The Countess of Fleuriste reaches out for the lantern. Mutely, I watch her light and affix the lantern to the harness that’s now on Imp.
“Imp is a Hunter’s horse.” Mother motions me forward. “Clatter is a noble goal, but ... not yet ready. Tonight, you will ride a Hunter’s horse.”
I swing up onto Imp.
“Andyouwill come home with this horse, Gabrielle. You may be the Hunter now, but I am your mother. I will be obeyed.” The Countess of Fleuriste’s voice quavers as she adds, “I could not endure losing you, too.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Go.”
I do not look back as I let Imp run out of the stable. I do not call back to remind my mother to go into the safety of the manor. I simply ride into Brimmond Wood. It is an unwelcoming place even in the light, but under the moon, it is a maze of shadows and strange sounds. Puddles of shadow are pierced by the lines of thicker branches. The darkness seems to pool under the shrubs like something thick and viscous. Cries of the familiar night birds are mixed with growls of equally familiar cù sìth.
Father used to claim, “Same things as in the light, just hidden,” as if the fact that the monsters arehiddenisn’t part of what makes them terrifying. The things that creep and bite, slash and kill, are deadly at the best of times. To notseethem makes the whole business worse.
Yet the light on Imp will be like a beacon to the monsters, like the Hunter is the prey, as if I am inviting the fiends to attack me. Father limited my nighttime excursions. Now, though, I have no choice.
The darkness feels like it slinks closer. I set out to find the monster that’s been preying on strangers passing through the Brimmond Wood.
“It killed Father,” I say to Imp. “I accepted the summons, Imp. We musthuntnow.”
Under me, Imp is the most upbeat he’s been since he returned home without Father. The stable hands regularly exercise him, but it’s obviously different from carrying a rider into the woods. This is what he was trained to do. Of course, the horse missed the sojourns into danger.
“I’m sorry, boy,” I murmur to the horse. “I should’ve thought to take you out sooner.”
The horse, like the things we hunt, isn’t going to speak. Animals don’t. Monsters don’t—usually. But still I speak to them, as if the tone of my voice can convey meanings to both the horses that aid me and to the brutes I will hunt.
Once we cross into the thick trees, I feel like my entire body is listening.
For twigs snapping.
For branches bending.
For throats growling.
There are often wolves, but they aren’t usually the biggest threat—and they aren’t my prey. The pack of coin shìth, monstrous-size, doglike beasts, that I ride past makes wolves seem like puppies. The so-called “faery dogs” are clustered together as if something worse prowls tonight. So, too, the wolves.
“These are my woods.” I speak levelly. “These are my people.”
The bright light of the lantern casts a veritable halo of light around me. I’m far from hidden, so my voice is not adding danger. The silence feels unnatural, like when I sit beside a dead body, and speaking feels like power.
Instinct,Father said.You will know because your belly tells you.
It seemed foolish when he said it, but tonight, I feel a pressing need to speak into the shadows. “I will stop you.”
Several moments pass as I ride deeper into the wood, seeing the light reflect in the eyes of badgers, wolves, and a lynx. There are no monsters here. There are no bodies here.
Why does thegeasinsist I ride?
Hours pass as I ride throughout the forest in a circular pattern. The sun is near rising, but the night and the thick trees make the world seem darker than possible.
“My wood. My people. My—”
“No,” someone answers. “Notyours.”
I peer into the black night, trying to see this creature who thought to argue with me, but all I see are shadows.
A growl echoes around me, as if throngs of beasts circle me.
