THE YEAR is 1877.
When Talia Rose steps into a fairy ring as a child, her mother, Tate Rose, an outcast witch, signs a deal with a dark fae to delay Talia's inevitable surrender until her eighteenth birthday. A deal that will allow Talia to be taken...
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TATE SETTLED TALIA UNDER the shade of a squat pinyon pine. The crooked branches spread like bird wings and covered the patch of sand at its roots in a mottled shadow, providing just enough shelter and shade to be comfortable. Tate kicked half-seeded pinecones out of Talia's reach. She knew full well that once her daughter finished eating her sweet cherries and cheese, there'd be little, curious fingers out to find more than just pinecones.
Unhitching the string of bells from Basile, Tate wound them through the pine branches letting the aged fabric and brass chime softly over Talia's head.
Dear friends, Tate thought, repetitiously. We are grateful...She let the rest fade, brief recognition enough to set her mind at ease. Talia was protected. Tate had seen to that, sewing sigils in black thread on the inside of Talia's small chemise under the full moon.
"Be good now, love," Tate said. On her knees, she carved a circle in the sand with rigid fingers—one last trick—yanking her skirts out from under her as she crawled about Talia's perimeter to connect both ends. She leaned in, careful not to smudge the barrier, and kissed Talia's forehead.
Talia sat atop the saddle blanket flecked with stray horse hair. A dark crease ran the width of the rough fabric, marking the fold where the saddle snugged against the withers. She paused on the round, glossy cherry she'd been chewing, mouth juice-stained red, and pressed the battered half to Tate's lips. Tate smiled. Ignoring the spittle attached to the gift, she ate it, warming to the delight on Talia's tiny face. She spent a few minutes each morning slicing cherry stones free to please the baby, and this was the usual reward.
"Thank you, ma'am. Now, stay put."
Tate climbed to her feet and brushed the sand off her hands. Taking up Basile's reins, she led the horse a yard or two by the hackamore to water seeping between rock layers in the gorge wall. A strange thing in the desert, this water. It sprung from an invisible source, dampening rock and darkening moss on its descent. The trickle turned to a steady stream above, falling off a ledge to pool inside a handmade basin at their feet. Hardened clay pitched to catch the precious water in a futile attempt to carve hope from the inhospitable.
Basile lowered his big head. His nostrils flared, enticed by the scent of clean water. He brushed his muzzle against the surface, bright droplets caught on his long whiskers. He huffed once and dipped for a slow, steady drink.
"Thattaboy," Tate slapped his outstretched neck, raising trail dust. She curried his coat with her fingers. They'd shed the saddle on arrival, but the deep sweat stain on the gelding's back was slow to fade. An itchy memory Tate scratched at idly as she surveyed their surroundings. Her gaze moved from Talia, still eating beneath the struggling pine tree, and slid toward the Offering Altar.
The altar was nothing as she remembered. In her time spent lying on it—minutes, hours, days?— she'd been entirely in the Half-Light, not a stitch in reality, and while reality dressed the altar as a red stone table, naturally laid on boulders, waist-high, what she remembered from the Half-Light was utterly different.
