“What exactly does that mean?” Lex’s voice held a tentative edge, congruent with the skin prickling at the back of Teryn’s neck.
“I’ve already answered four questions. That’s one more than I agreed to. I’ll tell you more once we enter unicorn territory.”
Teryn bit the inside of his cheek and returned to his seat under the tree. What he really wanted to do was pummel the man until he spilled everything else he knew. He wasn’t sure that was a fight he’d win, regardless of whether the pummeling in question was verbal or physical. Helios had kept his promise to answer three questions, and he’d given more information than Teryn had expected. He doubted further threats to abandon their alliance would earn him more answers. And as for a physical confrontation, well, Helios was taller than Teryn, something he could say of very few people. He was bigger too. Broader. Longer reach. Teryn was trained in the art of combat and swordsmanship like any proper prince, but he’d had little practice against someone like Helios.
“Satisfied?” Helios stood and began laying out his bedroll. When Teryn and Lex said nothing, he turned a smug grin on them. “I admit, it would have been precious to see you try and leave this alliance. The two of you make the most pitiful pair. Prince Teryn, you do realize your little friend here was raised on a velvet cushion, right? He probably doesn’t know how to lift a sword.”
“I know how to lift a sword,” Lex said, although his expression suggested he strongly preferred not to.
Helios faced Lex, arms crossed over his chest. “I’d like to see it. Come, Lexington. Show me what you can do.”
“For the last time, don’t call me Lexington?—”
“Enough,” Teryn spat through his teeth. “Both of you.”
Helios rounded on Teryn, but he froze as Berol glided from the branch to Teryn’s shoulder. It seemed Berol was ready to forgive Teryn for the parchment mishap. Helios eyed the falcon, some of the smug confidence draining from his expression. Finally, he said, “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.” With that, Helios turned his back to them and settled onto his bedroll.
Glaring at Helios’ back, Teryn reached into his pocket—the correct one, this time—and pulled out an enormous strip of venison. Berol accepted it as well as a hefty dose of scritches. “Good girl,” Teryn whispered. “If he tries anything in the middle of the night, scratch his eyes out.”
Berol tilted her head, but Teryn had no doubt the falcon would come to his defense if needed. It almost made him wish Helios would try something. If only Teryn could be so lucky. Instead, Teryn knew that when he awoke, Helios would still have both eyes, and he’d have to face yet another day of nonstop riding. At least this time he knew relatively where they were going—and the reasons behind their destination.
17
Cora waited impatiently for six days. Six days scouting. Waiting. Hiding. Six days watching. Learning. Listening. Six days of being almost close enough to touch the cages that held starving unicorns without being able to lift a finger to help. There were guards on duty night and day. But that didn’t mean she didnothing. She took everything she’d learned and put her plan into motion.
Tonight, she would do what she came here for.
She’d set the unicorns free.
The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon by the time she reached the hunters’ camp for the second time that day. She’d laid the groundwork for her plan earlier that morning. Now it was time to act. She crept between the trees, her every move silent. Her skirts were tucked between her legs and into her belt to keep them from swishing around her ankles. By now, she’d discovered the quietest route to her destination—and the one that offered the most cover. She’d learned the lay of the camp, got an idea of their guard rotations, their habits. The company was made up of nine men—the four she’d followed plus five who’d already been here when the newcomers arrived. They always left two men to guard the camp while the rest went on their daily hunt from sunrise to sundown. One man guarded the perimeter while the other protected the cages.
Cora heard the footsteps of the perimeter guard drawing near, several paces away. Her pulse kicked up and she whirled behind a tree, pressing in close to its trunk. She knew which path he’d take, knew he rarely left the thin trail he’d worn through the underbrush circling the clearing. Still, it didn’t keep her heart from pounding as his footsteps reached the other side of the tree. She held her breath, assessing the crunch of each step, terrified that she’d hear him pause, shift, turn. But he didn’t. She released a slow exhale as the man continued past. Only then did she dare open her eyes.
Angling her body around the tree, she stole a glimpse at the guard, a man she’d learned was named Paul. He was middle-aged. Shrewd. As foul a man as the rest of them. Her suspicions had proved correct. Every member of the hunting party—both from the initial group and the one they’d joined—bore the brand of a criminal. There were no marks of simple thieves, drunks, or adulterers. They were murderers, kidnappers, or slavers. Men convicted of violent assault. Paul bore theMfor murder. Based on what she’d overheard, his victim had been his wife.
