Chapter 24
“He also heard the sound of a bugle-horn winding in the air, and there seemed to be invisible hunters riding by. He then began to be afraid, but recollected his having heard that any person seeing Gwyllion may drive them away by drawing out a knife. So he drew out his knife, and the fairies vanished directly.”
Not long after the moon fully rises, I feel a pull toward the wood, as if a clawed hand reaches into my belly and hooks my bones. Although I felt the magic call to me when Father was dying, I’ve never felt this before. I draw a sharp breath, hand going to my stomach.
“Gabrielle?” Rylan asks.
“Geas. I must patrol.” I turn away from her and concentrate on taking each step at a quick trot. I want to run. I want to be out of doors. I want to hunt. The magic tells me my prey must be hunted, and for the first time since Father died, I am certain of who I am, where I go, and why.
I gather weapons, fill my pockets with a mixture of salt and seeds, and then walk through the basement door into the tunnel to the stables.
Clatterbuck sees me and nickers. Father’s horse, Imp, also watches me. He’s silent, likely recognizing the night lantern. Clatterbuck hasn’t experienced the wood while wearing the lantern harness.
“Take Imp.” Mother’s voice comes out of the shadows in the stable. “He’s a smart horse, and he came home for your use after your father died.” She tenses as she speaks the word, but she says it aloud.
The Countess of Fleuriste reaches out for the lantern. Mutely, I watch her light and affix the lantern to the harness that’s now on Imp.
“Imp is a Hunter’s horse.” Mother motions me forward. “Clatter is a noble goal, but . . . not yet ready. Tonight, you will ride a Hunter’s horse.”
I swing up onto Imp.
“And you will come home with this horse, Gabrielle. You may be the Hunter now, but I am your mother. I will be obeyed.” The Countess of Fleuriste’s voice quavers as she adds, “I could not endure losing you, too.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Go.”
I do not look back as I let Imp run out of the stable.
I do not call back to remind my mother to go into the safety of the manor.
I simply ride into Brimmond Wood. It is an unwelcoming place even in the light, but under the moon, it is a maze of shadows and strange sounds.
Puddles of shadow are pierced by the lines of thicker branches.
The darkness seems to pool under the shrubs like something thick and viscous.
Cries of the familiar night birds are mixed with growls of equally familiar cù sìth.
Father used to claim, “Same things as in the light, just hidden,” as if the fact that the monsters are hidden isn’t part of what makes them terrifying. The things that creep and bite, slash and kill, are deadly at the best of times. To not see them makes the whole business worse.
Yet the light on Imp will be like a beacon to the monsters, like the Hunter is the prey, as if I am inviting the fiends to attack me. Father limited my nighttime excursions. Now, though, I have no choice.
The darkness feels like it slinks closer. I set out to find the monster that’s been preying on strangers passing through the Brimmond Wood.
“It killed Father,” I say to Imp. “I accepted the summons, Imp. We must hunt now.”
Under me, Imp is the most upbeat he’s been since he returned home without Father. The stable hands regularly exercise him, but it’s obviously different from carrying a rider into the woods. This is what he was trained to do. Of course, the horse missed the sojourns into danger.
“I’m sorry, boy,” I murmur to the horse. “I should’ve thought to take you out sooner.”
The horse, like the things we hunt, isn’t going to speak. Animals don’t. Monsters don’t—usually. But still I speak to them, as if the tone of my voice can convey meanings to both the horses that aid me and to the brutes I will hunt.
Once we cross into the thick trees, I feel like my entire body is listening.
For twigs snapping.
For branches bending.
For throats growling.
There are often wolves, but they aren’t usually the biggest threat—and they aren’t my prey.
The pack of coin shìth, monstrous-size, doglike beasts, that I ride past makes wolves seem like puppies.
The so-called “faery dogs” are clustered together as if something worse prowls tonight. So, too, the wolves.
“These are my woods.” I speak levelly. “These are my people.”
The bright light of the lantern casts a veritable halo of light around me. I’m far from hidden, so my voice is not adding danger. The silence feels unnatural, like when I sit beside a dead body, and speaking feels like power.
Instinct, Father said. You will know because your belly tells you.
It seemed foolish when he said it, but tonight, I feel a pressing need to speak into the shadows. “I will stop you.”
Several moments pass as I ride deeper into the wood, seeing the light reflect in the eyes of badgers, wolves, and a lynx. There are no monsters here. There are no bodies here.
Why does the geas insist I ride?
Hours pass as I ride throughout the forest in a circular pattern. The sun is near rising, but the night and the thick trees make the world seem darker than possible.
“My wood. My people. My—”
“No,” someone answers. “Not yours.”
I peer into the black night, trying to see this creature who thought to argue with me, but all I see are shadows.
A growl echoes around me, as if throngs of beasts circle me.
“Who are you?” I demand. “These are my woods. My space. My duty.”
This time the growl sounds closer, and I shiver. “No man should—”
“Not a man,” the voice agrees with a growl for punctuation. “Nor are you.”
