“Carys!”
Bowen heard her distinctive husky American voice, and something within him clenched even as he forced himself out onto the veranda despite his bloody impractical clothes and his even stupider shoes.
“Tamsyn!” he shouted, lifting a hand against the freezing rain that was rapidly becoming snow.
He saw her then in the light from the windows, standing on the brown lawn with her arms folded tight around her as she stared out at the tall, dark hedges in front of her. The blond wig she was wearing was definitely worse for wear and listing to one side as she threw one arm out in the direction of the garden maze. “She went in there!” she called back, and muttering every curse word he knew—yes, in all the languages—Bowen jogged down the few stone steps to where Tamsyn stood, shucking off his tuxedo jacket as he went.
The freezing rain bit into his shirt as he lowered his jacket around Tamsyn’s shoulders, and she used both hands to pull it tighter around her. Her wig was sodden now, and without thinking, Bowen pushed it from her head, letting it land with a wet splat on the lawn.
“Which way did she go?” he asked over the wind, and Tamsyn lifted an arm toward the center of the hedges.
“She turned left once she hit the statue,” she replied, and sure enough, there was a marble figure rising into the night, a woman with flowing hair and raised arms, a crown of crescent moons rising white against the black sky.
Hecate, goddess of witchcraft.
“It’s so cold, and that dress was so thin,” Tamsyn said. “She didn’t even grab her shawl.”
Bowen had lived over thirty years on this planet. Had wielded powers few had ever dared touched. Had dared things few had ever dreamed.
But he had never been in love. Never once until here, in this moment, standing in a freezing garden looking at a woman—a human—with wet hair streaming down her back, her skin pale and pebbled with gooseflesh. Someone who had come here to steal a jewel worth a life-changing amount of money, but who, when the woman wearing that jewel had vanished into a cold, harsh night, could only worry that that woman wasn’t wearing a coat.
Christ, he loved her. Desperately, irrevocably.
Completely and totally.
He was still standing there, accepting that knowledge, when the love of his life slapped his chest with one wet hand and yelled, “Fucking do something, you dumbass!”
So he did.
“Carys!” he called, moving into the garden maze, shrubs leaving nearly frozen droplets on his sleeve. Behind him, he could hear Tamsyn also calling the bride’s name, and the wind seemed to pick up, distorting the sounds, making every footfall louder than it was.
The rain was harder now, colder, and Bowen wiped it from his eyes as he squinted into the darkness, taking one turn, then another, Tamsyn right behind him.
Finally, he rounded a massive hedge and found himself in a clearing. There was another statue here, a slim marble figure that looked more modern than the ancient Greek goddess of witchcraft. From all the jewelry carved on the sculpture, he figured it might be Lady Angharad Meredith back in her debutante days, but he was more interested in the person kneeling in front of it.
Carys’s white dress was sodden, and Bowen could see the pink of her scalp through her soaked hair. She was crying, and in her hands, he could make out the dim glitter of Y Seren.
She was muttering to herself in Welsh, but the rain and wind drowned out the words. That didn’t mean Bowen couldn’t feel them, though. Whatever she was saying, it wasn’t gibberish or grief.
It was a prayer.
No, worse.
It was a spell.
“Carys!” he shouted, and she looked over at him, her face contorted with agony.
“You knew him!” she cried out, just as Tamsyn appeared at Bowen’s side, out of breath and streaked with mud from the shins down. “You knew Declan. You were his friend, he loved you, and I . . .” Breaking off, she stared at the brooch in her hand. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”
“You do, though,” Tamsyn said, stepping forward. Her heels sank into the mud, and she flailed one hand out. Bowen caught her easily, steadying her and moving forward as she did. “Carys, I didn’t know Declan, and I’m sorry. It seems like you really loved him. But even if he’s not here, you don’t have to marry David. No one can make you! Hell, Bowen and I will drive you out of here right now. Right this second if that’s what you want. Isn’t that right, Bowen?”
She looked over at him, and Bowen could only nod, rainwater spilling down his beard and into the collar of his shirt.
“That’s right, Carys!” he yelled. “We can leave right now if you want to. Declan wouldn’t have wanted you to grieve like this. Or to marry someone if you didn’t want to.”
Carys stayed on her knees, her body curling further inward. “I can fix this!” she shouted over the storm. “I can undo it all!”
Confused, Bowen made a step forward, only to be brought up short by Tamsyn’s hand on his arm.
“Look,” she said, and even though she was barely whispering, he could hear her over the rain.
Carys was still kneeling, Y Seren clutched in both her hands, but as they watched, it began to glow.
The air around them felt electric, like anything he touched right now would shock him, but Bowen still reached for Tamsyn’s hand.
She took it, and sure enough, an electric pulse zinged through him, but he only held her tighter as the very ground started to shake.
“Take it back!” Carys cried, raising her head to the sky. She was still pale and fragile, but Bowen could feel the magic pulsing through her, and suddenly remembered just why it was that the Meredith family had been so feared for centuries.
“All of it!” Carys continued, holding the brooch to the turbulent skies. “Whatever can be undone, so be it!”
There was a crack of lightning, and next to him, Tamsyn yelped.
And then Bowen was . . . slipping.
Sliding.
Falling, even though Tamsyn’s hand was still locked tight in his.
