Page 9

CHAPTER 9

POV: Briar

Sunlight slices through the forest canopy in dappled patterns, making the hunting grounds look almost peaceful. Sweat runs down my spine in rivulets as I drag a heavy tree branch behind me, meticulously creating false trails, ones that only several omegas running could leave behind. From time to time I stomp a heavy-footed footprint out or leave fiber strands on the bushes.

It’s my third false trail this morning, and my shoulders burn with the ache of all my effort. I’ve left behind twigs, heavy trails, scent markers, and whatever else occurs to me.

“This had better fucking work,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow with a dirty forearm.

The only thing getting me through all of this is the knowledge that I might buy another omega precious time, might even save a life. I think of Willow back home, safe in her bed instead of being hunted like an animal, fuels me like bellows feeding a flame.

I drop the branch and make my way to a nearby stream, stepping only on stones so that I don’t leave a trail of my own. Cold water splashes over my boots as I move upstream, washing away any scent trail that might lead alphas to me. I want to lead them away from the other omegas, yes—but I’m not going to make it easy for them to find me.

I’m not naive enough to believe I can outsmart fae alphas indefinitely. The Hunt has existed for centuries, and they’re faster, stronger, older than us. But I don’t need forever. Just twenty-one days.

Twenty-one days that stretch before me. Long, impossible days.

My midday, I feel it. A spark of warmth beginning to build low in my belly. The first warning sign of heat.

I push it away and continue my work, creating a false trail away from where I plan on creating a temporary base for myself. I’ve selected a hollowed-out tree trunk inside a small clearing, with a stream on one side and thick blackthorn trees on the other. As long as any approaching alphas are waylaid by my false trail, even temporarily, I should have time to defend myself.

I’ve also made a small blade, tucked against my skin on the outside of my right thigh, just beneath the shift. It’s crude, fashioned from a thick, broad stick I found, and a rusted blade that nearly sliced my foot open. But it’s sharp, and that’s all I need. The strips of my shift that I used to put it together have made it into more of a shirt than anything, but that’s a small price to pay considering that my first dreaded encounter with an alpha is sure to tear it away completely.

As I’m finishing up my false trail, a sharp, clean scent hits my nose. Moving carefully through the forest, stepping only on rocks and roots, I make my way to a cluster of wild mint growing near the stream. I gather handfuls, crushing the leaves between my palms and rubbing the oils over my skin, clothes, and hair. The plant’s aroma won’t completely mask my scent, especially once I’m in heat, but it’s better than nothing.

As I work, the glamour spell flickers briefly, the sensation like cool water running across my skin. In my reflection in the stream, copper strands flash through platinum blonde for just an instant. The more I move, the faster I breathe, the more the magic strains.

“Fuck,” I hiss, slowing my movements and watching as the glamour falls back into place.

It’ll be hard to keep it up while I’m running from alphas and fighting the fae.

I’ll need to pace myself. The glamour has gotten me into the Hunt—and bought Willow precious survival time—but if it fails this soon, I risk her being hauled from Thornwick and thrown into the forest beside me. Not to mention the punishment I’ll no doubt receive, though I’m prepared to accept that as long as she’s safe.

I won’t be safe for long, no matter how much I prepare.

The thought send a chill through me despite the warm afternoon air, as cold as a plunge into ice water.

The forest grows quieter as the day progesses. The silence only sets me on edge—like the silence before a raging storm. Birds and insects have gone silent, no doubt sensing the predators in their midst.

The alphas are on the move.

So I double up on my defensive measures, knowing that some of my trails will lead alphas to my resting spot, even with the false trails I’ve created leading away from it. I weave fallen green branches and vines into crude tripwires around my campsite. They won’t injure the fae—that’s next to impossible—but they will warn me they’re coming.

“Not exactly my finest work,” I murmur, wishing I had my forge, “but it’ll have to do.”

Thinking of the forge reminds me that Fergus will be realizing that I’m missing, not merely running errands, by now. Was he worried, angry, maybe even proud of me? Did he suspect what I was up to? I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t risk that he’d try to stop me.

I drink water from my cupped hands and chew on some of the wild mint, aware that I need to ration both food and energy. Even with their cruelty, the fae know we need food to survive the next twenty-one days—the havens have meat, cheese, and bread stores—but I want to put off using them for as long as possible, since each haven’s protection only lasts twelve hours. The forest provides if you know where to look, but gathering food means leaving trails, so I decide to wait until the morning to look for wild mushrooms and fallen nuts.

