The hawthorn is a tree of the fae,
love, fertility, and forgiveness belong to her.
—From An Apprentice’s Guide to Woods and Fire
By J. L. Hansel, Professor Emeritus, Greylock Academy
A short time later, Chandler headed home. Her apartment was in the same renovated 1940s concrete-block garage as her workshop. Comfy and energy efficient, it appealed to both her artsy and practical natures.
Once Peregrine was in bed asleep, she grabbed a bundle of dried rosemary from the kitchen and went out to her terrace. Going down the steps, she beelined for a well-worn trail that led through an overgrown field. Hip-high spires of goldenrod and asters brushed the sides of her caftan. She passed a group of scrap-metal dragons and griffins glistening under the moon’s light, which was one day short of full.
After a few more yards, the field gave way to a circular space of mowed grass. In the middle of it was a coiled path outlined by ankle-high rocks. Her walking labyrinth.
A few days before Chandler had given birth to Peregrine, she’d been drawn to build the labyrinth. She’d tamped down the snow by torchlight to mark its classic outline. In the spring, she’d bundled Peregrine against her chest and walked the labyrinth every day, packing the earth and creating the winding trail one bare footstep at a time. Rather than creating a traditional labyrinth, she’d left a large open area at its center. There, she’d built a firepit in honor of the Great Fire Salamander, her personal guide and guardian, who’d always been there for her, even in the dark days after her father’s death. It was where her magic was the strongest. It was also the spot she’d told Peregrine to go if he ever was alone and needed protection, his safe place.
When Chandler reached the beginning of the labyrinth’s path, she took a deep breath, quieting her mind and opening her heart. As she moved forward, she surrendered her conscious self to the rhythm of her steps and the sense of the earth against her feet. She said a prayer that she was right in believing that the redcap was nothing more than a figment of Peregrine’s imagination—and another prayer that when his gift did develop, it would be anything other than faery sight. She released those thoughts, then asked for guidance and strength on her new journey as the coven’s high priestess.
At the entry to the labyrinth’s heart, she stopped beside the tarp-covered rack that held a supply of firewood and kindling, sorted by size and variety. Her father had always said maple was best for cooking and roasting marshmallows. Oak, birch, and hawthorn were for calling the Great Salamander, the Serpent of the Embers.
She carried an armload of mixed woods to the firepit and assembled a small pyre. The bundled rosemary was the last thing she added. With that done, she knelt. The ley lines hummed in the earth beneath her knees. In front of her, the pyre begged for her to call forth fire. She held out her hands, visualized the rosemary bursting into flame. “Ignis ignite.” Fire ignite.
Using Latin—or even speaking aloud—was technically unnecessary. But it was the way her adoptive mom had taught her the Craft.
Sparks crackle-snapped across the rosemary, responding to her command. They ignited the birch twigs and flared upward to encircle the oak and hawthorn. Sweet smoke filled the air, whirling off into the moonlight.
She focused her magic where the burning wood met the firepit’s fieldstone lining. Fire and earth. Her elements. Her abilities. The gifts that allowed her to work metal with her inborn energy as well as with traditional tools.
“Evigilare faciatis.” Awaken, she called out to the Great Salamander.
Blistering energy whipped from the flames. The surging power seared and curled the hawthorn’s bark. Sap boiled from the logs’ raw ends. Embers formed in the blink of an eye, red and gold brightened by the dance of flames. Within the embers, Chandler spotted the Great Salamander uncoiling his glowing body from the heat, expanding, growing larger as the sense of energy seethed in the air.
“Great spirit, Serpent of the Embers,” she intoned. “Fill me with understanding and wisdom. Guide me.”
His magic blazed hot against her face and arms. His voice resonated in her ears. “Daughter of fire and earth. Open your mind. See with your soul and understand, understand… and see…”
Her skin tingled. Her mind whirled and filled with sparks of ember-colored lights. Darkness descended. Not the darkness of a dream; she was in her own body and watching herself at the same time. A vision, that’s what it was. A gift from the Great Fire Salamander.
Chandler stands beside a different fire. Flames whip-crackle as tall as the distant treetops. Music echoes in the air. Flutes. Drums. Harps. People laugh. People dance. Streamers of white and yellow ribbons flutter in the firelight.
She holds her arms out, looking at the flowing white trumpets of her sleeves. She touches her head and finds waves of long hair encircled by a wreath of hawthorn branches and flowers. This could be only one night. One fire from her past. Over nine years ago now.
Beltane.
An eager hand slides around her waist. In the other hand is a bottle of wine. His touch makes her heart quiver. Wildness twirls in her belly. She smiles at him. He’s perfect. The handsomest May King to ever grace a Council Beltane celebration. Chandler knows who he is, and he knows her, a stand-in May Queen appointed by the celebration committee after the original queen missed the last train from the city. She knows him and takes the bottle from his hand. May wine flavored with sweet woodruff. Potent. Perfect.
She moves with him, away from the fire and noise. The Maiden and the Greenwood Lord falling into the shelter of the forest. New leaves unfurl on twigs. White blooms of the shadberry trees shatter and drift through the moonlight, down onto a glimmering stream.
His mouth is eager against hers, hot and moist, and she urgently needs to feel the mossy earth against her bare skin, to feel him inside her. Naked, he is as gorgeous as she fantasized, with the muscled body of a man who captained the sculling team at Yale. A young witch of notorious powers, from a family of power, a guy so out of her league she’d never dared do more than daydream about being with him.
She closes her eyes, lost in the sensation of his kisses, his lips against her skin. Her dress comes off. Her body arches in response, her moans echoed by others coming from the forest. May Day. Beltane. The night of greenwood marriages. The budding of summer. Of wine, and communal baskets of foil-wrapped condoms—not like ancient times, when the heightened fertility level of the night went unchecked.
He moans as she takes his cock in her hand, exploring the hard silk. She uses her mouth and lips to slide the condom down his shaft.
“Chandler.” He groans her name. That’s something she never thought she’d hear from his lips. Beltane. She’s the Queen, and he’s her May King.
He smooths back her hair and looks at her for a long moment. Moonlight slants down, lustrous on his blond hair and the leaves of his wildwood crown. The light catches on a deep scar that stripes his forehead, missing his left eye by inches before marking his cheek. She knows the story behind the scar, about the fae attack and him fighting them off. His prowess. His skill with magic. His faery sight, which allowed him to see through his attackers’ glamour. The sight the fae fear.
When he enters her, she screams from the pleasure. It’s Beltane. A night for unbridled passion. No questions. No worries. Let the Gods and Goddesses predict the future. Crazy. Wanton. Greenwood sex. As it’s always been for the single and married,
