Page 6

Do what you must to protect those you love.

The Hound watched me.

It was so still, the only movement a slight nod, tracking my staggered steps when I’d first laid eyes on it. Why wasn’t it attacking? All the stories were filled with fury and claws and teeth. But…this beast just sat there, and it watched me.

It was unexpected, and certainly unsettling.

Wiping sweaty palms on my cloak, I quickly checked behind myself, making sure I had a clear escape.

“Give me strength, Father.”

Flowers parted as I stomped into the bright meadow. “Hey!” I waved. The Hound tilted its head but made no move. Taking a deep breath, I stalked closer. I thumped my chest and shouted, “Come get me!” The Hound yawned. My dagger was a needle compared to the teeth lining the beast’s massive jaws.

Why did the Hound not come for me?

“Fine!” I unslung my crossbow. Bracing it with my feet, it took all my strength to load a bolt. I heaved up the bow and nestled the crosshairs amongst the Hound’s fur. My finger found the trigger, but I hesitated.

Could I take the beast’s life?

Yes, I’d killed rabbits and even helped Father with a deer once—the inability to kill was a luxury not afforded to the poorer folk, but this… This felt different. I wasn’t killing for food, and there was a strange intelligence in the way the beast observed me.

Why did this feel like murder?

Doubt cramped my trigger finger. Unafraid, keen eyes stared back at me.

It seemed the Hound was calling my bluff.

I lowered the crossbow, and I swore the beast smiled.

It stood on all fours and I tensed, prepared to flee.

The Hound did not pursue me; instead, it turned and walked back into the thick pines.

Losing sight of the fur, I panicked and raised my crossbow.

The Hound hadn’t thought twice before it stole my father’s life.

I aimed.

Lysander will die if I don’t do this. I must return with the Hound’s heart!

I pressed the lever, and the bolt left the crossbow in a muted thwack! The Hound faltered and slammed into the ground.

I’d hit it!

I lowered the crossbow as the Hound righted itself. Every muscle in its body alive, the Hound rounded on me. The great beast stalked into the meadow. It was bigger in the sunshine, perhaps because it was better illuminated, but more likely because it was coming toward me with great haste.

Tucking the crossbow over my shoulder, I waded through the flowers and ran.

Snarling yips chased as I hurtled through the trees, dodging trunks like my life depended on it.

From the booming crashes erupting after me, I gathered the Hound was not maneuvering quite so smoothly.

I leapt into the ravine—“Hhh!” A thorny bush caught my cheek.

Pushing down the pain, I crested the ravine and sprinted.

Crunching underbrush followed, so close at my heels.

Though my lungs burned, I did not slow. At a cluster of red toadstools, I counted my footsteps.

“One-two-three-four-five!” I cried and veered left.

I hurtled into the clearing with my trap and skirted the stick markers.

“Guh!” My cloak tightened on my throat, and I ceased moving.

With my cloak firmly in its jaws, the Hound swung me around.

Arms cartwheeling, I collided into a nearby tree, gasping out a breathless, “Oof!” I oriented to the spinning woodland.

“Ah!” I dodged as the Hound smashed into the trunk, sending the entire tree careening down.

Thinking quick, I grabbed a low-hanging branch and climbed.

The Hound was after me, chomping at my boots.

Its snout hit my heel, almost knocking me from the tree.

I regained my grip, then scurried up to safety.

My father, a particularly good climber, could climb trees like this from root to tip in just under ten seconds.

I remember his smirk when I’d done it in six.

Out of the Hound’s reach, I squatted on a branch.

Catching my breath, I panted worse than the repellant beast below.

The Hound threw itself at the trunk, but this was no sapling, it was a great ash.

Each blow did little more than send a faint tremor through the branches.

The Hound ceased its assault and prowled over the thick roots. Its tail whipped, cat-like, behind it.

Perched safely, I puffed my chest like a proud bird.

“Can’t get me up here, can you? You stupid mongrel!

” Boiling with rage and foolish confidence, I spit on the beast. As if I’d blown on an ember, a new fire erupted in the Hound.

It howled and leapt at the canopy. Hot breath blew my hair back, carrying the stink of rotten meat.