She eyed the two flasks he carried on his hip. One was for water, the other for rum. He never drank from anything but those two flasks. However, Cora knew he refilled his rum flask every night from the bottles kept at camp, always taking his fill from the top before the rest of the men started drinking. And drink they did, night after night while she watched from her hiding place. She’d hoped she’d witness them drink themselves into a stupor, become so deeply inebriated that she could sneak into camp, save the unicorns, and leave only a mystery behind for them to wake to. But she’d had no such luck. While some of the men certainly imbibed enough to lose all mental faculties until morning, others observed moderation. That was where Cora would help them along.
She watched the guard until he was out of sight. Thanks to her observations, she knew he’d stop on the eastern edge and stay for the next half hour. Which meant it was time for Cora to move.
She stepped out from behind the tree, doing her best to ignore the hammering of her heart. She shifted her focus to her mental shields, ensuring they were firmly in place. This time, she only strengthened them in one direction—outward—while leaving herself open to receive, to sense, to pick up energies nearby. Her tattooed palms tingled as she drew on the elements, letting them weave around her like a cocoon. She called on air to muffle her footsteps, asked the earth and trees to warp her image as she approached the camp.
That was how she pictured it in her mind, anyway. She’d learned the theory of shielding and had utilized it for the practical purpose of deflecting unwanted outside stimuli. But she’d also heard tales of advanced shielding, of witches who could turn invisible simply by focusing their intent on not being seen, on merging with the elements. Cora had never seen a lick of proof that it was possible. Whenever she’d ask Salinda why there were so many tantalizing tales of magic but very little visible evidence, she’d remind Cora real magic didn’t show off with puffs of purple smoke and glitter. If ever a witch used shielding for invisibility—or, more rationally put, to subtly evade notice—Cora wouldn’t know. That was the whole point.
Despite having once scoffed at such a concept, Cora was willing to try it now. She was willing to try anything. Because tonight she’d need all the luck and magic she could get.
Cora crept to the western side of camp opposite from where the perimeter guard stood watch. Once there, she paused several feet back from the clearing, assessing it. She caught movement from the interior guard—James. Her fingers curled into fists at the sight of him. It took no small effort to wrench her gaze away and study the cages instead. There were six enclosures in total, all constructed of the same materials as the ones she’d seen at the previous camp—barred iron frames bound together with rope. Four of the cages were occupied, the latest catch having been brought in the day before. That unicorn was stronger than the other three. He was the only one that shifted restlessly in his too-small enclosure. She could feel the unicorn’s rage at being contained, his pain whenever his flank made contact with the iron bars.
Cora itched with her desire to barge into camp and cut the unicorns free at once. She knew she could do it. She could catch James by surprise, send an arrow between his eyes, and another to Paul’s heart when he came to check on the source of the commotion. Then she could cut the ropes, open the cages, and that would be the end of it.
But that was precisely the problem. It would be the end of all her efforts.
If she killed the guards, leaving clear evidence of her attack, the remaining hunters would increase their numbers, their defenses. She’d likely never get another chance to infiltrate their camp again. Never save another unicorn. Meanwhile, they’d continue the hunt.
No, she needed a strategy. And she had one. It was why she was here. Why she’d spent days spying followed by nights of stealing. She’d taken a pot here. A flask there. Harvested belladonna—a plant famous for its deadly poison. She wouldn’t merely kill a couple guards and leave the rest to do the duke’s bidding. She’d put an end to the entire operation in a single night. There’d be no one left to hunt unicorns.
Cora’s chest carried a leaden weight, one that formed with the understanding that the Forest People would never approve of her using her knowledge of potions this way. But it didn’t stop her. In her days spying, she’d only grown to revile the hunters more. If their crime brands weren’t already enough—not to mention their braggery over said crimes—she also saw the way they sneered at the unicorns, how they prodded them with iron rods out of sheer entertainment. They didn’t feed the fae creatures. Didn’t bring them water. It was clear that these men had been selected for a reason. Not because they were skilled hunters, but because they were heartless. Cruel. Men whose only other option was the executioner’s block.
If Cora had to lose a piece of her soul to put them down, so be it. She’d do what needed to be done.
