Page 8 of Whisker me Away
"Then why are you here instead of finishing your work with the lovely Miss Bloom?"
Kieran stared into his bourbon, searching for an answer that didn't make him sound like a jealous teenager. The truth was, watching Rowan fuss over Freya had triggered something primal and possessive.
"Because," he said finally, "some traps are too dangerous to spring."
"Or," Maeve said with obvious satisfaction, "some traps are exactly what you've been waiting for your whole life."
5
FREYA
Freya pressed her shoulder against the cottage's stone foundation, her breath forming small clouds in the crisp September morning air. She'd been awake since four, unable to shake the feeling that yesterday's investigation had barely scratched the surface of what was really happening. The heritage roses hadn't just died randomly. The pattern was too specific, too targeted. Someone or something knew exactly how to strike at the heart of her family's magic.
And she was tired of feeling helpless.
Her grandmother had always been secretive about certain aspects of their family's history, deflecting questions with gentle smiles and promises of "when you're older, dear." But Freya was twenty-four now, had been managing their magical legacy alone for three years, and "older" had apparently never come.
Years ago, she'd overheard her grandmother muttering about "the hidden records" during a particularly difficult binding ritual in the garden. At the time, Freya had assumed it was just the ramblings of an elderly woman under magical strain. Now, facing the systematic destruction of everything herfamily had built, she was willing to chase down every half-remembered hint.
Her fingers found a stone that shifted slightly under pressure. Heart racing, she worked it loose from the mortar with the persistence of someone who'd grown up coaxing stubborn plants to bloom. Behind the stone lay a small cavity lined with what looked like old spell-work to keep moisture out.
Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth and practically humming with residual magic, was a leather journal she'd never seen before.
The cover was worn smooth by countless hands, stained with what looked suspiciously like blood around the edges. When she opened it, her grandmother's familiar handwriting filled the first page, but written in the formal script of the old tongue reserved for the most sacred rituals.
Freya sank onto her cottage's back steps, pulling her shawl tighter against the morning chill as she began translating the archaic Gaelic. The first entries were standard botanical notes - soil composition, moon phases, harvest timing. But as she turned the pages, the content grew darker.
"The roses are not merely the heart of our magic. They are a lock, and we Bloom women are the key to something that must never be freed."
Her blood went cold. This wasn't just family history. This was a warning.
Page after page revealed the truth her grandmother had hidden from her. The Bloom women weren't just healers and gardeners. They were guardians, bound by blood magic and ancient oaths to protect Hollow Oak from something that made the usual supernatural residents look tame by comparison.
Hollow Oak's location wasn't coincidental. The town sat at the convergence of ley lines that had drawn dark magic to the Blue Ridge Mountains for centuries. Cursed relics, twisted fae courts, corrupted plant spirits, malevolent ghosts - all of themwere attracted to the power that pooled beneath the mountain soil like water in a deep well. The town's protective Veil didn't just hide supernaturals from human eyes; it contained things that would make humans run screaming.
And sleeping beneath it all, bound by her great-great-grandmother's blood sacrifice, lay an ancient plant spirit called the Thornweaver.
Freya's hands trembled as she read the description of the creature that had once been a dryad, corrupted by exposure to the raw dark magic that seeped up through the ley lines. It fed on botanical life, twisting healthy plants into extensions of its own corrupted consciousness, spreading like a plague across any land it touched.
"Celeste's binding was brilliant but costly,"her grandmother had written."She used her own life force to power the spell, channeling it through the heritage roses and sealing it with blood from every woman in our line going back seven generations. But such bindings weaken over time. They require renewal through willing sacrifice, performed when the bloodline's magic runs strongest."
Freya flipped frantically through the pages, searching for details about this renewal ritual. Instead, she found increasingly worried entries about the binding's deterioration.
"I can feel it stirring in my dreams. The Thornweaver whispers to me through the root systems, testing the boundaries of its prison. The roses have been restless lately, their blooms taking on strange colors. I fear I have waited too long to begin Freya's true training."
"She thinks she knows everything about our family's magic, but how can I explain that everything she's learned is just the pretty surface? How do I tell her that our real purpose is to be jailors to a nightmare? She's so proud of her healing work, so confident in her abilities. The truth would shatter that."
"The binding requires not just magical strength, but absolute certainty of purpose. Doubt creates cracks that the Thornweaver can exploit. Freya's magic is powerful, but she's never been tested. Never had to choose between her own desires and duty. I need more time to prepare her properly."
The final entry was dated just two days before her grandmother's unexpected death from a heart attack.
"It knows I'm dying. I can feel the Thornweaver pressing against the weakening bonds, feeding on my failing strength. Freya isn't ready. Her magic is unfocused, undisciplined in the ways that matter most. She's never learned to sacrifice for others because I wanted to protect her innocence as long as possible. If the bloodline connection fails completely, if she cannot renew the binding when the time comes, the Thornweaver will break free during the peak magical season. Mother forgive me for the choice I'm about to force on her."
The journal slipped from Freya's numb fingers, landing on the stone step with a dull thud. Everything made horrible, perfect sense now. The heritage roses hadn't been attacked by an outside force. They were dying because the binding spell was failing, weakened by three years of her incompetent stewardship.
She was supposed to be the guardian. The protector. The next link in a chain of women who'd sacrificed everything to keep Hollow Oak safe. Instead, she'd been playing at running an apothecary, completely oblivious to the ancient evil stirring beneath her feet.
Her grandmother had died before completing her training because she thought Freya wasn't ready to handle the truth. Wasn't strong enough, mature enough, selfless enough to carry the real family legacy.
