The hounds chased wild hares, a startled doe, quail, and grouse.
Serilda’s mouth watered. She glanced at her father, whose face was caught in speechless bliss. He was at the back of the group, though Zelig was galloping as fast as his old legs would move. Faster than he had likely ever run in his life. Moonlight glistened off his sweat-covered body. His eyes flashed wild and bright.
Serilda turned her head and caught the eye of a woman to her other side. She had a sword at her hip and a scarf tied around her waxen throat, and Serilda vaguely remembered her from the night of the Snow Moon.
Words filtered back to her through her heady thoughts.
I believe she speaks true.
She had believed Serilda’s lies of gold-spinning, or at least claimed to. If she had not spoken, would the king and the hunt have murdered Serilda that very night?
The woman smiled at Serilda. Then she dug her heels into her steed’s side, leaving Serilda behind.
The moment was fleeting. She wondered if it had even been real. She tried to lose herself again in the mad, delicious chaos. Up ahead, a man with a cudgel leaned forward from his saddle and swung at their newest quarry—a red fox who was trying desperately to get away, darting back and forth, but trapped in every direction by the hunt.
It was a direct hit.
Serilda didn’t know if the fox made a sound. If so, it was too quickly buried beneath the loud cheer and laughter that rose up from the hunters.
Her mouth was watering. The hunt would end in a feast. Their kills served on silver dishes, still swimming in pools of ruby blood.
Turning her face up toward the moon, Serilda laughed along. She released the reins and spread her arms wide, pretending to fly over the fields. Crisp air filled her lungs, bringing with it the most profound elation.
She wished for this night to never end.
On a whim, she glanced back again, to see if her father was flying, too. If he was on the verge of weeping, like she was.
Her smile faded.
Zelig was still charging forward, trying desperately to maintain his speed.
But her father was gone.
The drawbridge thundered beneath the horses’ hooves as they stampeded across it and beneath the gatehouse. The courtyard was full of figures awaiting the return of the wild hunt. Servants hurried forward to collect the game. The stable boy and a few other hands took the reins of the horses and began leading them toward the stables. The master of the hounds lured the beasts back to the kennel with slabs of bloodied meat.
The moment Serilda slid from her mount, the spell over her shattered. She drew in a sharp breath, and the air was not sweet. It did not fill her with buoyancy. All she felt was horror as she spun around and her gaze landed on Zelig.
Poor old Zelig, who had collapsed onto his side just inside the castle wall. His sides were heaving as he tried to drag in breaths. His entire body was shaking from the exertion of their long ride, his coat covered in a lather of sweat. His eyes had rolled back into his head as he panted.
“Water!” Serilda screamed, grabbing the stable boy’s arm as he returned for another steed. But then, worried that she would crush his fragile bones beneath her grip, she quickly released him and jerked her hand back. “Please. Bring this horse some water. Quickly.”
The stable boy gaped at her, wide-eyed. Then his gaze darted to something past Serilda’s shoulder.
A hand clasped her elbow, swiveling her around. The Erlking’s expression was murderous.
“You do not command my servants,” he growled.
“My horse is going to die!” she screamed. “He’s old! He shouldn’t have been pushed so hard tonight!”
“If he dies, he will die having tasted the greatest thrill any gelding could hope to enjoy. Now come. You’ve wasted enough of my time tonight.”
He started to drag her toward the keep, but Serilda yanked her arm from his grip. “Where is my father?” she shouted.
In the next moment, the king had twisted Serilda’s braids around his fist and yanked her head back, pressing a blade to her throat. His eyes were piercing, his voice low. “I am not in the habit of asking twice.”
She clenched her jaw against the urge to spit in his face.
“You will follow me,” he said, “and you will not speak out of turn again.”
He released her and stepped back. As he stalked toward the keep’s steps, every muscle in Serilda’s body tightened with rage. She wanted to scream and rail and grab whatever was in reach and hurl it at the back of his head.
Before she could do anything, a ghost in a blacksmith apron ran out from the keep. “Your Grim! There’s a … a problem. In the armory.”
The Erlking slowed his steps. “What sort of problem?”
“With the weapons. They’re … well. Perhaps you should see for yourself.”
With a low growl, the Erlking swept back through the massive doors, the blacksmith on his heels. Only when the blacksmith turned around did Serilda see the half-dozen arrows jutting from him like pins in a cushion.
Serilda stood, heart still racing, fury still clouding her thoughts. She looked back at Zelig, relieved to see the stable boy carrying a pail of water in his direction.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
The boy blushed, not daring to meet her gaze. She looked past him, toward the open gate. The lowered bridge.
Her entire body was sore, but mostly her thighs and rear end, which summoned dizzy memories of charging across the land on the back of that magnificent horse. She had done little riding in her life. She was reminded now that her body was unaccustomed to it.
But she thought she might still be able to run.
If she had to.
“I would not advise that.”
The coachman appeared beside her. His warning from before returned to her.
If you run, he will only further relish the chase.
This night had shown her how right he was.
“I believe he told you to follow,” continued the coachman. “I would not make him come searching for you later.”
“He’s already gone. I’ll never find him.”
“They were heading to the armory. I will show you the way.”
She wanted to ignore him. To run. To find her father—who was out there alone. One more victim of the hunt, abandoned in a field or at the edge of the forest. He could be anywhere. What if he was hurt? What if he was—
She exhaled sharply, refusing to allow the word into her thoughts.
He was alive. He would be all right. He had to be.
But if she didn’t do as the Erlking wanted, she would never leave this castle alive. She would never be allowed to go find him.
She faced the coachman and nodded.
This time they did not descend into the dungeons but ventured into a series of narrow hallways. Servant halls, if she had to guess, with her limited knowledge of castle architecture. After a dizzying number of turns, they arrived at an open barred door. Beyond it, a large table stood at the center of the room. The walls were hung with shields and various pieces of armor, from chain-mail jerkins to bronze gauntlets. There were a number of bare spots on the walls, too, where weapons might be hung.