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My pulse drums. I will her to move, but she doesn’t. Instead, she pauses within range.

Right in my line of fire.

34

I’m seven years old, poaching an animal.

I’m thirteen years old, rescuing an animal.

I’m nineteen years old, hunting an animal.

The memories coalesce. Every regret and atonement, every haunting and rewarding incident wheel together, the vignettes blurring into a spectrum of images and color. I watch them spiral, around and around and around.

When the funnel ceases, I behold her again. The doe recognizes me, the black coins of her eyes reflecting a battle between allies and enemies. Somewhere in that collage, her pupils must reflect me aiming the weapon, pointing the bolt at her.

Sylvan remains idle. I want her to flee, need her to flee, to take the choice away from me. But she doesn’t. The deer won’t move because I’m the only soul besides Puck whom she trusts. This mystical creature doesn’t anticipate an attack.

My lips wobble. A silent scream skids across my tongue.

When I was little, I couldn’t decide what was worse—when they just stood there or when they tried to get away, tried to save themselves once realizing a predator was near. Me, that huntress. Them, in range. I remember the ones who’d grunted, howled, squeaked, and cried in pain or alarm.

Puck had reminded me: I’d done it to eat, to live, to survive. And by now, I’ve saved more animals than I’ve harmed. Yet I’ve never forgotten.

I had once told Puck I have no use for fear, thinking myself impenetrable, as if that were a good thing, a valuable trait. I’d been wrong. I was scared when parting from my sisters. I was scared when this game began.

I’m scared now. I’m petrified, horrified.

The fight recedes, the hollers muffling. Sweat slickens my palms, compromising my grip on the crossbow. My fingers spasm on the trigger.

Then I hear my name. Then I feel a masculine body next to me, and Puck becomes the only other thing in focus. I chance a quick glance. His profile turns ashen as he registers Sylvan on the opposite end of the divide, prevailing among the fir trees. He had called, and she’d come.

Anguish mars his features, but he drags his gaze to mine and shifts to stand behind me. What is he—

Puck aligns his arms with mine and cups his palms over my knuckles. “I’m with you,” he cracks out, his voice splitting in two.

He’s with me. If I have to do this, and he has to let me do this, then we’ll do this together.

We aim. I shake my head, whipping it from side to side. No, no, no, no, no.

“Juniper,” he prods. “Juniper, please.”

My chest breaks, my heart shattering while violent shouts boom around us. I keep shaking my head, keep shaking it.

The satyr encircles me and presses his cheek to mine, his digits trembling. “Juniper!” he bellows in my ear. “Do it! Now!”

“I can’t!” I screech.

I can’t.

My sister whirls in my direction, because perhaps she’d heard me. Those gray eyes find mine, and although she doesn’t know what my game is or what I have to do, she knows me. Her gaze flares with concern—and love, and life.

If I don’t strike true, I’ll lose her. I’ll lose Cove. I’ll lose Papa.

But if I strike true, someday I might lose Puck. And if I strike true, will I also lose myself?

Myself…

I loosen my grip on the weapon as my mind swirls. The rules of this game jumble together in my psyche, coupled with a mishmash of experiences and lessons. They remind me that I’m smarter than this.