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“Or Hyde’s body .” Sebastian and Rory both turned to look at Arthur, who seemed deep in thought. “You said the key to unlocking this medallion relic with hunting magic is the death of a paranormal with three kinds of magic,” Arthur said. “And Hyde fits that bill.”

“Shit,” Sebastian muttered. The mare nosed at him again, and he offered up the last carrot, mind racing.

“This estate’s huge,” Rory said. “No end to places you could bury a body.”

“But there’s a graveyard to the east, by the mausoleum and the ruins of the chapel.” Sebastian blew out a long breath. “Maybe we should go look for new graves.”

* * *

“Where is this damn fox?” Valemount said, as they marched down yet another sloping hillside dotted with scattered rocks.

“The dogs keep running off,” Sir Reginald observed with a frown. “But then—nothing.”

Wesley kept his mouth shut.

They’d been out wandering the moor for nearly two hours. He’d watched the landscape like a hawk, but he hadn’t seen so much as a flash of orange indicating an actual fox, and so far his false trails had held the hounds’ attention.

“There are birds, at least.” Geoffrey pointed at a grouping of taller hills ahead, covered in clusters of hardy bushes and short trees. Another ancient, crumbling stone wall jutted out halfway up one of the hills. “I bet we could find some pheasants hiding among the rocks.”

“Worth a look,” Wesley said. And if he could get some separation from the others, he could check that no idiot foxes were hiding up ahead and about to meet an untimely demise at the hands of Valemount’s hounds.

The dogs scattered as they reached the bottom of the new hills, their noses to the ground. As Valemount and the others turned right and started hiking up, Wesley quietly went left, around the hill’s base. He had his revolver in hand, but his gaze was on the ground.

“Hello, foxes,” he called under his breath, as he watched for telltale burrows.

“There better not be any of you about. Please tell me your tiny, furry brains understand the basic concept of runaway and you’re not foolishly hanging around these hills, waiting to be found by a bunch of dogs and armed men. ”

Still alone, he turned and began to hike up the backside of the hill. About halfway up was a decent-sized tree, its leafless branches stretching above Wesley’s head and a large hole in its trunk.

“Any foxes hiding in here?” Wesley subtly kicked at the trunk, the noise reverberating. “Yes? No?”

He waited long moments, but nothing came scurrying out.

Wesley raised an eyebrow, eying the tree. “Well, wouldn’t this be a damn first?” he mused. “Something actually going right—”

Two sharp cracks split the air, almost in tandem, exactly as Wesley’s knees gave out. He pitched forward, his legs and arms completely useless, only barely managing to hit the ground on his side and avoid smashing his face. He crashed into the mud, skidding downhill, unable to stop.

There was no fucking mistaking it this time: he’d just been hit by a wave of the familiar watery and useless limbs of Sebastian’s magic.

A moment later, his limbs were in his control again. Wesley shoved up to his hands and knees in a puddle of mud and looked up the hill, toward the tree where he’d been standing only seconds ago.

A branch that had been at the same height as Wesley’s head was now missing half the limb.

Gunshots filled the air then, accompanied by a ruckus of noise—men’s shouts, dogs’ barks, birds’ squawks.

Wesley took a deep breath, reaching for his army training and pushing any panic down into the box where it couldn’t interfere with his rational thoughts.

Another man might have thought he’d only heard a single crack, and that had been the snapping branch.

But Wesley had heard two cracks.

And he knew a goddamn gunshot when he heard one.

“Fine!” Valemount was coming around the rocks, accompanied by Thornton, Ryland, Sir Reginald and Geoffrey. “Fine,” Valemount said again. “What happened, man?”

All of them were armed, as were the other men still scattered within the rocks. Any of them could have fired at a pheasant just now, the bullet simply going wide toward Wesley’s tree.

Conceivably an accident.

Or conveniently looking like an accident.

“I tripped,” Wesley lied. “Like a damned fool.”

“Rotten luck.” Ryland was gingerly picking his way down the side of the rock. “Mud’s slippery here. Can you stand?”

Valemount was also coming Wesley’s way, his footing more sure than Ryland’s. Two of the hounds were prancing around Valemount, tails wagging. “These hills are tricky as anything. Ground’s uneven and can give without warning.”

“Wesley.” Geoffrey moved ahead of Valemount. “Are you hurt?”

Wesley got to his feet. His heart was pounding, and his chest was tingling oddly, but he kept his tone bland. “Nothing to be concerned about, unless you’re planning to launder my clothes,” he said, brushing uselessly at the mud now painted on his hunting coat.

Valemount stepped up to the tree, studying the broken branch. “Typical of winter. The trees ice and the heavy branches break too easily. And then there’s the mud, which gets soft as quicksand; a man’s got to step careful.”

It had been raining, a few degrees too warm to ice. And Wesley had been stepping carefully. It had been unquestioningly Sebastian’s magic that had taken him down to the ground.

“I say,” Ryland suddenly said. “Is something glowing on your gun?”

“What?” Valemount said sharply. He glanced down. “Don’t be ridiculous, man,” he said, immediately tucking his gun into the holster. “I’ve got an heirloom mounted in the grip; you saw the light reflecting off it.”

Wesley’s gaze went back to the tree. Geoffrey was kneeling next to the now-broken branch on the ground, the one Wesley had been standing by when the gunshot went off.

The branch that had snapped exactly at Wesley’s height—the way it might have done if Sebastian’s magic had taken him down at exactly the right moment and the bullet meant for Wesley’s head had hit the tree instead.

Wesley shoved down his feelings, keeping his expression carefully blank. “Did anyone manage to shoot anything?”

“We got a few birds,” Lord Ryland said. “Geoffrey, mostly. He’s a very good shot.”

Geoffrey was still kneeling on the ground next to the tree, one hand now balled into a fist. Geoffrey had followed Sebastian the night before with a frankly flimsy excuse. He was next in line for the Viscount Fine title, but surely— surely —he didn’t want it that badly?

Wesley’s eyes met his cousin’s. Geoffrey’s expression was perfectly blank. “Runs in the family,” he said, never taking his eyes off Wesley.