Page 210 of Flirting with Darkness

Tick. Tick. Tick.The clock in the hall.

There was no other sound. The fire was too low to snap and crack. The birds outside hadn’t started their dawn chorus.

The door creaked, swinging wider.

I gasped, clutching the blankets, wishing, wishing, wishing I had my dagger or iron blade to hand.

I tried to say Faolán’s name, but no sound came out. That would be the logical answer. He would appear around that door any second, sleepy-eyed with a snack, complaining that he’d woken hungry because he hadn’t eaten enough at dinner due to getting distracted by me.

Any second.

Wider.

Wider.

Wider.

Dark fur. A muzzle. Glinting eyes.

It wasn’t Faolán.

The great head led to a thick neck, which flowed into powerful shoulders and forelegs. It moved so silently, its large claws didn’t even click against the stone floor in the doorway. The only sound was a faint snuffle as it sniffed the floor as though following a trail.

Where my mind held the image of its fur shiny in the moonlight, now it was shaggy and ragged. That wasn’t enough to stop me recognising the creature as a memory whooshed back.

The wolf.

The one I’d seen the night I tried to escape. The one that had stopped me. The one that had kept me as House’s prisoner.

I’d thought the vague images just a dream.

But this was no dream. It was a waking, living nightmare. Bigger than me. Bigger than any sabrecat I’d ever seen. It was as though seeing it in the context of the room allowed me to finally understand just how massive it was. It might even have been bigger than Faolán. But he wasn’t here.

Something prickled at the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades.

The wolf was Granny’s. Had it hurt him? Had it taken him?

But… he wasn’t here the first time I saw the wolf, either.

Not taking my eyes off it, I edged towards my bag, which I’d left in the bottom of the wardrobe. My iron blade. I needed it. Badly.

Still not all the way through the door, still sniffing, it didn’t react to me, even as I took a shaky step towards the wardrobe.

Barely breathing, I eased the wardrobe door open. Thank the Lords and Ladies, it didn’t make a sound.

Finally, the wolf’s tail came into view. If it hadn’t been so ragged or huge or terrifying, the creature might’ve been beautiful with that dark fur, the long sweep of its tail, and its powerful body made for hunting.

Unblinking, I slid my hand into my bag, past the few items left inside, and at long blessed last, my grip closed on the iron knife. I let out a soft breath of relief.

The wolf’s head snapped up.

Almost as quickly, I brought up the iron blade. It shook—my handshook.

With a snarl, the beast coiled and leapt.

This was what the stories had always warned us of. Vicious creatures. Fae monsters. Danger and death.

Heart in my throat, I flung myself to one side and rolled, like Faolán had taught me. Where the hellswashe?

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