Page 39 of The Mirror of Beasts

“Oh, Goddess,” Neve breathed out. “What is she doing?”

The one thing the Sorceress Hemlock wasn’t doing was running. She strode out into the wild tangle of her snowy garden, wand in hand as she squared up against the riders.

“No!” Neve began, instinctively starting to rise.

Lord Death lifted the horn to his lips again, and that eldritch bellow exploded with the first touch of dawn. I covered my ears, but there was no escaping it. I felt its dread deep in my body.

The riders burst forth in answer, their horses’ hooves falling upon the earth like drums of war. They kicked up clouds of snow as they barreled past their master, toward the cottage.

The hounds raced alongside them, saliva foaming at their jaws as they bounded across the stones with terrifying ease. The Sorceress Hemlock held her position, her wand at the ready.

“Come on, come on—” Neve closed her eyes and tried to gather the scattered melody of a spell. Her first instinct, as always, was to help others, but mine was to help ourselves.

“There are too many of them!” I told her. “Any spell will lead them right to us!”

And the riders had already reached the fence line of the property.

A scorching light erupted from the boundary, singeing the air with the smell of raw magic and burned leather. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the magic of the sorceress’s protective wards surge and billow out past us in a blinding wave.

But when the light cleared and I opened my eyes, the riders were still there, their swords slicing through the fence, through the shimmering wall of magic, sending sparks flying with the snow. With taunting shrieks and whoops, they broke through and began galloping toward Hemlock with unearthly speed.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t—if we couldn’t save her, we owed it to her to witness her end.

Cabell broke from the other hounds to snap and claw at her, cutting off her sole path to escape, but there was no need. Hemlock chose to turn and meet her end.

She brandished her wand, slashing the beginning of a sigil into the snow.

Then Lord Death was upon her in a heartbeat, as if even the distance between them had bowed to him. He towered over her on foot, raising a fist toward the sky. The last vestiges of night wrapped around his hand, smearing like ink against the snowy air. She carved her spell in furious strokes.

A strangled scream tore from me as he drove his hand into her chest. Hemlock’s body arched back, locking with pain. The air, already sharp with the scent of snow, turned acrid with foul magic as Lord Death ripped his hand back. There was no blood, just a swirl of dark magic as he hoisted something pale and shimmering in the air like a standard.

The sorceress’s body collapsed to the ground in a dark heap at his feet.

The riders and dogs alike howled with glee as they circled the cottage. One of the horses kicked down the door and three of the riders galloped inside. When they appeared again a few moments later, a familiar face led the other two back out.

Emrys’s hand fisted in the fabric of my shirt, his breathing turning ragged.

“That’s …,” I began, barely a whisper.

The wickedness of Endymion’s hideous visage didn’t become him so much as it revealed him for what he was and always had been: a monstrosity of entitlement and unending rage. And in death, he had only become all the more powerful.

If I believed nothing else, I believed the terror mauling Emrys’s perfect features. Once so like the man his father had been.

Endymion—whatever he was now—shook his head at Lord Death, saying something beyond our hearing. Lord Death’s top lip curled in a sneer as he threw the soul to the ground. When it rose again, it was Hemlock—but not. There was nothing familiar or warm in her face, her features elongating ghoulishly, the way Emrys’s father’s and the other riders’ had.

Lord Death bent to retrieve a piece of the broken fence. A silvery fire sparked at the wood’s center as he threw it on the thatched roof of the cottage. It didn’t matter that it was coated in ice. Within seconds, the whole structure was engulfed in flame. Dark smoke rose, devouring even the white of the snow.

Lord Death climbed back onto his horse’s saddle, signaling to Hemlock and the others. She went mindlessly, falling in line among the others on foot. A sword materialized in her hand.

Snow thrashed against my face as the air whitened. The riders and Lord Death disappeared into the churning storm and were gone.

The smell of smoke finally reached us, and I breathed it in deep, needing to remember everything about this moment.

There was the sound of thunder, of the ever-crashing sea, and when the snow settled, only the body of the sorceress remained to tell of the Wild Hunt’s return.

The cup of instant coffee in front of me was growing cold, but I still couldn’t muster the energy to lift it to my lips to drink. Not even knowing how few packets were left in my bag to waste, not even to drive out the ice in my blood. One last breath of steam rose from it, curling in the morning light. I watched it as I dripped melted snow and mud onto my chair and the floor.

Neve pulled pieces of long grass out of her hair, then braced her head in her hands, drawing in several steadying breaths. Caitriona and Olwen weren’t in any better shape; after fighting through the remnants of the storm, and a perilous journey down the steep path, we’d burned the Sorceress Hemlock’s body in her own garden.

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