Page 121 of Kingdoms of Night

“Maybe.” She clicked her teeth. If she were a geo Shivennan, she could reach right into the earth and learn more about the place or even shift the soil and stones to reveal its secrets. “Smell anything unusual?”

More color flared through his cheeks and forehead. He gave an awkward shrug, though his gaze remained fixed on the cottage. “No.”

“So the child’s shoe…” Her stomach hardened. She didn’t want to consider what had happened, but they had to. “Which is likelier, a predator in the cave or in the cottage? Maybe both?” Creator willing, the child who’d lost her shoe had grown up, alive and well, and perhaps lived in this pretty cottage.

Feron’s jaw worked. “It’s a well-kept house. Monsters can live anywhere, though. After what we saw in the river, that cave probably has something horrible for certain. May as well find out now, in the open.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello? Anyone in the cottage?”

She winced, both at his volume and what it might bring.

The wolves pricked their ears forward.

“Idalno—” Feron grabbed her arm, urging her forward with him. “There’s—”

Thunderous hoofbeats and war horns shook the air.

The Wild Hunt. Behind them. Her breath caught. “They’re closer now!”

The wolves laid their ears back as their hackles lifted.

“Feron—”

He paused, deathly still and the lines of his face drawn. The focused intensity of his eyes hollowed, glassy, haunted.

“Feron, come on, we have to go!” She grabbed ahold of his hand, but he wouldn’t move. “Feron?”

He blinked, life flushing into his face, as if he’d awoken from some spell. His brow furrowed. “What?”

Something was wrong. Definitely wrong. Though whatever had just happened to him, they needed to get to safety first.

“We have to go.” She started to urge him toward the forest. “The Wild Hunt is coming.”

His hand tightened around hers, his entire demeanor snapping to attention.

“No, they’re coming from the forest.” He pulled her toward the cottage at a run, and then onto the porch, Hawthorn and Buttercup right behind them.

There was no telling what was inside the cottage. But with the Hunt nipping at their heels, they had no choice.

He flung open the door and dragged her inside.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

FERON

He laid his hand on the door, hesitating to close it for a breath, then giving it a firm push. It rested at the edge of the doorjamb but didn’t latch. All Puck had said was that they had to hide from the Wild Hunt. This would be good enough, wouldn’t it? It might be safer if he blocked the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

That call. Something in him knew it. Or it knew him. The hoofbeats filled his ears, drummed out all awareness of everything except the Hunt. His blood pulsed at the horns and their call. It had held him fast.

Come.

Come join the Hunt.

The wind had carried with it the scent of horses, sweat, and dogs. It had been clear. So clear it might as well have been glass.

And as surely as he’d known which direction they were coming from, he knew the Wild Hunt would kill Idalno if they found her. He’d never let that happen, even if all he had left was his snapping jaws.

But the Wild Hunt, the way it kept grabbing ahold of him, could he even fight it? It seemed like some sort of magic, which werewolves were supposed to be immune to—in Emaurria at least, from the myths he’d heard. Who knew how right or wrong those were.

If he could fight it, from the barks and gallops, there were a lot of riders. If they were human, he could dispatch them all. But they weren’t. And in this strange realm, there was no telling what the Wild Hunt’s riders were. Fae, like Puck? Spriggans? It wasn’t even impossible for them to be wyrms, probably. Gods?

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