It wasn’t unusual for a werewolf in the human realm to abruptly transition. He would have expected to find an indent on the ground where the body had lain, or broken branches and trampled undergrowth where he had contorted with the transformation. From there, he would have expected to see a man’s footsteps leading away. But he saw no such thing. The footsteps stopped along a creek. The prints nearly washed away. It ambled through the forest in both directions and eventually met up with a river. They could follow it for miles, double back, or create false trails. Farmers watered their animals at this creek, women washed their clothes. He’d never find the wolf this way.
This wasn’t some unfortunate soul consumed by a curse. They were intelligent enough in wolf form to know to cover up their tracks. And that made this even more dangerous. Ray sighed and raked his hands through his hair. He didn’t sign up for this. Even if he found the killer in time, now he had to contend with werewolves?
That decided it; he was leaving Thornwood. Father couldn’t punish him if he couldn’t find him. He’d get on a ship, head for the east of the human realm. Even Father could not access the gateways there. He should have done it decades ago.
Ray turned on his heel, eyes fixed on the horizon. In his pocket were a few human coins. Hopefully, they were enough to get him where he wanted to go. If not, he was strong enough to menial work to earn his way. Ray stood frozen in place, hand on the hilt of his dagger. The eyes were still watching him. He could feel it. Despite his resolution, he couldn’t make his feet move. Leaving Thornwood meant never coming back; those were the rules of his exile. Should he try to escape that way, the Thorn Kingdom would forever be barred to him.
What’s the use? If Father would never let him return, why keep pretending? Ray clenched his hand into a fist and inhaled.
An owl screeched, and he twisted his head as it circled overhead.
“Lady Thornton, she is in danger. You must come straight away!” she cried.
She flew into the forest, and Ray didn’t hesitate to follow after her.
* * *
Catherine’sfeetslipped in decomposing leaves. She threw out her arm and clawed the bark of a tree to keep her balance. Each breath burned. Her legs ached. Fog enshrouded the forest; the landscape all looked the same. Had she run past that tree already? Where was the road? Should she cry out and hope Edward was close enough to hear? What about another farmhouse where she could beg for shelter? Twigs snapped, the sound like the crack of brittle bones. Don’t stop. She gathered up the hem of her skirt and kept running.
“Run all you like; it only makes the meat sweeter.” The creature’s mocking voice came from in front of her, so Catherine veered to the right.
The cackle of its laughter surrounded her. It seemed to be coming from all directions. Catherine weaved in and out of trees, praying that would lose it. But what if she didn’t. Could she fight it off? When she was a girl, the small folk who visited her garden had been terrified of an iron spade. They told her iron hurt them. What she wouldn’t give for a nail or a piece of mere scrap iron. But that would mean it was all real. This could just be another hallucination. It couldn’t hurt her if it weren’t real.
Fear tingled across her skin, and she flushed with heat as her heart raced. Despite every part of her screaming to keep running, she skidded to a stop and turned. Catherine couldn’t keep running from shadows. Dr. Armstrong told her she had to face her fears. She balled her hands into fists. She couldn’t see much beyond the reach of her hand. Not real. Not real. Catherine screwed her eyes and counted down from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
Laughter slithered into her ear. “Done running, are you? What fun is that?”
Six. Five. Four.
A hand wrapped around her from behind, nails clawing across her neck. Her hairs stood on end, and the flesh on her arm pebbled. Not real. She swallowed past a lump in her throat.
“Two. One.” She finished aloud. Her voice echoed back at her in the stillness and silence of the forest.
Hot, rancid breath brushed against her cheek. “Your spell won’t save you, girl.”
Her insides turned to water. She couldn’t move. Run. Run. RUN! Her mind screamed, but her arms were pinned to her side, her feet weighed down by invisible stones. The hand clenched her throat, and she gasped for a wheezing breath.
“I smelled you from leagues away, fae child. I never thought you would be this easy to lure away. But humans can be compassionate fools, can’t they?”
The edges of her vision turned black. Tears pressed at the back of her lids, but she refused to let them fall. The screech of an owl cut through the air. The creature hissed, and the pressure around her neck slackened. Catherine’s hand shot to her throat, and she pressed her tender flesh.
“Lady Thornton?” She blinked. Mr. Thorn stepped through the mist.
Had it been a hallucination? In her insanity, had she wandered into the forest? Chased by her own insanity.
“Are you real?” she croaked. Her throat ached.
He stopped, and his brows shot up to his hairline. “The last I checked, I was.” He patted a long-fingered hand against his shirt.
She cracked a smile, though it felt inappropriate to do so. She felt as if she were unraveling like a spool of thread. And she was reaching the end. Hysteria clawed at her insides, twisted her stomach into knots. Either a monster had attacked her and nearly choked life out of her, or her madness was getting worse. She wasn’t sure which was a more troubling prospect.
“How did you get here, are you hurt?” He approached her, hand out as one would a wild animal or a rabid dog.
“I don’t—” The words caught in her throat.
The thing crept up behind him, her green, mottled skin sloughed off in chunks. Thin strands of dark hair clung to her bulbous head. It couldn’t be real, and yet it was drawing closer to Mr. Thorn. Its dagger-like teeth were dripping with bright green saliva.
Mr. Thorn canted his head to the side. “You don’t?”
