Chapter 4 Hecate's daughter

Then again, lightning split the sky over the rise ahead, and Hunt winced as much in memory of his grief as from the flash.

Goddess of the moon, Mayra had come for him, so he thought. For she was beautiful and her hair as bold as the fire. She wore black, a strange garb, and immodest enough to leave her arms bare and allow the swell of her breast to rise from the bodice. lt felt straight as rain, its tops grazing her shoulders and round her neck was a gold like pentagram she wore.

Kneeling beside him, she laid her hand on his brow, her touch as cool and soothing as spring rain. She smelled of the forest and earthy.

She wavered in his vision a moment, then recrystallized. Her eyes were as green as the goddess's but her touch was human.

For a moment, he longed to simply lay his head upon her breast and sleep with that scent filling his head. "Who are you? How did you get into the circle?" He watched as she busied herself, as women would, dipping water from the well, heating it with his fire.

"Wolves,"

She murmured, shivered. And in that shudder, he felt her fear. "Sometimes l dream of the black wolves, or humans. Sometimes it's the woman. Begin the worst. But this the first time I've dreamed of you."

She paused, and looked at him for a while with eyes of deep and secret green. "l know your face."

"This is my dream."

Again and again the lightning continued to strike.

She gave a short laugh, then sprinkled herbs in the heated water that was by the corner. "Have it your way. Let's see if we can help you live through it."

She passed the cup over to him. "Power of healing, herbs and water, brewed this night filled with lightning, storms by Hecate's daughter. Cool his fever, ease his pain so that strength and sight remain. Let this simple tea be stir of magic, so mote it be."

"You're a witch." He managed to prop himself on an elbow. "Gods save me."

She narrowed as bold eyes, and smiled as she stepped to him with the cup. And sitting beside him, braced him with an arm around his back.

"You're a witch. Aren't you?"

"l'm not." He had just enough energy for insult. "l'm a bloody sorcerer. That cup, the thing it. It smell is foul. Get that poison away from me."

"What ever it may, it should cure what ails you."

She simply cradled his head on her shoulder. Even as he tried to push free, she was pinching his nose closed and pouring the brew down his throat. "Men are such babies when they're sick. Look at your hands! filthy with blood. I've got something for that as well."

"Get away from me you witch. Stay off me." He said weakly, though the smell of her, the feel of her was very seductive. "Let me die in peace, please leave me."

"You're not going to die. Even if, at least not now." As she gave the wolves a wary glance. "How strong is your circle?"

"Strong enough."

"Hope you're right thou."

Exhaustion and the valerian she'd mixed in the tea had his head dropping again. She shifted, so she could lay his head in her lap. And there she stroked his hair, kept her eyes on the fire. "You're not alone anymore," she said quietly. "neither am l."

"The sun.... Like how long till dawn?"

"l wish l knew. You should get some sleep now."

"Who are you? Why should I sleep not knowing whom am it."

She was gone when he woke, and so was the fever. Dawn was a misty shimmer letting thin beams through the summer leaves.

The wolves there was only one, and it lay gored and bloody outside the circle. lt's throat had been ripped open. Even as he gained his feet to step closer, the sun beamed white through those leave, struck the carcass.

Hunt busied himself, brewing more tea. He was nearly done when he noticed his palm was healed. Only the scar remained. He flexed his fingers, held his hand up to the light in delight as he could move without pain.

lf what had come to him in the night had been a vision rather than a product of a fever dream, he supposed he should be grateful.

Still, he'd never had such vivid vision. Nor one who'd left so much of itself behind. He swore he could smell her still, and hear the flow and cadence of her voice.

He washed, and while his appetite had come back strong, he had to make do with a little honey, some tough bread and berries.

He remembered that in his vision or dream, the last said she'd known his face. How strange that somewhere in the center of him, he felt he'd known hers.

He closed the circle, salted the blackened earth outside it. He set off at a gallop, once he was in the saddle.

There were just fields, rolling green, back to the shadow of mountains, and the secret dept of the forest. There were no signs, no beautiful witches, no wolves on the rest of his long journey.

But now, he knew his way, would have known it is a hundred years had passed. So he sent his mount on a leap over a low stone wall and raced across the last field toward home.

He loved the Michrie valley, loved begin surrounded by the mountains. He loved the small town feel, with cottages mix of quaint.

Even when he was younger, growing up in the suburbs of Michrie valley was exactly the sort of place she'd imagined living in. He craved the hills, with their shadows and textures, and the tidy walkways of the valley town.

He could see the cook fire. He imagined his mother sitting in the parlor, tatting lace perhaps, or working on one of her gardens.

His father might be with his man of business or out riding the land, and his married sisters in their own cottages, with young Nola in the stables playing with the pups. All waiting, hoping for news of her sons. He wished he brought them better.

The house was tucked in the forest, because he's s grandmother, she who had passed power to him, and to a lesser extent, Dave had wanted it so. lt stood near a stream, a rise of stone with windows of real glass. And it's gardens were his mother's great pride.

The decision to someday fold himself into the gardens of Michrie valley had been made when he was born and spent most of his early years here with the parents.

One of the servants hurried out to take his horse. Hunt merely shook his head at the question in the man's eyes. He walked to the door where the black banner of mourning still hung.

Inside, another servant was waiting to take his cloak. Herein the hall, his mother's and her mother's tapestries hung, and one of his father's wolfhounds raced to greet him.

After them had greeted him, he left them behind, walked up the stairs to his mother's sitting room.

She was waiting, as he'd known she would be. Sitting in her chair, her face carried all the weight of her grief, and went heavier yet when she saw what was in his eyes.

"Mother...."

"You're alive. You're well." She got to her feet, held out her arms to him. "I've lost my youngest son, but here is my first born, home again."

"Mother... You're well too. l have much to tell you."

"And so you will, son."