And in a rush of fear, I realize the growls and words are from the selfsame mouth. The creature—for that was what has spoken—stays outside the halo of light, but it circles like a predator. In the shadows, I make out a human-shaped thing wearing a red cap.
“Are you the thing that killed my father?” I ask. “That attacked me?”
“Why would I do that?” it scoffs.
“Excellent question.” I let Imp prance in a full circle, watching the creature, as I think on my list of suspects.
This is not any of the beastlike animals that are more common in the wood.
It is not a nuckelavee, which does occasionally wander out of the river and into the forest. It is not a redcap, with bloodstained skin.
It is no apparition. This is a physical creature.
It speaks as a redcap might, but with an articulation common to human, not beast. The only logical answer is that this is the creature that attacked me, that killed men, that murdered my father.
“You don’t belong here,” I tell it. Whatever it is, it ought to be in Faerie. Not here. Not in our world, and most definitely not in Brimmond Wood.
“You, little wisp, dare challenge my domain?” it asks.
The creature lifts a hand as if to strike me, and I see the sharp claws that jut from its hands, as if its fingernails have grown long and been coated in precious metals. No wonder it can behead men so easily.
“This is my wood. My home.” I draw a sword with one hand and pull out a fistful of salt and seeds with the other, surprised it’s not yet attacked me. “You need to leave.”
Imp steady beneath me, I toss the salt and seeds at the beast.
It laughs, a harsh grating noise, and I see blood on its surprisingly perfect teeth as it mocks, “That won’t work on me.”
Then, it launches at me, flinging its body through the air.
My hand tightens. I’ve seen its strength, felt it toss me through the air, seen men’s heads severed, seen my father die from its strength. I brace for the attack.
Instead of attacking, the creature knocks the lantern to the ground. Glass shatters on the rocks. A brief flicker of fire is snuffed out in the wet loam and moss on the forest floor.
Too long until the sun rises to cast some light in the forest, logic reminds me.
I’ve felt the power in the beast’s arms before, and fear rises. With no light, how do I fight the creature? I will be found drained and bloodless.
I think of my theories then and blurt out, “I hunt here. My father hunted. His father. This is our wood. I am no stranger trespassing in this forest.”
The creature doesn’t answer, but it also doesn’t attack.
I dismount and draw my sword as soon as I realize as I stare at it that I can see better now than with the lantern.
The harsh glare has been an obstacle. I can now see as clearly as in daylight, perhaps more so.
Like my changed hearing, my vision is better.
I haven’t noticed because of the lantern.
Later, I can ponder. For now, I’m faced with a beast as pale as any of the bloodless corpses I’ve seen.
Its hands are weapons, and its eyes look as bloodless as its flesh.
Thick fur covers its lower half and chest. The beast’s arms look like a person’s.
“You look different now that I can see you clearly,” I say without meaning to. I remembered the claws differently. Fear must have clouded my memory.
“You need to stay out of the Brimmond Wood,” the creature says. “It is not safe for you here. You must hunt somewhere else.”
I glance down to see an injured deer at the feet of the creature. “I have no objection to you killing game, but you killed men. They are not food to hunt!”
It frowns. “I do not eat men.”
“Drink them. Whatever you call it,” I say. “Humans are not prey. I have vowed to kill you.”
The creature smiles at me.
“I will not let you prey on people.” I lift my sword, ready to defend against its attack. I’ve felt the strength in those arms twice now. I am admittedly afraid. “You must return to Faerie or die.”
“Faerie? Why would I go there?” The beast laughs. “What a strange thing to say. My life is here.”
“You killed men. They are not—”
“I am not a killer of men unless they threaten what’s mine, little wisp. You would do well to remember that should anything threaten you.”
“Me?”
“My Hunter. My woods.” Then it turns its back on me, as if neither I nor my weapons are of any interest. It is not striking either me or Imp.
The injured deer looks up as the life slowly drains from a gash in its throat, but the creature hefts it in one hand and pulls the animal into its arms as if it weighs no more than a fox.
Why is it not attacking me this time?
The Beast of Brimmond seems almost possessive, as if I am part of its territory. How is this the killer of men? My father’s murderer? The monster that punted me into the air and held me atop my lantern’s fire?
I want to charge after it, but I cannot bring myself to strike it from behind.
I should. I know I should. It murdered my father.
Yet, I lower my sword as the sun rises slowly over Brimmond Wood, spilling watery light into the shadows.
My vision shifts back to what has always been normal but now feels limiting.
I crouch and gather the broken lamp, carefully collecting the glass shards and metal pieces.
Father would have attacked, not talked, guilt insists.
Instead, I tried to reason with the beast, asking it to leave our world. The next time, I will not let fear stop me; I will remember that although it speaks, it is a senseless killer. I’m grateful that my geas did not override my hesitancy.
I ride directly toward home, grateful to be done with patrolling, and hope for some long-delayed rest.