deal?” I asked, voice small but steady. “What if we can’t stop the shadow?”

Gramma’s gaze softened just slightly, her eyes meeting mine with an understanding that only came from years of really seeing things. “Then you might just have to make a choice, Tressa. A choice no one wants to make. But if you’re truly a death witch like I know you are, you’ll understand this… there’s always something lost when you step into the realm of spirits. And sometimes, it’s not just the shadows you’re up against. It’s the things you’ve left behind.”

She was being so cryptic, speaking in the way the Folk always did, half riddle, half prophecy, all confusing. The wind picked up around us, a swirl of cold air that carried the scent of the forest– damp, earthy, ancient. I felt the pull of The Woods deep inside me, and shivered. 

“We’ll have the help we need,” she surmised after a while of silence, “they’ll be back.”

Six

Working in such a weird state was, well, weird. As if there weren’t greater things happening out in the world besides selling Ms. Cheney the new romance novel by her favorite author. 

The fact that I knew it was her favorite author made me smile, a little bittersweet tug at my growing affection for this town. 

Thankfully, no one had asked me about Gramma’s Tressa Rae comment back on Halloween. They just kept calling me Tessa, or Miss Jones. Which was good, though I wondered how much longer I could keep everything under wraps. You know, with shadow monsters and Folk and every other nutty thing around. While I toiled away at the bookshop, Gramma had ventured back into The Woods– an idea I hated, her going alone, despite her being infinitely more powerful than me, even without the Slip being used. She knew most of it by heart, she swore, and she had no signature that the Folk would be following– she made sure of that.

I sighed, flattening my face onto the cool front counter. “Mart?” I called, unmoving.

“Hmm?”

“If anyone calls for me, tell them I’m dead.”

He harrumphed in reply, and I could hear his footsteps approaching the cashwrap. “All good?”

I let my face loll to one side. “My insides might explode with everything going on in my life.”

That was more honest than I meant.

Harrumph again. “Wanna talk?”

I peered up at him, cockeyed. “Oh Mart, I wouldn’t burden you with–”

He waved my sentence away. “Talk.”

I slumped up to leaning on the counter instead. “Well, you saw my Gramma’s dramatic appearance, and my family’s dealing with something, and there’s too many moving parts to keep up with everything.”

He simply stared, his jaw set. 

“I feel out of place, and out of time, and like I’m a stranger to myself, and I hold so much back…” I waited. “This is usually the place where people offer empty platitudes or pearls of wisdom.”

“Don’t have any,” he replied plainly, folding his arms and leaning against the counter, his back to the register, “but I hope it helps you to talk about it.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks, Mart.”

Seven

“I have good news,” Gramma Betta began, her face marked with soil, twigs still stuck in her hair. “I’ve officially enlisted a little bit of help for when the big one comes.”

That was as subtle as she could be, I guess. We were surrounded by people, seated at a low table in a cafe across town that evening. She sipped at a hot cup of berry tea, adding copious amounts of honey. 

“Oh?” I queried, expecting her to continue without prompting.

She nodded, her eyes closed as she inhaled the steam wafting from her drink. “We’re ready.”

My eyebrows quirked. “Already?”

She sat her cup down, looking exasperated. “How long do you think we have to wait? We have to figure out whatever this thing is. You might be used to this leisurely, small town schedule now, but the rest of the world ain’t waitin’ around. Especially not out there,” she gestured to the window, to the darkening forest beyond the east side of the town. “No… you’ve got to act.”

I had a dozen different responses lined up, but every outcome would have been the same. “Okay,” I said, adding nothing else. “Tomorrow then? Since it’s already after eight.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,” she replied snappily, “always tomorrow.”

“Okay, fine: now? Let’s go right now.” I didn’t mean such an insolent tone, but damn, I felt tapped out.

Gramma Betta grinned a feral grin. “That’s more like it.”

Eight

The fog had thickened even more by the time we reached the clearing, the trees around us stretching into twisted silhouettes against the darkening sky. It was quiet now, far too quiet, as if the forest was holding its breath. My skin prickled– something ancient and dangerous was closeby.

Gramma stood tall at the edge of the clearing, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She wasn’t afraid. She hadn’t been afraid of anything in all the years I’d known her. The flickering lights of the pixies stuttered around her, darting in and out of the mist like the flash of a firefly in a windstorm. They eventually hovered close, their tiny voices murmuring, their energy a buzzing whir.

The pixies, I’d learned, were actually a part of her enlisted help. She’d been so cryptic about it all, I hadn’t asked much beyond that.

“You ready, Tressa?” Gramma’s voice cut through the silence. She glanced at me over her shoulder, her face set in a hard, determined line.

I swallowed my trepidation. I had no idea what we were about to face; a shadow, sure, but what did that entail? The pixies were starting to grow restless, flashing in and out of the fog, their wings beating in quick, sharp bursts.

“I’m ready,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure I actually was. But I had to be. The shadow was hunting me, and the time for waiting had passed.

“Good,” Gramma muttered, her hands spread flat in front of her as she gathered the energy around us. She spoke in a language older than The Woods themselves, words that resonated with meaning I couldn’t quite grasp but could feel in my bones. The pixies circled faster, their movement creating a strange, high-pitched song, an accompaniment threading through Gramma’s words.

The air thickened, charged with magic, and I felt it in my chest– an electric hum that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The fog shifted again, swirling tighter as a shadow moved within it, a dark, twisting shape that loomed taller than any tree around us.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled from the edge of the wood beyond, the ground beneath our feet trembling slightly. I could hear it now– the sound of a thousand whispers, voices all tangled together, speaking in so many languages. It felt like they were crawling inside my head, slipping through the cracks of my mind, all ancient, all hungry.

Gramma raised her hands higher, her voice rising, becoming clearer. The fog parted as if being pushed by invisible hands, and there, in the center of the clearing, it appeared– a massive figure, cloaked in shadow, its form shifting and undulating, never fully solid. It was as if the darkness itself had taken shape, an ever-changing silhouette that towered above us.

“Shadow being, darkness reveler, I speak to you. Return to your true form,” Gramma’s voice rang out, “I demand it!”

The creature howled, rallying against her power, its form nearly sparking with dark magic.

“Wayward stranger, I said I demand it!” She pushed against the swirling current, nearly a tornado of dark clouds and pulsing gloom. The pixies darted around us, their wings vibrating with the intensity of the spell Gramma was weaving. Their voices joined the rhythm of her words, a thrum building in the air, a storm squall ready to break upon the creature.

The shadow paused, its dark form rippling. Then, with a noise like a thousand crows taking flight, it shifted, its shape folding and twisting like smoke being sucked back into the earth.

And there, for just a moment, the shape of a man appeared– tall and thin, his face shadowed beneath the hood of a tattered cloak. I felt something in my chest lurch as recognition clicked into place. The power that emanated from him… I knew it intimately. I hadn’t seen that face before, but I had imagined it in the stories Gramma Betta told me when I was little. I stepped back, my heart pounding. “That’s him, isn’t it?” I whispered to Gramma. “The one who–?”

“Oh piss, it’s you?!” Gramma’s eyes were fixed on the shadow’s humanoid form. She stepped forward. “He’s a curse that’s been following us all these years!” She shoved a crooked finger at him. “You’re the wayward stranger?!”

The shadow figure– the faerie man from every cautionary tale of my youth– growled, his form shifting violently, as if the weight of time itself was pushing against him. “You took what was mine,” his voice was deep, a rasp like gravel dragged across stone. “It was never meant for you, witch. You were not meant to hold it.”

Gramma’s lips curled into a thin smile. “I won it fair and square, Remias. You know that. You shouldn’t have picked such a precious thing to bargain if you weren’t willin’ to lose it. I cannot believe– you?! –causing all this damned trouble.”  

Gramma’s hands flared outward, and the pixies let out a loud shriek, their voices slicing through the mist, chasing the shadow’s form. “And now, you’ll return to where you belong. The Woods are not your kingdom to haunt,” Gramma demanded, a forceful spell carved from the very earth itself. “Return to your true form. Leave my family alone. You belong in the Other, where you were born. No more. No more of this haunting.”

The shadow twisted, its form struggling against the pull of the spell. The air thickened even more, and I felt the weight of it pressing on me, almost suffocating. But I could feel it– the Slip’s source power, buried deep in the woods, in the heart of the curse that had been wrapped around Gramma’s family for three generations. The air itself vibrated with fury as the shadow fought to hold onto the form it had manifested.

“You cannot banish me,” he hissed, his voice a whisper now, fading as he lost his grip on the physical world. “I will return. I will always return.”

Gramma was still standing, her arms outstretched, her voice low as she called the power of the land to contain the creature. But the shadow wasn’t retreating. It was fighting– its form expanding and contracting, refusing to yield. There was something about him, something beyond the curse, beyond the land’s history. It felt like we were no longer ourselves, but players caught in a game that had been far too long. Their wills struggled against one another, pushing and yanking and filling the deep woods with a heady tornado of magic.

But slowly, finally, it began to shrink. The darkness stubbornly receded, the man’s form flickering as it became more insubstantial, his features still contorted with rage. The pixies were quiet now, their tiny forms flickering around Gramma Betta. The figure, that man of smoke and shadow, stood like a specter before us, his outline flickering, almost imperceptible in the thickening fog. The ground felt alive beneath my feet, the sheer pressure of his will palpable, even when subdued.

My heart pounded in my chest, an instinct deep within me warning that there was something true to his words, something we couldn’t just banish and it stay gone. I glanced at Gramma, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were locked on the shadow, her face stern, every muscle still taut and ready. This was her fight. And yet, I could feel the pull of the curse tugging at my own soul.

I didn’t know if I was ready for it, but in that moment, it was clear: he would forever be tied to us, so long as we humans held any of the power he sought. I stepped forward, drawing Gramma’s gaze. “Wait,” I said, my voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline. “What if… What if we make a bargain instead?”

Gramma’s eyebrows knitted, and the pixies paused in mid-flight, their tiny eyes flashing in the dim light. For a moment, everything went still.

The wayward stranger’s form flickered again, the faintest hint of curiosity twisting his features. He was listening, waiting. His voice came, low and guttural.

“Another bargain?” His tone was almost amused. “What could you offer me, child? You think you can stop me with mere words? Do you think those before you haven’t tried?”

