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She’s on her way. And she’s not the only one.

The ground rumbles as it had during The Wild Peak. Except this quake vibrates toward us, not toward the sky, produced by dozens of pounding feet and stomping hooves.

We lurch off the ground. The fir trees writhe, shedding pinecones.

A pair of antlers crops up through the creepers, the crown’s serrated rims thwacking branches out of the way. Then another pair of spokes appears, and another, and another.

Bows twang. Blades and axes flash. Staffs and hammers club the foliage.

Puck had called this place The Gang of Elks.

A legion of Faeries charge in our direction, including Foxglove and the troop who’d guarded us in the Fae ring. Half of the attackers are mounted on giants—elks that have shifted to twice their usual size.

The satyr and I reel, catapulting into the firs. One of the riders—a faun—breaks from onslaught and wallops in our direction until he’s parallel to us. Raising his arms, he aims a throwing star and targets my throat.

Puck leaps to get in front of me, but another flying object beats him to it. A thin spear-like projectile whizzes through the air, plummeting from the sky and stabbing the ground.

We skid in place. The javelin startles the rider, who loses his grip on the elk’s reins. Then another weapon whisks from overhead—one that I recognize. The golden whip snaps, catching the assailant’s weapon and knocking it into the trees.

At which point, a feisty, feminine voice growls, “Get the fuck away from my sister!”

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My heart stops. It stops along with everything else, every sound, every movement. Time goes still, the world suspending itself. A winged silhouette dives from the sky—a nightingale the size of a dragon, its wingspan threatening to decapitate the trees.

I see her. Astride the nightingale, a female figure brandishes her whip. She twirls the golden cord into a loop above her head, whisking it into the air.

Lark.

With another lash, my sister’s weapon snares a leprechaun’s waist and yanks him off a charging elk. The nightingale veers, twisting vertically and slipping between two trunks. Righting itself, the bird careens downward and prepares to land.

Lark doesn’t wait. Midflight, she swings her legs off the bird’s back and plunges to the forest floor. At the same time, the nightingale shrinks, its body reducing to the girth of a falcon.

My sister lands with a thud, her ankle boots walloping the ground, a storm of white hair gusting around her face. She wears a slate gray dress that buffets her limbs like a gale, with feathers ornamenting the short sleeves. Frantically, she casts about, searching among the drove.

Is this a farce? Have one of the Fae enchanted me?

Her eyes stumble across mine and freeze. The instant those irises flash like silver coins, flaring with recognition, I know she’s real. And she knows I’m real.

Time resumes, along with the fight. Faeries fling themselves off the incoming elks and whip out weapons. It’s a smaller mob than I had originally thought, but it’s sufficient to outnumber us.

A dryad pounces on Puck. The satyr rotates out of the Fae’s chokehold, his arms thwarting the dryad’s staff. They battle with inhuman speed, delivering blows too fast for me to monitor.

It’s over in a matter of seconds. By that time, the dryad’s bleeding on the ground, and Puck tosses me the staff. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Go!”

When I swing back to Lark, love floods my being. We break from our stance and sprint ahead. She and I battle our way toward one another, exchanging blows with Faeries, dodging their fists and evading their claws. Relieved of their riders, the elks pound off into the fir trees.

Puck covers me, opening a path for me to travel. He swipes the axe that had tumbled from the leprechaun’s grip when Lark unsaddled that Fae. Flipping the weapon in his hands, he barrels in front of me and collides with a pair fauns. He head-butts one of them and rams the axe handle into the other’s stomach.

Lark executes a deft series of flicks, slashing her whip across necks and limbs. Using both ends of the cord, she corrals two nymphs and gives a sharp jerk, hammering them into one another. Their heads crack together, and they fall just as Lark leaps over them and jockeys my way.

The staff’s heavy, bulky. I manage to avoid the attackers, mainly out of reflex, ducking and dodging like a slippery critter.

A petal dress materializes in my periphery. I swerve to evade Foxglove’s dagger and spin behind her, clubbing the staff against the backs of her knees. The collision rattles my teeth. With a yelp, Foxglove topples over, but my luck won’t detain her for long.

I accelerate my pace, but too many Faeries pack the clearing. And they’re too strong, too quick.

So quick that a centaur snatches me from behind. For a foolish instant, I mistake the equine for Cypress. However, the arms are thinner and lack his dark complexion.