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I put on the clothes from the drawer, assuming they belonged to Shea, for they fit me reasonably well. She was shorter and stockier than I was, but my boots came far enough up my calf to cover the few inches of bare skin left by her leggings, and the bagginess of the tunic was negligible. After gathering my weapons and my bag of supplies, wincing away the ache of every minute addition of weight, I crept out the bedroom door.
In the main room of what I had deduced was a simple house, the ticking I’d heard was amplified. The tall clock that stood across from me was made of rough wood, but it had been carved with care, and had probably been built in the same space it occupied. Chairs sat before a barren fireplace, a rickety table took up most of the room and a kitchen crowded the only available corner. The floor was of raw wood, uneven beneath my boots.
The light outside was growing warmer, and I hastened to the front door. This was my best chance to return to Chrior. But before I could touch the handle, the door swung inward and a cold wind gusted over me, it’s prying fingers finding every fault in my woolen armor while it ushered in a man so tall he cast me into shadow. I could smell blood on him, blood and gunpowder, and the memory of Falk’s Pride flashed in my head as though I were in the square again, shaking in the mud, counting the fallen. I cowered and stumbled away from him, losing the more feeble balance I had without my wings. As my shoulder hit the wall, my back revolted, and I screamed. I would not pass out; I would not give up this opportunity to reach my homeland.
The man was growling something in a deep voice and coming closer, looming over me. I fumbled to protect myself, and my hand fell upon the Anlace just as his fist closed around my arm. I lashed out, and his yowl told me I’d made contact. Taking advantage of the moment, I scrambled to my feet, abandoning my pack. My heart was rising into my throat, and I gagged as I lurched through the door. There were more voices emanating from the house now, and I thought I detected the sounds of pursuit. Without looking back, I fled for my life in a direction I hoped would lead me to the Bloody Road.
CHAPTER FIVE
BLACK MAGIC
I ran and ran, winter birds cackling above my head, the snow turning my hands and wrists red with cold every time I stumbled and collapsed. My eyes fought for clarity as the pain in my shoulder blades stretched and intensified, but I pushed on through the maze of trees and the pristine white ground. There was pressure in my skull, and a persistent buzzing that after a time muted my hearing and reminded me of how little I’d eaten in the past— What had it been? A few days? A week? Nature forbid it had been more.
When I recognized a cluster of saplings, my energy was renewed, and I pulled myself up a slight incline, certain I was going the right way. Footprints soon marked a path, and that path led me to the eerily vacant Road, bookended on either side by walls of inhospitable thicket. I stopped, panting heavily, listening to the wind as it whistled a warning song through the hollow tunnel of trees.
My blood, perverting the snow, was the sole aspect of the landscape that was not gray or white or muted green like the needles of the trees, making its color all the more horrific. In a frozen, crimson grin it engulfed the base of the balsam against which I’d been pinned and stained the trunk, leaving me to surmise that it could not have been long since I’d been injured. Not the weeks I had feared, at any rate. It hadn’t snowed since I’d been attacked.
I dropped to the ground and gazed across the Road, squinting into the heatless sun. I saw a glimmer on the other side, a haze of beauty I would have called an illusion, except that magic was visible to those with a sharp enough eye. This gave us an advantage in recognizing one another in the Territory, for even a Faerie’s shroud was not imperceptible if one looked closely enough—light reflected from the supposedly empty space at Faefolk’s backs. Rarely could a human identify us, not with their diminished senses, but a few were gifted enough to spot the signs. What I saw across the Bloody Road were the lissome currents of Nature’s purest creation, currents of magic I longed to feel against my skin.
My heart seemed to pitch forward, and I stood, allowing my feet to follow. I lurched onto the Road, concentrating my thoughts on Davic, urging whatever magic remained in my body to trace the path of our promise bond and bring him to me. Although something fluttered under my skin, it was trapped there, stretching its fingers but unable to claw free. My bond with Davic may have still been in existence, but it floated without direction, just as my steps took me no closer to that beguiling sunrise in which everything was discernible—Ione’s diamond-blue eyes, my father’s gentle, reserved voice, the halo of righteousness that Ubiqua wore like a crown, Davic’s easygoing smile. My body was weakening, my hope and resolve with it, and the very essence of my being wanted to emerge from my chest. How easy it would have been to let it, to sink into obscurity and give myself back to the earth and its elements.
