Page 10

S nap!

Cat jumped, her head jerking up. That had sounded like a twig snapping under someone’s boot heel.

She stilled, listening, but aside from the sigh of the breeze rustling the branches above her, it was silent, and the gloomy woods revealed nothing. Not the faintest movement, a hint of a footstep, or the twitch of a branch.

But someone was there, nearby. She could sense them, hiding just out of sight, waiting, and watching her. She scrambled to her feet with the half dozen stalks of monkshood she’d liberated from the patch tucked carefully into her hand.

It was eerie, too much like her dream, and all at once, she couldn’t get out of the woods quickly enough. The first few drops of rain began to fall as she hurried back down the pathway, startling at every sound and seeing a hulking shadow lurking behind every tree trunk.

But there was no one there. Just her and the birds flitting from branch to branch and the flutter of the leaves in the wind.

Was it possible she’d only imagined the sound, her fevered brain conjuring it from thin air? Goodness knew she was as nervous as a cornered mouse. Her eyebrow had been twitching and her belly quivering since the nightmare last night.

Perhaps her imagination was simply running away with her.

Yes, that was it. Of course it was. It wasn’t as if anyone would be out here in the woods so late in the day, and with a storm coming, too. Even in the best of weather, the villagers tended to avoid the woods, and today was not the best of days.

There wasn’t anyone in Dunvegan who would have braved the steep hill and the dim woods on such a day as today. She was the only one in the village aside from Glynnis who took any interest in plants.

Really, it wasn’t as if Mrs. MacDonald was going to scramble up the hill after her, was it?

No, she couldn’t think of a single person who’d venture into the woods, unless . . .

Unless someone followed her here.

But who would follow her? Ever since that business with the boats, the villagers kept their distance from her and her sisters. One didn’t consort with sorceresses, lest one find themselves on the receiving end of a curse.

Or worse, be accused of sorcery themselves.

It had been weeks since any of the villagers had spoken a word to her, except for Mrs. MacDonald, Glynnis, and—

Bryce Fraser .

Bryce Fraser, with that smirk on his lips, as if he knew something she didn’t, and those strange, cold blue eyes. Bryce Fraser, who had more reason than most to dislike her.

All at once, the air grew closer, the damp chill of it pressing against her.

A shudder rushed over her, drawing a spray of goosebumps to the surface of her skin.

She turned around in a circle, eyes narrowed as she peered into the gloom, but if there was someone there, they were keeping as still as the towering trees surrounding her.

Silent, as well. Watching?

Oh, dear God, this was just like the dream, except this time it was happening.

This time, it was real.

She glanced around again, panic clawing at her throat.

She was miles away from the village. There wasn’t a soul nearby to help her.

Not that it was at all certain anyone there would help her, anyway.

She might be flying down the High Street with a crazed madman at her heels, threats pouring from his frothing lips, and every door would slam in her face.

Aside from Glynnis, there wasn’t a single person in Dunvegan she could truly count as a friend any longer.

Dear God, things had come to a sad pass, hadn’t they?

But if there was someone in the woods with her now—Bryce, or someone else—then she couldn’t simply stand about, waiting for them to pounce.

The entrance into the castle’s cellars was closer than the village, but even if she cut through the woods and came to it from the eastern corner, it was still a good half an hour’s walk from here, and most of that through the thickest part of the woods.

It was only an hour until sunset, perhaps a bit more.

Well, then, she’d best get on with it, hadn’t she?

She hiked her basket higher on her arm, the stalks of monkshood she’d gathered still clutched in her other hand, and crept along the rough pathway that led into the deepest part of the woods.

One step, another, each one bringing her closer to the castle. It wasn’t all that far, only a half an hour’s walk, nothing more.

What could possibly happen in half an hour? But her mind refused to calm, insisting instead on tormenting her with dozens of distressing scenarios.

Hordes of villagers with pitchforks at the ready—

No, don’t think on it, don’t think of anything . . .

She shook her head to banish the thought of a mob of angry villagers and took a hesitant step forward, then another, then paused, listening, her heart crawling into her throat, but there was no rustle of branches, no footsteps.

