Page 122 of Kingdoms of Night

Could he fight a god, or just buy Idalno a minute while he got killed by one?

Something warm and strong squeezed his hand. “Feron?”

He jolted. Idalno’s voice sounded as if it came from beyond the hills and trees, floating above the breeze itself.

“What?” He tried to blink away the haze, but it clung to him, buzzing in his ears. He dragged Idalno a step or two farther into the cottage, then halted.

The inside of the cottage was far bigger than it had seemed on the outside. The large white-framed windows showed the stones bathed in late-afternoon sun. It had been morning just a few minutes ago. Cupboards lined the back wall on either side of a colorful painted door. Braids of onions and garlic hung from hooks, and blue canisters with white flowers sat in rigid rows on wooden shelves. The clapboard floor had been thoroughly swept. Other knickknacks and homey details filled the corners and walls of the home as well as an old spindle and a large butter churn and other items, mostly near the walls. The center was oddly bare.

This whole place bothered him. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and the back of his neck itched, the little hairs there standing on end, as if someone were watching him. The air smelled flat, almost empty. But falsely so. As if someone had made it that way. The edge of something reached his nostrils, but he could not place it.

Idalno remained close, her arm outstretched toward him. “I can’t hear them anymore, can you?”

He shook his head. No sound came from the other side of the door. None at all. Nor the magnetic pull of the Wild Hunt. Soon, he’d have to figure out why it affected him the way it did, before it endangered Idalno or Annette.

Hawthorn nudged him, then gave a low growl-bark.Stay away from the Hunt.

Buttercup sniffed the door.They won’t stop, though.

He frowned.What do they want?

To hunt,both said at once. Hawthorn joined Buttercup and licked her ear.

A cold sensation settled in the pit of his stomach. He pressed his ear near the door and strained to listen once more. Not a sound.

He dropped his shoulders, relieved. The Wild Hunt must have passed.

“They’re gone,” he said to Idalno, and although her eyes were uneasy, she nodded.

In this cottage, there were only his own breaths, Idalno’s, and the wolves’. No sound, sight, or smell of anyone else. Still, as well kept as this place was, someone did live here. It would be best if they left before the owner returned.

He slowly opened the door a crack.

Outside, afternoon had arrived, late afternoon by the looks of it. The sky’s blue had intensified, richer, and the sun now slipped toward the west.

Idalno’s eyebrows creased together. “It was only just mid-morning.”

There was something off about this place. Maybe he should’ve picked the cave, but it would’ve been a far trickier path to get down safely without being spotted. Pretty as it was, this cottage gave him the creeps. It was like it had been at the pond the first time they’d heard the Wild Hunt. As if they’d stepped into another location entirely. And that—that meant this area was safe, didn’t it?

He pulled the door open a bit wider.

The wolves barked. A myriad of scents assaulted him. Breads, meats, desserts, fruits. His mouth watered.

“That wasn’t there before,” Idalno said sharply, staring at the center of the cottage.

A massive slab table now dominated the space, with simple benches slid beneath. A single blue table runner with a lace overlay ran down the middle. Not that much of it was visible beneath the enormous mound of beautiful food. Platters of flaky-crusted hand pies, glistening decanters of rich red and violet cordial, stacks of buttery biscuits, plates of sizzling sausages and charred meat with grilled onions and sauteed mushrooms heaped alongside. Lattice-topped pies were at intervals with towering, frosted cakes nearby and mounds of croissants with cups of whipped butter and fruit spreads wedged in.

That definitely hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t smelled any of this before they’d entered, not even when they’d first run in. Not a trace of sugar or vanilla or stewed chicken or even basil or butter. And despite the delicious scents, his stomach churned.

The last time he’d come across spread of food like this had been at the lake, when Puck had laid out his disturbing tea party. Was that sick bastard up to his tricks again?

Not a scrap of space had gone unused. And the longer he looked, the more he saw.

Roast duck with crispy, orange-glazed skin. Bowls of plums, pomegranates, dates, and apples. Thick-crusted loaves of bread as thick as his arm. Chunks of cheese as big as his head. Custard tarts stacked together. Fragrant steam coiled up, almost overwhelming his senses.

Then another scent seized him. His mouth watered, and his stomach cramped with hunger. Vanilla caramels. While he loved all kinds of sweets, those were his favorite and took him back to one of the few happy memories he had, Maman standing over the stove, caramelizing sugar beet juice with milk and fat. Together with her, he and his sisters had made them together and waited eagerly until they were ready. It had been years since he’d smelled—let alone tasted—one. Now an enormous mound of them sat just within arm’s reach.

“Whatever you do, don’t eat anything.” Idalno gestured toward the table, her eyebrows knitted together.

---