“Do you trust me with your wildness, Matthew?” I stroked his back, lingering on the strong planes of his shoulders and sweeping down toward the small of his back where his trim hips rounded into a swell of flesh. I found the mark I’d left on him, and fluttered my right thumb across the red, sensitive skin.

  Matthew’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move.

  “Let me tell you a story.” I conjured wolfsbane and belladonna into bloom. “Once upon a time there was a prince named Matthew.”

  It was a version of my mother’s bedtime story, the one that had given me ribbons that I could follow to Matthew.

  “He was tall and proud, straight and strong, darkly beautiful—a good man, with a soft heart,” I continued. “But he was taught to hate his Darkness, and cast a spell so that he would never taste its sweetness again. The longer hate held him in its thrall, the hungrier the prince became. He needed the Darkness to sustain him. Without it, he was nothing but Shadow.”

  Seeds of wolfsbane and belladonna, green dragon weed and yarrow, floated through the garden. When they fell to the ground, the seeds blossomed into a carpet of dark indigo, maiden’s blush, white, and yellow flowers.

  “One day a witch found the prince, sleepwalking through life. He was a ghost of his true self.” I drank in the sweet scent of the moon garden. “The witch had Darkness in her, too, and was learning to love it. The prince was still afraid.

  “And so, the witch decided she would do everything in her power to release him.” I faced Matthew. “But she would not do it by hiding from Darkness. She would be hard-worn and hard-won.”

  “Is this where your story ends?” Matthew said, advancing on me with lethal languor. “Here, in the hortus conclusus?”

  I held my ground, and Matthew threaded his fingers through my hair.

  “The maiden’s bower.” Matthew tugged me closer, his hand cupping the back of my neck. “The garden of earthly delights.”

  I relaxed into his fingers, letting him bear my weight. Matthew held me effortlessly, my body suspended in a bow from my toes to the crown of my head.

  “The home of the legendary unicorn,” Matthew continued softly, “held captive for the hunter’s pleasure.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Matthew’s kiss swallowed my words. When we parted he shook his head in warning.

  “It’s my turn to tell a story. Once upon a time there was a beautiful witch,” Matthew said, nipping at my fingers to claim my attention. His lips moved down the curve of my neck, his teeth leaving a ribbon of pain against my flesh, soon gone. “She ruled over a magical land, filled with wonders.”

  He had my undivided attention now.

  “Among the wonders of her kingdom was a creature who survived on blood and dreams.” Matthew’s hands cupped my buttocks now, massaging the flesh as he brought the curve of my body into contact with his.

  “Soon the witch learned how to walk among the creature’s fantasies, his nightmares—the secrets of his mind and heart—until she felt at home. The witch told the creature that she would never leave those dark places,” Matthew continued. “She claimed them as her own, and planted the flag of her kingdom there.”

  Matthew’s head lowered, slowly, slowly, until his lips and teeth found my breast. My body tingled with the love potion that coursed through our veins.

  When his eyes met mine again, my breasts were flushed and rosy, and Matthew’s lips were pink.

  “But the creature could not be so easily conquered,” Matthew said. “The beast in him was too strong. He howled with fury, and the witch cried with frustration.”

  “What happened next?” I said as Matthew dipped his head once more.

  “You’re the witch.” He paused in his descent, his breath cool on my flesh. “You tell me what the future holds.”

  I kicked out, freeing myself. My hands were balled into fists, and I pummeled them against his heart.

  “Goddamn your control. Why won’t you let me in?” I screamed. “Why won’t you let yourself out?”

  Matthew absorbed every blow, the impact not registering as a bruise. His eyes were haunted with longing and hunger, along with a dark, terrible vulnerability.

  It was then that I knew Matthew’s true nature was not the wildness I’d seen in the wood, when he’d played with Becca and the ravens. He was this wounded creature, who needed so desperately to be loved that he couldn’t bear the suffering that might accompany that joy. He could withstand the Darkness, and rejoice in the Light, but could not survive the liminal kingdom of uncertainty that lay in between.