I stepped closer, trying to steady my breath, knowing this was the moment. Knowing it was time to take control.

“I offer you a truce,” I said, my voice stronger now, grounding itself in the very heart of my power. “Help us protect what is ours against the Sun Folk, those who hunt both me and the source of your power. Help me with that, and when it’s all over, when we’re free from their reach, we will share what we’ve kept from you.”

Gramma’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak. Her silence was a heavy weight behind me.

“And why would I help you?,” the spirit asked, its form writhing with jaded mockery. “You offer an idea, a whimsy, a promise that may never come.”

“I know it’s a gamble,” I said quickly, “but you know as well as I do that I can’t fight them alone. And neither can you. As a whole, the Sun Folk are too strong. If they get their hands on the artifact, which they fully intend to, neither of us will ever see that knowledge again. But together, we could protect the Slip from them. Protect us and everyone wins.”

I had no idea if the wayward stranger actually called it the Slip, or if we made that up along the line.

The creature’s form rippled, its presence leaning forward in the fog, drawn in by the prospect of what I was offering. I could feel the pull of something otherworldly, the call of the artifact that had once been his– something more than just a piece of power.

“And once they’re gone,” I continued, my voice a little more forceful now, “we will share the power. I’m offering you a choice.”

For a long moment, there was silence, the only sound the faint rustling of the fog around us. The pixies flittered excitedly, as if they, too, were waiting to see how this bargain played out.

Finally, the being’s voice rumbled again, lower this time, like a distant thunderstorm.

“You would share it with me?” The question was laced with disbelief, but there was something else in it– something like hope. “You would give it up? After everything?”

I nodded, my heart beating faster. “When the Sun Fae stop chasing me– when we’re safe, for good– I’ll share it. But you have to help us first.” I reiterated my points, knowing damn well how slippery the Fae could be. No loopholes.

The faerie– Remias?– shifted again, and for a brief second, I saw it– his true face. Not the mask of smoke and darkness, but something more human– a man who had lived and lost. His eyes were burning with a strange, hollow fire, and I could see the hesitation in his gaze. The bargain was a dangerous one for him too, and I knew it.

It was as if the stranger wasn’t just after power, but had been waiting for an end to this long, drawn-out struggle.

Finally, he bowed its head, its voice echoing like a gust of wind through dead branches.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “Not because I trust you, but because I trust that when the time comes, I’ll have what’s mine. And when the fae are gone, I’ll return for what you’ve promised.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I glanced at Gramma Betta, who stood silent, her face unreadable. 

She’d made bargains before.

She stepped forward, her voice firm. “You know the rules, Remias. When it’s over, you keep your word. We’ll keep ours.”

The figure bowed low, the last of its form flickering into a wisp of pale mist before it vanished entirely, leaving behind only the silence of the woods.

I let out a breath that held every bit of air in my lungs. By Circe’s holy Moly.

I was suddenly hyper aware of the sweat on my skin, stark against the cold air that permeated the area. I shivered, insides quaking with far more than just chill.

Gramma stood still for a moment, her gaze finally softening, a strange blink as if she was returning to her body. She turned toward me, lips curling into a small, approving smile. “Well now, Tressa Rae,” she said, her voice laced with an edge of something deep, ancient, and knowing. “Seems like you’ve learned more than I thought.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the words. “What do you mean?”

She stepped closer, her boots crunching softly in the damp leaves as she moved, her eyes studying me in a way that felt clearer than the fog surrounding us. “When I made my deal with the faerie,” she began, her voice distant, recalling something from another life, “I wasn’t much younger than you are now. But it wasn’t the artifact I was after. No, it was more than that. It was the respect, the power. I needed to prove I wasn’t some helpless witch, left to pick up the scraps of a faerie’s game. I made a bet, and I won.” She smiled then, a thin, knowing smile. “Not because I was better at the game, but because I understood the rules.”

I felt a strange, fierce pride swelling inside me as she spoke, my chest tightening with something that felt like fire and ice all at once. I wasn’t sure what kind of bargain I had struck, what I was really getting myself into, but hearing her speak about her own past– about her victory– made me feel seen, understood. She studied me for a moment.

“You think you made the right choice?” She asked, her voice soft but steady as she studied me.

“I think it was the only choice,” I said quietly. The bargain was made. The shadow had agreed, for now. “But I’m not sure what happens next.”

Gramma’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “That’s how these things go, Tressa. We don’t always know what happens next. Just make sure the shadow doesn’t forget his part of the bargain.” She paused, her gaze lingering on the treeline ahead. “Make damn sure.”

We stood there for a long moment, the woods around us heavy with lingering magic, the heft of the deal I’d made. The pixies swooped to and fro, playing in the last echoes of tangible magic. The fog began to thin, and I felt a new sense of purpose settle over me.

“I’ve always been proud of you, Tressa,” she said slowly, a tired warmth creeping into her voice. 

I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. It was as if I had stepped into a deeper place, a new understanding of myself that I hadn’t known was there; I wasn’t just carrying on the family legacy– I was starting to shape it in my own way.

Gramma turned her gaze back to the clearing, the fog beginning to thin around us, and her voice lowered, almost to a whisper, as if sharing a secret. “You’ve got a sharp mind. And you’ve got your head on your shoulders in a way I didn’t expect.” 

That swell of pride caught in my chest all over again. It wasn’t just about surviving anymore– it was about owning my place in this world. Whether I was ready or not. Gramma had made her bargains, fought her battles, and come out the other side. She had paved the way for me– our way. I was ready to walk that path, to forge my own destiny, whatever it might cost. There were still so many unknowns, so many battles left to fight. But I wasn’t just a player in this game anymore– I was part of the story. And for the first time, I felt ready to write my own chapters.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said, the words firm and sure as they left my mouth.

Gramma looked at me for a long moment, her gaze wistful. “I know you will. You’re a Gardner.”

We stood there for a moment, the forest around us quiet and still. The pixies had disappeared into the fog, their light dimming as the magic faded into the night.

And in the distance, I could almost hear the faintest rustling in the trees. A shadow stirring, perhaps, a glittering in the dark.

Nine

The night had settled in deep by the time we made it back to town. The streets were quieter than usual, the fog lingering like a ghost between the buildings. The air still carried that chill from the woods, but it felt different against my skin– almost soothing.

Gramma’s footsteps were steady and sure beside me, though her movements were slower than usual. I couldn’t help but notice the way she glanced at the buildings we passed, the old homes with creaky porches, the businesses that had been around longer than I’d been alive. She’d always been someone who lived with one foot in the past, holding tight to family history, but tonight… tonight, there was something new in her eyes.

When we reached the Tender’s Rest, I noticed she didn’t immediately head inside. Instead, she paused, her back straight, eyes lifting to the distant horizon where the last bits of sun had long faded. It was strange, watching her this way– quiet, thoughtful. “Tressa,” she said, her voice carrying a heaviness that I hadn’t expected. She turned toward me, her hands folding in front of her, as though gathering her thoughts. “You’ve fought hard for what’s yours. For what’s ours.” Her gaze sharpened, like she was looking beyond me. “But you can’t keep running forever.”

I frowned, the words catching me off guard. “What do you mean?”

Gramma took a breath, the conversation settling between us like the fog rolling over the ground. “You’re always on the move, Tressa. Always one step ahead. But at some point, you have to stop. You need to decide what kind of life you want to have– what kind of life you’re going to build for yourself.” Her eyes softened, just a little, but it was enough to reveal the scared vulnerability beneath her words.

“Because,” she continued, “if you don’t, you’ll always be chasing something safer. You’ll never stop moving. Whether it’s from shadows, from your past, from whatever you think is waiting around the corner. And you’ll never have a chance to live.”

I shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. “They’ll keep coming after me. After us all–”

“Then you’ll fight them,” she interrupted, her voice steady. “You’ll do what you’ve always done: fight. But you get to decide what that fight looks like. It’s your life, Tressa. You can’t keep letting the fae and everything else control it. You can’t hide in this B&B forever.”

I stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. It suddenly seemed less about me, and more about the past. “Until it’s over, the fae are always going to be out there, chasing me.”

“And what if they are?” Gramma raised an eyebrow. “What if they’re always out there? You still have to live. You don’t have to hide. You can’t be afraid of the fight, because there will always be something else. But at the end of the day, you have to live life on your own terms.”

I looked away for a moment, at the streetlamps flickering in the distance, at the shadows stretching long across the ground. I’d already tried making allies, and in my time in Slooswell, I had. I knew the fight would come– I wasn’t mucking around, unprepared. But she wasn’t wrong; all this time, I’d been caught in a cycle– running from danger, trying to outsmart the fae, surviving, surviving, surviving. “You’re telling me to stay still,” I said slowly. 

Gramma studied me with a look I couldn’t quite place, something both sharp and gentle. “Yes,” she said simply. “Find somewhere worth fighting for. Make your mark in this world. You have the strength to face anything, but you need to give yourself the chance to be more than just a witch in hiding.”

I stood there in the quiet; for the first time, I realized that I had been running not only from the Folk, but also because I didn’t want to face a future where I might fail. I’d been living in a limbo. But Gramma was right: I couldn’t keep running forever. And I couldn’t keep hiding in the shadows of my own life.

“So, what? Find a house? Settle down?” I asked, half-laughing at the idea. “Become a little cottage witch?”

Gramma chuckled softly, her gaze softening again. “Start with a cottage, if that’s what you want. Or a little cabin. Or an apartment. A place where you can put down roots. Make all of this have meanin’.” She seemed to slip into the past again, quiet for a few moments. “You can’t keep living for our past, Tressa. You have to decide what comes next.”

I looked at her then, really looked at her, and something in me shifted. “All right,” I said, insiders shivering. “All right. I’ll figure it out.”

Her smile widened, pride filling her eyes again. “Good girl. You don’t have to do it all at once, but you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

I lingered there, absorbing her words, the haze of the night still hanging thick in the air. A different weight had shifted, something I hadn’t even realized was there. It was the weight of choosing life, even when the fae were still out there, and the shadow of my past loomed large.

I had no idea what the future would hold, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could face it.

Ten

“We’ve secured her location, my Lord.” The oddly-shaped bulging creature flourished a deep bow, a spray of gilded warriors arranged in a wave behind him.

