Before Jackson could speak, Peters stepped forward, holding out two familiar bells. “My best milkers,” he said roughly, as I took them carefully from him. “I found these past the woodshed.” In his other hand lay a clump of fur and blood, which I definitely did not take.
I grimaced at the sight, the ancient little bells gently chiming in my hands. I’d sold these to him myself. “Could this be wolves?” I pointed out, daring to state the obvious. I glanced at the pair of werewolves, knowing already how they’d react—it wouldn’t be the first time a pack member had lost control of their instincts and killed something they shouldn’t have. Kai and Ted snarled in immediate offense, exactly as I expected.
Jackson shook his head right away, even though Peters gave both wolves a quick, suspicious glare. The old satyr was more suspicious by nature than I was, but then, given his golden good looks, that was with good reason. To his credit, he was the one who huffed, “Already checked. It wasn’t them.”
“That means something else is on the loose,” Jackson said, pointing past the woodshed at the dark forest. “Everyone takes a sector. We need to find whatever did this before it decides to upgrade from livestock. Lizzie and her niece are already searching the south side.” He proceeded to give the wolves and me each a section of the woods to search, and I grimly set myself to the task. Better find these goats—and whoever snacked on them—fast, not just because I had better things to do than get damp from the cool spring night.
The group dispersed into the woods, heading in their assigned direction while Peters stayed behind with his remaining goats. I slipped into the trees, shadows curling around me like oldfriends. The forest floor was damp, soft, nearly silent beneath my steps. Then, just as it had at Thorne’s earlier, something crawled under my skin. A tiny prickle, a warning, a wrongness stirring the air. Thorne’s house wasn’t far from here, and whatever had taken Peters’s goats, it wasn’t far either.
Chapter 19
Luther
The forest behind Peters’s farm felt wrong. Not wrong in the usual way forests are: full of creaking branches, damp soil, and nocturnal creatures contemplating whether a vampire made good eating (it didn’t). No, this felt like the woods themselves leaned closer, as if the trees exhaled against the back of my neck. Roots curled out of the earth with suspicious timing, appearing eager to trip me, and shadows pooled thicker than they ought to, clinging to my boots with greedy fingers. Exactly like the feeling I’d had at Thorne’s earlier that afternoon.
A sense of being watched slithered up my spine, the fine hairs on the back of my neck rising and adrenaline bursting through my veins. I paused, listening as my muscles grew tight in anticipation. There was nothing but my own stillness, the faint rustle of leaves, and the echo of wings far overhead, where the sheriff’s patrol circled—griffin wings rustling with nearly complete silence, though the leather gargoyle wings were more audible, their fierce beating carrying through the air.
I took two more steps, slowly, half convinced I was imagining things. A branch snapped behind me, and I was dead certain it wasn’t one of those missing goats. I spun, fangs bared, nails lengthened into razor-sharp claws, and leaped forward—my instincts leading the charge.
“Whoa, whoa, Luther! It’s me!” Thorne stumbled out from behind an oak, hands raised, looking as if he’d rolled down the hill rather than walked it. His hair, usually immaculate andslicked back like a man auditioning for “brooding aristocrat,” stuck out in tufts. His dark shirt was wrinkled, the collar askew, and the buttons misaligned. He looked worse than he had yesterday afternoon, and that was saying something. What the fuck was he up to? I didn’t think it could be anything good. He was doing that warlock thing: becoming obsessed.
“What,” I hissed, lowering my hands very reluctantly, “are you doing lurking about like a feral raccoon? I nearly tore your throat out.” Not that I would ever tear the throat out of a raccoon, feral or otherwise. They might be pests to some, but I rather liked the little fellows. They reminded me—well—of me, always getting their hands on things.
“You tried,” he corrected, brushing leaves off his sleeve with poor success. “And I wasn’t lurking. I saw the gargoyle and griffin overhead and assumed something was wrong, so I came to help.” He said all of that like it was the most natural thing in the world, but given his normal attitude, it really wasn’t. Now that he wasn’t alone, he’d also become alarmingly aware of his state of dishevelment.
I stared at him, which was also rude, but he was the last person I worried about manners with. He didn’t act like he had any half the time, so why should I? “Help?” I mocked. “Since when do you help people?” I recalled his treatment from yesterday very well; he hadn’t even thanked me for finding that damn book he was after—one that was supposedly impossible to find.
“Yes, you know, offering assistance,” he snapped. “It’s a perfectly normal thing for a civilized person to do.” He gave up on brushing leaves from his shirt and began straightening his pants instead, lifting one foot to rub the leather nose of his loaferagainst his leg—perhaps trying to give the leather a shine. It didn’t help, and I was certain my expression said as much.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose and figured what the hell, why not let the man help? He’d certainly been useful last winter, and just because the shadows seemed to enjoy hanging out near his home didn’t mean he had caused them, did it? “We’re looking for Peters’ goats. They are very likely dead, probably eaten. Very messily. There, now you’re informed. Still want to stick around for something that mundane?”