  “Fear and desire,” I murmured. “Oh, Matthew. I am your greatest terror—and your deepest longings—made flesh. For I am Shadow, and neither your Darkness nor the world’s Light has dominion over me.”

  “You want my Darkness?” Matthew grabbed my hands and held them between his. He raised my wrist to his mouth. “Then you shall have it, witch—when I choose to share it. Darkness is my realm, and you cannot command me there.”

  His sharp teeth lanced into my flesh and I gasped in pain. Matthew silenced the sound with a ferocious kiss that left me breathless, and I could taste my blood on his lips.

  I sank my teeth into his shoulder in response, drawing Matthew’s vitality into my mouth, tasting the cold fire of his vampire blood. It was syrupy and seductive, but it burned my throat and left an aftertaste so bitter it brought tears to my eyes.

  I drew the tip of my tongue across my lips, savoring the strange, alluring flavor.

  “I can taste the magic in your veins,” I said, burrowing my head in his neck. “Can you taste it in mine?”

  Matthew’s answer was to carry me into the center of the garden. He laid me down under the apple tree and nestled himself inside me.

  My muscles tightened, an effort to keep him there.

  Matthew had other ideas and glided from my body.

  There was a nibble on my cleft, a delicious swipe of his tongue. Goddess help me, I thought, dizzy at the prospect of the pleasure in store from Matthew’s soft lips and agile tongue.

  My husband surprised me once more, lapping instead at the soft, satin skin that covered the hollow between my pubis and my thigh. He sank his teeth into me a second time, close to the femoral artery. I saw stars as he drank, trembling as he closed the wound with a bead of his own blood, my fingers gripping his head to stop the world from spinning out of control.

  Matthew drew my fingers away and crossed my arms at the wrists. He lifted them above my head, pinning them to the ground with one hand. The fingers of the other delved into me. He kissed me, his fingers stroking me inside and his tongue teasing my mouth.

  I tasted salt and iron, the unmistakable elixir of life. I cried out as ecstasy came within my reach.

  My wolf was in no hurry, however, and his gentle strokes and soft kisses drove me to madness as I sought release.

  When I couldn’t endure the exquisite agony a moment longer, Matthew answered my plea, filling the space he’d made ready for him. My eyes widened as my passion released, the pleasure acute.

  I held on to Matthew for dear life, not wanting the waves of my climax to end, praying they would continue forever. I cried my ecstasy into the night, as sharp and raucous as the ravens who haunted the wood.

  Our dance was as timeless as the battle between the Oak King and the Holly King. Darkness bled into Shadow, Shadow lengthened into Darkness, until we were caught up in the Light of mutual passion. Sated, we lay entwined under the apple tree.

  Matthew’s fingers smoothed the skin on my collarbone, but he made no move to drink from the blue ribbon of my heart vein. Neither of us had held anything back this night, and there was no need for reassurance. Our bodies and minds were replete with the knowledge of what had happened in the Ravens’ Wood.

  “A parent’s love for their child is so simple,” Matthew said, “and wholly unconditional. You mistook its purity for freedom, mon coeur.”

  I lifted my head from the notch of his shoulder, but the expression in his eyes stopped me from answering.

  “What lies between us, vampire and witch, man and woman, is a love of terrifying complexity.” Matthew’s accent softened toward his native French. “We are both caught in its tangles and knots, sometimes the hunter, sometimes the hunted. And sometimes, we are so lost in love’s magic that we neither know nor care whether we are predator or prey.”

  “Do wolves and owls ever play together like this, in the wild?” I asked, drowsy with satisfaction.

  Matthew chuckled.

  “No, my love,” he said, brushing his lips against mine. “Wolves and owls have far too much respect for each other to do so.”

  Chapter 19

  I should have foreseen that the happy bubble in which we floated through the end of June and into July was bound to burst. But the oracle cards, which I’d grown to rely on for daily guidance, did not warn me about the next visitor who would arrive at Ravenswood, or how her message would upend our lives.

