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As time passed, the Moonfever sharpened everything. The cold seemed to strip away whatever usually dulled my senses, until the Wood pressed in on me from every direction. I could smell crushed ferns along the bank and the sharp resin of the pines. Somewhere uphill was the damp, musky scent of a fox’s den. I could distinguish wet stone from moss and muddy water, and beneath all of it I could pick out the distant traces of the other newcomers scattered through the Wood: fear-sweat, adrenaline, the salt of skin.

I heard an owl somewhere above me and the steady fall of water from a branch. I heard my own pulse beating hard in my ears, and much farther away, someone laughing.

My whole body felt intensely awake. I was aware of the icy water around my thighs, the cold air against my wet face, and the hard rhythm of my heart. Every nerve seemed to be reporting back at once. I had never been so conscious of my own body before, and although the sensation should have been miserable, there was something strangely exhilarating about it. For once, I did not feel detached from myself. I felt completely, almost painfully present.

Then the horn sounded again from the direction of Ironmoor, long and low.

An hour had passed.

The hunters were coming.

The howls began almost immediately. At first there were only a few, but more voices joined them until they seemed to come from every part of the Wood. Farther away, something answered with a deep, coughing roar. Then came a scream so disturbingly human that every hair on my body lifted, even though I remembered enough from some documentary to know it was probably a big cat.

The Hollow Wood had been quiet before. Now it was full of predators.

I kept wading.

After the next bend, I should have stayed on the bank. I knew that even then. But the howls were getting closer on both sides of the river, and the Moonfever had made the cold feel invigorating rather than dangerous. With nowhere open enough to run, I chose the threat that worked slowly over the one that could tear me apart in seconds.

One more bend, I told myself.

Then another.

Twice during the next long, freezing while, I saw something on the ridge above the far bank.

The first time, I thought I had imagined it. A dark shape moved between the trees when I moved and stopped when I stopped. The second time, the moon came out from behind a cloud long enough for me to see it clearly.

A wolf stood on the high ground between the trees, huge and dark against the night.

It was not tracking anything. It was not sniffing the air or moving through the undergrowth.

It was watching the river.

It was watching me.

Then the cloud passed over the moon again, and the wolf disappeared into the darkness.

The ache beneath my breastbone gave a slow throb. I told myself, firmly and repeatedly, that I was getting mildly hypothermic and beginning to see things.

Farther upstream, the river curved around a high bank where the current had eaten away the earth, leaving a hollow beneath an overhang of exposed roots and turf. Reeds grew thickly along the edge. I crouched until the water reached my waist, biting back the sounds the cold forced out of me, then backed beneath the overhang and wedged myself among the reeds and roots.

The wind was blowing toward me. The river would carry my scent downstream.

I repeated those facts silently because facts were easier to manage than fear.

I heard the animal before I saw it. Something heavy was moving quickly along the bank above me, its paws striking the leaf litter while it breathed in short, eager bursts. A moment later it was directly overhead, close enough that loose dirt fell from the exposed roots and struck the water in front of my face.

A wolf appeared above my hiding place.

Its coat was pale gray, almost silver beneath the moonlight, and it was enormous. It lowered its head and drew in a long breath.

I held mine.

I forced every muscle in my body to stay still.

The wolf sniffed again and made a low, frustrated sound. It moved several steps along the bank, then returned. I could hear every breath it took and see the mist of it drifting past the reeds. Even from where I hid, I could smell wet fur, blood, and the raw excitement of the hunt.+

Then the ache beneath my breastbone pulsed.