“Good,” said a radiant creature sitting upon a throne, blazing like the sun. “Let us reclaim what is ours.”

Eleven

I didn’t know what came over me when I first decided to stay here. Maybe it was the charm of Slooswell, or the way the streets felt like they had secrets to tell, but I came here thinking it was temporary. Just a place to lay low for a while.

But now? Now, it feels like home. 

It was a strange thing to admit, but it was true. Every time I thought about leaving, about taking my magic elsewhere, I remembered how Wesley’s smile makes my heart skip a beat. How he knows the names of every plant and every person in the town. And how I feel like I’ve finally found my place among people like me. Yes, I missed where I came from, but I had also managed to find someplace new, and home is where you make it, right?

We were in the midst of a busy diner scene, halfway through two Kaley specials, when Wesley sighed. 

“Worst timing,” he replied glumly, “for all this chaos.” 

I tilted to face him, slicing through a runny egg. “Why’s that? I mean, it’s never a great time for some weird supernatural shit to happen, but still.”

“I wanted to give you this,” he held his balled hand forward, waiting. I placed my palm under it. “An All Hallow’s Eve gift. Well, it’s late now obviously–”

A key, tied with orange ribbon, fell delicately into my hand. 

My eyes snapped to his, shock and wonder and every other feeling bubbling up into my expression. “Is this…?”

“Thought I could help you better from just one location,” he replied, “plus, I can help you keep Lumori– right? Is that what you decided on?– contained. Protect you, protect the you know what, and maybe…” He trailed off, trying to shove his hands under the table, clanging against it awkwardly. 

It felt like the world was quaking beneath me, my magic threatening to burst from every seam. I felt like crying, like running, every emotion you probably shouldn’t feel when your boyfriend-ish guy gives you a key to his house. I was worried something would happen to him; I was happy I had an ally! I was terrified that I’d bring more awful creatures to this town; I was so damned lucky to have him. I was supposed to leave; I… desperately wanted to stay. “I don’t know what to say…”

He closed the gap between us at the table, cupping his hand over mine, grounding all the magic that ran across my body. “Say you’ll stay with me.”

Gramma told me that I had to make choices, and live on my own terms. And when a goddess speaks, you listen.

Epilogue

The days tumbled ever closer to Thanksgiving, and beyond that, my second favorite holiday: Christmas. The entire holiday season, really; spirits were high, joy was easy to come by, and I loved doting on the ones I, well, loved. Yes, things would be different this year. But I was trying, and I was living. That’s what counts, right?

Gramma Betta was still staying at the Tender’s Rest, while I settled in at Wesley’s place. I didn’t know how homey I’d feel, the odd trepidation of relying on someone else’s space and not my own. But I was trying. 

I found myself saying that a lot: I was trying.

A relative quiet found its home in my life, until one night, plagued by nightmares, I took to Wesley’s back yard for some fresh air. It was chilly, the unmistakable darkness of small towns and their lack of light pollution making the sky brilliant. In my dreams, I kept seeing gold; it grew in tufts from my mouth, gilded my eyes shut. My skin, hardening to a deadly sheen. 

I knew what it meant.

They were coming.

---

Blinding Brilliance

One

The air smelled of pine and frost, sharp and invigorating, a reminder of how close winter had already crept into Tennessee. The sun had just begun to sink behind the mountains, and the shadows of the trees were stretching longer, draping over the forest floor in a heavy silence. The town below was aglow with Christmas lights, wreaths hung on every lamppost, and the smell of wassail floated up in the breeze from the faraway cafes. But up here, in The Woods, everything felt still. Sacred.

I sat cross-legged on the damp earth, the hem of my dark dress brushing against the moss, the chill seeping through the fabric, but I didn’t mind; this place held the power I needed. It was a place where time slowed and the air was thick with magic, ancient and raw, carrying whispers of the old world.

The dreams had come more frequently, but they were always the same: golden, glittering death. I had no idea how long it would be before the Sun Folk came, but I was insistent on maximizing our chances of actually winning.

My breath came out in steady puffs, visible in the cold, as I closed my eyes and centered myself. The danger was close now– I could feel it gnawing at the edges of my mind, a gilded darkness that had been growing steadily. A shadow moving in the distance. I had known for weeks it was coming, but this time it felt different. More immediate. More… desperate.

I reached deep within myself, extending my senses into the forest’s depths, calling out with my mind, trying to catch hold of the familiar currents of magic that wove through the trees. The power here was ancient, thick with superstition and the whispers of things better left forgotten. It spoke to me if I listened closely, but today it was muted, a song that had been played too many times, the notes worn thin. 

I could feel the pulse of the land, the heartbeat of the mountain beneath me, but there was nothing else. No answers.

I exhaled, my breath clouding in front of me, and tried again. I wasn’t asking for much– just a sign, some indication that someone, or something, was listening.

The leaves rustled softly, the woods shifting around me, and then, faintly, there it was: a shimmer, just at the edges of my awareness, like the soft flicker of a candle in the distance. It was fleeting, but I knew it was there. Not a person, but a presence. Something older than the trees themselves, yet not bound by them. Something that, hopefully, would help me.

I opened my eyes, the sharpness of the forest biting at my senses. The presence lingered just beyond my mind’s reach, but I could feel the warmth of it, and I was too close to turn back now.

“Speak,” I coaxed aloud, gently and carefully, “I am listening.”

A beat. A moment. Nothing. 

“Please?”

Again, nothing. The Woods were still, and my chest suddenly felt hollow. Damn.

The low hum of the town below grew louder as I rose to my feet and circled about, brushing the dirt from my coat. Christmas lights twinkled in the distance, warm and cheerful, but the holiday spirit could only mask so much. I wasn’t in a headspace for revelry. The Sun Folk were creeping in, and it would take more than tinsel and festive wreaths to stop them. I would keep trying– after all, I needed more help before the day came, whenever that might be, but my insides ached from eeking out magic, and I’d have to rest soon.

I took another deep breath of Appalachian mountain air, and turned my back to the trees. 

A soft ping in the back of my mind made me hesitate, halfway back out of the wood.

I lingered for a moment longer, the tension in my chest growing with every breath I took. The energy in the woods was thick now, almost oppressive, as if the earth itself was watching me. Waiting. The White Deer was here– somewhere, hidden in the currents of the ancient magic that ran through the trees. I could feel its presence, delicate but unwavering.

The White Deer was a legend, woven into the very fabric of this town, its name spoken in hushed tones during winter, when the veil between worlds grew thin.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into the palms of my hands. I had no illusions about it; calling on the White Deer was a huge gesture. For all the power it held, the White Deer demanded respect, balance. It protected this town, kept the darkness at bay, but it did so with its own rules. And I would have to acquiesce.

The air shifted. The woods grew colder, and my breath trembled in the silence. The pulse of the land was now distinct, rhythmic, the steady beat of hooves on cold earth. I focused, pushing aside the gnawing fear that grew in my belly. I needed its help. The danger would soon arrive, and without its power, I could be left with nothing.

“Great White Deer,” I whispered, the words slipping from somewhere deep inside, a prayer to something far greater than myself, “Guardian of these lands, protector of the living and the dead. I call to you. Lend me your strength.”

The wind picked up, a sudden rush that swept through the trees, their branches creaking and groaning in protest. I wasn’t sure if it was the forest itself responding, or the being I beckoned to, but the entire world seemed to constrict, and the tension was unbearable.

A single, pure note of a whistle pierced the air, so soft, yet so clear, it vibrated through the marrow of my bones. My heart skipped a beat, and I knew– it had heard me. It was listening.

But there was no actual answer yet. Only the rustling of the trees, the shifting of the land beneath me. I steeled myself, letting go of the crushing tension in my chest, and opened myself to the flow of magic. I closed my eyes again. I could be patient.

Then, a sudden, overwhelming feeling– like an icy breeze grazing my skin. I shivered, not from the cold, but from the raw, unbridled magic that was beginning to thrum through the forest.

And then I saw it.

A flicker in the distance, a flash of white among the trees. First, just a movement, a ghost of something that wasn’t quite there. But it was real. The White Deer.

Its body glowed softly, ethereal in the dimming twilight, its antlers woven with silver light that seemed to shimmer with stars. It stood just out of reach, watching me, its three ancient eyes filled with an unsettling, otherworldly calm. It didn’t approach– it simply waited.

I reached out with a small offering of magic, extending the tendrils of my power toward it. 

The moment I did, a sharp pain cut through my entire being, a cold needle threading itself into my soul. I gasped, lungs begging for air, my gaze yanked toward the creature ahead.

The deer’s eyes never left mine, unwavering, assessing me. Then, in a voice that didn’t belong to any creature of flesh and bone, it spoke directly into my mind, the sound a soft whisper of wind through branches.

“You seek my aid, witch. But you must understand: you cannot bargain with The Woods without loss. This is the way of things, natural and unnatural, the wheel ever turning, as it was before, as it shall always be.”

I flinched, feeling the sharpness of the words– and their creator– cut into me. I had wanted this, had known it would be this way, but the connection felt heavier than I had anticipated.

“What do you ask?” I demanded, my voice desperately aiming for steady despite the rising tide of fear in my chest.

The White Deer moved then, a slow, graceful step, and I felt the magic shift, the air thickening with something… darker.

“A soul must be given,” the deer whispered. “A life tied to the lands. One who walks the mortal world, to uphold the balance in the realms.”

My breath caught in my throat. A soul. A life. By Circe, it was always the same, wasn’t it?

A part of me recoiled at the thought. But I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t back out now. The Folk were closing in, and without its protection, I could lose everything. The town. My new life. My old one, too.

I gritted my teeth. “I will pay.” The words left my lips before I could hesitate any further, the weight of the promise sinking into my bones.

The White Deer’s gaze softened, and with it, the air lightened. The pain in my chest dulled to a faint ache.

“So it shall be.” It glanced about, its third, piercing blue eye reading the air above. “They come. Struggling to pierce my veil as we speak. Go, child of death.”

And just like that, the moment was gone. The White Deer vanished into the trees, leaving only a ripple of magic in its wake. The woods around me were silent once more, save for the soft rustling of dried leaves.

I stood there, the wind biting at my skin, the chill creeping into my bones. I had what I came for. The deer would protect the town, and hopefully the rest of us, when the Sun Folk came. 