Then a tingling sensation invaded my arms, beginning in the tips of my fingers and growing in strength. It wasn’t painful, even as a similar sensation conquered my legs, and I watched in awe while my hands fell away like sand slipping through an hourglass. But when the sensation invaded the core of my being, striking me with the weight of an anvil, fire roared up my throat. I threw myself backward, but I was too far from the human side of the Road. I would die here on the frozen ground, and though I had contemplated death moments before, facing it in truth now was the surest proof that I wanted to live.
Through my terror, I felt pressure under my arms, and then, miraculously, the burning receded, and I was left a shuddering heap in the snow. Magic, black and cloudy, leaked from my pores, called back to the Road and its home in Chrior. I looked up to see Shea sitting beside me, examining her hands as the elusive substance slithered between her fingers, her disgust and confusion unmistakable. She tried to wipe her palms in the snow, her pallor a reminder that she, too, would have felt the retribution of the Road.
“It’s magic,” I murmured, watching the inky film evaporate from her skin. “It’s leaving me. Forever.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” she erupted, startling me with her vehemence as she snatched my collar with both hands. “You can’t go home. If I hadn’t followed you here, you would be dead, do you understand that? Home is gone, Anya. There’s no going back.”
Her dark eyes were red rimmed, and she pushed me away to swipe at them. Underneath her cloak she was in her nightclothes, and she was shivering uncontrollably despite the sweat beading on her brow.
“Why do you care?” I bristled, crawling to my knees, guilt spurring my raging emotions. “Why would you risk your life for me?”
“Maybe I’m stupid! I mean, I don’t even know you. But you must be important to someone. Or at least, someone is important to you. You kept saying his name in your sleep.”
“Davic,” I whispered.
“No. The name you said was Zabriel. Now tell me, would he want you to do this?”
Shea stood and offered her hand to help me up, and the heat of shame blazed across my face. How could I have forgotten, even during these dark days, even for a moment, the reason I had left Chrior? Ubiqua’s throne was not mine. Now it could never be, and the need for Zabriel to be found was greater than ever. With no way to communicate the new urgency of the situation to my friends and family in the Faerie Realm, the task was mine and mine alone. I had to locate Zabriel and convince him to return or else intercept Illumina and enlist her aid.
I trudged through the snow behind Shea, the two of us no longer speaking. Despite the pangs that afflicted my back, I dreaded our arrival at the cabin. The man I had injured was probably Shea’s father, and he would likely not be pleased at my return. He confirmed this the moment I walked in the front door. Half a foot taller than me, he made me feel insignificant as he gripped me around the arm, tightly compressing the abrasion left over from my bullet wound. I winced but said nothing. He escorted me to the bedroom I had been occupying, his lined and weathered face wearing a glower that warned me not to challenge him. With a shove, he sent me inside before closing and locking the door.
Rooted in place, I listened to his footsteps recede. My breath came fast and short, swirling about me in the stagnant room, and I resisted an urge to hammer on that door and break it down. I wanted Shea’s father to know I was a fighter, and not anyone’s prisoner. The irony was that my own actions had made me a captive—this morning, the lock had not been in use. Dragging my feet, I paced, ignoring the ache in my back and the hunger pains in my belly for as long as I could. Eventually, I noticed my satchel near the wardrobe—thankfully the man of the house had let me keep it.
I stuffed myself with jerky and stale bread, then, overcome by fatigue, I dozed for a bit. When I woke, I resumed my pointless pacing, on occasion considering the window as a way of escape. But I ultimately discarded the idea; I was not yet well enough to be on my own. If this morning’s misadventure hadn’t served as enough proof, I could feel sticky discharge—blood, pus, I couldn’t be sure—fighting through my bandages. I needed to recover here for several more days before I’d be ready to travel. Then I could run far away from that man whose dubious intentions fed the wellspring of dread in my chest.
As the day crept toward night and the shadows lengthened, the bedroom walls seemed to close in on me. Just when I thought I could stand the isolation no longer, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing the man I had injured. He considered me, then moved aside, inviting me into the main room with a sweep of his arm. I stepped past him, the heavy, appetizing smell of cooking meat combating my wariness, though I remained conscious of every shift in my host’s formidable form.
