The beast behind me—I have no idea which one—is gaining. I’m not exactly being careful not to leave a trail. Branches snap around me, and my footprints sink into the dirt. But if I have to sacrifice something during this getaway, it won’t be speed.
The báshound pounds closer and up ahead, I spy a tall fir with dense branches that looks scalable.
I look over my shoulder to see how close he is, and … He’s right there.
It’s Anguis, not Mortis. No scar. He roars, probably to signal his brother.
I leap for the lowest branch, cutting my hands on the rough bark and tearing out needles as I pull myself up. My palms grow sticky with blood and sap, and the medicinal pine scent is cloying, but I keep going.
The tree shudders as Anguis slams into the trunk, and I nearly lose my footing. He attempts my upward route, but the branch snaps off beneath his paw. He snarls, then begins pacing and whining and howling beneath me.
I hug the trunk, clinging for dear life. How embarrassing would it be tofallto my death after all this? The novillum has certainly given me an advantage over my normal human body—I am not nearly as winded as I should be from that sprint, andthe cuts on my hands are already healing—but my balance is still pure Charlotte.
I glance out toward the clearing. There’s no one there.
I find out why moments later when Torvil and his knight clank over to my tree with Mortis and a cursing, hissing Aowen. The knight is hauling her by her braid. It’s hard to see in the dark, but she seems mostly unharmed outside a small cut on her cheekbone. I cannot say the same about the knight, whose ear is a pulpy mess draining blood down his neck. Good for her.
“Charlotte, my queen!” Torvil calls up. “My apologies, dear one. We did not mean to frighten you. Come down and let me claim you, and this can all be over.”
Shit. Shit.Shit.
If I do not come down, he’ll know I have no desire to be his queen. But if Idocome down, that’s the most probable outcome. I cannot fight off him and his secondandhis báshounds. Probably not even with Aowen’s help. And that’s not me being meek or weak-minded; it’s just a fact. A few sparring lessons with Lachlan in the Eyrie do not a warrior make.
“Is that you, Your Grace? Oh, I’m so relieved!” Think, Charlotte,think. I pick my way down the branches, my mind whirring.
“Are you?” Torvil asks. “It took us longer to find you than it should have. We found your bracelet buried in the mud miles from here. What happened?”
I reach the lowest branch above the one torn away by Anguis. There is a good fifteen-foot drop to the ground.
Torvil sees my hesitation, then walks over and holds out his arms.
“Jump.” His violet eyes flash up at me. “I’ll catch you.”
Here goes nothing.
I sit down on the branch, then gently shove off, falling down into Torvil’s arms. My mind and body scream to get away,scratch his face,run run run, but I have a careful game to play right now if I’m going to get both Aowen and myself safely out of this.
Speaking of Aowen, she’s kneeling on the ground by the knight’s feet, gripping her braid to alleviate the pressure. Her face is a mask of desperation—an act. I see the glint in her pool-blue eyes that says,You can do this, Charlotte. Be clever.
Torvil settles me on my feet. “Well?”
There’s really only one angle to play.
I point a shaking finger at Aowen. “She took it. She and Desmond, they …” I blink back false tears. “They enchanted me before the Hunt. Forced me to choose her as my second. The enchantment wore off as soon as the Bannrhorn was blown, and I’ve been fighting her since we arrived in the Eldergrove. She … she’s trying to take me to her brother!”
Aowen wears a defiant scowl, but I can tell how pleased she is with her cunning little liar queen. I’m a bit proud of myself, too, if I’m honest. Though I haven’t thought through how I’m going to use my lies to save her.
“I see.” Torvil stares down at Aowen, then flicks his chin toward his knight. “End her.”
“No!” I shout, and Torvil swivels back to me, sneering. “No, wait, I … We should make an example of her. After the Hunt. A public execution, like the one Alanthe Áine received. We must show what happens to women who break the rules.”
Torvil’s brows rise, and I’m not sure whether he’s shocked at my viciousness or my knowledge of the Scourge of Tír na Lune. Aowen’s gnawing on the inside of her cheek, probably trying not to smile.
“As Her Majesty wishes, of course,” Torvil croons, snapping his finger at his knight, who pulls Aowen to her feet. Torvil raises his fingers to his mouth, and?—
A blur of purple screams down from the pine and sinks rows of razor-sharp teeth into the knight’s sole intact ear. He shrieks, and, in his scrabble for Vesper, releases Aowen, who tears her thorn from his belt and sinks it into Torvil’s side.
Everything happens so quickly, I can barely keep up.
