I went from stirring the mists of memory to a minor revelation—Tanner Marechal had gorgeous feet. One heel rested on a chair rung, the other leg stretched forward. That I might have a foot fetish was news to me, but I wasn’t complaining. Nope. No complaints at all.
“Calli.”
My gaze flew to his, and my cheeks warmed.
“I have an idea,” he said, “a way for you to participate in the actual warding. I’ll do a simple three-part, basic protection: Warn. Protect. Defend. Prévenir. Protéger. Défendre.”
“Is that French?”
He nodded. “French was my first language. We’ll lay the perimeter ward first then come inside and apply wards to the windows and doors.”
“How can I help?”
Tanner slouched deeper into the chair and brought one heel to rest on the edge of the seat. He rubbed his bent knee, his gaze on the fingers playing a random rhythm against the bare wood of the dining table. “We’re going to brew a concoction using plants from your land. And some of your blood.”
“My blood? Isn’t blood used for…for bad magic?”
“The addition of blood creates stronger wards, and using your blood will tie the protective spells to you and your kin. There are wards in place already. They’re weak, but they’re blood-bound too.”
That was news to me. “Can you tell whose blood was used to create the wards?”
“I might be able to with time but not tonight.” He stared at me a moment and continued, “Do you get many visitors?”
“I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “But the boys do. Lots of their friends come in and out, sleep over, that kind of thing.”
“I’ll set the wards to admit anyone directly connected to the three of you.”
“Can you keep out my ex?” I was joking. Kind of.
“Seriously?”
“No, I’m just a bit upset with him right now.” I busied myself with rolling the waistband of my at-home pants, which were a little long for traipsing through the woods.
“Has he been bothering you?” The golden glow I’d first seen earlier in the day flickered around Tanner’s eyes and lashes. The faintest crackle split the air around his agitated fingertips.
“Physically, not at all. It’s…” No, I wasn’t going to spill the details of my failed relationship to this man, not yet. Not until he put shoes on and stopped glowing. “It’s not important.” I started for the front door. “Is there a particular plant I should gather?”
“Anything with thorns.”
Basket handle over one arm, clippers in the other hand, I gathered leaves and a couple of hard, unripe fruit from the crabapple tree in the center of my backyard. I wasn’t sure if Tanner wanted me to collect the actual thorns; I snapped a few off the tree just in case. The patches of wild blackberries and cultivated raspberries yielded stems, leaves, and juicy fruit. Closer to the woods, low-growing salal whispered its presence and offered up sharp-tipped leaves and ripening purple berries.
I stopped in the middle of cutting a sprig. Bears loved salal, though the island didn’t have much of an ursine population. An inner urge said to add the plant, but actively seeking and trusting my intuition was an atrophied muscle so I paused. Fur brushed the side of my thigh, and a wave of protective energy surrounded me from the ground up and over my head.
“Thank you,” I whispered, dropping three clusters of waxy leaves and dark purple berries into my basket.
Was Tanner expecting me to drink the tea? An image of the two of us walking the ambit of my property, peeing at strategic points, offered a giggly respite to the stress still playing through my body. I wasn’t sure what else to add to my collection of thorny things, so I sat on the ground and asked my land what more it had to offer, not expecting an answer but eager to see if I was on a roll.
Mullein.
The opposite of thorny and a purported apotropaic, mullein harbored the ability to ward off evil spirits. More esoterically, its flowering stalk was used by men to designate their romantic intentions. A cluster grew outside my garden’s fence, year after year.
I cut one tall stem bursting with small yellow flowers, collected a few oversized, velvety leaves, and headed to the house.
Tanner had a pot of water simmering on the stove.
“Lots of thorny things and some mullein,” I said, tilting my haul for his perusal.
“Mullein?” He tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin before instructing me to chop everything I’d collected and add it to the water. “I’ll need a paintbrush. Preferably one you haven’t used.”
“Anything else?”
“Your blood.”
I shivered. I’d already had blood drawn today, stored in vials on their way to a Vancouver lab which, I assumed, handled the testing of biological material taken from Magicals, not humans. “How do you plan to get it?”
“I’ll prick your fingertip. This tea doesn’t require much.”
Tanner positioned another cutting board next to the one I was using and set about chopping and mashing handfuls of plant matter before dumping them into the cook pot. Once we were done and had scrubbed most of the stains off our hands, he took his laptop to the living room while I tackled the laundry.
Towels washing, and dryer emptied, I sat at the dining table and watched as Tanner poured the liquid off the macerated plant matter through a stainless-steel mesh strainer and into a wide-mouth canning jar. When he stood himself next to me, knife in hand, and set the jar near my elbow, I assumed getting my blood was next and extended my left arm.
“I don’t think I can watch this part,” I admitted, “but take what you need.”
Tanner’s fingers were strong and gentle. He used the knife to puncture the tip of my ring finger and squeezed, released, and repeated, occasionally massaging my palm. I lost track of time, pictured bright red liquid flowing from the golden tip of a calligrapher’s pen, and was
