Chapter 21
Mist covers the ground, swirling around our horse’s hooves as we race past the tombstones and ancient trees. The night air has that crisp quality of impending dawn. The dark shadows are tinged with blue in anticipation of the rising sun. Somewhere, a morning bird begins to sing.
We’re barely out of the cemetery before I hear another sound that makes my blood curdle in my veins.
I glance back to where Hunter’s riding only a few feet behind me. His eyes are wide with fear. He’s heard them too.
“And here I thought I’d never have to hear those god-awful creatures again,” Tristan mumbles in my ear.
The foxhounds were released from the kennels at last.
We press our horses forward, speeding onto the forest road beyond the northern edge of the palace grounds.
We leave trampled field grasses in our wake as we race for the cover of trees.
Just as we reach the forest, the first screams ring out behind us.
Father didn’t waste time warning people that he’s released his pets.
It sounds as though someone got caught in the crossfires.
Hunter maneuvers his horse so we’re racing down the dirt road, side by side. He glares over at the Wolf on my back. “I blame you for this!”
“They’re not after me.” His answer is cut short as we duck under a low-hanging branch just in time.
Hunter doesn’t let him off that easily. “If we hadn’t wasted precious time …”
“She volunteered to escort me north. I never asked you to come.”
“And I never asked you to—”
“We don’t have time for this!” I snap. I can’t stand the bickering, not when the howls and yips of the foxhounds are growing nearer.
They both snap their mouths closed, but something in the line of Hunter’s mouth tells me this argument is far from over … if we escape the foxhounds, that is.
The trees close in around us, branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. Our horses push themselves harder, somehow understanding the urgency. The sound of the foxhounds grows louder, their howls mingle with the frantic pounding of hoofbeats.
My eye catches a streak of orange racing just beyond the tree line.
It’s the first foxhound, unbelievably fast for a creature that spends most of its life chained in a dungeon.
I squint to get a better look. Its orange-red fur is patchy and crusted with filth.
Its jagged, broken teeth are covered in foaming saliva.
It’s no bigger than a normal fox, but it could never be mistaken for anything other than a rabid creature.
It turns its head to look at me through the passing branches and thorny bushes.
Its copper eyes gleam with the excitement of a hunt.
Panic rises in my chest. “Faster!” I call out to the horse, but he’s already running as fast as he can. He knows we’re in danger. He can sense it like the rest of us.
“That thing is not natural,” Tristan says behind us. If we were in a normal situation right now, I’d tell him what I think of his queen’s corpse army. Undead badgers and bears are not strictly natural either.
Suddenly, a group of foxhounds burst through the trees in front of us, barking and snarling.
Our horses scream in terror, nearly toppling over as they dig their hooves into the ground to stop.
It takes everything I have to stay astride.
Tristan leans forward, pressing our bodies flat onto the horse’s back as it leaps and kicks at the foxhounds.
Nearby, Hunter quickly regains control of the gray mare, his years of training with the King’s Guard evident in his skill.
The Wolf is not so lucky.
Tristan crashes to the ground, narrowly avoiding our horse’s kicking hooves. He’s on his feet again in an instant, his stance wide like a fighter’s. While the foxhounds’ copper eyes are focused on the Wolf, Hunter grabs my reins, turns our horses, and retreats into the forest.
“Stop!” I yell, trying to pull the reins from his hands.
“No, Sienna! We have to keep going.” He urges the horses further into the trees.
“We can’t leave him!” I jump off the back of the black horse.
Hunter swears behind me as he dismounts. “And why the hell not?!” His anger only fuels mine.
I whirl around to face him. “Because he has something I need!”
Hunter grabs my arm roughly, clearly intending to drag me away from danger against my will. “Whatever it is, it’s not worth our lives!”
But he’s wrong about that. It’s worth mine, even if it’s not worth his. With as much strength as I can muster, I shove Hunter off his feet, wrenching one rein from his hands as he falls. He lands with a thump, his face startled, incredulous.