An entire family sat around the table, attired in pristine dresses. Their soft murmurs of conversation fell away at my approach and all eyes came to rest on me. There was Shea, of course, her chocolate hair pulled away from her face, and Marissa, the little girl who’d brought firewood to my room. There was another girl, a middle sister, and a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman whose fork and knife shook from the tension in her hands. Her lips trembled, but no words came forth, giving the appearance of extreme cold despite the heat from the fireplace and stove, which made the house almost overly warm. The raven-haired man, who was no doubt her husband, stepped around me to retake his seat, the strength he radiated more than enough to make up for any frailty in her.
Shea stood, her chair grinding against the floor. Her tightly fitted blue linen dress struck me as impractical, although a pouch and knife at least hung securely from her belt. Motioning to each family member at the table in turn, she made introductions.
“Anya, this is my sister, Magdalene. Marissa, you remember. And these are my parents, Thatcher and Elyse More. Everyone, this is Anya.”
I forced myself to smile, the expression feeling stiff and unnatural, as though the corners of my mouth needed to be oiled. This was not surprising, considering the day’s events and the dearth of friendly greetings I was receiving. Marissa gave a tiny wave, but it was clear from her wide, watchful eyes that she still thought I could hurt her, and Magdalene glanced between her parents as though she might get in trouble for acknowledging me. Elyse wouldn’t meet my gaze, while Thatcher, the only one among them with probable cause to distrust me, stared at me unrelentingly. I was grateful when Shea dragged an extra chair into place at the table—standing made me feel overly conspicuous, a target for fear and hatred. I sat down, perched on the edge of my seat—ironically as if I could take flight.
“I believe I owe you an apology,” I said, catching sight of a bandage wrapped around Thatcher’s thick forearm, his crisp white shirt rolled above it.
I concentrated my attention on my hands, not pleased with the timidity my discomfort was breeding. When no response was forthcoming, I braved raising my eyes to his. They were dark like Shea’s, though there was movement within them, calling to mind rolling fog, his traveling thoughts practically visible. It might have been wise to show deference to him, but I sensed a test to see if I could be intimidated. Pride swelled, and I refused to give ground. I was royalty, and fortitude was inbred. He could stare forever, and I wouldn’t look away.
At last, Thatcher More smiled—not widely, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“It’s all right. I might have done the same in your position.” He shifted his gaze to his food, stabbing some venison with a knife, his manner a touch too nonchalant. “That’s an interesting weapon you used against me. It burns as much as it cuts.”
I braced myself, his reference to the Anlace making me uneasy, although the rest of the family obliviously began to eat.
“An irritant of some sort, I presume,” he went on. “Derived perhaps from poison sumac or ivy?”
I neither confirmed nor denied his assumption; I couldn’t have addressed it even if I had been disposed to do so, for I wasn’t sure of the answer. The blade could have been infused when it was forged with the sap of a poisonous plant—Fae knew how to construct weapons in that manner. But the secrets of the Queen’s Anlace were known only to the Queen, and I did not occupy the throne.
“I should also thank you for saving my life,” I said, redirecting the conversation to insert a small test of my own. “Although I’m not sure why you did.”
“You needed help, and I was in a position to give it. There’s nothing more to be said on the subject. You can stay with us until you’re well enough to travel. I assume you had some destination in mind at the time you were ambushed?”
“Yes, I did.” I glanced around the table. Shea alone showed interest in our exchange, reading my expressions and her father’s with subtle looks. The rest of the family was engrossed by the food on their plates, the younger daughters mirroring their mother’s behavior. At risk of pushing my luck, I forged ahead with Thatcher. “But I won’t get far without my travel documents.”
Thatcher cocked one eyebrow, then reached into the pocket of his coat and tossed the leather envelope containing my passport onto the table in front of me. I reached to pick it up, and caught him examining the ring I wore on my right middle finger. The likelihood was slim that he would recognize it as a royal ring, but it was obviously valuable. What if he demanded it in payment for his kindnesses?
“Forgive me for going through your things,” he said as I drew my hand and passport beneath the table. “It’s important for me to know who is in my house, so I took your papers.”
My eyes narrowed. “And did they put your mind at ease?”
“Yes, despite the fact that they’re falsified. The forger’s work was excellent, and those types of illicit documents usually come with prudent priorities.”
Everyone stopped eating, stopped moving, their forks poised in midair. Thatcher, however, merely reached for more bread, signaling that the meal should continue.
