An Artificial Night

The feeling of wrongness was still clamoring in the back of my mind. I didn’t know why, and the Luidaeg’s spell obviously didn’t want me to. I took a deep, slow breath. She didn’t do freebies. Whatever she’d done, it was probably intended to keep me alive, and if that hinged on not understanding, I could play dumb for a little while.

At least her spell had been kind enough to trade my cut-down dress for jeans and a bulky green sweater. It made a certain sense; she wanted me to get back alive, and jeans were more useful than a skirt while crossing the wasteland. A thin leather strap secured my knife to the belt, and a similar leather strap was holding my hair away from my face. If I screwed up, it wouldn’t be due to interference from my wardrobe.

Finally, lacking any better options, I started for the forest.

The plains were wider than they looked. I had barely covered half the distance to the trees when my legs informed me that I needed to take a break, now, and that if I didn’t find something to sit on, they’d be fine with dumping me on my ass. Choosing rest over close contact with the treacherous surface of the plain, I walked to the nearest rock and sat. My candle was burning steadily. That was good. The spell that brought me to Blind Michael’s lands was tied to the candle, and I probably wouldn’t survive for long if the candle went out. If I was lucky, losing it would kill me quickly. If I wasn’t . . .

The Luidaeg called Blind Michael a child’s terror. He wasn’t likely to be happy with an adult intrusion into his lands. “Great,” I muttered. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” It helped to hear my own voice, but something was wrong with it. I stood, trying to make sense of the conflicting messages my senses were delivering. The candle blazed again, illuminating the land around me as the Luidaeg whispered on the edge of my hearing, Don’t think about it, don’t stop, just keep moving keep on keep going keep—

Hunting horns blared in the distance as the flame turned orange and dwindled to a pinprick. I took a step backward, confusion forgotten in the face of panic. I knew what those horns meant; there was only one thing they could mean. Blind Michael’s Hunt was riding.

Taking another step back, I started to run.

My breath was harsh and loud as I ran, but nowhere near as loud as the horns sounding on the other side of the horizon. They were coming and there was nothing I could do to stop them. A thought struck me as the horns sounded again, a thought that seemed almost brilliant in its clarity. If I stopped, they might listen to reason. They’d take me to Blind Michael, and he’d understand; he’d return my children without complaint. He was a good man at heart. He—

The candle flared, splashing wax down the length of my arm. The pain was stunning, knocking me out of a haze I hadn’t even felt coming down. The bastards were blowing enchanted horns. Of course they wouldn’t listen! Blind Michael’s Hunt has never had a reputation for mercy. I’d die if I stopped. I might die anyway, but at least if I ran, I had a chance.

Even without their suggestive power, the horns were getting louder. I wasn’t going to reach the forest before the Hunt reached me. Still running, I started scanning for a place that I could hide.

There was a tangle of brambles up ahead that looked promising. I ran toward it, grimacing as I saw the length of the thorns. They didn’t look like pleasant bedmates. I was considering looking for another place to hide when the horns sounded again, closer now than ever. Right. Gritting my teeth, I dropped to my knees and began squirming into the shelter of the thorns.

I stopped once there was a concealing wall of brambles between myself and the plains, tucking my candle down behind my knees to hide its light. I could hear hooves pounding the earth as well as the trumpet of the horns; they were getting closer. I scooted backward, heedless of the thorns. A little blood was a small price to pay for staying alive.