Page 27 of Familiar of the Witch

I groaned. With considerable effort, I tore my eyes away from him and tried to bring my errant thoughts back to my day. I reluctantly went through my office to my lab, leaving Bastion to clean and sort out an appointment with Voltaire. I exhaled in relief when I saw the base of the potion was still in stasis. It would be fine.

Before I started work, I pulled out my phone and texted Oscar.Did you get back okay from Liverpool?No need to be more specific than that.

No problem,came the instant reply.I’m Coven side. Frogmatch is with me. Let me know if you need me.

I’ll need a trip to Rosie’s soon,I admitted. I hated using the portal and being stuck in the Common realm,but I’d used a huge amount of magic recently and I’d be using more to finish the final-defence potion. I’d already drunk my vial of ORAL potion, so I’d need a proper recharge.

Just let me know when.

Relieved that Oscar and Frogmatch were safe in the tower – though I’d already been pretty sure of that from the orange juice and oats in my fridge – I turned my mind to potion making. I slipped out of my heavy skirt, leaving me in my leggings, before I removed the cauldron lid and broke the stasis spell.

I lit a fire under the pewter cauldron to start warming its contents then pulled a ladder over to my ingredient store. I climbed up, selected half-a-dozen ingredients including the incredibly rare kiteen leaves, and carried them to my immaculate workstation. Paranoia made me clean the surface again before I started work; I couldn’t risk this potion being contaminated.

I slipped the thermometer into its wooden frame and swung it so that the end dipped into the potion’s surface. It was still far too cool for me to add anything, so I busied myself with the rest of the preparations. My hands were steady as I lifted the purple kiteen leaf out of its safe storage.

I set it down on the work surface and started the painfully slow process of cutting away the leaf, leaving nothing but its broad veins. I tried to stay relaxed: one wrong slice would break the veins and the potion would be ruined.

With this potion I could save Bastion’s life, and Shirdal’s too. And other griffins, ones I hadn’t met, who were as worthy of the life-saving potion as the two griffins who’d wormed their way into my affections.

It was hard to believe how stubborn I had once been, how blind to Bastion’s kindness. I had ignored everything he’d done, even when he’d saved my life time and time again. It was painful to contemplate how wrong I’d been, not just because I despised being wrong, but because I’d wronged Bastion. And I still hadn’t found either the time or the words to apologise to the man who had taken residence in my heart.

The sharp blade nearly slipped and I snarled inwardly; now was not the time to go wool-gathering.Focus, Amber DeLea.

It took a very long half hour to cut away the leaf’s exoskeleton, and the whole time my heart was thundering. One mistake would render the ingredient useless and the potion would be over before it had even begun. But I wasno blushing acolyte, and after forty minutes of careful work the network of veins was exposed.

Whoever had worked out that the veins of the leaf were powerful whilst the flesh of the leaf nullified them was a veritable genius. Whoever they were, their name was lost to history – but I would not suffer the same fate. I had created the ORAL potion; I was the first witch to make the final-defence potion in nearly a decade, and I was the first witch in living memory to have a magical creature familiar.

My name might be remembered but so would Bastion’s. I’d make sure of it.

Chapter 23

I decanted the last of the potion into the special round vials that were as much a signature of the final-defence potion as the blackish sludgy liquid inside them. Each vial was the precise dose for a griffin, and one dose would save them from a potentially fatal injury.

The dark liquid did not have the same properties if it was imbibed by any other species; it helped and healed, certainly, but it couldn’t bring them back from the brink of death. There was something in the griffins that was unique to them, their innate connection to death, perhaps. The final-defence potion enhanced that link and allowed them another chance to dodge death.

I had made as much potion as the leaf would allow, measuring each ingredient with razor-sharp precision. Eighteen little vials sat before me and I pocketed one of them. Bastion was irritatingly honourable and I had no doubtthat he would only take one vial. He was guarding my life, and we were about to go head-to-head with another black witch. One vial wasn’t enough. Thinking about it, two vials weren’t enough. I put another vial in my desk drawer. Just to be safe.

I placed the remaining sixteen vials in a special potion pouch made of selkie skin, a rare commodity these days, that was warded with runes to keep the contents unbroken. Such runes painted onto leather had little effect, but selkie skin was another matter. Runes are fickle things.

I felt my wards buzz with a distinctly griffinish air. I knew the feel of that particular griffin. I touched the walls and, with a trickle of my magic, allowed Shirdal into my home.

I cleaned up the laboratory and, when everything shone, I pulled on my skirt. Dressed appropriately, I went back into my office and out to the living room. My balcony door was open and Fehu was resting contentedly on Bastion’s shoulder.

Shirdal was sitting opposite them, sprawled with one leg across the chair’s arm. His clothing was rumpled, his hair unbrushed; if the man would only make a little effort, he’d be quite charming. I had no doubt thathewouldn’t be cleaning up anytimesoon.

Shirdal had a way about him, a relaxed air that eased tensions. He couldn’t possibly be a deadly griffin; he was a drunk and a bum. He let everyone around him underestimate him and then, when the going got tough, so did he. It was quite the transformation that I’d seen on a few occasions, enough to know not to trust the image he projected.

‘Shirdal,’ I greeted him.

‘Sweetheart! It’s good to see you.’

I smiled. I didn’t mind him using that moniker. I held the pouch up for him, gratified to see his eyes widen as he realised what it was. I drew it to my heart and held it there for five seconds with my eyes closed, imbuing it with as much of my protective magic as I dared.

When I opened my eyes, Shirdal was standing up, sharp, solemn and still. By the Goddess, this was the real Shirdal, not the other one. There was no sign of the swaying drunkard; he had drawn himself up to his full height and he looked regal.

The room pulsed with his power and my scalp prickled with the strength of his aura. How could anyone doubt him, doubt his moral fibre? It literally shone from him, his greatness exposed for the world to see. And then I blinked and it was gone.

My heart was pounding and I realised that invoking the Goddess, even in my thoughts, had brought her awareness to me. For whatever reason, she had chosen to show me Shirdal’s true self. It was a timely reminder that the person we present to the world is rarely the whole of us. Instead, it is a shadow of ourselves, the facet of ourselves that wechooseto present. Our true light is reserved for ourselves and our loved ones.

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