“Percy—we have to get this right. It’ll be dark soon. Regardless, we’re not going to have time to come back and try a different path.” Alaric waved at the three paths before them. “You know these woods better than anyone, and I trust you in this. Which way do you think he’s gone?”
His gaze meeting Alaric’s, Percy hesitated for a moment more, then quietly said, “I think he’s making for the old woodcutter’s cottage—not the one they use now but the one from my grandfather’s day. Do you remember it?”
Alaric blinked, dredging memories from early childhood. “Vaguely…and yes!” He straightened. “I think you’re right.” With renewed certainty and burgeoning vigor, Alaric swung to face the right-hand path. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Percy rose from his crouch. “It’s about a hundred, maybe two hundred yards on. The place is rickety and partly overgrown.”
Perfect for Edward’s purpose.
“Come on—and keep quiet.” Paying attention to his own admonition, Alaric hurried on.
Resolve filled him; determination buoyed him.
At last, they were close. All he had to do now was reach the old cottage in time—before Edward succeeded in ripping from this world a treasure Alaric had only just found.
* * *
Despite Alaric’s renewed hope, fear increasingly got the upper hand as he pounded along the path. The light was failing. Even though his lungs were burning, he pushed himself to go faster.
Instinct pricked like spurs, insisting he had to get there—now!—or risk losing Constance.
She wasn’t even his, but he didn’t care; she now stood in his mind as too precious to lose.
People loved her.
So did he.
Then ahead, the dark shadows fell away, revealing a clearing bathed in the last light of the dying day.
Fifty yards ahead, he saw Edward and Constance, stationary but still struggling.
A modicum of relief swept over Alaric; Constance still lived and breathed—and was still fighting.
She and Edward stood face to face in the clearing of beaten earth before the ruins of the tumbled-down cottage. Edward gripped Constance’s wrists, one in each hand, while Constance was using her arms and Edward’s hold on her wrists to fend him off.
Alaric’s gaze had locked on the wrestling pair.
He saw Edward’s jaw clench, then he exerted ferocious strength and overwhelmed Constance’s spirited defense; a snarl curling his lips, Edward pushed close, released her wrists—and clamped his hands about her throat.
Alaric burst full tilt into the clearing.
Edward jerked back, head swinging toward the intrusion. He saw Alaric. Edward’s jaw dropped, his features registering utter shock.
Relishing Edward’s incredulous stare, Alaric, his gaze flicking only briefly to Constance, slowed to a halt.
Constance seized Edward’s momentary distraction and wrenched free. Gasping, one hand rising to her throat, she staggered to the side, then stumbled and sank to the ground.
Free and out of Edward’s reach—free of immediate danger; Alaric tracked her in his peripheral vision and deemed her safe where she was. He kept his eyes on Edward.
His hands now empty, Edward lowered his arms. His expression stated he was stunned to have been found, let alone caught in the act.
His own expression the definition of implacable, Alaric started forward again, his gait a predatory stalk.
Evidently reading his fate in Alaric’s eyes, Edward snapped his jaw shut, took one step back, reached into his coat pocket, and whipped out a pistol.
Alaric halted—truly surprised—as Edward trained the barrel on his chest.
For an instant, absolute silence reigned.