  Matthew had taken the twins to magic camp in the midst of a drenching summer downpour and was now back with Gwyneth and me in the barn.

  “What on earth is wrong with the cards?” I said, trying to capture one of them that was flapping in midair. The rest of the deck was moving restlessly on the worktable, unable to settle into a legible pattern.

  Gwyneth’s wards clanged as a stranger tried to pass beyond the witch’s tree. My heart skipped and I scrambled to gather the black bird oracle together and return it to its bag, away from curious eyes. Ardwinna’s ears pricked, and she rose to her feet, growling.

  “Good girl,” Matthew told Ardwinna, stroking her head in reward before going to the door to see what had disturbed her peaceful sleep.

  “No sane person is out and about in this weather.” The damp was hard on Gwyneth’s joints, and pain had darkened her mood. “By ash and bone, the winds have changed, and there’s an ominous portent in the air. Maybe that’s why the cards are misbehaving.”

  Matthew opened the barn door, revealing a car that was stalled out on the top of the rise. We were together at the threshold to witness a small woman get out of the vehicle, its headlights still on and the wiper blades swishing this way and that. She looked like Mary Poppins, with a carpetbag clutched in one hand and a black umbrella in the other. A bedraggled waxed cotton coat with faded plaid lining was slung over her shoulders to keep out the worst of the rain.

  “Janet.” Matthew was a blur, his feet digging into the slippery hillside so he could remain upright in the mud and the wind.

  “It’s Matthew’s granddaughter. Something must be wrong.” I slipped the oracle cards into my pocket before removing an umbrella from the old pickle barrel by the door. I dashed into the rain after Matthew.

  “Are you all right, Janet?” Matthew took the bag and loosened her grip on the umbrella’s bamboo handle. He held the serviceable black canopy over her, providing an elbow for support on the steep descent.

  “Not really,” she replied, her rolling Scots accent thick and strong.

  When I’d first met Janet Gowdie, she’d been living under the guise of a beneficent old lady. Today, Janet wore a disguising spell to appear like a woman in her early forties, even though she was born in 1841. She was dressed in a crocheted patchwork cardigan and jeans, with a pair of orange rubber clogs that suggested she was of an artistic temperament, not afraid of strong color, and liked thrifting at the local secondhand markets. That there was a formidably powerful witch inside the Bohemian outfit, with enough vampire blood in her to live for another two centuries, was not immediately evident.

  With Matthew and I accompanying her, Ravenswood recognized Janet as family and relaxed its wards so that the three of us could pick our way down the muddy incline.

  “It’s fine weather for ducks, but no good for other creatures.” My aunt ushered Janet inside the barn. “I’m Gwyneth Proctor. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

  My aunt would not permit any further discussion until Janet was out of her sodden raincoat, into a pair of dry slippers, and ensconced in a rocking chair by the woodstove. Matthew hovered over his granddaughter’s shoulder, and Gwyneth eased her aching bones into a well-cushioned Windsor chair.

  “Bless you, Gwyneth,” Janet said, taking a deep sip of the piping hot brew my aunt had provided. “Lapsang Souchong. Excellent choice. You don’t happen to have a dram of whisky? The last three days have been hellish.”

  Matthew picked through the shelf of spirits in the alchemical laboratory. Gwyneth kept them handy for tinctures and to make the grounding spritzes she liberally applied to herself before family came to call. He poured a generous measure of a single malt from Islay into his granddaughter’s mug. The resulting brew must have tasted like a peat fire, but Janet seemed pleased.

  Matthew, having confirmed that Janet was not bleeding, broken, or otherwise harmed, broached the subject of what brought her to Ravenswood.

  “What’s happened?” Matthew asked gently.

  “And how did you find us? Did Ysabeau tell you we were here?” I asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to Granny. There’s been a clishmaclaver in Venice, and all hell’s broken loose.” Janet was a font of neglected treasures of Scots dialect. I had no idea what a clishmaclaver was, but Janet’s sour expression indicated it boded ill.

  “You know about the Congregation’s message.” I sighed with relief. “You needn’t have come all this way to warn us, Janet. We already received it.”