And I would have to live with the consequences.

Two

The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped into the bookshop, the familiar scent of new books greeting me. I shivered as the warmth of the space wrapped around me, a stark contrast to the cold that still clung to my bones; at this point, I wouldn’t doubt that chill would permanently live in my marrow. The floorboards creaked beneath my boots as I crossed toward the cashwrap.

Robert was behind the counter with our new hire, Chester. They were currently elbow-deep in books, obviously sorting out the titles for our holiday display. They both looked up when I entered, and Robert immediately frowned. 

He’d known me long enough now to sense when something was wrong.

I didn’t waste time. “Robert,” I said, my voice low but urgent. “We need to prepare. The Folk are coming.”

He froze, the book in his hand dropping onto the counter. For a long moment, he simply stared at me, his expression scrunched and pained. Then he sighed, rubbing his temple as if trying to push the tension out of his skull. “Let’s talk in my office.” 

I hustled behind him, the two of us leaving Chester in our dust.

“I’ll just be here,” Chester called, “sorting… books…”

Robert quickly closed the door behind us. “You’re sure?” His voice was quiet, but I could hear the terrible concern beneath it. Robert wasn’t a witch, not like the others in town, but he had a knack for knowing things. He kept his ear to the ground, always in the know, even when he pretended to be just a regular bookstore owner.

I nodded sharply. “I’ve felt it in the air for days. I’ve had nightmares, too; infrequent at first, and now it’s every single time I fall asleep. And… this morning, I saw the deer.”

Robert’s eyes went wide, studying me for a moment. “You– you’re not serious–” 

“It warned me of the danger. They’re trying to break through, even as we speak,” I pressed, “and we’re not taking chances.”

“I’ll get the word out,” he said, already moving toward his collection of handwritten notes and old flyers hung by the wall. “Sounds like this isn’t exactly a ‘let’s meet in a few business days’ kind of problem.”

“Which is why we need every witch in town,” I replied, my hand curling into a fist at my side. “And no, we don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

Robert nodded, his fingers already working on gathering the scraps of paper, scratching out messages, and organizing what looked like a hasty list of names. I couldn’t tell if it was the urgency in my voice or the panicked recognition of just how serious this was, but he was moving fast now, his usual calm replaced by focused energy. He wasn’t the type to panic, and I appreciated that, but I could see the knot of tension forming between his brows. Sun Folk was a name whispered in reverence– and fear– around here, mythical creatures of very real proportions. 

“I’ll go to Vera first,” Robert said, still scribbling out quick messages. “She’ll help me get the others.” 

I winced. Vera. She hadn’t muttered two words to me since everything with the shadow in The Woods. Whatever– she’d have to get over her attitude. If she cared about this town, she would heed this.

“We’ll need a place to meet,” Robert added, cutting through my thoughts.

I ran through locations as quickly as I could; the bookshop was where we always met, but it was also the epicenter of everything should something go down badly. No, we needed something outside of its walls. I wished Elowen’s place wasn’t so far out– it was secluded, and her lake had already been touched by Fae before. We had re-warded everything in the days since, but it might take the others too long to get there. “Let’s use the old church on Chestnut Street,” I suggested. “Marlowe’s used it a few times. She says the building’s shielded from most magic. We’ll need the extra protection. We’ll be short on time, but it’s better than nothing.”

Robert’s pen paused for just a second as he considered it. “You sure it’ll be enough?”

I gave him a sharp look, my nerves fraying at the edges. “No, but it’s all we’ve got. The Folk’s power can’t be contained easily, not even by us. We need to at least have a chance to fight back.”

He nodded again, determination hardening his expression. He had seen enough in the past few months to understand the weight of what was coming.

“All right. I’ll get the word out to everyone who’s still in town,” Robert said, already moving toward the door. “Christmastime and all that. You head to the church. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

I hesitated, glancing around the quiet shop. The shelves, full of books both new and old, the way the greenhouse ceiling glittered above. I’d spent countless hours here, in this place that felt like home, surrounded by stories. But now the air in the shop felt heavy, thick with the tension of something ancient and dangerous closing in. A living, breathing threat to everything we’d built.

“Be careful,” I said, my voice low, almost a whisper.

Robert didn’t respond immediately, but I could see the flicker of something in his eyes. He paused, one hand on the doorframe, glancing back at me.

“I will,” he said, then stepped out into the cold, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. “You too, Tessa.”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. My heart pounded in my chest, the anticipation of the fight already sitting heavy in my gut. We needed every witch, every ally we could gather to stand against the Sun Fae. The town was counting on us. 

Funny, isn’t it, how our priorities change. I came here, seeking another shallow stop before moving on, and now, my fight was theirs, and this place had found a home in me, too. 

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, weathered charm– one I hadn’t needed in years. It was a talisman of protection, one I’d crafted long ago, when I first learned what it truly meant to walk between the living and the dead. The air hummed faintly as I activated the magic within it, letting it pulse with a soft glow between my fingers.

* * * * *

“Vera swears you’re going to get us killed,” Robert snapped into the phone line, “she won’t stop arguing with everyone about it!” The last line seemed directed more at his car full of witches than to me. A quiet overtook the connection. “That’s better.”

“We might have worse news than that,” I muttered back, standing before the church. It was boarded up tight, its windows and doors inaccessible. “No go on the church. Damn.” I looked at the neon-colored papers tacked to the wood. “County is taking the building over.”

Another chorus of voices on the line. “Just come to the Tender’s Rest,” called Missy, connected via three-way on the call, “I’ll get everything ready. Just bring yourselves.”

I started to protest, but Missy shut me down in a snap. “The place is warded six ways from Sunday, Tess, you know that. Come on, bring everyone here. I won’t hear otherwise!”

I huffed. Robert huffed. The phone line itself seemed to huff. “To the Rest, then.”

* * * * *

The Tender’s Rest was a picture of Christmastime Southern charm– well-kept, warm, and inviting. Its cream-washed walls gleamed under the soft glow of string lights, and the front porch, draped in garlands of pine, offered a welcoming respite. A pair of rocking chairs sat at the entrance, cushioned with festive pillows, and wreaths adorned every window, their red bows a striking contrast against the green. The scent of cinnamon and fresh pine filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee brewing from inside. Missy Renae was never to be outdone on hospitality.

Stepping through the door, I was immediately filled with the warmth I had lived in for so long. The crackling fire in the parlor hearth flickered with a gentle glow, casting dancing shadows on the walls adorned with holly and twinkling lights. The grand staircase in the foyer was wrapped in garlands, and every available surface was covered in holiday cheer– stockings hung from the mantle, and a beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its ornaments sparkling under the soft light.

But beneath all the holiday cheer, I could feel the dread of what was to come, the danger creeping closer with every passing second. The fire didn’t quite manage to push out the chill in my bones. 

The witches were already gathered, a small circle standing in the dining room. Yet, even here, surrounded by Christmas mirth, the air was thick with tension. Wesley happened to catch my approach and smiled, moving towards the foyer. He greeted me with a kiss, holding me close against him.

“Hope you’re ready for that room,” he grumbled. “It’s going to be a tough crowd, at least for a minute. Vera’s already had a go at Marlowe, which means that half of them had a go at Vera… it’s a bit of a mess.”

I crumpled against his chest. “Great. As if this isn’t hard enough.”

“Hey,” he pulled me back, meeting my gaze, “I’m here with you. We’ve got this. They’re hard-headed, but they’re not foolish enough to risk all of Slooswell over pride or ego.”

I took in the scent of his cologne, and the ever-present petrichor smell of his clothing from the garden shop. “Thanks, babe.”

* * * * *

The long dining table beyond had been cleared of its usual flatware, and set with mugs and cookies. Now, it was crowded with familiar faces, each witch with their own gift, each one looking at me expectantly. Every pair of eyes held the same quiet trepidation.

At the far end, Marlowe sat with her legs crossed, her fingers tracing the edge of a leather-bound journal, her eyes scanning the pages. Her deep knowledge of old legends and forgotten magic was invaluable, but even she looked uneasy. Her usually calm demeanor was overshadowed by the desperation in the air.

Next to her, Cynthia adjusted the array of crystal stones in front of her, her fingers moving over the intricate shapes carved into them. The angles and patterns of the universe were her language, but even she seemed to be struggling to keep her thoughts focused. Her eyes darted to the window, watching the darkening sky as if waiting for something to emerge from the shadows.

Missy warmed her palms over the fire, the flames flickering in sync with a moderate heartbeat, her gaze low.

Beside her, Elowen sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes closed in meditation. Esmé napped fitfully in the next chair, her scarf bundled up around her ears. Vera sat with her face pinched tight, an aura of fury surrounding her, arms and legs both crossed. Wesley took the empty seat next to Vera, giving me a chagrined look.

Gramma Betta sat at the far end of the table, her presence like an anchor in the storm. I couldn’t ignore the worry in the lines of her face. She, of all people, knew the stakes.

I took a seat, my eyes scanning over each of them.

“I have a lot to tell all of you,” I began, “in order for anything I’m about to say to make sense. My real name is Tressa Rae Gardner. There’s a reason you don’t know my actual name. It’s for your safety and mine. I’m sorry I’ve had to keep information from you. My intentions were good. As you all may remember, I am a death witch– I am, in fact, part of a lineage of life and death witches, headed by my grandmother, Betta Nyrine Gardner here. I have been hiding a magical heirloom, called the Slip, for several months now, from the Sun Folk, whose attack on Slooswell is imminent.”

“I knew it!” Vera seethed. She stood, jabbing a finger in my direction. “You did bring that damnedable curse with you!” 

“Knock it off,” Gramma Betta warned, “if you’re anywhere near the great historian witch I’ve heard about, you’d know that shadows have been around here a long time. Just because one rises up with her name in its mouth, doesn’t mean she’s the damned downfall of the town.”

Half a dozen voices clattered together. I deflated, and held up both hands.

“Please, everyone. Infighting will get us nowhere. Besides, we won’t be alone in this,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind. The room fell silent, every witch hanging on my words. “I’ve contacted the White Deer. It’s agreed to help us.”

