“Are you safe?” I ask, already fumbling in my sheets for a weapon. Sleeping next to sharpened blades is likely not the normal thing to do, but I am not concerned with abnormalities that help me do my duty.
“The manor is unbreached.” The countess drops boots and a plain dress beside me. “Your father is back. He needs you.”
I rub the lingering sleep from my eyes. Nothing but trouble walks in these hours.
Leaning heavily on her cane, Mother opens the drapes over the window, letting moonlight illuminate the worry I see etched on her brow. In the moment, my mother looks far older than her years. “He’s returned. Out by the stables.”
“Is he injured?” I blink my eyes to focus.
“Not yet. There’s a body. In our courtyard.” She strides across the room and shuts the door behind her.
Eyes still blurred with not enough sleep, I glance out the window at the waxing gibbous moon glowing like a silvered lantern in the sky. Brimmond Wood is outlined like an ink painting, shades of shadows.
“Past middle of night, but before dawn.” I shove my feet into the boots, thankful I slept with long woolen tights still covering my legs. Even with my tights, the chill wakes me quickly.
I pull on a heavy dress and cloak and pin my long braid into a tight roll on the back of my head. In a few scant moments, I’ve left the warmth of my room and descended the stairs.
By the time I approach the door, Mother is nowhere to be seen. Father undoubtedly told her to stay inside Fleuriste Manor. Wisely so. Trouble walks in the wood.
Being near our home is a direct threat. An insult.
My boots crunch in the remains of the snow, even as I follow the trail of footprints Father has left.
“Well?” The Hunter’s breath comes out in a cloud visible in the icy air.
“Preserved by the cold,” I note, squatting down by the corpse. I sniff. “No scents that say he was killed here. Clean.”
Father nods but says nothing.
“Claws.” I tilt the dead man’s head to better see the throat. “Long. Single stroke would’ve been enough. Not a pack kill. He is like the last one.”
The wound is seemingly bloodless. Dark traces are still obvious on the throat, but the cuts themselves are dry.
“Frozen? Or bled out?”
“Both.” I study the corpse. Any clue I find is more we’ll have to determine how to hunt the monster—especially as all our original evidence is gone.
After several moments of examining the bloodless man, I admit, “Again, I cannot tell what did this. Do you know anything more after seeing the queen?”
He shakes his head. “I visited the archive. I spoke to Her Majesty.” He pauses before adding, “She only spoke briefly, though. Isaac has gone.”
Worry for Isabeau flashes over me. She was always her father’s shadow. I glance at my father. “I am sorry for your loss, Father. I know the queen is not the only one mourning him.”
“He was a good man.” Father’s shoulders slope, as if the burdens of our world are bearing down on him. “Did your microscopy reveal anything?”
“No.” I pause before confessing, “I was attacked in the forest. Whatever attacked me took all the evidence.”
He looks me over. “Any contamination?”
“No. I saw Maria after.” I don’t mention Isabeau. Perhaps that’s wrong, but my father dislikes her, and I know she’s not the one who attacked me. For one, she was uninjured when I saw her, and there was bloodshed. Moreover, she would not harm me. I am not sure of much, but I know this to be true. Instead of mentioning her, I point at the dead man. “The purple on the man’s face is unusual, but I think it’s the same as was on my head wound.”
“I’ve not seen it before. Collect it.” He seems about to say more, but a sound makes us both tense.
I glance up to see my mother trudging over the ground.
“Obstinate woman.” Father smiles at the sight of her. I suspect he could use her determination to coddle him tonight. To me, he says, “Find what you can from the remains. Drag the body to disposal. Take samples first. I need to rest.” Then he straightens and adds, “I am glad you are not dead.”
Hastily he wipes his hands on a cloth that he then tosses to me. After he salts his hands, he strides forward with his arms out wide and says, “It is far too cold out here for you, my flower.”