Claws like kitchen cleavers sunk into the ash below my boots.

They raked the trunk, sending up spirals of bark.

The Hound hit the ground, its sides heaving.

It sat there, hating me, and I it.

The Hound got up and limped away. The bolt was still embedded in the beast’s side, and its rear leg dragged.

It must be in agony, dragging itself through the woods like a mutt run over by a wagon.

Though I despised the beast, my guts twisted at the thought of any animal suffering.

My survival instinct grabbed hold of my pity and tossed it aside.

You’re running out of time! it screamed. This isn’t the occasion for weakness! Finish the job and get out of here!

Indeed, long shadows painted the ground, and the whispers that permeated the Hollow were getting louder. ‘Stay,’ they beckoned. ‘Become one with the soft moss and roots.’

Covering my ears, I shook the voices out.

I could not be here when darkness came! I craned, looking for the Hound.

After a deep breath, I crawled ungraciously along the branch to an adjoining tree.

I did this again, until I sat in a tree behind my net.

I surveyed the trunks where I’d seen the Hound exit.

No weakness.

I leapt.

No sooner had my feet touched down when the Hound sprung into the clearing.

A flurry of fur and jaws snapped in my face—leaves exploded as the net curled around the Hound like a cocoon.

High shrieks battered me as the Hound tore at the net.

I knew, in my heart, the threads would not fray.

The Hound thrashed, sending blood and foamy drool spraying over me.

I wanted to hide from the panic and pain; instead, I unslung my crossbow and aimed.

Catching sight of the weapon, the Hound stilled.

Its wide, yellowed eyes locked on me. My arm trembled as I drew the bolt back.

The Hound whimpered.

My finger inched toward the trigger.

CRACK!

The splintering of bones filled the Hollow. But…I hadn’t pulled the trigger. Another sickening crack! rang out as the Hound’s rear leg snapped. By some spell, the beast began shrinking. Limbs twisted and broke, and the Hound’s dark hair receded, as if it were slipping from its fur coat.

In a blink, the Hound was gone.

A dirty, naked man hung in my net. With one hand, he gripped the bolt imbedded in his side. The other reached through the woven ropes—to me. A guttural voice rasped, “Please. Kill me quickly.” In my arms, the crossbow drooped.

I just wanted to save my brother.

Frozen, we stared at each other. Dribbling blood pitter-pattered as the man’s chest rose and fell. Was I shocked? Yes. Shaken to my core was more accurate. But at the same time, Father had trained me to expect mimicry—that things were not always as they seemed. His wisdom carried from the grave:

‘Is it a beast pretending to be a man?’

‘Or a man, posing as a beast?’

Through a tangle of coal-black hair, the man’s eyes, like two pale sapphires, searched mine.

He was young; it was hard to tell through the grime, but he couldn’t be older than thirty.

I think, if he were a beast mimicking a man, he would look less…

foul. He scowled at me through layers of filth and muck.

Surely, any monster whose survival depended on tricking a human would appear more… tempting.

I inched closer. The man grabbed for me. I dodged, slipping on loose leaves. Scrambling up, I aimed the crossbow.

“Yes,” the man murmured, and relief lulled his eyes.

He welcomed death.

And I… I couldn’t do it. Reasons tumbled through my mind, begging me to push the lever, and not push the lever at the same time.

Do it for Father.

I’m not a guard! I am not my mother. Or Lottie, I’m a seamstress! I can’t do this!

Do it for Lysander!

I make clothes to protect people, not hurt them!

“Ugh!” I threw the crossbow aside. Even if he was the Hound, I wasn’t prepared to murder a man. To say this was an unexpected and unwelcome change of plans was a dreadful understatement. Snapping into action, I scaled the tree holding the net. I withdrew my knife and froze.

The threads would not fray.

How could I free him? I jumped down and stared into the canopy. The rope needed to be untied, but with the man’s weight pulling it, I’d never manage. Somehow, I had to reduce the pressure. I spotted a rotten log and dragged it over.

“Stand on this.”

Whether from pain, or the realization that death would not claim him today, the man groaned.

Reluctantly, he shifted and grunted as the bolt pierced deeper.

He did his best to stand on the log, but the net wobbled, and he slipped.