A collective breath filled the room– some harsh gasps, some relief, none without an undertone of dread. My grandmother nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “The White Deer is a powerful ally,” she said slowly, “but its help comes at a cost. And in times like this, we must be prepared for that.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “I’ve already agreed to pay it.” The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Before anyone could speak, I continued, my gaze sweeping across the table. “But that’s not all. The Shadow Man from the woods– now known as the Wayward Stranger– has also agreed to aid us.”

At the mention of the Shadow Man, an uneasy murmur rippled through the group; always seen as a creature of dark magic, a figure woven into the deepest superstitions of this town. Only a few of us had ever seen him face to face, but his power was undeniable.

Robert, who had been standing by the fireplace, leaned forward slightly. “The Shadow Man?” His voice was cautious. “Wayward Stranger? I’m out of my league here. Is this someone you can trust?”

I swallowed hard, testing the weight of what I was about to say. “We don’t have a choice. But we need to understand this– he isn’t fighting for us just because I asked. He has his own agenda, just as the White Deer does. But we’ve made a deal, and I’m going to hold on to hope that he comes through. We need to be careful.”

Marlowe nodded thoughtfully. “The White Deer’s magic is tethered to the land. It can help us with the physical and spiritual elements of the fight, keep the Sun Faerie grounded, but this Shadow Man… his magic will be different. It’s tied to the liminal spaces, to what exists between the worlds. If we invoke him fully, we risk letting more than just the Sun Faerie into our reality.”

Cynthia leaned forward, her face close to the tabletop. “We’ll have to control both. If we can’t, we might end up fighting a battle on more fronts than we can manage.”

Elowen, who had been quiet until now, spoke up. “What about the timing? How long do we have before the Sun Faerie strikes?”

I turned to Marlowe, who was back to quickly thumbing through her book. She glanced up, her expression grim. “From the records, we know the Sun Fae’s attacks are historically tied to the rise of the sun, when their power is greatest. But we’re in a delicate position now; the Winter Solstice is close. They will assumedly try to tear through the veil between worlds at dawn; at best, we have until tomorrow morning– before dawn breaks and they make their move.”

Finally, my Gramma spoke. Her voice was low but firm, cutting through the buzz of anxious energy in the room. “Time is short,” she said, her gaze meeting mine, her eyes dark and knowing. “We don’t have a choice but to be ready.”

I nodded, feeling her words settle over me like a heavy mist. I glanced around the table, watching each witch’s face tighten.

Cynthia’s fingers tensed around her stones. “If I attempt to stabilize the ley lines, it might buy us a few extra hours– maybe. But that’s only if we can disrupt its connection to the land before it gets too close.”

Missy wrapped her arms around herself, adjusting her shawl, the firelight casting flickering shadows on her face. “I can prepare the flames. Maybe we can force their leader into a corner with fire? Back him– her?–  into a trap if need be. But it’ll take every bit of my energy to keep them contained, if we get that far.”

Elowen shifted in her seat, her hands flexing and loosening as if calling on some unseen tide. “Water can diffuse light. If we can pull the water from the nearby lakes– maybe even the river– and bind it to our will, we could potentially counteract some of their energy. I can draw it into the area, but only if we act in tandem with the others.”

“Legends say that when the Sun Folk come, they weave in and out of time, bending it to their whims,” Vera chimed in, her voice haughty and cold. “It won’t be some arrogant, straightforward charge. We need to anticipate that.”

“Exactly,” I said, my voice tight as I looked at my grandmother. “We’ll have no more than a few hours before dawn breaks. And we won’t be able to stop it without all of us acting as one.”

“But will it be enough to save everyone?” Missy’s voice was tiny in the grand chaos of the room. She seemed to shiver making the query. “Will we be ready?”

Gramma Betta’s eyes softened for a moment before she spoke, her voice low, the rumble of distant thunder. “We will be, or we won’t. But the only way to fight it is with everything we have– every scrap of magic we can pull together. And it will come down to timing. Every move we make has to be synchronized.”

I nodded. The Sun Folk would not be kind. We had no choice but to stand together, to fight for what we had left.

“Tomorrow,” I said, my voice hardening. “When the first light of dawn breaks, be ready.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Each witch knew the gravity of the situation, but there was also a sense of determination in the air, like the shift before a storm. 

The fire crackled louder, as if in agreement. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faint scent of something more than winter.

Tomorrow would come too soon. But we had to be ready.

I stood near the window, gazing out at the soft blanket of snow beginning to cover the town. The first wave of cold that had crept in tonight was only the beginning. As the others began to talk amongst themselves, planning out the logistics of the coming battle, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt too tumultuous, chaotic, even with the warmth of the fire and the soft hum of Christmas carols playing in the background. I needed a moment to clear my head, to speak with the one person I could trust above all others.

I moved to the side, where my grandmother sat at the head of the table, her hands folded in front of her. Her silver hair shimmered in the dim light, and there was a quiet strength to her, a presence that filled the room without a word. Even now, she seemed like the calm center of everything, despite everything we were preparing to face.

I hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly, keeping my voice low enough that only she would hear. “Are you staying in town?”

She didn’t immediately answer, her eyes flickering over to the others as they debated strategy. Then, after a long pause, she finally looked up at me, her darkened emerald eyes unreadable.

“I’m here to help,” she said simply, her tone firm, but there was something else in her voice. A slight shift, a subtle change in the rhythm of her words. She was leaving something unsaid. “But I’ve got some business to attend to. Some unfinished things that need… dealing with.”

I frowned, narrowing my eyes at her. “Unfinished things? What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she met my gaze, her expression as enigmatic as ever. Her lips twitched in what could almost be a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“The world is full of old debts, child. Some are paid with time, some with blood,” she said softly, her gaze briefly flicking to the fireplace. Her words lingered in the air, heavy and cryptic.

I wanted to press her for more, to demand she tell me what she was planning, but something in her posture stopped me. She was a master of evasion, and trying to dig deeper into her intentions never led anywhere but frustration. She was stubborn– no, stubborn didn’t even begin to cover it– and I knew well enough that when she didn’t want to share something, she wouldn’t.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I asked, my voice tinged with frustration, though I kept it under control.

She didn’t reply at first, her fingers gently tapping the edge of her mug. Then, after a long moment, she gave me a small, knowing smile.

“I’m here because you called me,” she said, her voice softening, the mystery in her words slipping just a little. “But this town has a way of pulling at old threads. There’s something here that needs to be addressed, something that can’t be ignored. That’s all I’ll say for now, child.”

I wasn’t sure whether that was meant to reassure me or worry me more. Either way, I could tell she wasn’t about to let me in on whatever she was thinking.

“Just promise me you won’t disappear again,” I said, more vulnerable than I meant  to be.

She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. The weight of her touch, solid and warm, calmed the storm of questions swirling in my mind.

“I’ll be here when you need me,” she said simply, her voice the steady reassurance I had always relied on. “And when this is over… we’ll talk more.”

I wanted to argue, to press for more, but I could see in her eyes that she wouldn’t budge. She had her own path to walk, one I couldn’t follow.

I nodded, squeezing her hand once, and let go. There were more immediate concerns to address. Wesley waited just beyond Gramma Betta’s chair, his hands tucked into his pockets. He raised his eyebrows and quirked his lips.

“Well, that wasn’t awful,” he surmised quietly as I approached. 

“I guess she is capable of setting pettiness aside when something threatens all of us,” I sighed, looking back over my shoulder at Vera. She was still and quiet, the only one still seated as everyone else chaotically spoke around her. She seemed to be studying the wood grain of the table. 

I slumped. “Guess I should go ask her what’s wrong. Despite that being one of the last things I’d like to do.” I began to walk away.

Wesley snatched me back into him, the warmth of his chest, his stomach, his hips against me. “What’s one of the first things you’d like to do?”

I managed a grin. Sexy time hadn’t been on the docket at all in the last few days, my mind entirely elsewhere. But the cut of his body against mine made my blood sing, and I wished things were chill and normal for a minute.

Circe’s holy Moly, did I ever.

“You, for starters,” I mumbled, matching his energy. I knew we were both tired and worn out, but moments like these kept me alive. “Alas, time to go make miserable small talk.”

I slowly walked toward Vera, and took the empty seat next to her. “What’s wrong?” I asked plainly.

She stared in reply, her lips pinched into a hard line. 

“Good talk,” I snipped, moving to stand.

“Nothing ever happens in Slooswell,” she growled, “that’s the way it always was. And then you show up, and suddenly, everything is wrong everywhere.”

“Vera,” I chided, voice turning into a blade’s edge, “Elowen was missing for a long time and no one found her until me! Obviously things were happening here. Even if you turned your nose up at it and deemed it squarely not your problem. At some point, you’ve got to get over yourself and your idealized version of this town. You can help save it, or you can stand back and watch it fall. Your choice.” I got up, turning back toward the foyer.

“Is it a choice, really, Tressa?”

My name sounded sour coming from her mouth.

I spun to face her, still standing. “You know what? Fine. Head back to your perfect mansion in your perfect neighborhood, and we’ll handle Slooswell’s problems. We outsiders. Oh, and by the way, my grandmother grew up around here, so you’re wrong on even more counts than you know about. Imagine that.”

Vera’s eyes nearly bulged at my words. “She– what?”

“Yeah,” I let the word drag out, high pitched. “Didn’t know that? Was it not written in all your history books? A shame.”

“I knew of only one Gardner, and it was not her.”

I shrugged, uncaring. “Okay? How about you go talk to her, see what you can suss out? Better yet, go guts up to her and let her know exactly what you think of us.” I let out a laugh. “I’d love to see that.”

Vera cut me a glance, sharp and seething. “I will help you. But I fully intend to get to the bottom of this nonsense.”

I flourished a bow. “Please do.”

Gramma Betta was walking up now, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Have fun.”

*****

Despite Vera’s dissent, we formed a plan: be at the hardline of The Woods before dawn, and be ready for anything and everything. Sleep was a difficult creature to grasp, and unfortunately for my early rise, I spent most of the night tossing and turning.

And every time my eyes closed just enough, I saw glittering gold.

Wesley cradled me, my back to his stomach, his arm limp in the throes of rest. Our clothes for the following day were draped over the nearby chair, all practical and sensible for battle. The grandfather clock ticked away in the hall, its rhythm a delicate balm for my overloaded senses.

