I swallowed hard, the memory of the stones pulling at me. “If we make it.”
He looked at me, and for a second, the man was gone, replaced by something older, harder, but not unkind. “We will.”
He slipped his arm around my waist, pulled me close. His mouth was hot on my ear. “Ready?”
I nodded, though my whole body trembled.
The change came fast this time. The pain was a friend now, a warning and a promise, the only thing that reminded me I was still alive. The bones stretched and popped, the skin split and healed, the fur erupted in a wave so sudden it left my vision blurred with tears. I let it come, let the wolf take over, let the world become scent and sound and the fine, invisible net of fear that hung between all living things.
Moab changed, too. Bigger than me, darker, the wolf tattoo now a real mark under the fur, a stripe of blue-black that ran from shoulder to paw. We didn’t waste time. We dropped to all fours and bolted from the cave, low and fast, hugging the earth.
The world outside was raw and perfect. The cold bit, but it was the good kind, the kind that made you run harder just to spite it. The fog hugged the ground, muffling the crash of our paws and the beat of our hearts. Behind us, the men shouted, but we were already gone.
We moved through the trees as one, dodging fallen logs, slipping through patches of bramble, the path laid out in memories older than language. Moab led, and I followed the rhythm of his stride, setting the pace. I could smell the men now—grease, sweat, the sharp reek of fear under their bravado. I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a low, taunting growl.
A shout rang out, the echo so loud it stunned the birds into silence. I felt the air part beside my ear, the memory of death never far from my skin. We cut left, into a ditch, then up a bank, claws digging into the soft dirt. The horses were closer now,their riders forcing them through the brush, but even they knew better than to keep pace for long.
We ran. Not because we were afraid, but because this was what we were made for. The run was everything, the wind in my fur, the burn in my lungs, the wild, giddy knowledge that for once, I wasn’t just prey.
We hit the first clearing at full tilt. Moab slowed, nose to the ground, then jerked his head up over the ridge. I followed, pushing my battered body up the slope, the fog thickening with every stride. Behind us, the men crashed through the trees, their torches guttering in the mist, their shouts growing more frantic with every step.
At the top of the ridge, we paused. The oaks were there, waiting. Ancient, patient, the stones at their feet like teeth in a sleeping giant’s jaw. I felt the pull of them, the way they promised something more than just survival.
Moab pressed his head to mine, a rough, silent comfort. Then he howled, long and low and perfect, a sound that made the men below freeze in their tracks. I joined him, my own voice weaving around his, higher, sharper, a warning and a challenge.
We ran for the circle. The men gave chase, but the woods belonged to us.
Moab
The woods didn’t want us. Every root caught at Scarlette’s boots, every thorn made a grab for her skin. Even with the wolf in me running point, I felt it, this was their ground, and it wasn’t going to give us up easy.
Scarlette limped badly, the bandaged ankle dragging through the underbrush. Blood soaked through in a line that turned the snow pink, then red, then black as she stumbled, cursing in three languages. She didn’t complain, but each time she slipped or gasped, it was like a knife in my own foot.
The hooves behind us had started a ways back, a distant vibration in the ground, a rhythm that might have belonged to your own pulse if you wanted to lie to yourself. By now it was music, a full orchestration of panic and certainty. I kept glancing back, hand on the little blade at my belt, wishing I had more than steel and spit to offer.
Ahead, the trees thinned. I could see the sky, orange and fat with late-day sun, the clouds bleeding together in a way that promised more cold by nightfall. The circle was close, maybe another hundred yards, maybe less. I dragged Scarlette upright when she slipped again, slinging her arm over my neck.
“Can you run?” I asked, even though she was already running.
She shot me a look that could have peeled paint. “Keep moving,” she said, then spat blood into the brush.
I grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
We crested a rise and the trees fell away, revealing the ancient oak circle. I’d expected peace, or maybe just emptiness, but what we got was a gauntlet of soldiers, a dozen or more, ringed the far side, their armor piecemeal but sharp in the sunlight. Some had swords, some had axes, and a few just big sticks with nails hammered through the end. They looked like a painting from hell, every face set in the same hard line.
Sir Aldric was at their center, a statue of a man on a horse that looked bred to trample cities. His armor was new, polished to a shine that reflected the dying sun. The plume on his helm caught the wind and made him look taller, if that was possible. Next to him, on a smaller, meaner-looking beast, was Brother Tomas, the cleric’s robe flapping over his mail. He clutched a wooden cross so big it bordered on parody.
We had maybe three seconds to slow down before the trap snapped shut.
Scarlette hissed, “Shit,” under her breath, but didn’t stop.
I scanned for gaps, for anything. There was none. The oaks themselves seemed to lean in, hunched and hungry for what was about to happen.
Aldric raised his sword, and the men behind him locked shields, forming a wall across the clearing. “You’re finished,” he called, voice steady as a church bell. “Lay down, beast. You will not touch her again.”
Brother Tomas stood in his stirrups, holding the cross out like it might shoot fire. “There’s nowhere to run, witch!” he shouted, voice slick with the joy of being right. “Your end was foretold! Submit, and your soul might yet be saved!”
Scarlette spat. “Come save me, then,” she called, her voice bright and clear over the chaos.
