Page 99 of The Knucker King

Her gaze dropped.

The wide neck of his dark tunic dipped low, revealing the start of the net of scars that now dominated his torso. His sleeves were long, covering the wounds down his arms, and tied off at the wrists with black ribbons. Then there was his purple hose which clung to him like a second skin, accentuating his strong, lithe leg muscles.

“We complement each other,” Avice stated.

They did: his tall to her short, his silver to her black, his dark clothing to her white, matching ashes and flowers. They looked as though they were both the Moon, the stars, and the night sky, all at once.

Trewoofe smoothed the front of his tunic. “We do.”

She tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “You are beautiful, Lord. But I have always thought so.”

His throat bobbed. “Little witch, I have been wanting to ask—”

Bramble whimpered and scratched at the door. Avice! It is time! The Faeries, they are here!

Her pulse quickened. “They came?”

She strode over to the door, unlocked it and threw it open, letting in a blast of frigid air. She stepped under the eaves, ignoring the biting cold on her soles, and swept her gaze around the gloomy garden.

They had come.

The Pillywiggins were there, of course. They squawked and squabbled off to the side, the crow-sized Queen standing to attention at the front of her flock. Avice nodded at the Faerie, who bobbed her head in acknowledgement.

Next were the Caps. Both the red and blue types had emerged from the storm. Their spotted mushroom hats were sprinkled in snowflakes. They reminded Avice of the fruiting tops of the fungus she picked in Autumn. Their bodies were fleshy grey, and their skin was like the mycelium that grew beneath the earth. The tallest stood at the front and pulled her net skirt in a curtsey. Avice bowed in acknowledgement to the Cap Queen.

Then the final group. The Knockers. They had appeared from their burrows deep in the woods. Resembling chubby, diminutive humans, they were dressed in pelts and painted wooden shoes. Their noses and chins were pointed, and most seemed elderly with their hair silvered. At the front of the flock stood the Queen – she was smaller than the rest, wizened and hunched over, giving her a matronly demeanour.

“Only three,” Avice murmured.

Her stomach dropped at the sight. Normally, there were at least ten clans that would come for the ritual. They all benefitted from it, imbuing the land with magic, making the woods and fields more fruitful.

Bramble butted her balled fist, and she curled her fingers in his fur.

“Only three flocks have come… it is not enough.”

Trewoofe loomed behind her. He dropped his hand to his shoulder and gave her a comforting squeeze.

Desperation clawed at her chest. “Ashling.” She flicked her gaze to the Wisp that floated beside her. “You will have to join in.”

He flickered. “But that will hurt you even more!”

“I know, but we need all the magic we can gather to make this work,” she replied. “Please, Ashling.”

The Wisp bobbed and flitted over to the other Good Neighbours, who waited for her to enter the garden so they could begin.

Trewoofe’s grip tightened on her shoulder. “Wait. What do you mean ‘hurt’ and ‘even more’?”

She tossed him a sharpened gaze. “I did not tell you, because you would try to stop me.”

His jaw feathered. “Tell me what?”

That whenever a witch pulls magic from a Good Neighbour, it hurts. Bramble interrupted, looking up at Avice with pleading eyes. I do not like it when you do it. It is dangerous.

Trewoofe spun her around, a hand on each shoulder now, holding her tightly. “You should have told me.”

She looked away from him. “Perhaps. But this ritual is happening, and I did not want the argument, Lord.”

She extracted herself from his grip and stepped out from under the eaves. Her skin immediately prickled from the chill, her teeth chattering wildly in her head. She rubbed her arms as she made her way into the centre of circle the Good Neighbour clans made. Ashling floated above her, illuminating the circle with his light.