Page 70 of Kingdoms of Night

No answer followed this time. The last time she'd heard Lalko’s voice, it had headed in this direction.

She tried to hide the edge of panic as she called out again. “Lalko. Lalko!”

She unsheathed her thin obsidian knife with the tiger carved into the handle.

There was no easy path down to the village or even into the valley. No evidence of a child walking, scooting, or even rolling down except for a faint disturbance in the fallen oval leaves.

A small trace of a path maybe? The short stiff grass was a little bent there, maybe?

Carefully, she moved down the hill. The grass pressed firm against her slim-booted foot. Each step released a softscrush. Light bluebells and purple foxglove grew in irregular patches where the ground was less packed..

No sign of predators. No scat. No footprints. No reason for Lalko to disappear unless someone had grabbed her.

A man's deep voice shattered the silence. “Annette?”

Not alone, apparently. And not the only one looking for someone.

CHAPTERFOUR

FERON

His nose stung, but so did the rest of his body, strangely tingling, oddly warm despite the shock of cold he’d expected of the cave. He snapped his nose back into place with a wince, bolts of pain radiating throughout his face. It never got easier, the pain from injuries, but at least he healed quickly these days. One small perk of being a monster.

His vision cleared.

This place was strange. And wrong. Every bit of it.

It wasn’t dark. It wasn’t a cave. And it definitely wasn’t anywhere near Guillory.

His backside ached, filtering in as the pain in his face abated. Beneath his palm, he rubbed his fingertips into grainy brick, a muted red path inlaid among short, stiff grass. Framing the path was a dense, ancient forest of oaks and elms, but unlike any he’d ever seen. Wide, open crowns topped the oaks, wider than they were tall, with massive trunks and deep-ridged bark. The white elms forked into numerous arching branches, vase like, with dark-green leaves.

It had just been dusk, but gentle morning sunlight cast the leaves in a soft golden glow. He craned his neck up at the sky, shading his eyes with a hand. A hazy sun hung in the sky, a weathered ocean blue. If not for the aches and pains, this might’ve been a dream.

His sense of smell began to return, notes of old clay, green mold, stagnant water, and cloves and myrrh, almost a cologne. He inhaled deeply, taking in farther scents, but there wasn’t any trace of Annette.

But he’d heard her, just minutes ago. She did like to hide sometimes, but she couldn’t have hidden her scent, especially not in a place like this.

He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands, staring down the brick path, taking in every detail. Wherever it led, maybe Annette had gone there. It was likelier than her venturing into unfamiliar woods.

Despite his aching backside, he picked up the pace and ran along the path, taking in all the scents for any sign of Annette.

Ahead, a small village came into view—the buildings, anyway. No sign of any people outside. Maybe they’d seen a stranger coming, and if he looked the way he smelled, then his face was probably covered in blood, and the rest of him in dirt, grime, and dust. Far from a pleasant sight, much less a welcome one.

As he approached, there was still no scent or sound of anyone. Scattered remnants of a few fires confirmed people had been here at some point in the last few weeks, but only crude clay buildings seemed to populate this village now. All of them leaned, none in the same direction. The doors of all but a few had been smashed in or shattered, leaving fragments and splinters of brightly painted wood on the floor and near the walls. Any furniture either lay in pieces or had been taken. Torn-out hinges on the windows, little more than cutouts in the clay, suggested they’d at least had shutters at one point.

Scratches and gouges littered the surfaces, claw marks of varying size and pressure, some from wolves, others maybe from bears or even larger predators or monsters. A few might have been from blades—monsters of the human variety.

Not a good place for children. Not even a good place for people, if his instincts were right.

The breeze blew stronger down the crooked path, whistling in the windows and doors eerily. Wind chimes of some sort, bone maybe from the haunting sound, clinked and rang. He brushed Anouk’s red scarf around his neck, smoothing his fingertips over the fine rambouillet wool, their maman’s specialty once upon a time. Annette was without it now, probably as scared as she was cold. For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, racking his brain for what she might’ve done or where she might’ve gone.

Shaking his head, he passed each house, peering inside and straining all his senses for any sign of her. It was his fault she’d run away to begin with—the lord had come to recruit him into a pack—and whatever it took, he’d bring her home to Anouk.

She couldn’t have gone far. Although she was a spirited child, she was still only four years old and human. There were only so many places a little girl could hide, and no way for her to just disappear without a trace. Annette was clever, but not even slightly magically inclined. And even then, magic would leave a scent. It always did.

He came across a well, and although the villagers had long abandoned this place, he could smell the water. After taking a seat on the stone rim, he lowered the bucket. It was musty, probably from iron leaching into the water, but otherwise acceptable to his nose. He washed his face, slicked his long hair back, then took off his shirt and did his best to wash that, too. When he did find Annette, he didn’t want to look like death warmed over.

Growing up, his sister Anouk had seen him bloodied more than any child ever should, and even to this day, the sight of it almost always changed her from her twenty-six years to the little six-year-old cowering under the table while their stepfather had beaten him. Maman had died when he’d been four, and between the three of them, Danielle was the only one old enough to remember their papa’s face. He had precious few memories of Maman, mostly when they all made caramels together, but none at all of his papa.

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