This is what you’re fighting for, I reminded myself, trying to be present in the moment. This right here is life. I let out a slow sigh, breathing in deep and letting another out again. Months of hiding, months of running, it all would come to a crescendo in the mounting daylight.

Three

Marlowe, Wesley, Missy and I were piled into his SUV, filling up every inch of space with spell components, books, herbs, crystals, talismans. Vera, Esmé and Elowen would drive in separately, with everyone converging on the westbound path of the interstate. The small, bare patch next to the lane filled up quickly as each car pulled into place, the chill in the air making our breath puff upwards into the sky. Just a moment later, as we all started to unpack the truck, another vehicle pulled in– an old, sky blue station wagon with whitewall tires, and a big, plastic daisy hanging from its rear view mirror.

I would know that car anywhere.

Nearly tripping over myself, I ran towards it, sending white gravel spraying out with every step. My voice was trapped in my chest, in my throat. Tears gathered in my eyes, blurring the most perfect vision. 

“Mama?”

Crystal Clarice Gardner stepped from the car, her door giving the most familiar metallic creak. Her pale strawberry hair was pulled into a high bun, more bits of blonde-white than the last time I saw her. She pulled oversized sunglasses away, revealing teary emerald eyes. “Hey baby.”

I tackled her, both of us hitting the dirt that edged the highway as my arms wrapped around her shoulders.

She smelled exactly as I remembered, a dreamy mix of flowers and lotion and strawberry cream soda. I was in shock, holding her desperately close to every part of me as tears poured down my face. 

“You came. Good,” my Gramma’s voice called from somewhere above us.

“Of course I did,” mom replied, wiping her nose against the back of her hand, her eyes fixed on mine. “These Fae pricks are gonna get what they deserve for messing with my girl.”

That’s my Mama. 

I stood, offering her both hands. She took them and heaved upright. “So she’s already filled you in, then?”

Mom rolled her shoulders and fixed her plaid shirt. “Yeah, though… I kept dreaming about you, Tressa. It was always you, in the dark, and then your hair would turn black, and then you would slowly turn gold. All over. I knew something was wrong. Thank goodness your Gramma called me; I kept my word of letting you be, of letting you handle this situation. But now, I’m here, and we’re finishing this. Together.”

I hugged her again, pressing her head against my own. “Thank you,” I whispered. Turning back towards everyone else, I wiped my tear-wet hands on my jeans, leaving streaky, muddy lines. “Everyone, this is Crystal Clarice Gardner. My mom. Fellow witch.”

She flourished a bow. That’s where I got it from, I mused wistfully.

Wesley approached first, offering a handshake. I could hear him speaking, but couldn’t understand any of the words…

Or anything else, for that matter.

As if a switch was flipped, my hearing went garbled, like I was underwater. It was disorienting, my balance lessening as the pressure inside my head intensified. 

“They’re… coming,” I managed to squeak out, the tendons in my neck stiffening. My arms curled in toward my sternum, the movement involuntary. I could feel the veil, the very fabric between worlds begin to fray.

Snatching something from Wesley’s truck, Gramma Betta shoved an unknown thing into my mouth. It tasted of grass and wild onion, long, stringy bits of something chewy and covered with… dirt?

“Chew and swallow,” she demanded. And I did.

The building terror within me slowly eked away, my entire system jolted by the intense taste and smell of whatever spell that was. 

Gramma stared at me, her jaw jutted out, waiting. “There,” she said finally, satisfied. “We need to hustle.” Hiking her skirt, she began moving toward the tree line beyond, each of us witches falling in line behind her.

Four

Snow covered the ground in a thin layer at the edge of the woods, the horizon scantly bathed in the early light of dawn. The air itself felt wrong– charged, electric.

We stood in a loose circle, faces set with resolve, hands steady as we each moved through the motions for the fight ahead. My grandmother was beside me– her presence, a force in itself, grounded me. My mother stood to my left, her eyes narrowed and focused. Her magic was pure and wild, an unpredictable force that could tip the balance of any battle. The other witches– Marlowe, Missy, Elowen, Esmé, Vera, Wesley, Cynthia– were equally ready, their powers primed to be unleashed.

Our own little coven, patchwork as it may be.

But it wasn’t just us. The White Deer, glowing with an ethereal light, stood at the edge of the woods, its silver antlers catching the first rays of the sun. Its gaze met mine– calm, powerful. 

It had kept its promise. 

Pixies flitted all about the deer, landing on its haunches and letting loose tiny squeals of delight. 

And standing in the shadows, the Wayward Stranger watched us with his dark, inscrutable eyes. His form was ever-shifting, flickering like smoke, his magic a quiet undercurrent to the chaos that was about to unfold.

I took a deep breath, and with faintly trembling hands, broke the wax seal on the Slip. Fold by fold I unfurled it, a steady whummmm of magic emanating through every page. And with a singular burst of dual golden and dark purple light, a swirling beacon shot up into the sky.

Then, both the Moon and Sun Folk came.

They appeared like streaks of light, blinding, their wings like molten gold and desolate silver, shimmering in the morning light. The air around them seemed to warp, as though the very essence of time and space bent under their power. They moved like liquid flame and moonlight both, their eyes burning with the intensity of the cosmos itself, weapons gleaming with gold and light.

At the forefront of them was the Sun King. His beauty was otherworldly, hair like rays of sunlight, skin like polished gold. He held a spear of pure light in one hand, the weapon crackling with immense power, and a shield in the other. His presence radiated with the intensity of a thousand suns. His voice, as he began to speak, was like the rush of a summer storm.

“You dare defy us?” His words were sharp and searing. “We will take the power back; we will have our revenge. You will bow to the sun, or you will burn.”

I gripped the Slip tightly, feeling the pull of my own magic, the shadow of death flowing through me. This was the moment we had been preparing for, the moment where the fate of the town– and so much more– would be decided.

“We do not bow,” my grandmother spoke, her voice a low thunder in the rising chaos. “We stand together, and we fight.”

And we did.

The faeries surged forward, their light cutting through the air with blinding speed. The first wave crashed into us, and the battle began in a flurry of magic and raw energy.

Missy’s fire erupted in an instant, flames shooting from her hands in blinding arcs, forcing the faeries to retreat momentarily. But they were quick, their forces sweeping back in with their golden weapons raised, slashing through the air with deadly precision. While a few Moon Folk went down under her fire, others danced around the flames as if they were inconsequential, their laughter a dangerous melody.

Elowen raised her hands, summoning the power of the river and the storm. Water surged from the ground, twisting like serpents of liquid silver, pushing against the faeries’ magic, quenching their heat with every wave. Yet still, the faeries pressed forward, their celestial-bright weapons cutting through the water as easily as paper.

I heard Wesley’s voice then, chanting words of ancient power as he called upon the earth. Vines exploded from the ground, wrapping around faeries’ legs. Despite desperately trying to hold them in place, the faeries were relentless, slashing and cutting through the magic that tried to restrain them.

Cynthia’s magicked patterns glowed bright as she weaved sacred patterns into the air, summoning a barrier of light and energy that clashed against the faeries’ golden shields. The magic crackled as it collided, sending sprays of energy back against the encroaching enemy. 

Then came the White Deer, its form a blur of silver and white, charging into the fray like a literal force of nature. It leapt over all the battling witches, its antlers cutting through the air with deadly grace, impaling any faerie that dared come too close. The Fae screamed in anger, but the White Deer’s power was unstoppable. With each strike, it sent waves of magic that resonated through the land. The pixies yowled in mid-air, loosing tiny bolts of rainbow-tinged light at the foes around them.

It was one hell of a push– but it wasn’t enough. We needed more. That’s when I saw the Stranger start to move.

From the shadows of the woods, his form grew darker, more defined. He moved like smoke, his hands raised, the darkness around him twisting and coiling into tendrils of night that reached out to ensnare any Sun Folk near its grasp. His power was the deepest part of the night, pulling the light into itself and swallowing it whole. The Fae faltered for a moment, their golden weapons flickering as if being drained. They were caught in the Wayward Stanger’s magic, and he tangled with them, his grip unerring.

My heart raced as I saw the opening. 

I stepped forward, drawing on all the magic within me– the power of death, of life, of the land. I raised my outstretched palm high, and with a roar, I unleashed it all. Everything I’d held back in the months since I had escaped them. Everything I had wished for. Everything in me.

The energy surged forth, dark and powerful, flooding into the battle like a tidal wave. It pushed the Folk back, knocking some off balance, causing others to stumble.

The Sun King screamed in fury, raising his spear high. The sun’s magic flared brighter, blinding me, but I held my ground, focusing on the space between the light and the darkness. I could feel the others– my family, my coven– fighting alongside me, their magic intertwining with mine. The White Deer’s power, the Stranger’s darkness, the combined strength of every witch present. 

With a final cry, I focused all that energy, shattering the Sun King’s golden shield. The light flickered and broke, the creature staggering as the dark magic consumed him. He fell, defeated, his once luminous spear clattering to the ground.

One by one, the remaining faerie retreated into the fading light of the woods, their golden shields and eclipsed blades dropping like falling stars. The air finally seemed to settle, the crackling energy that had surrounded us slowly dimming, leaving an unnatural silence. My breath was heavy, my body aching from the strain of the battle.

From the scattered remnants of light and shadow, one faerie remained. He was on his knees, his wings trembling like fragile glass, golden weapon shattered at his side. His eyes, once burning with the intensity of the sun, now flickered with fear.  

I could feel the lingering power of death still coiling in my chest. I took a slow, measured step toward the lone survivor, my boot planted firmly in the snow before him.

“You,” I said, my voice calm but dripping with the weight of infinite magic, “you will leave this place. Leave my family alone. Forever.”

The faerie’s trembling form looked up at me, his golden skin dulling in the absence of his magic. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. The remnants of his power clung to him like a dying flame, and I could feel his desperation. He had no choice but to listen.

“My family. My people. The heirloom you’ve been after– ” I paused, my eyes narrowing. “They are not yours. Not now. Not ever again.”

The faerie’s lips quivered, but he didn’t respond, and for a moment, I could hear nothing but the wind brushing through my hair. I took a slow step closer, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “You are free to leave now. But know this: If you or your kind ever return to this land, if you ever try to steal from us again, I will not hesitate. You will face the full wrath of death itself.”