“Forgery doesn’t bother me, Anya, assuming that’s your real name. I expected it. The law may be pro-Fae, but that doesn’t mean the people of the Territory are. It’s safer for Fae to have documents that say they’re human, just like it’s safer for some humans to carry papers that don’t reveal their true identities or professions. Mind you, I’m not talking about criminals here. But the fact that your passport is such a good forgery tells me you’re well connected. And I can see now that you’re well-enough raised.”
I bristled at the condescension in his tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He settled back in his chair, one hand forming a mighty fist.
“Faerie.”
The word rolled off his tongue like a curse, and whatever tenuous trust I’d begun to develop in him vanished. Fae-hater, my brain insisted. But that couldn’t be the case. Not only had Thatcher’s family kept me alive, they’d been regarding me as a guest, providing me with a bed, fresh clothing, and food. Yet something in this man’s background made him mistrustful of my people. Though common sense screamed that I let the matter rest, I responded in kind, my tone a match to his.
“Human.”
Again the world seemed to come to a grinding halt, the only sound the clock against the wall, its ticking absurdly loud. Then Thatcher laughed, pushing back the heavy hair that fell to his cheekbones.
“Well, I’m glad that’s out of the way.” He raised his glass to me in salute. “Feel free to move around the cabin and join us at the table for meals. Shea can lend you some suitable clothing for dinnertime. But keep in mind, knives should only be wielded when eating.”
The jest broke the last of the strain between us, and though I still felt like an unexpected and not entirely welcome guest, the family’s usual dynamic emerged at last. Marissa and Magdalene, it turned out, were little chatterboxes who enjoyed sharing the events of their days. Thatcher doled out the next morning’s chores to his daughters as though they were gifts, and Elyse smiled and nodded politely along. Discarding caution, I ate hungrily, Shea sending encouraging looks my way. I was certain she had vouched for me with her father, and while I was appreciative, it did not erase the reservations I held. If she hadn’t endorsed me, how would he have dealt with me?
When everyone had eaten their fill, Thatcher rose from the table to settle into a worn-out armchair by the fire. As he packed and lit his pipe, Shea cleared the dishes, and Elyse herded the younger children to their bedroom. I stood uncertainly by until Thatcher took note and called for me to join him. I grimaced, thinking the interrogation that had started at dinner was about to resume. Nonetheless, I obliged, pulling a kitchen chair close to the fire.
“Did you get a look at who hurt you, Anya?” he asked, motioning toward my back.
My jaw tightened, his interest resurrecting my fear that he might be a Fae-hater. Perhaps he was worried I might be able to identify one of his friends.
“No, only that it was a group of five men and one woman.”
Thatcher took a pull on his pipe, considering. “I’ve on occasion seen a group of men in this part of the forest. I’ve never thought of them as Fae hunters, though. They do contract work for clients, but I suppose if the client wanted a unique trophy...” He trailed off and tapped the stem of his pipe against his chin. “I’ve never seen a woman with them. I imagine it could have been the client. Some want to experience the thrill of the kill, if you know what I mean. Fetishists and the like.”
My stomach churned at his choice of words. Were we Fae viewed as no more than animals on this side of the Bloody Road? How could someone take pleasure in the agony that had been inflicted on me? The notion was faith-shattering. Maybe the Anti-Unification League’s rhetoric that we should keep this kind of evil locked outside our borders had more validity than I had been willing to consider.
“I don’t know any of the men personally, mind you,” Thatcher continued, showing no sign he was aware of my reaction. “Not the sort of folks I choose as associates. But it is a group of five, related in some way, brothers or cousins, I think.”
Silence fell, for I did not know how to respond. His matter-of-fact tone sounded a hollow note against my painful reality.
“Dad,” Shea interjected, coming to lay a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can we talk about something else?”
Thatcher sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “Of course. I don’t suppose it does any good to rehash the past. But I am sorry, Anya, for what those men did to you.”
His expression was sincere enough, confusing me all the more. He was a difficult man to read, and I couldn’t determine if his inquiries came from a desire to know because he was somehow involved, or if he was trying to help. In the end, I remained guarded and on alert.
“Go on to bed,” he finished. “I’m sure you’re tired.” Meeting Shea’s eyes, he added, “I suggest you and your mother re-dress Anya’s wounds. Her outing this morning won’t have done her back any good.”
With a nod, Shea went to retrieve the medical supplies from a cupboard over the stove, and we walked together to the bedroom.