  “Not that clishmaclaver,” Janet said. “I’m talking about Meg Skelling.”

  “Meg?” I frowned.

  “She challenged Diana’s fitness for higher magic at the Crossroads,” Gwyneth said.

  “So she informed us.” Janet drew a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her cardigan and smoothed it on her lap before donning her glasses and reading from its contents. “Flashes of brilliant red and gold appeared all over Diana Bishop’s white flesh, with terrible vibrancy and awe-inspiring power. It would seem from Meg’s letter that Diana and her book were a bit rory that night.”

  All of my line have a certain glaem about them. So what? Granny Dorcas apparated into the empty rocking chair beside Janet, her brow bristling and her elf lock trembling. Her sudden presence would have unsettled most creatures, but not Janet.

  “There you are. I thought I smelled a wee ghostie.” Janet clucked with sympathy. “The fae are keeping company with you, I see. How dreadful. You must be covered in bites.”

  Granny Dorcas scrutinized Janet head to toe.

  And you’re like the babes, ’twixt and ’tween. Granny Dorcas gave Janet a sniff. More human than they are, though. Less powerful, too.

  “Right on both counts,” Janet said mildly. “I’m Matthew’s granddaughter, though at three generations removed.”

  “This is Granny Dorcas,” I said, making the introductions. I tried to calculate our relationship on my fingers. “Ten—no eleven generations—removed.”

  Gowdie, you say? Mumbling, Granny Dorcas went to the woodstove. She fished about in the flames with her bare hands, searching for an ember to light her pipe.

  “The Congregation is aware that Diana has the Book of Life within her. Why is this an issue now?” Matthew asked.

  Based on the knowing flicker in Gwyneth’s eyes, she knew about the Book of Life, too. Gossip traveled quickly in witch communities, and news of my earlier discovery had apparently made its way from Venice to Ipswich.

  “It’s an issue because Margaret Skelling claims that Diana learned the secrets of bloodcraft from its pages,” Janet said bluntly.

  “The lost branch of higher magic?” Gwyneth frowned. “Diana knows nothing of that. No witch does.”

  “All appearances to the contrary.” Janet’s eyes sparkled with fury. “Let’s see. What did Meg say?…Flashes of brilliant red and gold…No, I’ve read that bit. Ah, illuminating the word BLOODCRAFT. The wee besom put it in capitals, so we could find it easily amidst the rest of her screed.”

  Our secret was out. Until now, Matthew and I had kept quiet about the fact the Book of Life mentioned bloodcraft in connection with mixed-race children born to blood-rage vampires and weaving witches, though others had suspected as much—Gerbert D’Aurillac, Peter Knox, and Matthew’s son Benjamin chief among them.

  “And to think I let you into the Crossroads with this secret inside you!” Gwyneth cried. “No wonder Meg let you find your way in the wood. Your secrets were an open book to her!”

  “And she was reading it closely,” Janet said. “Though, to be fair, bloodcraft would be impossible for any witch to miss. According to Meg, the word appeared in the middle of Diana’s forehead, sealed with a witchscore.”

  Granny Dorcas was at my elbow. She drew her fingers through the space between my brows, first in one direction, then the other, passing over my witch’s third eye. My skin tingled at her touch, and for a moment I was reminded of the white pattern of feathers on Cailleach’s face.

  The mark of the Crossroads, Dorcas said, her voice hollow, left behind when a witch casts a maleficio and takes her sister’s power.

  “But Meg didn’t take my power,” I said, confused. “Only Mom and Dad did, when they spellbound me. Not even Satu Järvinen succeeded in robbing me of it—though she certainly tried.”

  “Stephen didn’t spellbind you, my dear.” Gwyneth reached for my hand. “Your father didn’t have the training or the skill to work such a complicated piece of higher magic. Only an adept like Rebecca would have the necessary knowledge.”

  “That can’t be true,” I said. “I spellbound Satu.”

  “Then she wasn’t spellbound for long,” Gwyneth pronounced.