Then the screams started.
The hunt, thought Rachelle, and there was nothing she could do—nobody fought the Wild Hunt and lived—but she was already running forward, Armand right behind her.
There were not just screams, but shouts and crashes. Clangs. Snarls. Woodspawn, perhaps? She could fight woodspawn. She pushed herself to run faster.
And there was an open field ahead of them, with the low stone wall that all northern folk used to keep the trees back from their lands. Rachelle vaulted it in a moment, then remembered Armand, but when she glanced back, he was already over the wall.
Rachelle flung herself forward into an all-out run. At the far end of the field, she could see flickering lights from the village. Bonfire? Torches? Or had an actual fire broken out?
She was closer now. She could see human figures running between the houses—yes, one of them was on fire—and wolf-shaped creatures running among them. Woodspawn.
She caught a glint of metal and heard a clang. They were trying to fight the woodspawn with scythes and hoes. Not bad weapons. But against this many woodspawn, human hands were much too slow.
And then she was charging into the ring of houses and the flickering firelight, and there was no more time to think. She drew her sword and lunged at the nearest woodspawn; the blade slid easily into its neck, but as the creature dissolved into muck, two more sprang at her.
One of them she got in time. The other one slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Instinctively Rachelle threw an arm over her face, then screamed when the woodspawn’s jaws crunched down on her arm.
She’d dropped her sword. She couldn’t see it.
So she reached up with her free hand and slid it into the woodspawn’s eye socket. It was scalding hot, but she clenched her fist on the slimy mess and ripped it out.
The woodspawn howled, letting go of her arm. She rolled free, found her sword, and stabbed it three times.
Panting, she looked around. There were only two more woodspawn left. One of them was already injured and surrounded by a crowd of men with scythes; they could probably manage to kill it.
The other one was crouched atop the roof of a cottage.
Rachelle groaned. She could barely use her right arm, but she clambered up the side of the house and hauled herself onto the roof—just as the woodspawn sprang at her. She grabbed it by the scruff and they went over the side of the house together. Luckily she landed on top; she felt its ribs crunch underneath, and that bought her an extra moment to grab her sword and slice its head off.
She staggered to her feet.
The first thing she looked for was the other woodspawn. It was dead, only a puddle of dark, viscous mud left to mark its passing. The men that had been attacking it turned to face her.
Everyone was staring at her.
Something was wrong. She could hardly think past the pounding in her head and the pain in her arm, but something was wrong.
She looked for Armand: he was safe, standing to one side, eyes wide. That was good. But there was still something not right about the crowd of people staring at her.
They could see the black fleur-de-lis on her coat. They knew she was a bloodbound. People always stared at her when they realized she was bloodbound—
And then she realized. All the people staring at her—she knew them. Claude, the baker. André, the blacksmith. Jean, the hunter.
Her father.
This was her village. The Wild Hunt had brought her home to face judgment.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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When Rachelle was seven years old, she slipped into Aunt Léonie’s house while she was out. She put on her aunt’s spare cloak, got into her yarn, and pretended to weave charms. When Aunt Léonie came back early and raised her eyebrows, the shame had felt like scalding-hot water poured over every bit of her body.
She felt that way now: like an idiotic child caught playing pretend. For one moment, all she wanted to do was drop her sword, strip off her coat, and slink back into her family’s house and scrub the floor until she was forgiven.
Then she heard the crackle of the burning house. She remembered what people in the countryside did to bloodbound.
She was not a child anymore. There was not going to be any forgiveness.
And right now, she couldn’t accept judgment.
Her head still ached. Her arm burned with pain. But the icy calm of a fight was seeping over her skin. She tightened her grip on her sword.
“Everybody stay back,” she said. “Armand, get over here.”
Instantly she realized that she had just told them whom to take hostage, but since none of them were Erec, maybe it wouldn’t occur to them at once.