Spun gold and the god of death and moss maidens fleeing from the hounds.
And Gild. The way he looked at her. Like she was a miracle, not a curse.
She closed her eyes and pleaded for sleep.
Sleep must have finally claimed her, for she was awoken by a muffled thump not far from her head. Her eyes snapped open. Her ears were full of a dull roar. She was staring at unfamiliar walls lit with shifting candlelight.
She sat up and spotted the candle rolling around on the wooden floorboards. With a gasp, she grabbed the cloak and threw it over the flame, smothering it before it could start a fire.
Darkness engulfed her, but not before she’d caught sight of her father’s figure stumbling away from her.
“Papa?” she whispered, not sure if she was too loud or too quiet. She got to her feet and called to him again. In the night, the moon had risen, and her eyes began to adjust to the light coming in through three small openings that had not yet been filled with leaded glass.
Her father was gone.
Serilda moved to follow him and felt something give beneath her heel. Reaching down, she picked up the glob of wax. Her insides squeezed.
The hunt?
Had they been found? After everything?
No. Perhaps he was only sleepwalking.
Perhaps …
She grabbed her cloak and shoes and hurried out into the massive hall beyond the chamber, in time to see him slip around a distant corner. Serilda followed, calling to him again.
He was not heading toward the small back door. Instead, he shuffled toward the main entrance that opened onto the city square. The massive arched doors were nailed shut with temporary planks of wood to ward off thieves while the building was being constructed. Serilda spied her father in time to see him grab a large hammer left behind by one of the crews.
He swung the hammer, splintering the first board.
She cried out in surprise. “Papa! Stop!” Her voice was still dampened by the wax, but she knew he must be able to hear her. Still, he did not turn around.
Using the tool’s handle as leverage, he pried away the first board from the intricately carved door. Then the second.
Serilda’s hands fell onto her father’s. “Papa, what are you doing?”
He glanced toward her, but even in the dim lighting she could see that his gaze was unfocused. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“Papa?”
With a sneer, he put a hand to her sternum and shoved her away.
Serilda stumbled back.
Her father yanked open the door and rushed out into the night.
Pulse fluttering, she dashed after him. He was moving quicker now, hurrying across the square, toward the inn where they should have been staying. The moon illuminated the square in a silver glow.
Serilda was halfway across the square when she realized he wasn’t heading to the inn’s entrance, but around to the back. She picked up her pace. Usually she had no trouble keeping up with her father. Her legs were longer and he was not a man to hasten unnecessarily. But now she was out of breath as she darted around the large fountain of Freydon in the square’s center.
She turned the corner behind the inn and froze.
Her father had disappeared.
“Papa? Where are you?” she said, feeling the waver in her voice. Then, with clenched teeth, she reached for her ears and pried out the globs of wax. The sounds of the world rushed back around her. Mostly the night was quiet, the revelers from the public houses and ale gardens having long retired. But there was the sound of shuffling not far away.
She realized it was coming from the stables that were shared by the inn and other nearby businesses.
She stomped forward, but before she could duck into the shelter, her father emerged, leading Zelig by the reins.
She blinked in surprise, stepping back. Papa had secured the bridle over Zelig’s head, but had not bothered with the saddle.
“What are you doing?” she asked, breathless.
Again, his gaze swept over her without expression. Then he stepped onto a nearby crate and, with a strength and agility she would have been certain her father did not possess, heaved himself up onto the horse’s back. His fists grabbed the reins and the old horse lurched forward. Serilda threw herself back against the stable wall to keep from being trampled.
Dazed and frightened, Serilda ran after them, screaming for him to stop.
She did not have to run far.
As soon as she reached the edge of the wide-open square, she froze.
Her father and Zelig were there waiting for her.
And they were surrounded by the hunt. Beside them, Zelig looked small and pathetic and weak, though he was standing as proud as he ever had, as if attempting to fit in with these powerful warhorses.
Dread hardened in her stomach.
She was shaking as she met the Erlking’s gaze. He rode at the front of the hunting party, astride that glorious steed.
And there was one horse without a rider. Its coat as dark as ink, its white mane braided with belladonna flowers and sprigs of blackberries.
“How good of you to join us,” said the Erlking with a wicked smile.
Then he raised the hunting horn to his lips.
Chapter 21
It could only be a dream. True, many unusual and uncanny things had happened to her these past weeks, and the boundary between truth and fiction felt thinner every day.
But this.
This was dream and nightmare and fantasy and horror and freedom and disbelief all churned into one.
Serilda was given the riderless horse, and its strength and power seemed to transfer into her own body. She felt invincible as they raced away from the city. The hellhounds tore across the countryside. The world blurred in her vision and she doubted her horse’s hooves were touching the ground at all. Their path was guided by the light of the Crow Moon and the unearthly howl of the hounds. They skimmed over riverbeds. Shot past darkened farmhouses. Crossed over pastures lush with grass, freshly plowed fields, and hillsides singing with early wildflowers. The wind in her face smelled sweet, almost salted, and she wondered how far they had gone. They might have been near the ocean, except that it wasn’t possible to travel so far in such a short time.
None of this was possible.
In her daze, Serilda thought of her mother. A young woman, not much older than she was now. Yearning for freedom, for adventure.
Could she blame her for having been tempted by the call of that horn?
Could she blame anyone? When so much of life was rules and responsibilities and cruel gossip.
When you weren’t exactly what others thought you should be.
When your heart desired nothing more than to stoke the flames of a bonfire, howl at the stars, dance beneath the thunder and rain, and kiss your lover, languid and soft, in the frothy surf of ocean waves.
She shivered, sure that she’d never had these yearnings before. They felt wanton, but she knew they were hers. Desires she’d never before recognized now clawed their way to the surface, reminding her that she was a creature of earth and sky and fire. A beast of the woods. A dangerous, feral thing.