It’s said that the fae alphas, in the middle of rut, become ruthless hunters, killing all deer, rabbits, and other prey animals they see, often leaving their bodies behind. Smart omegas venture out to gather the meat and bring it back to their campsites, while others… others are fed during claiming. Alphas in rut will make campfires and fatten their omegas, usually while knotting inside them, knowing that their seed is more likely to take if the omega receives nourishment.

The thought of eating wild venison cooked over a campfire, fed to me by a monstrous alpha while his knot swells inside me, makes me prefer going hungry.

As I finish my meager meal of mint leaves and a little piece of stale bread I swiped from the tent this morning, a distant sound freezes me and chills me to the bone. A howl—not quite animal, not quite human—rises from the eastern edge of the forest. Another answers from the north, then another. My pulse races as I realize what I’m hearing.

The alphas are calling to each other, coordinating their hunt. Worse, they seem to be calling to the wind—Spring Court alpha magic. A breeze caresses my skin then whips unnaturally to the side, as if tasting my scent and bringing it back to its maker.

When another set of howls echoes nearby, moving closer to me, I make the choice to abandon my campsite. It’s useless if they’ve found my trail—I’ll have to cover my scent better. Packing my makeshift weapons quickly, I move out, keeping to the densest part of the undergrowth. Hopefully the thick brush will block any further breezes from catching my scent.

The forest floor here is a carpet of silver-edged leaves from the blackthorn trees, their thick, glossy surfaces reflecting the meager light remaining overhead. They rustle loudly as I pass through, forcing me to move slowly, carefully, searching for exposed roots to step on. My caution rewards me when I spot movement ahead—a flash of pale white that doesn’t belong to any plant. I sink into a crouch behind a fallen log, wary and on edge.

A young woman huddles in the shadow of a small rock outcropping that forms a shallow cave. Her dirty blonde hair hangs in a messy braid, and her blue eyes dart frantically at every sound. Even from this distance, I can smell the sweet, musky scent of early heat radiating from her skin, see the flush spreading up her neck and the sweat beading on her forhead.

Heat symptoms.

I recognize her from the Gathering Circle—Nessa, a farm girl from a village west of Thornwick. Unlike me, she was selected by random drawing, and has no skills or protections to help her survive.

The claiming will come for her soon. Unless someone helps her.

Moving slowly, I emerge from my hiding place with my hands visible. “Nessa,” I whisper, keeping my voice low in case the alphas, with their superior fae hearing, are nearby.

She jerks at the sound. “Stay back!” The fear in her voice is raw and primal, like a cornered animal.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” I approach with measured steps. “I’m Willow, from Thornwick.”

Recognition flickers in her eyes. “Willow? The apothecary’s daughter?” Her voice catches. “You—you’re still free? I thought for sure someone like you would be?—”

She doesn’t finish the thought, but we both know what she means. Someone as visibly omega as Willow, with her delicate features and naturally submissive demeanor, would be an obvoius first choice. There’s nothing an alpha in rut loves more than a soft, breakable omega.

“I got lucky.” I kneel beside her. “But you need to move. You’re showing symptoms, and your scent will draw them straight to you.”

Nessa whimpers, wrapping her arms around her body. “I can’t—I can’t think straight. My body’s burning up, and I—I want—” She stops herself, shame coloring her flushed cheeks. “It feels like I’m empty on the inside.”

“I know,” I say gently, though truthfully I don’t. I’ve never experienced a full heat before. My herbs and shadowroot tea have kept me suppressed for years. What Nessa feels now is just the beginning of what’s waiting for me when both fail.

The thought sends icy fear down my spine.

“There’s a stream not far from here,” I tell her, pushing my own fears aside. “Fast-flowing water will wash away your scent for a little while. Beyond it is a haven marked by a stone arrangement—three tall stones with a fourth laid across the top.”

“A haven?” Hope brightens her eyes. “Is it safe there?”

“For twelve hours, at least,” I tell her, hesitating as I add, “though… there are alphas who wait outside the havens for the magic’s clock to run out. They often will claim omegas who leave them.” She whimpers, so I hastily add, “The claiming is… less brutal there. Waiting means they’re no longer in full rut. Many omegas will choose to linger near the havens in the hope that an alpha’s scent on them will deter further claimings.”

This is the brutal calculus of the Hunt—what constitutes “choice” in this hell is merely a less violent claiming, a marginally better chance of survival. The thought hardens my resolve to fight them with everything I’ve got, as long as I can.

Nessa nods, struggling to focus through her heat symptoms. “Which way?” She asks.

