Chapter 3

Back in modern times…..

They say that life isn’t fair, but as far as Rhychard was concerned death was even more unfair. The worst part, at least for him, was that unfairness seemed to have filled his life as of late. First, death swallowed his beloved Renny and those at Harvest Fellowship who didn’t make it out before the gargoyles ripped them apart or who were left behind as the church imploded. Then, death claimed many of the residents of the Bottoms the night they faced off against Bertram Leary. In his sleep, he heard the screaming of the dying during the battle at Feather Lakes, humans, elves, and gargoyles alike. He snorted a small burst of laughter. What a name for the history books—The Battle of Feather Lakes. Sounded more like some Broadway number than an actual battle with the Unseelie. Yet, it had been a gruesome fight, costing many lives, including that of the young witch, Rose Tillery.

The ground was still wet from the rain that poured all around them, rain that wasn’t soaking them due to the fact that the Cauldron Coven spelled the area, creating a bubble of sunshine around the gravesite. The elderly witch, Wanda Patterson, had been adamant about Rose’s funeral not being a dreary affair. That didn’t stop the thunder from echoing around them, or the lightning splitting the sky within fifty feet of the grave, while around the plot all was calm. At least calm as far as the weather went; the emotions of those surrounding the grave were anything but calm. Far from it. The gathering of souls around the gravesite of the twenty-four-year-old was a mixture of anger, grief, and even confusion. Every person—or faerie—gathered around Rose’s grave stared at the opening, the casket perched above it, their minds on the recent battle and the lives that were lost. Lives had been changed; some for the worse and others for the better. Rhychard Bartlett squeezed the hand of Renny Saunders as he thought that his was one of those that had changed for the better.

The minister continued, his book open before him as he spouted off about life after death and the reunion of souls one day. Rhychard had tuned him out long ago. He wasn’t sure if the minister knew he was performing a funeral for a witch or not, or how the man would react if he did know. How the man even rationalized the bubble of dry air around them was beyond the Warrior. To Rhychard, it was all moot anyway. He had learned months ago that what people thought of as religion was merely one expression of the Way and the Void, the true paths created by the Elohim who created this world. Right and wrong was not a list of dos and don’ts, but rather were paths determined by the motives of the person committing the act. It took Rhychard a while to grasp what Tryna tried to teach him about the Way, struggling to rectify it with his upbringing. It was an area he still wrestled with, and it didn’t help that the faerie world seemed to keep changing their definitions on him.

Renny squeezed Rhychard’s hand as she glanced up at him, her smile suggesting she understood where his mind was at that moment. He had the love of his life back from the dead, and yet, while he rejoiced that it was so, it seemed so unfair considering they had lost the young witch in the battle to stop Bertram Leary. It was just another instance of where his life was anything but normal.

When the minister finished speaking, Tansy Paxton, owner of the Murky Cauldron and the witch who headed up the Cauldron Coven, moved to where he stood and took over. She stared out at the gathered crowd, her dark eyes bloodshot from the tears she had shed. However, she stood tall, her thin frame determined to see this through and do her assistant justice. “I hate that we are here,” she said. “I hate that this is even necessary, and my heart aches because I want so badly to hold Rose in my arms or to tell her to dust the shelves, or to fix us some tea.” Those gathered smiled, and some chuckled softly at the images Tansy brought to mind. Taking a deep breath, the witch continued. “After what happened at the Bottoms, I blamed myself, accusing myself of not protecting Rose enough, or perhaps I hadn’t taught her enough to protect herself, prepared her for such a fight. I blamed myself for Rose’s death. And I know there are others here who blame themselves as well.”

Rhychard glanced over at Buttercup, her arms wrapped around herself, doing her best to hold it together for just a little while longer. He saw her sister, Jayden, beside her, her arm wrapped around Buttercup’s waist as the two stood there, staring at the open grave before them. He knew Buttercup blamed herself as well; she had said as much since that dreadful night. If she hadn’t allowed herself to be captured by Bertram Leary, if she hadn’t been duped by his sister, Alana, or if she hadn’t even stepped foot into the Murky Cauldron to begin with, Rose Tillery would still be alive, taking care of customers during the day and practicing her witchcraft at night. Yet, Buttercup had done all those things, and Rose paid for it with her life.

“But we’re wrong,” Tansy said, her gaze locked onto Buttercup, her expression soft, filled with compassion. “We’re wrong. We didn’t set the things into motion that caused this; we didn’t bring evil into our city, and we didn’t cast the fatal blow. No. That was someone else, the person who did bring evil to our city.” Tansy glanced at Rhychard, a tender smile spreading across her face. “I remember during the battle when someone worried about Alex and Kayla, saying that they would get themselves killed. My response then was that if they did, they would do it on their terms, standing up for what they believed, fighting for a friend. Rose knew what she was doing, and if she had to do it all over again, I know, without a doubt, she would do it without hesitation. So would I. So would all of us, because that is who we are, that is how we are made. We cannot stand idly by while evil runs rampant. We have to intervene and do what normal law enforcement cannot.”