Page 62 of Untethering Dark

Gudariks stalked the site for clues. Maybe there was something they missed the previous times.

But finding nothing in the snow, he crouched down where the fire had been, pushing aside charred bits of wood. Items were sometimes burned during spells and rituals, and sure enough, buried beneath the ash he found a rough-hewn stone disk. A bit of singed, blackened leather thong was strung through the bail...an amulet, then. Brushing it free of soot revealed a stick figure drawing etched into its center.

An eerie cold settled over him.

Not only did the image bear his likeness, he’d seen something like it before, long ago. But when? The answer teased mercilessly at the edge of his mind. An unfortunate consequence of all his years was that memories blended or eluded him altogether.

As he took the amulet into the palm of his hand, a cacophony of human hooting and hollering pierced the night air, startling him to his feet. He whirled around, searching for them around the site, amongst the trees, but there was no one here.

And yet, their raucous revelry rang out as if he’d stumbled into the middle of their festivities. So close he could practicallytaste them in the air. Their smell, their laughter, seared his senses, stoked his anger, and shot needling hunger pains through his abdomen. He wanted to slash and rip and rend.

A woman’s screeching glee cut through the rising noise, mocking him, taunting him, making his blood run cold. One so familiar, and yet, infuriatingly elusive. There was a name, jabbing him from the blurry edges of memory.Hel? Heldeen? Heldin?

Strange magic was at work, no doubt about that. He’d seen a lot in his many years, but never something like this.

Tearing himself from the campsite for self-preservation’s sake, he sprinted off into the forest, desperate to put as much distance as he could between himself and that infernal place. By the time he ran himself out of breath, the sharp edge of his hunger had somewhat blunted, and a measure of clear thought returned.

But as his breathing slowed, and the blood pulsing in his ears lessened, that damned chanting came back, faint, but unmistakably still there.

He spun around.

Across the valley, from whence he came, he saw the telltale orange glow of a blazing bonfire, shadowy figures dancing around its flame.

Rearing back his head, Gudariks let out a terrible roar. One that shook snow from the surrounding trees and sent it crashing to the ground.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Astrid? Are you home?” Johanna’s voice called from the other side of the door.

Her friend’s urgent, barely concealed panic had Astrid shooting up out of her chair and tossing her sister Dahlia’s borrowed grimoire on the seat. “I’m here,” she replied, and dashed to the door, wrenching it open.

There’d been rough days—fruitless search and rescues turned heartbreaking search and recoveries—but never had Astrid seen the forest ranger look this bone weary and defeated. “Johanna, are you okay? Please, sit down.”

The forest ranger shook her head no, her normally ruddy complexion ashen. “We found them,” she rasped.

“Them?”

“The dead wolves. Three of them.”

Anger bubbled beneath Astrid’s skin, a torrent of curses on the tip of her tongue. She nodded without speaking. It was all she could manage without losing it.

“It’s bad, what they did. They took the pelts, but...” Johanna swiped a trembling hand over her face, nauseated and scared. “Astrid, I hate to ask this, but I need you to come take a look at the scene. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

Inside, Astrid was seething, because whatever had shaken up Johanna enough to ask the local Hexe for help must have been truly horrific. But the woman needed a supportive friend, too, so Astrid softened her voice and lightly touched her coat sleeve, intending to soothe. “Yes, of course. Just let me bundle up and grab my Zauberbuch.”

Some humans were capable of unspeakable cruelty in a way even the most vicious monsters weren’t. Toying a little with one’s prey was one thing—predators throughout nature did it—but outright torture? Invoking abject suffering?

“It’s like something out ofGame of Thrones,” one of Johanna’s colleagues muttered.

Astrid pressed a fist to her mouth, bile rising at the back of her throat. She wasn’t familiar with the reference, but it seemed to resonate with the group, who were all nodding and murmuring their agreement.

“There’s no shame in puking,” another said. “We’ve all already done it at least once.”

Cold and clinical, that’s how she needed to be to observe this scene if she was going to be of any use. Her rage, her horror, her disgust could wait until later. There was work to be done.

Shoving down every roiling feeling, Astrid swallowed. “I’ll be fine.”

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