He cried out, and I watched the log roll away.

The low, drawn-out howl of a wolf carried through the Hollow.

“Fuck!” I glanced at the fading sun.

“Go,” the man growled. “The wolves are coming.”

I searched the clearing until I found a large, flat rock.

Using a combination of flipping, and wiggling, I managed to wedge the rock below the man.

He stood on it, relieving the pressure of the rope on the branch above.

I climbed the tree and fumbled with the knot.

The net fell away, and the man collapsed.

Darkness seeped through the trees, laying across his bare body like bars.

I’d felt wretched before; now, I was positively horrified.

Agony twisted the man’s spine as he curled around the bolt.

The skin around the wound was ripped and jagged, torn this way and that during the Hound’s thrashing.

I’d done this.

I was a monster.

This time, a chorus of howls erupted. The wolves were close, and terror somersaulted my stomach.

Like a fawn taking their first steps, the man climbed to his feet.

He held his side and stumbled away. I reached to help but he braced himself on a tree and snarled, “Go, you fool!” As the distant howling grew close, I grabbed my crossbow and I retreated into the trees.

I spared a final glance over my shoulder.

The man shuffled deeper into the Hollow.

***

Distressed voices reached me before I saw my family gathered behind the cottage.

“What do we do?” Lottie.

“I don’t know.” My mother.

“I’ll call on the men next door. Ruven will come.” Lysander.

“Go lie down!” My mother again, presumably shouting at my brother.

“I’m here!” I called, breaching the trees.

Lottie vaulted the short stone fence separating our yard from the Hollow. My mother used the gate but managed to keep pace with my sister.

Lottie shoved me. Hard. “Where were you?!”

My mother pushed Lottie aside. “Are you injured?” She held my chin, wrenching my face side to side, looking for an answer herself. “What happened?”

In a panicked daze, I mumbled, “I, uh… I got lost.”

My mother snatched my hands; they were flecked with blood. “What’s this?”

“It’s not mine,” I muttered. My families shocked faces—and Lottie’s balled fists—demanded more. “I killed a rabbit.” I pushed through them, heading for the cottage.

Lottie’s accusatory voice called, “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The rabbit.”

I scrabbled absently at my pockets. “Musta got away.” Passing Lysander, I said, “You shouldn’t be up.”

“We were worried about you,” Lysander panted. “What were you thinking—” My glare froze Lysander’s tongue. His face was shiny with sweat, and he swayed. I reached out, grabbing him before he could fall into the garden. We headed into the cottage, my mother and Lottie not far behind.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I’m okay.” Lysander’s Adam’s apple bobbed, keeping the sick down.

He wasn’t.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Lie down.” Lysander did, the sofa groaned and sunk beneath his weight.

Lottie burst in, sending the door crashing into the stone.

“I can’t believe you!” she snarled. Ignoring her, I started toward my room.

Disobeying my mother’s hushed threats to keep her voice down, Lottie chased me and barked, “And you’re the smart one!

Think what it would have done to our mother if you didn’t come back—”

“Leave me alone!” I screamed. Lottie recoiled, and I covered my mouth. It might have been ten years since I’d lost my temper with her. She and my mother exchanged a look. I fled down the hall and slammed our bedroom door. I sat on the bed, cupping my head. I still saw everything.

The man’s frantic eyes, darting around.

His blood-smattered palm, reaching to me.

‘Please,’ he’d begged— begged me to end his suffering!

I shook my head, trying to dispel his face, his pleading. I lay back and tugged my hair. I might not have killed him, but I’d left him to die. I’d treated him worse than an animal. At least with an animal, I would have cut their throat; I wouldn’t have left them to suffer.

The Hound killed your father. Even if he is a man, does he not deserve this?

I rolled over.

You left him there, alone, in that place.

I rolled back.

Will he bleed to death, or be eaten alive by wolves?

I sat up, catching sight of myself in the mirror standing in the corner. Blood painted me, and the lines that furrowed my face were deeper than usual. I dragged my hand beneath my nose, stifling a sob.

Did your father raise you to be this cruel?

The morning sun wasn’t yet rising over the Hollow when I snuck out my bedroom window.