I leap up onto the gray mare’s back and we charge through the woods, returning to the fray. The mare’s hooves kick up dirt in our haste. I unclip my red cloak and it floats to the ground in our wake.
On the road, Tristan is surrounded. The growling foxhounds encircle him like a well-trained army, their hackles raised. I run the mare directly through the group, trampling at least one creature. The crunch of bone beneath hooves is startlingly satisfying. I’ve hated these creatures my entire life.
The foxhounds scatter like mice, but it only takes them a moment to refocus.
Several leap at my feet in the stirrups as they claw the mare’s flesh with their broken, overgrown claws.
I pull up my skirts and take out my knife.
I slash at their faces as they leap at me again and again.
My blade scrapes against flesh, bone, and teeth.
The mare shrieks when a foxhound bites her hindquarters. I turn to stab it in its copper-colored eye. It leaps away with a yelp, but it turns back toward us, its eye-socket dripping blood.
More foxhounds leap at the mare. I can’t let her die like this, not like Nell. I jump down to the ground, then smack her rump to send her fleeing into the trees.
The foxhounds are relentless, their teeth bared and copper eyes wild. They limp and skitter around us like injured rats. Part of me pities them for their miserable existence, spending their entire lives locked up in a dark dungeon, starved and tortured by the king.
They should take this opportunity to flee, but they don’t. They’re too blood-crazed to run. They close in around us in a circle of dark orange and filthy white.
Beside me, Tristan is a whirlwind of motion, his movements precise and deadly.
Two foxhounds lie on the ground at his feet, their fur matted crimson with blood.
Tristan moves with surprising speed, his fists flying.
He lands a solid punch to a foxhound’s snout, sending it sprawling.
Another leaps at him. He twists, using its momentum to throw it to the ground.
As I watch, several foxhounds suddenly startle away from him, whimpering and limping. One crumbles to the ground, twitching in what appears to be pain. My eyes travel up to Tristan’s hands. The smoky mist of shadow power seeps from his palms.
I don’t have time to stop and stare for long before another foxhound leaps at me with hungry, feral eyes. I fight with everything I have, using every trick I learned in the borderlands. My knife flashes in the early morning light.
One foxhound knocks me to the ground, its weight pressing me into the dirt.
Its breath is hot and foul against my face as it snaps at me, saliva drips nauseatingly onto my cheek.
I struggle, my hand scrambling for my fallen knife.
I grasp its bronze handle just as a blur of movement knocks the creature off me.
I look up to see Tristan, his eyes fierce with determination. He offers me his hand.
I grasp it, pulling myself to my feet. I grip my knife tightly.
Tristan stands beside me, fists clenched, ready for the fight.
He’s strong, but I can see the strain in his eyes.
My knife is slick with blood, and my arm aches.
Tristan is panting, his punches becoming more desperate.
We’re outnumbered, and the foxhounds show no signs of stopping.
Tristan growls as a foxhound latches onto his arm. It sinks its teeth into his bicep. He pries it off, slamming his fist into its head. The foxhound whimpers and falls, but more are closing in.
Another one lunges at him, but I drive my knife into its throat. Hot blood gushes over my hand. A third snaps at Tristan’s leg, and he kicks it away with a grunt. We’re surrounded, the foxhounds pressing in from all sides.
For a moment, it seems hopeless, but then I catch Tristan’s eyes. There’s a fire there that steadies me. We can’t give up.
“Wrap your arms around me,” Tristan says.
I whirl on him, certain I heard wrong. “What?”
“Just do it, Red!”
It’s either the Wolf or the hoard of hungry foxhounds, so I choose the Wolf. I grab him around the waist and hold on for gods-knows what’s next. His body is firm, and he smells surprisingly like cedar and salt. An unexpected thrill flutters in my chest.
A soundless, purple-tinged shadow explodes out of Tristan’s palms. I duck my head into his chest, thinking this isn’t the worst way to die, if I had to choose.
Everything within a twenty-foot radius of us blows away in a silent burst of power.
My eyes are wide as they readjust to the dissipating, misty shadow that follows in its wake.
