The Summer King by O.R. Melling Page A

her.
    When a few others backed him, a quarrel broke out.
    “Even if we woke her, she cannot fight them. She knows nothing of charms.”
    “We could tell her! If she turns her clothes inside out, puts a nail in her pocket, hangs scissors on the wall, puts a knife in the doorway – ”
    “—salt on the threshold. Daisy chain tea. A horseshoe on the door—”
    “—a sock under the bed. A knife under her pillow—”
    “—her shoes pointed away from the bed—”
    “—running water. A twig of broom. St John’s Wort—”
    “—red thread tied round branch of rowan—”
    “—a circle of white stones to keep her safe—”
    “Enough! We cannot defy the Doom of Clan Egli. You know this.”
    Laurel was fast growing alarmed. Something called the Fir-Fia-Caw were coming for her, and they didn’t sound friendly. Her newfound enemy? The raven-man? It seemed she was supposed to be unconscious, thanks to something in the cookies. But she hadn’t eaten any. That meant Ian was out for the count, as he had scoffed the lot.
    Then she heard it, rising like a wind in the distance, a shriek that chilled her to the bone. As soon as it died down, another followed, and then another. She buried her head under the quilt.
    The fairies themselves were squealing with fright. In a flutter of wings, they fled the room. Only one lingered to whisper in Laurel’s ear.
    “Fare thee well, dear heart.”
    Her champion! Then he, too, was gone.
    As if released from a spell, Laurel jumped from the bed. Adrenaline coursed through her. She had to move fast. This was no dream. The danger was real. The dreadful cries were growing louder. Drawing nearer. Whatever the Fir-Fia-Caw might be, they were coming for her .
    She pulled off her pajamas and turned them inside out. What else did they say? Sock under the bed. Knife under the pillow. She threw her socks under the bed, then remembered the one about pointing her shoes outward. No good, she had to wear them! When she ran into the other room, she was brought up short.
    Ian lay sprawled on the sofa. The biscuits had obviously taken affect before he went to bed. He was still dressed, and his arm dangled to the floor over the book he was reading.
    She rushed to his side and started to shake him.
    “Ian, wake up! Something’s coming! Wake up!”
    His breathing was shallow, his skin even paler than usual. An image flashed through her mind. The effigy of a knight carved on a tomb. Her anxiety was peaking. She couldn’t stop to help him. She had to make the cottage safe.
    A storm was brewing outside, as if stirred up by the howls of the Fir-Fia-Caw. Gusts of wind struck the house. The thatch groaned under the lash of a downpour. Thunder roared overhead, making the doors and windows shudder.
    Laurel grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and shoved it under the cushion behind Ian. There was another charm to do with knives—yes!—she put one at the door to the porch. And another to do with doorways. She ran to get the salt. She couldn’t possibly remember every item, but the more the better. The fiendish cries spurred her on.
    She turned on the taps for running water. Was there something about scissors? What else? What else! A circle of white stones to keep her safe. The pebbles that lined the path! She ran out the door.
    The night was pitch-black and angry. A fist of rain struck her, soaking her to the skin. Wild with panic, she raced down the path, grabbing at stones.
    Shrieks erupted overhead, screeching down like missiles.
    When Laurel looked up, her heart froze.
    The sky was alive and writhing. Ragged shapes flew toward her, great shadows from the dark side of the moon. As they drew nearer, she saw them: giant ravens with eyes that glowed silver-white like lightning. Seven there were, with razor-edged wings and curved beaks like scimitars. Carrion birds. Flesh-eaters. The Fir-Fia-Caw.
    Laurel was paralyzed with terror. There was no time to return to the house! Now she scrambled to make a circle of