Twenty.
At the lead rode the majestic Erl King himself, Master of the Great Hunt, exactly as Lukas had described him. Dressed in ebony chain mail and a solid black chest plate, the demon lord of the forest towered over the goblins. His black helmet was smooth, with no helm—no eyeholes—topped with curved antlers that flared with smoky flames; fastened at the shoulders, his cloak furled behind like the wake of an obsidian river. In his right chain-mail gauntlet, he held the reins of his enormous warhorse. His left clasped a squirming bundle against his chest—the baby.
He must be freezing.
The child had been snatched from his crib, where he slept bundled in pajamas. His name was Garriet, and he was nine weeks old. While they were suiting up and Lukas was detailing the mission, Meg had asked for a picture. Sofie had snorted.
“He’ll be the baby in the Erl King’s arms,” Heath had deadpanned. “But if by chance there’s two, grab them both, Meggie.”
The Erl King had stolen many thousands of children through the centuries. His goblins put changelings in their emptied cribs—often passing for human children, but evil creatures to the core. Adolf Hitler had been a changeling. Jack the Ripper. Charles Manson. There were other places where he could cross the Pale; it was the job of Haus Ritter to guard it here.
What will he do to Garriet if we don’t get him back?
No one could tell her. Their primary mission was to isolate the Erl King and kill or wound him, approach, and snatch back the child. It seemed an impossible task. Lukas and Sofie had done it once before, when they were nineteen. They were twenty-seven now, and this was the first verified theft since.
“I see them,” Meg whispered into her microphone. “My Sight has returned.”
“ Bon, c’est bon, Meg,” Eddie said, his voice taut with excitement.
Then light flared around the Great Hunt, saturating the surroundings with a hazy green glow. Lightning crackled. Sparks flew. Thunder roared down the mountain. The ground shook beneath her, and Teufel whinnied.
A great wailing rose around her.
“ Schei?e. They’re across,” Lukas announced. “Abort.”
A goblin rose in his stirrups, turned, and waved at her. His face was a mass of scars and hollows, as if someone had taken a Halloween mask and melted it.
She’d been taunted before. You didn’t last in the Border Patrol if you gave in to your impulses. But adrenaline was pumping through her system so hard and fast she was quivering. There was no way this was over.
“I can get them,” she insisted.
“They’re beyond the Pale, love,” Heath reminded her.
“It’s over,” Sofie chimed in. “Retreat, Meg.”
Shaking her head, Meg pressed her thighs in a viselike grip against Teufel’s flanks, reached behind, and started to grab her Uzi. She rethought. On this side of the Pale, standard-issue ammo could kill her targets. But if shot from this side to the Pale, the chambered rounds were ineffective. The crossbow bolts, coated with magicks, would work. She didn’t know why. She didn’t care at the moment. Problem was, she had yet to master the crossbow. In target practice, she shot wide.
She had to get closer if she was going to save that baby.
“I’m going,” she said, urging Teufel forward. He tossed his head and broke into a run.
Then she heard singing, in silvery tones, angelic and sweet:
Oh, come and go with us … Where death never visits us …
“Eddie!” Lukas shouted. “Stop her!”
Oh, come and go with us …
The song washed over her, drawing out her anger like poison from a snakebite. Buried anger over her helplessness—
Where death never visits us … “Eddie!” Lukas bellowed. “ Mwen regret sa ,” Eddie said.
Something slammed into her side like a huge, spiked fist; it tore through the layers of her protective armor and sliced into her skin. Fireball heat tore through her body; then she went cold, and began to slide from her horse.
Oh, come—