The Sun King flinched, his wings fluttering weakly. His golden eyes shone with a mixture of fear and rage, but he remained silent.

I raised my hand, and with a flick of my fingers, the magic of death surged around both of us. The winds stirred, and I could feel the pull of the earth beneath him. The power of death, of endings, of finality, I could feel the very essence of it, bending it to my will.  It wasn’t an attack, but a warning– sharp and clear. “This is what mercy looks like.”

His head dropped, and he bowed down low to the ground in surrender. I took in the moment, watching him, waiting for any surprise movement. Slowly, he stood. He didn’t speak again, and without further fanfare, he turned and fled into the distant shadows of the forest, vanishing like a dream in the morning light.

I stood there, watching him go, my heart still racing. The tension in the air finally began to dissipate, leaving nothing but the cold bite of the wind and the soft crunch of snow underfoot. I turned back to the witches, to my family. My mother caught my gaze, her eyes electric with the same understanding: no one would take from us again.

Five

The Woods grew still, the remnants of the battle fading into the cold hush of encroaching winter. The fire in my chest, the pulse of death magic that had surged through me, slowly receded into the depths of my being. My muscles ached with such an extreme level of exhaustion, I had to lock my knees to keep them from giving out.

The White Deer, its form still glowing faintly with otherworldly light, stood at the edge of the woods. Its antlers gleamed with both radiance and golden-red gore, its eyes meeting mine for a long, silent moment. It dipped its head once, a gesture of acknowledgment. Of respect.

Then, with the fluid grace only a creature like that could possess, it stepped backward into the shadows of the trees, its form vanishing into the stillness of the forest. As it disappeared from view, I could hear its voice echo in my mind– low, deep, as old as the land itself.

I will take my tithe, child. In due time.

I stood motionless, watching the place where it had been. I wasn’t sure when, or how, but I knew that the White Deer would make good on that– magic always balanced itself in the end. I’d only heard that phrase a thousand times.

I exhaled, letting the weight of the moment settle over me. The battle was over. The faeries were gone. And yet… something lingered, a tension that hadn’t quite lifted.

I turned my attention back to the Stranger. He had remained at the edge of the trees, watching, waiting. His form, still flickering like smoke, stood against the backdrop of the fading dawnlight. There was no warmth to his presence, but there was an undeniable pull. He didn’t speak, but his eyes– those dark, endless eyes– followed my every movement.

I walked toward him, my boots crunching in the snow. The others were still catching their breath, regrouping, but I knew I needed to speak with him. Unfinished business between us, something I couldn’t ignore, all that. Gardners keep their word.

I stopped a few feet away, watching as his form shifted in the shadows. For a moment, he looked almost humanoid– tall, narrow-shouldered– but his edges always seemed to blur.

“I’ll show you the heirloom,” I said, my voice steady. “But it’s on limited time today, after all that fighting.”

The Shadow Man’s lips curled slightly in what might have been a smile– if it could truly be called that. His eyes gleamed with a quiet hunger. The object of such deep significance that even though my grandmother had earned it, fair and square, after a long and brutal contest of wills, he had never let go of his claim to it. That denial was a wound that hadn’t healed.

“You know the deal we made,” he said, his voice a low, warped rasp, too deep for this world. It was neither a request nor a demand– it was simply a statement of fact.

I held his gaze, unwavering. “And we will share it. If you want it all, you’ll have to wait; we’re only mortal.”

The Stranger’s eyes flickered for just a moment– an acknowledgment, or perhaps a shift in his plans. “Patience,” he conceded, his voice fading into the dark air around us. “But do not think this will be forgotten.”

“I would never,” I answered. “I’ll meet you soon. When the time is right.”

As if deciding the conversation was over, he took a step back into the shadows. His form blurred and then disappeared completely, leaving me alone in the forest with the others.

I watched the place where he had been for a long moment, feeling his promise– his debt– still lingering in the air. There was a tension between our two houses, one that would remain unresolved for now, but I had time. Or at least, I would take it.

I turned back to the witches, who were gathering their things and preparing to leave. My grandmother made her way over to me, her eyes sharp with that knowing glint. She didn’t say anything, but I could feel the unspoken question between us.

“I promised him, later,” I said to her, reassuring. She nodded, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips. She knew the Wayward Stranger better than I did. She had dealt with him long before I had ever come into my magic, and she knew exactly what he was capable of.

But for now, The Woods were quiet again, the danger passed. And for the first time in a long while, I felt peace settle deep into my bones. For today, we had won. We stood in the aftermath, breathless, covered in sweat and bruises, our magic spent.

Six

The old Rest was alive with warmth and light as each and every one of us pulled in. The fireplace crackled with comforting heat, and the soft glow of Christmas lights twinkled in every corner, their colors flickering like a promise of peace after the storm. Faint traces of snow clung to the soles of our shoes as we bustled inside, exhausted but elated, eager to fill the space with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of mugs.

Robert Suttur rounded the front desk, rushing up to our group. “Well?!” His voice cracked, high and stressed. “Did you do it?!”

I smiled, grabbing Wesley’s hand on one side, and my mother’s on the other. “We did it. We’re free of the Sun Folk.”

Robert clapped in his usual joyful way, wrapping his arms around whoever he could reach. “Tim, did you hear that?! Hot cocoa for everyone! Oh, Missy, dear, we might have burned a batch of cinnamon cookies…”

Missy fussed at him as they headed off to the kitchen beyond.

We had saved the town. And in doing so, we had freed my family from the years of fear and torment brought on by the Sun Folk. For the first time in a long time, my family could breathe easy. And we could finally let the weight settle.

And I could finally, finally use my powers again. By Circe, did that feel good.

Eventually, we all gathered around the dining room table. Everyone was there– every witch who had fought beside me, and even more from town who had come to join us, grateful for the protection we had offered. 

Robert was terrible at keeping secrets. 

But I knew that. It was just as well; maybe if they all knew we walked among them, and our presence offered value, we could be even more… free.

Gramma Betta sat at one end of the table, looking just as unshakable as always. My mother, my fierce protector, was beside her, her lips curved into a tired, satisfied smile.

Missy hustled into the room, her laugh ringing out as she ladled steaming hot chocolate into mugs for anyone who wanted it. The mugs were handed around like tokens of warmth, and the rich smell of the chocolate mixed with the fire’s crackling wood, making the whole room feel like a place of refuge.

“I must say,” Cynthia remarked with a wink, “there’s nothing like a little victory to make this hot chocolate taste extra sweet.”

The room responded with chuckles, and I couldn’t help but smile, even though every part of me ached from the battle we’d just fought.

I took in the room, meeting the eyes of these familiar faces. For once, there was no tension in the air, no looming threat or malice hanging over us. Just a sense of relief. Of freedom. And it felt good. 

But my gaze eventually drifted to him.

Wesley had excused himself, and was leaning against the windowsill, his eyes fixed on me. There was something warm and peaceful about him, even now, in his exhausted stupor. He had been by my side through it all– from silly, crush-filled beginnings, to our excursions in the garden, he had become the quiet strength beneath my storm. His golden hair had fallen wildly over his forehead, and the soft glow of the fire reflected in his hazel eyes, making them shine with affection.

He’d been my anchor. Even when the weight of the world felt too heavy to bear, he had stood by me. We had weathered so much together already, and now, for the first time, we had a chance to simply be.

I stepped away from the table, my heart pulling me toward him. The room felt warmer with his presence. And when he saw me approaching, a soft smile tugged at his lips.

“You look like you need a nap,” he said, his voice quiet, tired.

I nodded, my voice catching for a moment. “I think we all do.”

He reached out, taking my hand in his, and pulled me gently toward the quietest corner of the room, away from the noise and laughter. The warmth of his touch was a welcome comfort. I could feel the tension in every muscle start to melt away. He guided me to a small loveseat by the window, where the twinkling Christmas lights cast a soft glow on our faces.

For a moment, we sat in silence. The room around us hummed with life, with people celebrating, but here, it was just the two of us.

I swallowed, taking a deep breath. “We did it,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. The battle had been long. And hard. And even though we had won, I still felt the jitters of it all.

Wesley simply pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me in a warm, comforting embrace. His touch soothed something deep inside me, the raw edges of my magic calming under his warmth.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” I murmured against his shoulder, feeling the heat of his body against mine. “With me.”

“I’ll always be here,” he whispered back, fingers gently tracing the back of my neck. “No matter what. I’m not going anywhere.”

The quiet hum of the celebration continued around us, but in that moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the world. He kissed the top of my head, and I let myself close my eyes for a moment, letting this warmth and love fill the space where fear and magic had once been. The memory of the past was still there, lurking, but in his arms, I could forget it all for just a little while.

Outside, the wind howled faintly against the windows, but inside, everything felt right. We had fought for this. For this moment of joy. 

After a while, Vera approached us, her presence going unnoticed until she cleared her throat. I fully opened my sleepy eyes.

“May I speak with you? Privately,” she said quietly.

Wesley nodded, inviting Vera to his spot on the loveseat.

“I wanted to apologize to you,” she began, “for everything. I was wrong, and I was stubborn about it.” She gulped, a surprisingly unsophisticated action for her. “It was easier to blame someone else for the problems; but when you brought up Elowen, I knew I was being foolish. So… I am sorry.”

I raised both eyebrows, exhaustedly surprised. “And I forgive you. This place can be big enough for all of us. We don’t have to fight for pieces and parts.”

Vera smiled at this, and, in the most shocking of motions, hugged me.

Hugged. Me.

I returned the gesture with warmth. 

“Now,” she said, rising primly from the seat, “I believe you have hot chocolate to enjoy.”

Seven

The bookshop smelled of Mart’s chocolate croissants and fresh espresso. The holiday decorations hanging from every shelf added a touch of festive warmth to the otherwise quiet space. I was perched behind the counter, the rhythmic tapping of my fingers against the wood accompanying the low hum of the town as it settled back into its rhythm. After the chaos, there was something even more soothing about the stillness of the shop. Between customers and orders, I could slip into a calm, almost meditative state.

The door chimed open, and I looked up, my heart giving a little flutter as Gramma walked in. She had that confident, purposeful stride of hers, and even though she was in her late seventies, she was moving with the grace of someone decades younger. Her silver hair was braided tightly at the back, her green eyes sharp and full of fire. The years hadn’t dulled her in the least; if anything, they’d only made her more formidable.

