Rue mounts beside us with fluid grace, blades already drawn, their edges gleaming with deadly intent. His face has gone grim, all traces of his usual playfulness replaced by the cold focus of a trained killer. “Locke. . .they’re coming in fast!” he shouts over the loud shrieks that seem to multiply by the second.
Locke’s voice cuts through the rising wind. “Ride for the ridge! The safehouse is east, through the narrow cleft in the cliffs! When we get there the wards will do the rest.”
We tear into motion, hooves thundering against the deadened earth in a rhythm that matches my racing heartbeat. The thunder of our passage drowns everything else, almost. Behind us, the air is split by shrieking wraiths and the low, unearthly crack of their limbs against trees as they close the distance with impossible speed. Fog coils across dead grass like living smoke, and the sky bleeds from twilight into absolute black as dusk slips over the plains with unnatural haste.
Locke and Rue flank Esme’s horse, forming a protective triangle that speaks to years of battlefield experience. Their movements are synchronized, practiced, deadly. I take the rear, head on a swivel, watching the shadows multiply and writhe with malevolent purpose. My wolf paces beneath my skin, every instinct screaming at me to shift, to become the predator I was born to be, but I force him down. Not yet. Not while Esme needs me to think like a man.
The carrion birds scream overhead, their cries adding to the cacophony of terror. The very trees bend back as wraiths pour through like a flood of nightmares, mouths open in endless screams, faces blackened and warped, covered in ragged black robes that flutter without wind. One lunges too close, its clawed fingers reaching for Esme’s horse, but Rue whips a dagger over his shoulder with practiced precision, driving it straight through the creature’s glowing red eye. It bursts into ash on contact, giving us a little breathing room, but only temporarily. They are coming at us in droves, relentless and hungry, drawn to Esme. I have no doubt she is who they are after.
“We’re not going to outrun them!” I shout, my voice barely audible over the noise.
“We don’t have to!” Locke snaps, swinging his sword as he rides, the blade singing through the air. “We just have to make it to the pass!”
Esme glances over her shoulder, her hair streaming like liquid mercury behind her. Her face is determined, her eyes haunted, yes, but steady. Focused. There’s something different about her now, something that wasn’t there before the trial. A kind of inner fire that burns brighter than her exhaustion.
Another wraith lunges at her from the side, its long fingers almost touching her arm, close enough that I can smell the rot and decay that clings to it. Esme doesn’t scream or panic.
Instead, she turns in the saddle with movements that seem almost choreographed, holding her horse’s reins with one steady arm while outstretching the other toward the approaching nightmare. A column of white light erupts from her hand, brilliant and pure and absolutely devastating. It blinds me momentarily, spots dancing across my vision. A concussive wave of raw magic slams outward like a blast of divine wind, flattening trees that have stood for centuries, shattering the closest wraiths into bone-dust that scatters on the wind. The rest scream andscatter, screeching in agony as light rips through them like they’re made of paper.
The shockwave ripples outward in visible rings of power. I feel the force of it in my bones, in my very soul. It’s like standing too close to lightning when it strikes, electric and overwhelming and utterly magnificent.
Esme screams with it, a raw, aching sound that tears from her throat like she’s being ripped apart from the inside, and then slumps forward over the saddle. The trial already took a lot out of her. I could see it in the way she moved, the careful way she held herself. This sudden show of impressive power depleted whatever reserves she had left.
“Shit—” I veer toward her, my heart stopping for a terrifying moment, but Rue is faster.
He catches her before she falls, pulling her against his chest with one arm while grabbing her horse’s reins with the other. His face is set in lines of fierce concentration. “Got her!” he shouts, and I’ve never been more grateful for his quick reflexes.
“Don’t stop!” Locke yells, his voice carrying over the renewed sounds of pursuit. “They’re regrouping!”
I turn with alarm and see he’s right. The shadows writhe again, like living things. Wraiths spill forward from the darkness, adding to their ranks, furious now and twice as determined. If anything, Esme’s display of power has only made them hungrier.
We ride harder, pushing the horses to their absolute limit as the path ahead begins to narrow and climb. The shadow of the mountain looms before us, jagged peaks clawing at the star-strewn sky like the fingers of some ancient god. A narrow cleft in the rocks finally appears, just wide enough for horses to squeeze through single file. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved in my entire life. This must be the safehouse Lucky mentioned as wewere leaving, though it looks more like a crack in the world than any kind of shelter.
Locke leads us in, knowing every twist and turn as we move deeper and deeper between the towering walls of stone.
We push through the narrow passage, the air thick with protective enchantments that make my skin tingle. The cliff walls seem to shimmer with old fae runes, symbols that pulse with their own inner light. Ahead, a faint blue glow pulses in the stone like a heartbeat.
“There!” Locke dismounts in one fluid motion, rushing forward to what looks like a sheer wall. It shimmers and shifts, responding to his approach like it recognizes him.
A doorway carves itself into the rock with the sound of grinding stone, and warm, golden light spills out in welcome, washing over us like a benediction.
He turns to me, his face grim but relieved. “Get her inside.”
Rue is already off his horse, lifting Esme bridal-style against his chest with surprising gentleness. She doesn’t stir, her head against his shoulder, hair spilling over his arms. The sight is so reminiscent of when we first arrived in Vanir, her broken and unconscious in my arms, that my heart shudders from the memory of almost losing her.
I follow close behind, sword still drawn, every sense wired and alert. My wolf claws beneath my skin, aching to be loose, desperate to hunt down every last one of those creatures and tear them apart for daring to threaten what’s mine. But there’s no time for that luxury. Not with the muffled shrieks of the wraiths still trying to find their way into the pass to get to us. Locke takes the horses and quickly secures them in what appears to be a stable carved from the living rock before following us into the light. The door realigns and disappears behind us, sealing with a sound like a sigh, as if it was never there, locking us away in peaceful, blessed quiet.
I falter for a brief moment in disbelief at the sudden warmth of this place, the way it seems to wrap around us like a protective embrace.
The interior of the safehouse is nothing like I expected. It’s. . .beautiful. Breathtakingly so. Arched ceilings stretch high overhead, carved from smooth stone and veined with what looks like marble shot through with gold. Magic hums through the walls, soft and protective, like a lullaby made of power. A hearth blazes with golden fire that gives off no smoke, and the light dances across walls covered in intricate murals that seem to move when I’m not looking directly at them. Cushions and blankets are neatly folded on comfortable-looking chairs, and a long table is set for four with crystal glasses and silver plates.
This is more of a hidden sanctuary than a simple safehouse, a place where someone clearly takes great care to provide comfort for weary travelers.
Rue vanishes deeper into the halls, carrying Esme down a corridor lined with more of those softly glowing runes. I follow, trailing the scent of blood and ash and her, that unique combination of fresh morning rain and sweet cotton candy that is purely Esme, now overlaid with the metallic tang of exhausted magic.
We find a bedroom that takes my breath away. Dark blue velvet curtains frame tall windows, and a bed piled high with soft furs and silk cushions sits against one wall. A basin already filled with steaming water waits on a side table, and the air smells of lavender and something else, something clean and healing.
Rue lays her gently on the mattress, his movements careful and reverent. He brushes hair from her dirt-streaked face with surprising tenderness. “Miss Esme, you’re a true marvel. You saved our asses out there,” he murmurs, and for once there’s no dramatic flair in his voice, just genuine admiration and affection. Then his usual personality reasserts itself as he stepsback. “I mean. . .did you see what she did? I have a girl crush for real.” He walks out of the room, fanning his face dramatically with one hand.
