Now the soldiers were opening fire, but something surged around her, protecting the three of them as she charged to the driver’s side, yanked open the door, and dragged him out. Jerking him toward herself, she kneed him; as he crumpled, she aimed her elbow at his Adam’s apple. He fell backward far enough for her to leap in, slam the door, and peel out.
What would they do? Pursue? Kill an innocent civilian and a Ritter—one of their own? She didn’t know how to drive in snow; she kept swerving. She flew along the road, with no thought but to save the baby from the dungeon. Death in a U-Haul, in a cell beneath a castle. Brigitte was screaming. The baby was silent.
Oh, come and go with us …
Down a lane, up into the forest. Horns were blaring; sirens. Gunfire erupted.
“What are you doing? What’s happening?” Brigitte shrieked.
She felt another surge, like a mania, and kept driving, sliding all over the icy road.
Where death never touches us.
Vertigo washed over her, and she reeled. Lights pinwheeled across the windshield. Part of her wondered just how this had happened; the other part of her believed it was all connected, inevitable. Even down to Matty.
Suddenly she was thrown forward, hard, then backward. The car stopped moving. They’d hit something. Light flared around her; she couldn’t see out.
“Are you all right? Is the baby all right?” she shouted in German, but Brigitte was still screaming.
Meg fumbled for the Glock. The rear window shattered. She couldn’t hear anything as she flattened herself against the seat and searched for the gun. Her surroundings slid into white light, white noise. Despite the danger and the stakes—or maybe because of them—excitement tripled her heart rate.
There. She wrapped her hand around the weapon, then cracked the door and rolled out. A bullet zinged past her cheek. She dove into the snow, making herself harder to hit as she tried to take aim in the darkness. Pine boughs bobbed overhead; she’d slammed the car into a tree.
Light shimmered and whirled. Light shot up to the sky, in geysers, and silver songs exploded all round her. Her heartbeat went off the charts; her euphoria skyrocketed. She had to fight to stop shaking the Glock, double-fisting it, panting.
Where death never touches us.
She took aim, took pause, and tried to think about what she was really doing.
Saving him.
She fired off a round. How many did she have left?
Nearly blind—again—she was able to see that something had dropped in the snow. A soldier. She had hit a man. And he had been aiming his crossbow at her, not his Uzi. As if she were magick.
On her elbows, she scrabbled forward, reaching for the weapon.
The lights dampened; the silvery songs faded. She turned around and saw the glowing green light behind her, and the Great Hunt roared into focus. The goblins, the horses, the dogs … and the Erl King. His black mask gazed at her; his antlers burned at the tips. He was holding a swaddled baby in one arm, against his chest. Did the baby move? Meg couldn’t tell.
Oh, come and go with us .
Brigitte was still in the car, shrieking and crazed. Meg didn’t know if she could see the Great Hunt.
“No bullets can touch me,” Meg decreed, in German, and Latin. English, and Spanish. “Nothing can touch me.”
Meg reached into the car and yanked the changeling out of Brigitte’s hands. He was so light. He smelled like smoke.
The car fell deeper into the snow as bullets shot out the tires. She raced back across the Pale, assaulted on all sides by the colors, the singing—a kaleidoscope. Behind her, Brigitte ran yelling; a soldier came up beside her and threw himself protectively over her.
Flailing, Meg staggered forward, holding out the baby. She lifted the crossbow, to show the Erl King that she had it. No bolts, she realized belatedly, but she wasn’t about to let him know.
“Trade!” she yelled.
The goblins put spurs to their horses, heading toward her; the hellish dogs snarled and snapped. The Erl King held up his hand. The human baby in his arms squirmed.
Armor clanked.
Horses chuffed.