 I couldn’t help but smile when I saw her.

“Gramma,” I said, my voice light and laced with affection. “I didn’t expect to see you today. I thought you’d be recovering from the battle like the rest of us.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, and she waved off my concern with a flick of her hand. “I’m not one to rest for long, child. You know that.” She paused, her eyes glimmering with that hint of mischief that always made me wonder what she was up to. “I’ve been busy, though.”

I raised an eyebrow, curious. “Busy with what?”

Without a word, she set a thick stack of paperwork down on the counter, her movements deliberate and measured. There was an energy around her that I couldn’t quite place. “This,” she said plainly. She slid the papers toward me, and I could see the familiar symbols of legal documents and official seals. 

She leaned back, folding her arms and watching me with a knowing expression. “Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the stack.

Confused, I reached out, flipping the top sheet over. It didn’t take long for my mind to start catching up to what I was seeing. My heart skipped in my chest as I read the words aloud, more to myself than to her.

“A deed…?” I blinked at the documents in my hands. “Gramma, what is this?”

She sat forward, her eyes shining. “It’s a gift, child. A Yule gift. A family gift.”

I raised my gaze from the papers. “But what are you giving me?”

“It’s a piece of land, just outside of town, with a farm on it. Right on the edge of The Woods.” She let the words hang in the air, the dizzying glee of them settling around us. “It’s time you had something of your own. A place to call home. For good.”

I stared at her, my heart starting to pound. I looked back down at the papers, running my fingers along the text again. I could hardly believe it.

“You’re serious,” I whispered, barely able to form the words. “This… this is ours?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s the family’s land. It was in the family for generations before… well, before we all made decisions and lived other lives.” Her voice softened slightly, the edges of her expression turning nostalgic. “It’s time to bring it back. You, me, and your mother. Together.”

My throat tightened as I realized the enormity of what she was offering. A home. A place to build the future I’d denied myself having– and not just for me, but for the three of us. The idea of finally having a space to breathe, to grow, without fear hanging over us… It was everything I hadn’t known I craved. A lump formed in my throat, and I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes, though I tried to hold them back. “You mean we’re really going to live here?”

“Yes,” Gramma said, her voice strong, but tender. “It’s time. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. And comin’ back to Slooswell cemented the idea.”

I looked down at the deed again. The thought of living there, on the land where my grandmother had grown up, felt like an honor. The Woods, the space, the freedom– it was all right there, waiting for us.

“And you’ll actually stay here too?” I asked quietly, finally finding my voice. “No running off again?” 

“Of course,” she said with a small chuckle, the corners of her mouth turning up just enough to soften her usual sharpness. “I’ll be there with you, child. I’ve seen too much of the world already. I’ve come back to where I belong.”

I let the words settle in, and in that moment, something shifted inside me. Everything else I was carrying, lifted. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “This… this is more than I ever imagined.”

Gramma Betta smiled softly. “We’ll go see it when you’re ready.”

I nodded, letting a quiet sense of peace settle over me. A new chapter was beginning. The past may have chased us for a long time, but now, we had a place to stand. A place to build. Together.

Eight

The night had descended gently on the town, and a soft, quiet snow had begun to fall. The flakes were delicate, swirling like little stars caught in the wind before settling on the ground in a thick, peaceful blanket. The streets were lit with twinkling Christmas lights that reflected off the falling snow, casting a multicolored glow across the whole town. It was one of those rare nights where everything felt still, like the world had taken a collective breath and was letting it out slowly.

The townsfolk had gathered at the Rest for the annual Yuletide celebration, and it felt like something magical was unfolding right before my eyes. Inside, the delicious scent of roasted meats, baked goods, and mulled cider filled the air. Missy, with her glowing smile and steady hands, had of course prepared an incredible feast. She moved through the crowd, handing out platters of food and making sure everyone had enough to eat. The room was full of laughter and chatter, a celebration of everything we had fought for– everything we had saved.

All the witches were here, once again gathered in one place: the fire hearth witch, with her hands still warm from stirring the pots; the water hearth witch, laughing and twirling her long, shining hair; the herbal witch, who had brought a selection of teas to share; the gardening witch, who had decorated the tables with wreaths of holly and pine; the historian witch, her voice rich as she shared tales of old magic and the history of the town; the sacred geometry witch, who was quietly sketching patterns in the margins of a napkin; the folklore witch, regaling the children with old tales of Yule; and my mother and grandmother, standing together by the fire, the shadows of their pasts cast long but now weightless.

It was beautiful.  The town had seen its darkest days and yet now, it was glowing with warmth and light. The battle was behind us. The fear, the danger– it was all far away, leaving only the soft, slow rhythm of life, the steady hum of community. The laughter of townsfolk, the clink of glasses being raised, the gentle swirl of music– there was no trace of the chaos that had come before. 

I stood by the long table, holding a mug of hot cider, the steam rising and curling in the cool air; Missy had insisted I try her new recipe, and I had no regrets. I watched the citizens of Slooswell– some of them newcomers, some lifelong residents– interacting with each other, some lost in quiet conversations while others gently danced to old timey Christmas songs, their spirits light as they spun across the floor. The snowy night outside felt miles away. 

In here, in the Tender’s Rest of Slooswell, Tennessee, there was only warmth.

Then, as if in a perfect reflection of the moment, I felt a quiet, warm hand slip into mine. My gaze flickered over, and I found Wesley standing beside me.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said softly, his voice warm and full of contentment. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.”

I nodded, leaning slightly into his touch. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Everything is so… peaceful. After everything we’ve been through. It almost feels like a dream. You know, one where I’m not dying of gold asphyxiation.”

He laughed softly, the sound like a warm, deep melody that wrapped around my heart. “It’s not a dream, especially like that. It’s real. and it’s ours. All of it. And I actually meant the feeling of love.” He spun me to face him, tilting my chin upwards. His eyes were so serious. “I love you.”

I felt like a goofy teenager. “I love you too, Wesley Kensington.” I let the words settle between us, the reality of them anchoring me in the moment. We stood together for a while, watching the fire crackle in the hearth, listening to the laughter and joy of our town. My grandmother and mother joined us soon after, their faces glowing with the warmth of the night, of this town, of each other. The family we had been so afraid of losing was standing together, not just physically, but truly together, in a way I had long dreamed of.

As the night wore on, more and more people gathered around the Christmas tree, the room filled with the quiet hum of joy. A guitar appeared from a room upstairs, and Calvin took it up, of course, strumming a tune that was old but timeless– a folk song from generations past, apparently, according to Gramma Betta. The room quieted for a moment as people bashfully joined in, the sound of their voices rising in harmony.

I looked around, seeing faces full of happiness and relief. The faerie threat was over. The town was safe. There was only family. Only friends. Only the warmth of this town, which now felt like home.

Well, I guess it was home now. Always and forever, amen.

The snow continued to fall outside, gentle and constant, as if it too was part of the celebration. It danced around the Christmas lights, twinkling like diamonds against the night sky. 

And I knew I still had a tithe to pay, and a bargain to uphold. 

But, surrounded by the people who meant everything to me, there was no worry of when that time would come. There was only light. Only love.

And in that moment, I knew this would be a night I would carry with me forever.

Epilogue

The treetops did indeed glisten as we moved into the family farm, both driving for and shipping items from our old place in North Carolina. 

The sheer number of things we had to explain, or didn’t want to explain, to our movers was… substantial. There was a lot of history in that house, and decades of magical items to boot. Bones, books, tinctures in fragile jars, skulls, the occasional floating thing sealed in embalming juice… well, you get the picture.

Witches come in all sorts, and so do the things they carry.

But life at the farm got started quickly, with Wesley helping us plan gardens and time seedlings, while the others of Slooswell helped unpack, sweep, and polish. Robert and Tim were, of course, planning a homecoming-meets-housewarming party for us, and Missy was already promising to cater.

She and that beautiful woman that often stayed at the Tender’s Rest these days… Tilla was her name, apparently, and even Tilla came to help out. I could definitely see why Missy might be enamored.

As the dust settled, we (and the others) blessed the house, the land, every board and post and wall involved. Esmé gifted us a massive lavender plant, Cynthia drew beautiful, elaborate golden sigils on the inner walls of the barn– signs of safekeeping, she promised– while Vera and Marlowe both gave us any book they could find about the history and folklore of this very patch of dirt. Elowen brought us beautiful, shimmering orbs that could be timed to water our fields– the way they caught the sunlight and moonlight both was such a strange, ethereal gift in itself. 

Every witch gave us the gift of friendship and camaraderie, which, honestly? Was more precious than anything else.

And so, Betwixt the Veils Farm was raised, a place where legacy and lineage could flourish. Maybe, if another daughter ever comes, she too can borrow from the land and bask in the knowledge that she is so wildly, irrevocably, truly loved.

I grinned at the thought, idly letting Lumori wrap his hardly-corporeal form around my hand. Wesley, elbow-deep in a plot hole, queried merrily, “penny for your thoughts?”

I sighed wistfully. “Just thinking about how life works. It takes us to and fro, where we think we might need to be, where we actually need to go. After everything, I’m here, in a place that I thought was purely by accident, with my family and new friends. The place I actually belonged all along. Maybe,” I made the word have a curled inflection, “if I ever have babies, they’ll be able to learn magic at the table and on the fields, too.”

Wesley stopped, pulling his arm out of the hole. “Babies, huh?”

I blushed. Guess we haven’t really had time to talk– or even think– about anything beyond the battle, the running. “Yeah? Maybe?”

He stood, dusting his hands on his khakis, a giant, goofy grin playing at his entire face. “Only one way to practice for that,” he said, his voice lower as he got closer to my lips, kissing me through grins and laughter as we tumbled to the freshly tilled dirt together. 

If The Woods had never seen something like that before, well, it would have to get used to the sight.

The End

---

Acknowledgements

It takes a weird amount of energy to write a book. Thank you to my ever-patient husband for listening to me fret over every single little detail, basically speaking in circles to myself until I came to the right conclusion anyway. To my readers, who have hopefully enjoyed Tressa Rae Gardner’s romp through the partially imaginary American South. To everyone who has stuck with me all these years (whoa, it’s been a lot of years of writing now…) I am so immensely blessed to do what I do.

Thank you.