She looked to Ian and her laughter froze. He was locked mid-change, somewhere between a bear and a man. He was pawing the air desperately, trying to move through the waves towards her. His claws were long and vicious, and when he reached her, his very human hand locked around her forearm.
Ian wasn’t mid-change. Cleo saw both parts of him, black bear and man. His dual nature lay superimposed over each other, vicious and kind, but always huge and steady. He moved in time with the rhythm of the waves. Or maybe the waves moved him, Cleo wasn’t sure.
Cleo couldn’t see the others, but she sensed their presence as little disturbances in the waves of energy. Grant was in the earth, curling deep into the rocks and dirt. Sophie was between the waves in the air. Agnes had spread herself, Cleo saw, in the roots that were always quietly dragging water. Mari flickered, always moving, never settling. She was the possibility of fire here, and moved with the erratic promise of a flame.
Cleo had never seen anything so beautiful as the waves of energy in the green space, rippling waves of song.
Something discordant tugged at the edges of her attention and she looked down. The thorns of the curse were unraveling, unwinding from around Cleo. She gasped as they sliced her already painful flesh. The thorns moved without mercy, flowing from Cleo towards her friends. It was as if she were the root, and the curse the vines were reaching towards the sun. No, not the sun. The curse reached for prey.
It shot towards her friends, and Cleo cried out from the pain. She could almost sense its frustration. It couldn’t reach its prey - the thorns couldn’t wrap itself around the wind where Sophie was. Agnes in the water simply slid out from its embrace. Mari, as the promise of flame, twisted away. Grant, the curse reached and wrapped itself around. Cleo could somehow sense the curse’s dissatisfaction: the earth was trapped, but only for now. The earth would wait. It had time.
Ian roared. Cleo watched in horror as the thorns pierced both his forms. She grabbed the slithering vine; it was still unfurling from her midsection like it would never stop. Cleo wrapped her fingers around the thorns, headless of the pain. She was too angry, and her fury eclipsed mere pain.
Ian batted off the vines, silent and focused. It was an impossible task. The thorns sliced across his forms, both his fragile human skin and under the thick coat of fur as a bear. His claws did considerable damage, but the thorns were faster.
Cleo was so focused on Ian, she hadn’t noticed the vines twining around her feet until they were crawling up her legs. The vines spread from her chest, covering her woods. If she didn’t do something, soon she’d be covered.
Ian roared again, weaker this time. He was weakening. He had no defenses here. The thorns slid over his hips and tugged, pulling him to the ground.
Cleo saw red. She wasn’t sure if it was rage or the blood dripping into her eyes from the thorns working their way into her hair, but she was done.
She’d worked hard her entire life to protect herself, to keep herself distanced and safe. She’d refused the selfishness of her mother. This was where all of that had left her: bleeding in the green space, her one sacred safe place, watching Ian die. Nan had been right. She was a green witch, and green witches were worthless. She watched Ian bat at the thorns, and had never felt the weight of those words so keenly.
But she was more than just a green witch, wasn’t she? Above all things, Cleo was a gardener. And gardeners did one thing well.
This weed was getting pulled.
Cleo wrapped her bloody hands around the vine at the center of her chest; the taproot. Before, she’d tried to pull the vines away from Ian. Now, she grasped it and pulled it away from herself. The muscular vine flexed, but Cleo was insistent, twisting the vine as she pulled.
Cleo knew what happened when an invasive species wrapped its roots around another plant - the other plant died. Always. But it stopped the spread, and Cleo was determined to stop this. Not Ian. It didn’t get to have Ian.
The thorns slowed its battle against Ian, and somehow Cleo knew when it turned its attention towards her. The thorns wrapping themselves against her wrists and tugging was a good clue, Cleo thought grimly. Her blood splashed against the vine and she hoped they hadn’t opened the artery in her wrists.
Luck was not on her side. Cleo felt herself weakening, but still she pulled against the mass in her chest. She heard Ian shouting, though his voice sounded very far away.
“I need help,” Cleo said. “I need you to pull with me.”
Her woods did not hesitate. The energy of the green space rippled and she felt warmth wrap around her hands. She didn’t feel the pain of the thorns anymore. She didn’t feel anything but determination to be done.
With the green space supporting her hands, she yanked again. She felt something move deep in her chest.
“Again,” she gasped.
Together, she and the green space yanked. The vine of thorns wrenched out of her chest, leaving a gaping, blood hole.
Cleo sank to the ground, weeping with relief. Ian was there, his hands frantic. He sat on the ground and yanked her into his lap. His hands and claws were gentle, searching for what, Cleo didn’t know. She was a mess of wounds, of gore and abraded skin.
“I feel so light,” she told Ian. It was suddenly vitally