The reaction I expected was not forthcoming. Thorne’s expression twisted with something that wasn’t surprise, more like grim vindication. A shiver of unease shot down my spine when I realized this probably had something to do with what he’d warned me about yesterday. When he spoke, it was, thankfully, not with any hint of smugness, but with grim worry. “This is exactly what I expected,” he sighed.
“Oh, marvelous,” I muttered. “Do enlighten me.” If this had to do with the book I’d gotten for him, I hoped I hadn’t made a mistake agreeing to the deal. The shadows in the forest seemed to pulse around us, and I sensed such a deep hostility coming from them—from the trees—that I hoped Thorne was wrong. With a nymph in residence, the trees shouldn’t give me the feeling they wanted to eat me, not unless I’d seriously wronged Rosy. I was pretty sure I hadn’t… I had found her that rare orchid last week, after all.
“This is the work of the Galamut,” he said, voice low and certain. “It has to be.” He spoke like a man predicting the end of the world, frankly, he looked it too. Definitely obsessed. This wasn’t good; warlocks went down rabbit holes on a regular basis, andit was often destructive to themselves and their surroundings. If we didn’t steer him away from this, he’d go off the deep end for a bit. It was a sad fact of their nature and the powerful magic they wielded. They needed to find their anchor—their counterpoint—to balance their minds.
I blinked at him, mouth turning down. “This again?” I said, and I saw how that annoyed him. Most of all, it appeared as frustration in the sharp twist of his mouth. The fierce glow of fire danced in his dark eyes, he was mad, but he was scared, too. I really didn’t like the look of that; it made an echo of worry settle deeper inside my own bones. What if he had good reason to be obsessed, to be afraid? What if this Galamut thing was real, and dangerous?
“We need answers, Luther. We need them.” His gaze flicked to the deeper shadows of the forest. They cast darkness over the trunks, which were slick with moss and vines, far more than I was used to seeing. We both gazed uphill, which was, come to think of it, in the direction of Rosemary’s farm. Roots twisted crookedly along the winding path, as if they were trying very hard to trip unsuspecting wanderers. “If something escaped its prison, if something has been feeding…” Thorne murmured, and he flung out his hand. “On goats, for example.”
“Then go find Jackson and attach yourself to his leg,” I cut in. “He loves that sort of thing.” Thorne didn’t budge. If anything, he moved closer, like… well, like a thorn. Irritating, persistent, impossible to shake off without bloodshed. With a grimace, he shook his head and fell in behind me as I started walking again.
The sense of dread thickened as we pushed farther into the trees. Those thick shadows stretched wrong, like grabbing fingers andcold air clung to the bark. Even Thorne fell silent, all his talk of Galamuts replaced by a pinched, wary focus. I considered that evidence of our impending doom more than anything else.
Where normally I was always somehow the one who located whatever a person was after, this time I came up empty-handed. We found no goats, not so much as a single hoofprint. There were no bodies, either, but I didn’t consider that a good sign. Thorne and I were left with the feeling that whatever had been here was long gone, and it had taken its tasty goat snack with it.
We returned to Peters’s farm without speaking and without answers, and from the looks of it, so did the others. The group reconvened in front of the woodshed, which was nearly buried beneath the weight of grapevines already rapidly multiplying in the spring warmth. Chardum shook his head once; he was one of the last to reach us, and he had only empty hands to show for it. The grim set of his jaw made it clear he wasn’t convinced the night was finished with us.
Near the stone fence, the Mayor’s niece, a tiny, energetic wolf shifter with a personality that could power a small city, bounded up with two more goat bells clutched in her hands. She had shifted to search as a wolf earlier, but unlike her illustrious aunt, she could not do so and keep her clothes. She was wrapped in Lizzie’s cardigan and little else, but that did not seem to bother her. She showed us the bells with a sad but excited little howling noise that was very much the wolf in her, even though she was in human form. The bronze and copper were spattered with red flecks of blood, but I had already caught the metallic scent long before she showed them. It was enough to tell the story.
Peters sagged. “My goats,” he moaned, staggering away from the group, shotgun drooping at his side. His pretty golden curls even seemed to droop about his lean, muscular frame, the hue of his skin growing dim with his sadness. He slammed the door of his farmhouse kitchen, but even that sound came across as mournful.
Jackson exhaled, long and worn out. His normally neat hair was a little ruffled, evidence he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. “Thank you for helping,” he said to everyone, though his eyes lingered on Thorne with clear suspicion. The search party began to disperse, with a few murmured goodbyes and some greetings. Lizzie had tucked her niece under her arm and was shepherding her away, likely back to where she’d shed her clothes to shift.
I kept my mouth shut—barely—regarding the futility of this entire exercise. This was why I had left my newly mated Jade behind? With no proper explanation, depriving myself of the chance to see how she responded when unveiling the lace and jade… Dawn was beginning to spark across the horizon now; she could already be stirring.
Before I could make a remark I’d regret, Thorne lifted his chin. “This is only the beginning,” he warned. “This is the work of a Galamut. It’s weak now, fresh from its prison, but it’s gaining strength with every feeding.” He flung out his hand and pointed straight at the ridge, beyond which Rosemary’s property lay. Chardum followed that hand with a glowing, sharp, golden gaze, protective instincts rearing their heads like flames dancing in that reptilian pair of orbs.
