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My palm clamps onto the trunk, and my back faces Juniper while I speak. “I’ve got to hand it to those old scribes,” I say. “If they wrote a Fable none of us can decode, they were pretty skilled at—”

But I smell it before I hear her cry out. The briny reek of blood clots the air, thick and free-flowing to my ears.

I whip around just as my woman collapses to her knees, red pooling like a river between her legs and a scream ripping from her lungs.

16

I see her, blood pouring from her body. I see my woman, clutching her womb and howling on the ground. I see my unfated mate, my steadfast equal, my willful love in agony.

Her name tears from my lungs as I pound across the dirt. My hooves slam against the earth. I crash to the forest floor beside her, my knees stamping into the grass and cracking open an acorn shell.

“Puck,” she shrieks, reaching for me. “Puck, I can’t…I can’t…make it stop!”

“Luv,” I rasp. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”

Another bellow rips from her mouth as I scoop Juniper into my arms, lurch upright, and haul ass through the woodland. I smash through bristling thickets and bushels of moss, and jet around the oaks. Dried chips of mulch crack under my weight. My arm whips out to smack a low branch out of the way, the limb snapping in half and splitting from the tree trunk.

Juniper’s blood seeps into my vest and races down my arms. Her cries thin out and then fade altogether as her head slumps against my chest.

“Juniper,” I heave, alternating between peering at her and checking my route. “Juniper, no no no no no. Stay with me, luv. Stay awake.”

She mumbles, “Hurts,” before her eyes flutter shut.

Terror ices my veins, propelling me faster, though it’s not fast enough. It’ll never be fast enough. I can’t fucking manifest with her. And I can’t stop to send a message, but even with my speed, I won’t make it quickly.

My hooves skitter beside a trunk, which I grasp, my fingers digging into the bark. I’m shaking so badly, my grip is seconds away from bending the tree.

I close my eyes and shove a message down through the roots, fear tracking through my spine. Releasing the tree, I keep running. Greens, browns, and golds blur past my vision, and Juniper’s featherweight breath skates across my collarbones.

Moments later, the call is answered. A russet figure gallops into my path and stops, shamrocks trembling from its antlers. Clouds of air puff from the deer’s snout as her black eyes train on me, then seize on Juniper. Alarm flashes through my companion’s pupils as I heft off the ground and land on her back.

She’s spearing through the wilderness before I’m fully settled. Sylvan bounds over a ravine and shoots forward. The instant we clear denser terrain and emerge into open forest, her form shifts and expands to double her size.

Faeries have the power of speed, unmatched only by certain fauna. My friend is one of them. Even without having to shift sizes, Sylvan usually outpaces me.

With her limbs extended, she vaults across The Herd of Deer and heads northwest, knowing where we need to go.

The cabin would be swifter, likely safer. The problem is, it’s even likelier that whatever Juniper needs, we won’t have it stored at home. My woman had made sure we had a cache of basic remedies for battle wounds and mortal diseases, but I’m not about to risk going there and realizing nothing at the cabin will work for her.

And I have no fucking clue what’s wrong with her! Only two other beings might know how to help Juniper, and one of them is closer than the other.

Sylvan sprints across the wild, crossing through territories that whirl past us. Time lags and accelerates in tandem, but Sylvan is wise enough to avoid turfs now polluted by our enemies. That makes detours essential, yet she reaches the place we need to go in half the time it would have taken me.

We dart through a filmy, shimmering wall and pass into a valley clustered with titanic, leaf-woven pavilions and yurts. Emerald willow trees shudder in the breeze. Overhead, a few constellations are mobile, zipping through the sky.

Centaurs emerge from different corners, murmuring to one another when they see us. The small filly from yesterday trots into the scene, her gaze worried as she takes in the grisly sight.

The deer and I cut across the candlelit stone paths to a yurt the size of a villa. As Sylvan halts in front of the entrance, Cypress bursts through the willow vine flaps. His hooves stomp the grass, his horse tail swats the air, and his long hair falls from the tether at his nape.

My friend’s eyes narrow on me with surprise, then expand on Juniper, limp and soaked in red. Horror warps his dark features. “Bring her inside,” he hastens, whisking the foliage panels open.

I jump off Sylvan’s back and bolt through the entrance. The deer’s form shrinks before skittering inside after me.

The walls are made of additional threaded vines, floor pillows occupy Cypress’s tent, and a fire burns in the center. The kindling spits embers like flecks of lava. Sylvan paces left and right as I kneel and settle Juniper onto the cushions. My palms clamp over her face, but that smears blood on her cheeks.

With quaking fingers, I yank on her vest and blouse, shredding the garments open. An embroidered band harnesses her breasts, and I don’t see any gashes below her navel. But as expected, when I ruck up her skirt, it’s a different story. Blood stains the matching drawers that cling to her hips and waist.

My hiss fractures in half. “Juniper…”