Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Although the winding ribbon of trail was only wide enough for one, Portia clung to Denny’s arm. “What did he do? The hunter, being chased by the dogs?”


“Ah, yes. Just as the dogs were about to reach him, the man fell to his knees and pleaded with the spirits of the forest to spare his life.”

“And…?”

“And a strange force struck him to the ground, and when his consciousness returned—he’d been transformed into a stag. A white one, so the story goes.”

“Absurd,” Brooke grumbled.

“After that, he easily outran the dogs—made it all the way back to Denton land. He was even able to change back into human form, once the danger had passed. But the spirits had played a cruel trick on him, you see—for he could never leave the woods again. Every time he tried to set a foot—or hoof—beyond the woodland border, some mystical force would throw him back. The forest spirits saved his life, but now they will not relinquish it.”

“What of his family?” Portia asked.

“His wife died,” Denny answered. “The orphaned children were sent to a workhouse. And the man-beast”—he cleared his throat—“beg pardon, werestag, has been doomed to roam the forest ever since.”

“Rubbish. Poppycock. Lies, all of it lies.” Brooke strode to the lead, then halted and turned to face the group. Everyone tripped to a standstill. “Legends,” he continued, “always have a logical explanation. This is clearly a cautionary tale, concocted by old, toothless grandmothers. Everyone knows the old earl was rabid about hunting, and he had these woods stocked with exotic game—peacock, boar, and yes, even stag. Everyone knows his lands were a magnet for poachers, and that he dealt with trespassers harshly. Of course the locals created this man-deer nonsense. They wanted to scare young people, discourage them from wandering off into the woods.”

“Well, if that was their intent”—Cecily looked around the group—“it doesn’t seem to have worked.”

“That’s right.” Portia released Denny’s arm and continued on the path. “Here we are, plunging ever deeper into these cursed woods, unarmed and intrigued. Fearless.”

Brooke grabbed her elbow. “A thin line separates boldness from stupidity.”

“Yes.” Smiling sweetly, Portia looked at his hand on her arm. “You’re treading it.”

His lips thinned as he released her.

With an affable grin, Denny pulled out his flask. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m having a capital time.”

The group forged ahead in silence. Once again, Cecily let herself fall behind, the better to indulge her maudlin humor. She trailed them by ten paces or so, lingering in that auditory border between her companions’ crunching footsteps and the forest’s profound hush. The sounds were smaller here. The chirp of insects. The subtle cracks as tree limbs splintered overhead. Little currents of rustling that betrayed nocturnal creatures burrowing in the undergrowth. Somewhere far in the distance a confused rooster crowed, a good five hours premature. That happened, sometimes, when the moon was nearly full and so bright.

Cecily strained her ears. Could one hear moonlight? She almost imagined she could—one clear, silvery note ringing through the woods, like the hum of a celestial tuning fork. The sort of sound one felt in her bones, rather than detected with her ears.

Beautiful.

A bright flash caught her eye, like a distant bolt of mercury. She swiveled, tracking it left. It disappeared, and she froze, peering hard into the woods in the direction she’d seen it last. To the left, then up a slight rise…

There. There it was again. An arrow of white bounding through the shadows. And…could that sharp glint be a prong?

She turned and stepped toward it instinctively, then looked down in surprise when her boot failed to create the expected crunch. She’d assumed, in stepping off the path, she’d crush a goodly number of leaves and twigs beneath her heel.

But she hadn’t, because the smooth-packed furrow of the trail split here, directly under her boots. The right fork led toward Denny and the rest, now several paces ahead. The left path shot off in the direction of the mysterious silver-white flash.

A thin line separates boldness from stupidity.

Yes, and she’d crossed it four years ago.

The little laugh she gave surprised her, as did the ease with which she made a choice. The decision smacked of petulance and self-destructive tendencies. Cecily knew it.

She turned left anyhow.





Chapter Three





HE WAITED FOR HER.

There was no other possible explanation. The stag must have waited for her, patiently gleaming in the moonlight, while she followed the serpentine path through the woods. For after following the trail for just a few minutes, Cecily rounded a tight thicket of brambles to nearly collide with the beast.