“Edith,” I offer, staring up at him.
Our eyes lock.
Bea clears her throat loudly. “My name is Beatrice, but you can call me Bea.”
“Nice meeting you both,” Amund says, still gazing at me. “I have to go, but I hope I’ll see you around.”
He lifts his reins, ready to leave. After what happened with Jason, I swore off boys completely. So why is my attention drifting to Amund’s lips? Why am I desperate to talk to him even a moment more?
“Wait,” I call out.
Amund pauses, his expression searching.
“Is Skallagrim even safe?” I ask, unsure what else to say.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s what we’re here for.”
It’s only then that I notice a heap of fur behind Amund. No, a dead wolf is draped over the back of his horse, paws dangling. Cold pricks my skin. The wolf is massive, larger than I thought possible. If those wolves the older rider scared awayareberserkir like I suspect, then…
A shiver spreads through me. “Were… were those wolves students?”
“Once,” Amund says, his voice rough. “They lost control and can no longer turn back, so now they roam the Wilds.”
Helga never mentionedthatpossibility.
That sounds like my worst nightmare.
“And you… hunt them?” I tighten my grip on my suitcase handle.
Amund gives a grave nod, but doesn’t elaborate.
Suddenly, I’m seeing this boy in a whole new light. Any thought of flirting is just as dead as that wolf behind him. A hunter is thelastperson I should be attracted to. I don’t know which is more terrifying—that I might lose control of my rage and be trapped as an animal, or that there are people like Amund who hunt berserkir.
I swallow hard.
“I guess you wouldn’t know that,” Amund says, pressing his lips together. “You two are witches, right?”
“Yeah,” I blurt out, not wanting to admit to anyone I’m a berserkr, least of all myself. Especially not to someone whohuntsthem.
“What?” Bea looks up at me with wide eyes. “We—”
“Really love horses.” I shoot her a warning look before turning back to Amund. “Could my sister say hello?” I ask, gesturing toward his horse.
“Certainly.”
Bea approaches from the side, gently patting the horse’s neck. “It’s easier to reach since the horse is so small.”
“It’s an Icelandic horse,” Amund says. “They’re the only kind we have here. They’re hardy and live long.”
“Careful,” I tell Bea, unsure if I’m talking about the horse or its rider.
“Is it just the two of you?” Amund asks. “Normally when new students arrive, their families come to drop them off.”
“Yeah,” I say coolly. “It’s just us.”
Handsome or not, I can’t wait to get away from him.
The other hunter shouts his name.
