Page 10 of A Bloom in Winter

Meanwhile, that strange feeling that had kindled just under his skin . . . got louder and louder, until it was practically screaming.

Walking down what turned out to be a Ford, he noted the driver’s side door sported the same crest that was on that gate.

There was no one in the cab.

Open the door, some voice from somewhere said in his head.

“What we got?” Mayhem said off in the distance. “Ghost plower?”

Apex watched as his hand reached forward and landed on the latch. Freeing the catch, he pulled the panel open, and—

The scent tackled him like something physical.

And even though he knew exactly who it was, he leaned forward, squeezed his eyes shut, and breathed in through his nose. Just to be sure.

As he was exhaling, Mayhem came up to him. “I said, what we got?”

At that moment, a pack of dogs started howling, somewhere in the forest. Like they were bringing something down.

So they could eat it.

CHAPTER THREE

Mahrci, blooded daughter of Whestmorel the Elder, had come out in the storm only to make sure the feeding station for the deer, which she’d set up and maintained for the last couple of nights, had a fresh load of grain on it. Worried about the herd, she’d put a fifty-pound bag of feed on her shoulder and hoofed it out from the barn, the snowshoes keeping her on top of the three-foot accumulation while she got sandblasted by flakes.

There was no way one of the ATVs could have made it through, and dematerializing with the kind of weight she was carrying was impossible.

Plus, in a weird way, she’d liked the feel of the storm battering her. She’d been locked in the octagon of her own mind since she’d come up here, so it was good to fight against something physical.

Yeah, until everything had gotten away from her.

The first of the coyotes had snuck up on her just after she’d unlocked the snowshoes and brushed off the platform she’d built in the wood shop. She’d seen the animal out of the corner of her eye as she’d started to cut a pour hole in the burlap—

She’d been so surprised, the Swiss Army knife she was using slipped.

And went right through her glove, into the meat of her palm.

The blood had come quick, pooling inside the ski mitten before dropping into the snow: Even with the blizzard whipping everything around, the scent had been a copper rush in her nose, and a calling card she didn’t need.

Another coyote had ghosted out of the slashing snowfall. And another. And more.

Until they had surrounded her.

No mystery there: The predators had been smelling exactly what she was.

Instantly, because fear was the penultimate fuel source of the body, her heart rate had tripled, which increased the bleeding—and meant she couldn’t calm herself and dematerialize.

She’d tried, though, to close her eyes and concentrate, but she’d been terrified about being snuck up on and attacked from behind.

There’d been no way to get herself back to the big house.

And then the boldest of them had come for her, shooting forward and nipping at the back of her ankle. Even through the snow pants, she’d felt the bite, and a scream had ripped from her throat.

Not that there was anyone who’d come for her. That groundskeeper was a ghost, and the estate was otherwise empty—which was why she’d come here.

The next attack was triangulated, three of the coyotes lunging forward at once, their jaws snapping at her, their whip-thin bodies fast and strong.

So now she was screaming even more as she clambered up onto the platform. Wheeling around at her attackers, she kept the knife in front of her—not that she was going to be very effective with the three-inch blade.

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