“This is your room, isn’t it?” I asked upon entering, drawing my conclusion from the clothing I had found in the wardrobe.
“Yes, I’m sleeping in with Marissa and Maggie for now. Dad thinks it’s best this way.”
“Afraid I’ll devour you in the middle of the night?”
“Good guess.”
“I was joking.”
“So was I.” She grinned and pulled out some fresh bandages. “Let me have a look at you.”
I sat on the bed, turning away from her so she could methodically re-dress my wounds. At some point, Elyse came in to observe Shea’s progress. After a few minutes, she set a vial on the nightstand.
“For pain,” she explained, not quite meeting my eyes. “Two sips should dull any discomfort you might have.”
“Thank you.”
A smile flitted across her lips. “You’re quite welcome. Now get some rest. It’s important to a speedy recovery.”
She gave her daughter a nod to tell her she was doing fine work, and departed.
“There,” Shea declared, coming to her feet. “Now be a good patient. Even with that juice from my mother, this is going to take a while to heal. Every time you tear it open, you set yourself back.”
“Got it. And thank you.”
She went to the door, then turned about with an impish smile. “Just so you know, I expect you to return every stitch of clothing you take from my wardrobe.”
I laughed, and she disappeared from sight, leaving me feeling relaxed for the first time all day.
* * *
I was awake early enough the next morning to hear Thatcher leave the house. I scrambled to my feet, dressing as quickly as I could given my sore muscles and ungainly movements. After grabbing my cloak, I passed through the cabin and out the front door, wanting to take a look around. My excursion to the Bloody Road hadn’t allowed me much opportunity to scout the area. Seeing tracks that led into the woods, I assumed Thatcher was gone, and trekked around the side of the cabin.
It was cold, the morning light so faint it appeared to cast a shadow. I stepped slowly, cautiously, the crunch of my boots resonant in the still woods. I rounded the corner to reach the back of the home and came to a stop, eyes on a shack nestled among the trees. It was roughly built, giving the impression it had been erected in a hurry; it stood as though its knees were drawing together. I approached, my senses on full alert. If Thatcher knew more about the hunters than he had revealed...what might be hidden inside? Were my wings or those of other Fae tacked along the walls?
The door was locked. Glancing upward, I saw a small window set below the eaves. Without thought, I flexed the muscles that would have unfurled my wings, but instead of rising off the ground, I doubled over in pain. As the agonizing stabs in my back diminished, I mentally berated myself. Straightening, I spotted a sturdy branch that overhung the building. If I could drop from it onto the roof, I could lay flat and lean over the edge to get a look in the window. Plan in place, I scaled the tree, gritting my teeth against the stretching and tightening of my back muscles. When I was high enough, I inched out onto the branch and swung down, hanging by my arms as I prepared to drop.
“What the hell are you doing up there?”
My fingers went to jelly and I barely managed to maintain my grip on the branch. Thatcher stood ten paces from the shed, holding a string of rabbits in one hand, his hunting gun in the other. His expression was a blend of incredulity and displeasure that made him look like he’d taken a drink of sour milk.
“I, um...I can’t fly, so I climbed the tree.” Unable to lie, I told the truth, although not the complete story.
“I see.” He rested the butt of his gun against the ground and rubbed his brow. “For what purpose?”
“To get higher?” My arms aching, I let myself drop onto the roof. I landed more heavily than I’d expected, gravity apparently the only element that had an interest in me, and I nearly tumbled backward into the snow below.
Thatcher snorted. “Looks to me like you wanted to get on top of my shed.”
I gave him a sheepish shrug. “There’s a good view from up here.”
“A view of what exactly?”
When I didn’t respond, he hoisted his hunting gun so the barrel rested against his shoulder and took a few steps closer.
“In case you’re interested, that window’s too dirty to see through. So I’d suggest you get down. There’s nothing of interest for you here.”
Embarrassed, I slid to the edge of the roof and dropped to the ground, wincing upon landing. As the cold wind erased some of the heat from my cheeks, I labored over what to say. Did I owe him an apology? Should I risk asking him about the things that troubled me?
“Just go back inside,” he ordered, stepping past me to unlock the shed.
I nodded, but didn’t move, trying to perceive his character, to understand his motives.
“Out with it,” he abruptly directed, hand on the door latch. “What is it you want to know?”
I bit my lip hard and met his eyes. “Are you or were you a Fae hunter?”