Not a single surviving foxhound remains.
When all is silent, I slowly release my grip from around the Wolf.
He turns to look at me, his gray eyes fierce with emotions I can’t read.
I feel a thrill of something deep inside me.
Admiration? Yes. Curiosity, absolutely. But also something darker.
Something akin to jealousy or maybe even desire.
Tristan’s knees buckle, and he sinks to the ground. His head hangs low, his dark hair falling over his face.
That’s when I notice his blood-soaked sleeve. I kneel to the ground beside him and rip the fabric to reveal the torn flesh beneath. The foxhound ripped muscle from bone.
Tristan looks up at me through his curtain of dark hair. Sweat drips down his face and he’s breathing heavily. I wonder if Wolves can succumb to burnout the way we can if we use too much power all at once. This was certainly a large display, but one that saved both of our lives.
“Can you move it?” I ask, touching his shoulder above the wound.
Tristan shakes his head.
“I can help you.”
He just nods.
I close my eyes, breathing deep to steady my racing heart. With practiced movements, I coax the power up and out of my sternum. It travels through my body, pooling golden light into my palms. Gently, I place them on the Wolf’s wounded arm, healing and easing pain through my fingertips.
The tension in Tristan’s face dissolves as he watches me.
He’s never seen my healing power before, since he was unconscious when I saved his life in the kennels.
As the power dissipates, withdrawing back into my depths, Tristan’s eyes meet mine.
Slowly, he reaches up with his healed arm and cradles my face in his deadly palm.
“You are …” he hesitates, a look of amazement in his eyes.
The snap of a twig makes us both turn to look. Hunter stares at us, the reins of both horses in his hands. The gray mare snorts, sniffing at his golden hair affectionately. Hunter’s eyes are wide as he takes in the foxhound corpses surrounding us.
In Hunter’s face, there’s a mix of fear and distrust. “You mean to tell me you’ve had the power to kill all along?”
I know I should be afraid too. Any sane person would be, but all I feel is awe. All my life, I’ve been told that shadow power is evil, that it’s only employed to harm. And I suppose there’s truth to that. But just now, it was also used to protect. To save me.
Tristan gets off the ground, wiping dirt from his pants. “No.”
“No?” Hunter asks, his face shrouded. “What do you mean, no?”
“I can’t just do it on a whim,” Tristan snaps. “It has to be life or death. A moment of necessity.”
Hunter scoffs. “And here I thought you were a pitiful dog locked up in the kennels with the others, when all along you’ve been a cold-blooded killer.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like, exactly?” Hunter waves his arms around at the massacre.
“Why did you let the King’s Guard capture you in the first place?
You clearly had the ability to escape. You just let us torture you like that.
” I see fury in Hunter’s eyes. And guilt.
No doubt he’s remembering how my father made him beat Tristan again and again. “What are you, some kind of masochist?”
Tristan’s gray eyes grow dark. “I’m not a killer.”
Hunter looks around at the dead foxhounds. “I’d say you are.”
Tristan bares his teeth, rage tinting each word. “I don’t kill needlessly.”
“I’d say you had plenty of ‘need’.”
“Just because I can use my power to kill doesn’t mean I should.”
“We don’t have time for this,” I say, furious at Hunter.
I shoot him a glare and mount the black horse.
He’s draped my red cloak over its rear like a blanket.
I buckle it back over my shoulders with a huff.
“Maybe next time the Wolf saves our lives, you could try showing a little gratitude instead of this unveiled contempt.”
Tristan raises an eyebrow at me, but Hunter looks crestfallen. He clearly thought I’d side with him. He should know by now that the only side I’m on is my own.
In the distance, the sounds of hoofbeats and more foxhounds reach us.
“We need to keep moving,” Tristan says urgently, wiping blood from a shallow cut on his cheek. “It won’t take them long to find us again.” He kicks a dead foxhound out of the way.
I nod. My heart is pounding, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s from the near-death experience or from the Wolf’s gray eyes watching me.