I help her to her feet and point away from my false trails, which I hope will lead the alphas around her. “Follow the slope downhill. You’ll hear the water before you see it. Jump in the stream and walk against the current for half a mile, then look for the oak with a split trunk. The haven’s path starts there.”

“Aren’y you coming?” She looks at me in clear confusion.

I shake my head. “I have my own plan.” I don’t elaborate, but something in my expression must come through.

“You’re trying to lead them away from the rest of us,” she says, surprise coloring her voice. “Creating diversions.”

“Something like that.”

Nessa’s eyes narrow, her mouth thinning. “They say no omega has survive the full Hunt unclaimed in over two centuries.”

“Then they’re overdue for another, aren’t they?” I flash a grin that feels more confident than I actually am. “If nothing else, I intend to slow them down.”

She tries to smile at me, then freezes in fear as another howl cuts through the forest—closer this time. “They’re coming.”

“Go,” I urge her. “Get to the water as fast as you can. The cold will help with the heat symptoms too.”

Nessa grabs my hands, squeezing them with surprising strength. “Then you, Willow.”

Then she turns and flees towards the stream, moving with the natural grace of someone who’s spent her life navigating the outdoors.

I watch until she disappears among the trees, then immediately begin laying another false trail that crosses hers and doubles back. With luck, any alpha catching our mixed scents will follow mine instead of Nessa’s.

And if he finds me, he’ll find my blade, too.

As I work, I catch myself wondering if I’m making a difference at all. Will I really help the other omegas escape their inevitable claimings, or am I just postponing the inevitable, for both them and myself? The thought of Prince Cadeyrn’s ice-blue eyes watching me at the Gathering Circle returns unbidden. There had been something in his eyes—recognition, curiosity, a predator’s interest—that suggested he saw through my disguise somehow.

I push the thought away. If he’d seen through Willow’s glamour, I have no doubt he’d have turned me in. And I have better things to worry about right now, like my survival.

By sunset, I’ve laid three more false trails and successfully led the alpha hunting party away—that, or as it occurs to me with dread, they found an easier target. Returing to my campground, I settle into the sleeping spot in the hollow of the ancient blackthorn tree. Its twisted trunk has grown into the boulder beside it, creating a natural shelter that’s almost impossible to see.

The first howls and snarls of active pursuit echo through the darkening forest as I curl my legs up to my chest and pull soft forest moss around myself. The true Hunt is underway.

I close my eyes warily, trying to ignore the growing warmth in my abdomen—the first real sign that my body is awakening after years of suppression. The herbs I used to mask my omega status are wearing off, and my natural biology is reasserting itself with a vengeance, accelerated by the Hunt magic and the crimson moons influence.

My fingers brush against hte iron token hidden in my boot—my last emergency measure if things go catastrophically wrong. Iron is poison to pure fae, though the effects vary depending on bloodline and power. It might buy me a moment’s advantage in the worst case.

A moment might be all I get.

As night deepens around me, the forest transforms into a different realm altogether. Red moonlight filters through the silvery leaves of the blackthorn trees, casting strange, shifting patterns across the ground. The trees themselves seem to whisper to each other, their ancient boughs creaking in a language just beyond human understanding.

In the soft, quiet darkness, I almost begin to drift to sleep.

Only to jerk awake at the sound of a scream—high and terrified—that transforms into something worse. The guttural moans and whimpers that follow are punctured by snarls and the unmistakable sounds of violent claiming. Flesh striking flesh. Sobbing pleas that dissolve into whimpers. The alpha’s triumphant growls growing louder as his victim’s resistance fades.

I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t block the sounds of a victim being broken. When a sharp, horrified cry and a guttural groan of pleasure marks the moment the knot takes her, it makes me squeeze my thighs together in horror. My false trails may have helped Nessa, but nearby, they aren’t protecting another omega from being raped and filled with alpha seed.

The Hunt has claimed a victim, leaving behind something that’s neither fully alive nor mercifully dead.

I close my eyes, whispering a silent apology to whoever it was, guilt mixing with a shameful relief that it wasn’t me. Then I force myself to rest, to conserve strength for tomorrow’s challenges. Twenty more days stretch before me—twenty days of running, hiding, and outwitting predators designed by nature and magic to find me.

But I’ve spent my life at a forge, hammering unyielding metal into submission, finding strength in resistance. If any omega can survive this Hunt unclaimed, it will be me.

As sleep finally claims me, my last conscious thought is of Prince Cadeyrn’s perfect, cold face—and the flicker of something hungry that woke in his eyes when they met mine.