Page 32 of Far From Sherwood Forest

What the fuck do I do?

The bear has its sights set on Henry. I could run for it and let the grizzly make a fucking meal out of him. It’d serve him right. I could let the universe avenge my father’s death so I wouldn’t have to worry about doing it myself.

But…dammit, I can’t just leave Henry to die.

As much as I’m tempted to, Ican’t.

I can’t explain it. Maybe he really hasn’t changed one bit. But something in my bones tells me that just like with parts of Robin Hood, the Sheriff wore a mask too—one that was controlled and manipulated by the prince.

It’s easy to give up on someone who’s never shown signs of wanting to be helped, so itshouldbe easy to give up on him. But there’s a difference between wanting help andneedingit.

And, unfortunately for me in this situation, I’ve always had a soft spot for those in need.

As I stand there, holding my breath and keeping my body perfectly still, I try to figure out what to do. I’ve never faced a grizzly before.

Unless Henry counts?

The bear lets out another deafening roar, rearing up on its hind legs like a demon out of some old wilderness myth, its massive body blotting out the sun for one awful second. Henry acts, reaching for the gun at his side. He manages to get it out of its holster just before the bear charges, a snarling blur of fur and fury.

Blood rushes in my ears.

“Henry!”

The grizzly swipes at him. Henry screams and goes down with a sickening crunch as the gun flies from his grasp. It skitters across the dirt and lands on the forest floor between us.

I don’t think. My body moves on instinct. I dive, hitting the hard ground as my hands scrape over rocks and moss to grab at the weapon. I roll over onto my side to see the bear looming over Henry like a harbinger of death, raising its massive paws to strike again. I raise the gun, holding it tight in both hands.

I squeeze the trigger.

The first shot cracks through the air, echoing off the trees like thunder. It misses and hits a pine trunk to the left.

I’m definitely not as skilled with a gun as I am a bow.

The bear jerks its head toward me.

Shit.

I fire again.

This time, the bullet hits the bear in the shoulder, causing it to let out a roar filled with rage and pain. Its agonizing cry reverberates through the woods and then just…stops.

Time itself ceases.

The bear freezes, paralyzed, trapped in time. Its mouth hangs open, a heavy string of spittle suspended from its chin without dripping off, defying gravity.

And then every other law of physics flies out the window, soaring through it on the breeze that passes through the trees.

The bear…explodes.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

Not with fire or blood or bone.

With color and wings.

The brown, furry body of the creature erupts and transforms into hundreds of brightly colored butterflies. Their wings flutter as they scatter in a haze of oranges, yellows, pinks, and blues, turning the forest into a butterfly sanctuary.

Mine and Henry’s gazes lock. We’re both covered in dirt and sweat, our chests heaving. The right sleeve of his jacket is ripped where the bear’s claws swiped at him, blood staining the fabric.