Perhaps she had imagined it, after all.

Still, the air around her had grown thicker, more threatening somehow, and it took every bit of self-control she had not to go tearing through the woods like a madwoman.

Her every instinct was urging her to flee whatever—or whomever—was watching her and run headlong through the dark tunnel of trees until she’d reached the safety of the castle.

But that wasn’t what she did.

Once she ran, the chances that whoever was following her would chase her increased rather alarmingly, and if there truly wasn’t anyone there, if this was all just a figment of her imagination. . .

She drew the line at fleeing from ghosts.

So, she picked her way over fallen logs, venturing deeper into the woods with every step. The occasional branch snatched at her as she passed, but her steps were sure, her face set resolutely forward, and her breath steady.

There wasn’t anything to be afraid of. She’d walked through these woods dozens of times and knew them as well as she knew the patterns of lines crisscrossing her palms.

Yet it was no use.

She could feel him behind her, sense those watery blue eyes on her back, and soon enough she could hear him, too, his footsteps clumsier than they had been initially, the snap of twigs and the rustle of branches as he pushed them aside.

It seemed as if he were no longer even trying to be quiet, as if he wanted her to know he was there behind her, following her.

He was toying with her, as a cat did with a trapped mouse.

Yet there was nothing she could do but keep on, keep moving forward, her gaze darting right and left as she passed tree after branch after bush.

If she could find a weapon—a stick, perhaps, a heavy one, with a sharp end . . .

But she could tell by his solid tread on the ground that he was a big man. Almost certainly large enough to overpower her. Could she outrun him, then? If she tore off through the woods now, could she clear the tree line and make it to the eastern entrance of the castle before he caught her?

Please, please . . .

He was getting closer. She could hear the rustle of his clothing, the soft thud of his boot heels, and she could almost feel the rush of his breath against the back of her neck.

Dear God, what was she to do? Oh, she should never have gone to the village at all today! Freya had tried to warn her, but she’d been too foolish to listen, too caught up in believing the lie that all was still well with the villagers, or that it could be made right again.

Now she was about to find out how wrong she’d been because he was advancing on her, inching closer with every step, and what would become of Freya and Sorcha if something happened to her?

And it would happen, was about to happen, and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop it but keep going, her lungs burning now and her steps clumsy, her basket so heavy she was nearly staggering under the weight of it.

The dream was coming to terrifying life right before her eyes.

It hadn’t been a dream at all, but a premonition.

The breathing was closer now, the thud of his footsteps quickening, her own ragged, panting breaths harsh in her ears.

He’d have her soon, his massive hand reaching for her, mere seconds from landing on her shoulder and yanking her down, tumbling her headlong into the dizzying blur of the ground under her feet, but she could see the castle now, the turret rising into the leaden sky, still so far away, but closer with each of her hurried steps.

Closer, closer, two dozen paces away, a dozen . . .

Please, please.

Yes! She was going to make it! The door leading into the cellars below the castle was right there, nearly within reach of her straining fingers, so close she could almost feel the cold iron doorknob pressing into her palm—

But just as she reached for it, her boot heel caught the hem of her cloak. She opened her mouth, a scream building in her throat and rushing toward her lips, but just as the desperate cry turned from breath to sound, she began to fall.

Her basket flew from her arm, her fingers going slack around the monkshood clutched in her fist as the ground rushed up to meet her. She squeezed her eyes closed, her body tensing for an impact that would certainly knock the air from her lungs.

But it never came.

A thick arm caught her around the waist and jerked her backward, off her feet, the gray sky spinning over her head as they both slammed into the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Oh, God, he had her now. He had her, and he was going to murder her not a dozen footsteps away from the door of her own home!

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe —

Darkness hovered at the edges of her vision, lovely and cool and quiet, tempting her to give in, to let it take her.

The pounding of footsteps and the throb of her heartbeat faded into silence as the darkness fell over her, but she struggled against the encroaching blackness, sucking in great gulping breaths until the tunnel receded.

This wasn’t how the dream ended. It ended with her waking up.

In the dream, she never gave up, and she wouldn’t give up now.

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