bursting.
The nets could be set out for hammocks, as the Madder brothers were used to traveling in some comfort. To one side of the nets was enough space for a bed. That’s where Cedar headed.
He ducked a swinging lantern and stood at the bottom of the bedroll spread on a pile of sacks that had fewer hard edges than most the rest of the wagon’s contents.
Wil lay curled on the wool blanket. Even when Wil was in wolf form, his eyes remained the same old copper color and carried an uncanny intelligence. The wolf lifted his head and ears, watching Cedar sit and press his back against the sideboard.
Cedar let his hand drop so Wil could scent the blood, which he had probably already smelled before Cedar had even entered the wagon. Even though Wil seemed able to keep the mind of a man about him while in wolf form, it was plain foolish to bed down near a wolf with unfamiliar blood between you.
Wil sniffed Cedar’s hand, then stared past him at the wagon door.
Rose was coming. He could hear the weeping chime of the shackles in her hands.
But it was Mae who stepped into the wagon.
“Mae?” he said. “I thought Rose was bringing the chains.”
“She is,” Mae said. “I’m here for your curse. To…to make it less if I can.”
She held a bundle in one hand, just larger than a handkerchief. He couldn’t smell what she had wrapped up in it, but Wil whined.
“Do you think you should? Now?”
“Rose saw you kill a man.” Mae spread the kerchief out on a crate, revealing the contents. Herbs, a candle, a small bowl, and a bell. Her hand dipped to touch each item, over and over again, as if doubting their reality.
“I suppose she did,” he said.
Mae pulled the skinning knife from the sheath at her waist. “I don’t think we can wait any longer to…ease this.”
She straightened her shoulders, but it did nothing to hide the exhaustion threading her. Mae had spent most of the journey dazed in her saddle and staring at the sky through the night.
It tore him up to see her falling apart more and more each day.
Not that she’d complained. Not once. She’d known that leaving the coven would someday set this cost in motion.
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Lindson,” he said, “but don’t you need your sisters’ help?”
“What I need, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said softly, “is a man with a sound mind.” She swallowed and nodded, as if agreeing with herself. Or with the voices only she could hear.
“A lot of land to cover before winter strikes.” She nodded, nodded. “Your expertise on the trail and surviving the wilds is invaluable. We are relying on you to see that we arrive at our destination. Safely. As safely as we can.”
“Sad day when a cursed man is the sure bet,” he muttered.
“Not sad. Not at all. It’s a practical thing,” she said with a faint smile. “I…trust you. And I will need your blood, Mr. Hunt. Water could work, or tears, or sweat, but for what you carry…” She studied him as if she saw him clothed in another man’s wardrobe. “For that curse to ease, I’ll need the blood that carries it.”
Cedar stood, took off his coat, then rolled up his sleeve.
In the enclosed wagon, with the warmth of the day still trapped inside, her presence was almost tactile. The scent of flowers, the halting rhythm of her breath, and her gaze that searched him as if uncertain, or afraid, of what she was looking for, fell on his senses like heady wine.
He offered his forearm. “Will this do?”
She nodded, and placed the bowl to catch the blood. “I won’t need much. Still—I’m sorry.”
He opened his mouth to say he didn’t mind, but she had already slid the knife quick and sure through his skin.
A hot sting licked across his arm. It hurt, but not all that much.
Mae set to gathering the drops of blood, her hands sure, as she suddenly became more interested in the blood than in the man who bled.
Cedar forced himself to look away from her, to the wagon door, and the sky and trees beyond.
Rose Small jogged up the steps, shotgun strapped to her back, a smile on her face.
“Found the chains,” she declared. “We’ll have you tied up and bug snug in no time. Oh.” She stopped just inside the door. “Is everything all right?”
“A spell,” Mae said. “For Mr. Hunt. For the curse.”
“Think you should take a seat, Mr. Hunt?” Rose asked.
“I’d prefer it,” he said.
Mae didn’t seem to hear either of them. She pressed a cloth against the cut on his arm. “Hold this.”
He put his fingers over the cloth, chose a pile of burlap bags for a chair, and sat.
Mae returned the bowl to the crate and then shook out a handkerchief, which she quickly folded.
“Do you need me to tie that over your arm?” Rose asked.
“No. It’s nearly done.” One of the things the curse gave him was a faster healing time. Already the cut was beginning to close.
Rose shook the chains free to untangle them. “Wish there was another way, Mr. Hunt,” she said. “I hate seeing anyone in cuffs.”
“I don’t much like them myself,” he said, trying to put ease in his words. “But it’s not as if they do me any harm. Given the choice, I’d much rather the cuffs than your bullet in my chest.”
Rose shrugged a little and clasped the cold metal around each wrist. “I would have aimed at your leg, I think,” she said, fastening the ankle cuffs.
“And if you’d missed?”
She double-checked the chain that ran from the ankle cuffs up to the wrist cuffs, then latched to the side of the wagon. “I wouldn’t have missed.” She gave him a smile. “You know that, Mr. Hunt.”
He couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was right. Rose was a crack shot.
Wil limped over to stand next to Cedar, ears up, head high. He didn’t look concerned, wasn’t whining or growling. No, if Cedar had to guess, he’d say his brother was just curious about the whole thing.
“I’m going to stand right over there by the door,” Rose said, “in case any of you need anything.”
She did just that, moving far enough to be out of his reach, but plenty close enough to blow a hole in his leg, or any other part of him, with that elephant gun if she wanted to.
“Mrs. Lindson,” Rose said gently as if waking her from a dream, “Mr. Hunt is ready for that spell now.”
Mae jerked and swallowed hard. Her gaze pulled away from whatever distant horizon had caught her thoughts.
An absentminded witch about to call on magic was worrisome, to say the least.
“Good,” Mae said, wiping her hands down the front of her dress, a nervous habit she’d taken to lately. “Relax, Mr. Hunt.” She didn’t turn to look at him. “As much as you can.”
She crumbled the herbs between her palms, dusting them into the bowl.
Next she lit the candle nub and set that carefully in the bowl. Then she began whispering.
Cedar shifted so the shovel handle sticking up behind him didn’t dig quite so deeply into his ribs, and waited. Seemed all the world waited on Mae’s words, only moving forward at the pace of her hushed breath that slowly grew into a song.
He lost track of time as Mae’s words lifted, fell, and became a second voice for the breeze, a second heartbeat of the world. He vaguely noticed daylight slip away, felt the rise of the moon climbing the sky.
The beast within him squirmed, tugged, wanting free of the bindings, wanting free of the small space of his body, the vise of his will.
Cedar wouldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let the beast take his sense away again. Not so long as he could stand on two feet as a man.
He held tight to his calm, ignored the beast, and let the witch do her work.
Mae held the bowl up to her lips, whispering over the edge, her words coming faster, softer, almost as if she were caught in a thrall. She finally turned toward him, took the few steps across the wagon, her eyes unfocused. Or more likely focused on things Cedar could not see.
