“The Black Cloak,” Serafina said.
“I knew it!” Braeden said. “No, Serafina, not that! We just got rid of that infernal thing! We don’t want it back again!”
Serafina expected Braeden’s reaction, but she fixed her eyes on Rowena. “Can you do it? Can you use the silver clasp to restore the Black Cloak to its full power?”
Rowena held her gaze, as if gauging the depth of her conviction, but she did not speak.
“Serafina, what are you doing?” Waysa said, grabbing her arm. “We don’t want to do this.”
Serafina looked at him. “Waysa, think about it. The cycle of injury and rebirth, of struggle and rising, it must apply to the cloak as well…I destroyed the cloak once and it came back. That means it can come back again.”
“The silver clasp is the heart of the cloak’s darkness,” Rowena said. “The cloth is but its skin.”
“But can you do it?” Serafina asked her again, more forcefully this time.
Rowena looked at her. “We would need the wool of black goats, the sheddings of black rat snakes, the entrapping mucilage of pitcher plants, the skin of timber rattlesnakes, and the silk of black widow spiders.”
Serafina swallowed. The list got worse as it went. “We should be able to find the goats and maybe the snakes…” she said, trying to think it through.
“But we need satin fabric made from the silk of black widow spiders,” Rowena said.
“I can’t believe you two are even talking about this,” Braeden said. “It’s way too dangerous to bring the Black Cloak back! What if it falls into the wrong hands?”
“Uriah’s hands,” Waysa said. “I agree with Braeden. It’s far too dangerous.”
“And it’s also impossible,” Rowena said firmly. “I was able to use spider silk thread to sew the areas of the cloak that had been torn, but only my father knows the spells that will force the black widow spiders to weave entirely new fabric.”
Serafina’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you saying that the spiders don’t just provide the silk for the thread, they actually weave the material?”
Rowena nodded. “The spiders weave the fabric, one spider’s thread over the other, like a very tight web. I know the binding spells and the other spells we need, but only my father knows the spells to make the fabric itself.”
“Then we’re stopped before we’ve started,” Waysa said. “We have no choice but to gather our allies, track Uriah down, and strike with everything we’ve got.”
“We’ve already hammered that nail and it’s not going in,” Serafina said, bringing looks of bewilderment from her friends. She turned again to Rowena. “There has to be a way, Rowena.”
Rowena shook her head. “There’s no way for me to force the spiders to make the cloth we need.”
Braeden looked around at his friends in obvious disbelief, incredulous that they would even be thinking about this dire course of action.
“This is a horrible idea,” he said.
Serafina knew that he had far too much experience with the Black Cloak to want to bring it back into the world. But as they were talking, she saw Braeden’s expression change, and he turned away from them.
“Braeden…” Serafina said.
“Is it wrong to use an evil weapon to fight against evil?” he asked, without turning toward them.
Serafina watched him in silence, unsure of where this path was leading him.
“Is this what it has come to?” he asked as he stared at the ground. She thought he was talking about the situation they were in, but then she began to understand.
This was his talent. This was his love. Through the bond of friendship, he could commune with animals, speak with them. But just how far could he go? And even if he could, was it the right thing to do? Was it right to create a terrible weapon if it was meant to be used to fight evil? Or was the weapon itself too terrible a thing to bring into the world?
Finally, after a long time, Braeden slowly turned and looked around at the others.
“These black widow spiders you’re talking about…” he said. “Has anyone actually tried asking them to make the silk fabric we need?”
Rowena stared at Braeden and then looked back at Serafina. “If Braeden can persuade the spiders to willingly weave the warp and weft of the black fabric, then it will create a much tighter intertwinement than a coercion spell. That means the Black Cloak will be far more powerful than it was before.”
“More powerful?” Braeden said in dismay. “It was bad enough before!”
“We’re going to need that power…” Serafina said.
“But hold on,” Waysa said. “Even if we can remake the Black Cloak, how does that solve our problem? What are we going to do with it?”
Over the next few days and nights, the four companions worked and watched, knowing that Death was coming. A stolen breath, a crushing blow, a ball of fire, Death was surely coming.
All across the grounds, large crews of men worked to protect and repair the storm-damaged roads, bridges, house, and gardens, even when the rain poured down.
Each night, Serafina prowled the grounds with Waysa in feline form, patrolling the estate’s boundaries, running together through the forest darkness, their eyes scanning every shadow and their ears prickling to every sound. She knew that their only hope was to be ready.
Serafina loved running through the night. Waysa was fast and strong, always knowing the way. They often ran side by side, challenging each other to greater speed. Other times they hunkered down near a stream or at the edge of a rocky ledge and just listened to the night forest. When they were in their catamount forms, they were together in body and soul.
But she had learned from hunting rats that she should not follow the same pattern every night, lest her quarry learn to avoid her. So on the third night, as they walked outside for their nightly run, she said, “You follow our normal path tonight. But I’ll go a different way, and we’ll meet back here.”
Waysa was reluctant to separate, but he nodded, understanding the reason. “Remember that we’re only patrolling. If you see Uriah, do not approach him on your own. Run like the wind.”
“I will,” Serafina agreed.
Shifting into her panther form, she went out into the night. She traveled southward at speed, through Biltmore’s mud-damaged gardens, past the flooded bass pond, then down along the swollen creek. The area that had once been a small and secluded lagoon where the swans flew was now a large, flooded lake. Whole hills had disappeared. It was frightening how much the landscape had changed and was still changing.
From there she crept through the forest to the flood-breached shore of the mighty French Broad River. She stopped and gazed across the water, looking for any sign of their enemy.