Red and Her Wolf (Kingdom, #3)

The closer they got, the faster his heart pumped. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she was so small and the physical scars of her encounter with the other wolf hadn’t fully vanished yet. Faint and pink, bisecting her belly and breasts, he couldn’t help noticing them the night he’d pressed the stone of veritas (truth) to her chest.

Red’s stare was wide and panicked, her pupils dilated. Even in the shade of the trees, he could see her pulse beating frantically upon her pale throat. Forcing a calm he did not feel, he shook his head and pressed on, giving her no choice but to follow. If he pretended all was well, maybe she’d panic less.

Before long a gingerbread house crested the horizon, a faint plume of gray smoke undulated like a charmed snake through the air.

The home itself was a cornucopia of treats, an enticement to come and gorge and feast upon. It all nauseated him. He’d not be sad to see the crone dead.

Suddenly he realized Red did not pace him. He stopped and spotted her several yards back, gripping the trunk of a gingerbread tree with a white knuckled grip.

She looked at him. “I… I can’t.”

He whined, and jerked his head toward the candy studded home. The chimney, made up of big, fat gumdrops--a bright brilliant red--shimmered like rubies in the sunlight.

“No.” She turned her face into the tree. “I don’t know what to do.”

He huffed, knowing this would not be her first kill.

She scowled. “No doubt you’re thinking about that wolf I killed. Well, it was easy because in my mind it was you. But…” she swallowed hard, “it’s all different now.”

Dropping his shoulders, he sat. Miriam had said it was hate of him that had fueled her power. He knew what he’d have to do. Though the thought pierced his heart with thorns.

“I… don’t know if I hate you anymore. I’m not sure I like you, but…” She blinked. “Ewan?” she cried, finally noticing that he’d begun to barrel toward her. Her eyes were large, round, and filled with terror.

He ran, powerful leg muscles, bringing him to her in less than a second. The growl tripping from his throat was the deep throaty inflection of a wolf on the hunt.

Hating to see the fear in her eyes, he willed himself to ignore it. If killing the crone would help her kill Malvena, he didn’t have a choice.

A white ring surrounded her lips and her breathing grew harsh, she pressed her back against the tree. He advanced, predatory. Menacing. Hackles raised and gums exposed. Her breaths were short and choppy.

Then he jumped and she screamed, throwing her hands over her face and glancing to the side.

Ewan sank his teeth into the thick branch beside her head, ripping out a chunk of gingerbread. It settled like rotten meal in his gullet. He knew what these woods were really made of.

A cackle erupted, chilling and foreboding, and then a door slammed open.

“Come here, my pretty,” the ancient voice beguiled, wrapping a breeze like hand around his throat and squeezing hard. The power of the crone, deep and darkly disturbing rushed through his veins, slammed into his skull. He winced against the mind numbing moment of terror.

She was still in the house, but she knew they were here.

Dark clouds gathered high above them.

Her terrible magic was strong. Even he suffered the urge to run away from the cannibal crone.

Red jerked, holding onto her chest. She glanced at the house, then at him. Dangling bits of gingerbread caught in his fur.

“You called her to me?” she accused as he nosed her thigh, urging her forward. She slapped his nose, making him sneeze and lick at the tingling burn. “No,” she gritted out.

Ewan nosed her harder, using his front paw to propel her out of the shelter of the woods and onto the path.

“No,” she hissed.

But he was too strong, he kept bumping her forward, until finally she stumbled onto the cookie path.

The path was empty. The house of candy and cakes stood silent and still. Then he blinked and the old crone appeared, fluidly, like a vapor rolling across water.

She was bent nearly in half, her stooped shoulders large and yet withered by age. The crone stood fifty yards in front of them. Her beaked nose was hooked at the end, warts covered her cheeks and jowls, and the hands she beckoned to them with had thick black claws attached to each fingertip.

Red curled her finger into his nape, tugging so hard on his fur he knew she’d ripped some out. But he didn’t move. Adrenaline seeped from her glands, rushed out her pores and settled on his tongue, thick and bitter.

“Come here, girl.”

There was a quality to the crone’s voice that bespelled the listener. Even he found himself leaning forward even as his feet tried to turn away.

Black beady eyes turned to him, and the thin mouth curled into a tight little smile. “If it isn’t the Big Bad Wolf,” she laughed, and the sound of it rolled over his body like slithering maggots on rotten meat. “Which means, you...” she glanced back at Red, “are the Heartsong.”

Her fingernails tapped a jarring rhythm against one another.

Violet’s breathing was as rapid as hummingbird’s wings, if she didn’t breathe soon, she’d pass out. Ewan whined, nuzzling her thigh.

She took in a deep breath.