Page 19 of The Witch's Shifter
Faolan’s trail is a jagged, chaotic thing. Branches are broken all around, and the earth is torn, great clumps of dirt and moss rent from the ground in violent gouges. Miles in, I’m still finding drops of blood.
How badly is he injured? And will he even be able to make it back to the cottage? I might need the bandages Aurora packed after all.
As I walk, the sun tracks across the pale autumn sky, peeking every so often through the gaps in the trees stretching high above my head. Faolan’s trail doesn’t move in one specificdirection; instead, it turns this way and that, oftentimes moving through dense undergrowth, slowing my progress through the forest. Though I keep my eyes always on the lookout for wolf tracks and signs he passed through here, my mind still wanders. And when it does, it always finds its way back to Aurora.
Five months—that’s how long she’s been carrying my child. It feels like a lifetime and yet no time at all. It was only spring when I met her, when I first bumped into her in the mercantile, and now here I am, tracking her shiftermatethrough the woods.
I really don’t like that word.
If someone had told me how things would go when I got to Faunwood, I’d have called them mad. Me, living in a tiny little cottage with a woman, a cat, three hens,andanother man? That would’ve made me laugh. Hard. But now I’m just wondering whether the child will be a girl or a boy, whether it’ll have my hair or Aurora’s.
Aurora.
Being around her is a little like getting lost in time; you’re never quite sure if a day has passed or a year has passed, and yet you can’t bring yourself to be bothered, as long as she’s there when you open your eyes.
Witchcraft indeed.
I laugh to myself as I stoop beneath a low-hanging pine bough, careful not to get my pack snagged. I’m not sure how Alden was so friendly toward me when we first met; he even invited me into the cottage and poured me a cup of tea. Meanwhile, I wanted to toss Faolan out before he’d even opened his eyes, and that was only partly because he’s a shifter—and a dangerous one at that. I didn’t like having him so near Aurora, with his hulking physique and sharp cheekbones and silky black hair. But I suppose it’s too late for that now.
Mate.
That word keeps ringing through my head, setting me on edge. There’s such a finality to it, like Aurora doesn’t even get a choice in the matter.
Not for the first time, I remind myself that it does no good to get upset; my anger is why I’m out here in the first place, traipsing through the dense forest in search of a shifter who could tear my head from my shoulders if he caught me unawares in the trees.
The thought makes me reach for the hilt of my sword. I rest my palm across it, comforted by the familiar feel against my skin. It’s always here if I need it—I just hope it won’t come to that.
I’VE BEEN HIKING FOR HOURS by the time I emerge from the trees atop a bluff and spot a large lake glittering in the distance. Moonstone Lake, I believe. Though I’ve never visited it myself, the fishermen in Faunwood speak of it often, and I know Harrison has a special appreciation for the wispfish found in its waters. Perhaps we can go there next summer—the child will be here by then.
That thought brings a light smile to my lips.
The wind is strong, and I reach up to tie my hair back out of my face while scanning the treacherous cliffside. Even a shifter would have a difficult time descending such a steep and rocky decline, and that’s especially true for one as injured as I’m assuming Faolan to be.
If he didn’t descend the cliff, he must’ve gone around from here.
I step away from the edge and sip the canteen while backtracking a short distance. Sure enough, I find where Faolan must’ve done the same. His trail veers north, keeping close to the edge of the cliff just inside the tree line. When I do spot pawprints in the soft soil, I note that they’re closer together now; it seems he stopped running by this point, which makes me hopeful he’s around here somewhere.
It’s likely only due to his injuries that he slowed. As far as I know, wolf shifters can travel many tens of miles in a day, much more than I could ever hope to cover on foot. I didn’t plan for a days-long trip, and if I don’t find him soon, I may need to return to the cottage and set out again tomorrow with more supplies, though I’d really prefer not to.
The trail leads to another descent, though this one isn’t so sheer a drop. Still, I have to sink low and use my hand for balance as I skid down the rocky slope, sending tiny stones clattering with my boots. When I get to the bottom, I look around for any sign of the shifter having passed through this area. It’s rockier here, and the trees are thinner, which makes it difficult to discern where he could’ve gone.
Slowly, I peruse the area, gaze sweeping over everything in my path. And it’s by a stroke of luck that I find a tiny blood spatter leading northward still.
Something tingles along my spine as I cautiously head in that direction. I’m in a bit of a bowl now, and I don’t like the feeling of being surrounded by steep cliffs. Once again, my hand finds the hilt of my sword, and I wrap my fingers about it, though I don’t pull the blade free of the scabbard. It would be yet another poor decision on my part to approach Faolan with my weapon drawn, assuming he’s around here. But really, how much farther could he have gone?
Another blood drop upon a smooth gray stone sends me eastward, following along a small rivulet of clear mountainwater. It’s so quiet here that the racket created by a murder of crows taking to the sky echoes off the slopes, sending their eerie cries back to me even after they’ve departed. In my chest, my heart beats slightly faster. It feels like the land is listening to me, watching me.
The rivulet grows larger as I trek nearer to Moonstone Lake. Around me, the air grows cold, and when I tip my head back, I find the sun obscured by heavy gray storm clouds.
Rain. That’s the last thing I need. If it starts falling before I find Faolan, it’ll wash away any blood spatters and turn his pawprints back into mud. Then all this will be for nothing. The thought of telling Aurora I failed in my quest to find him makes me clench my free hand into a fist. There’s no way I can let that happen. I’ve already disappointed her once—I don’t intend on doing it again.
Hastening my pace, I tread alongside the waterway, gaze sweeping through the thin pines and along the boulders littering the valley. The going isn’t easy, and the terrain becomes more rugged the closer to the lake I trek. Looking around at how harsh this environment is, I imagine the fishermen go the other way around, using the road rather than clambering through the forest; there’s no way they take such a rough path to their fishing spot.
Boots quiet, I hop up onto a large flat stone, using it as a vantage point. And it seems Faolan must’ve done the same, for there’s a blood smear and a muddy pawprint on the stone beneath my boots.
“Where are you?” I whisper, narrowing my eyes against the darkening gray. The clouds overhead are moving in quickly, ushered along by a powerful wind that sends me digging in the pack for my cloak. Up along the steep bluffs, the pine trees groan and hiss. The wind through their needles produces such aloud sound that it drowns out the burbling of the waterway I’m following.
Trying not to lose Faolan’s trail, I leap from the rock and land on another, and from there I see a pawprint pressed into a small section of dirt at the water’s edge. There’s no time to hesitate; the rain will start falling any moment now.
