“You can’t find it?” Declan asked.
“I have to look through her eyes to find it,” George said quietly.
“And you don’t like doing that,” Declan said.
George shook his head.
“Because you forget you’re not a bird when you do it? And it’s hard to remember how to get back?”
George startled. “How did you know that?”
“My aunt is a necromancer. What I’m asking you to do is called necromantic possession. There is a trick to it. If I promise you that I can help you get back to your body, will you try it?”
“Rose!” Mémère jumped off the log.
“George, you don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to,” Rose said. “It’s your choice. Nobody will be angry if you don’t.”
George thought about it. He’d done it only once with a cat, because Jack was a cat whenever he wanted, and he had never been one and wanted to know what it was like. The only reason he had returned to his body at all was because Jack found him, sitting still in the yard, and tackled him from behind, knocking the wind out of him. The worst thing was that he couldn’t even remember what it was like to be a cat. He just remembered the vague, scary feeling of looking and looking for something and not being able to find it, and knowing that he was looking for his own body.
He wanted to know what it was like to be a bird.
George looked at Declan. “Okay,” he said.
“Whenever you’re ready.” Declan nodded.
George looked at the crow, grasped the line of magic stretching between them, and pulled, propelling himself into the black body.
The world exploded into colors for which there was no name. For a long moment, he sat still, lost in the vibrancy and shimmering glow of the leaves, until something nudged him gently from the back of his mind.
The rock.
He was supposed to find the rock.
He hopped off the branch into the leaves and searched the ground. There it was, glittering with a dozen hues. So pretty. Pretty, pretty rock.
He took it into his beak and crashed through the bush. The sunlit grass was so beautiful. In the distance, he saw figures: two standing together, crystal clear and glowing, one stronger, the other weaker. Words surfaced in his mind. Rose. Mémère. He wasn’t sure what they meant, but he knew they made him feel good. He saw another figure, smaller, with an odd tint to it. He knew it as well. Jack. A fourth figure waited to his right, the largest of them all. Declan. He had to do something for Declan. He felt drawn to him, and he didn’t know why. He spread his wings and flew to him, landing on his arm, Declan warm and rough under his claws. The rock fell from his beak.
There was a fifth figure, one he hadn’t seen before. It slumped on the ground, curled into a ball. There was something oddly familiar about it, but it didn’t glow like the others.
Declan opened his mouth and made a noise.
Ice slammed into him. He cried out, the world swirled, and George jerked up, gasping. His face was wet. Next to him, Jack stood with an empty bucket.
Rose’s arms closed about him. They felt so comfortable and warm.
“Shock breaks it,” Declan said. “Doesn’t take much, especially if he didn’t spend a lot of time in the other form. The longer he possesses something, the more intense the shock has to be. We had necroscouts who’d burn each other to get out, but that was after hours of immersion. We’ll only need a minute, if that.”
“You okay?” Rose asked.
George smiled, the swirl of colors slowly fading in his head. “I remember this time,” he said. “I remember what it’s like to be a bird.”
TWENTY-THREE
THE deeper one dived into the Wood, the darker it became. The trees grew taller and thicker, their trunks rising high above like colossal textured columns. Their branches spread and twisted, bound together by moss and lichen and bright blue bunches of horsetail vines, dripping down like the hair of phantom tree spirits. The canopy formed its own separate level, removed from the forest floor, and as Rose found her way through the Wood, she glanced around once in a while above to make sure Jack hadn’t gotten away from Grandma. He was none too pleased at staying behind.
She looked at Declan, who strode on, seemingly at home in the wilderness. He carried a small pack. In the pack, two crows rode, carefully secured. Back at Wood House, George had reanimated both. He didn’t possess them at the moment, but he would sense when they were free and take them over.
It was a simple plan. They would get close enough to Casshorn, wait for the right moment, release the crows, and let George use them to steal an item. Then the crows would fly away and they would chase them, retrieve the item, and get away, hopefully alive.
George would be allowed only five minutes of possession. Five minutes later, ready or not, Grandma and Jeremiah would awaken him. Five minutes was a safe enough time limit, according to Declan. She didn’t want to put George through it, but they had no choice. It was a flimsy plan all around, but it was the only one they had.
She’d spoken to Jeremiah and Leanne. Once George awakened and they no longer needed his gift, Jeremiah would take him and Jack and Leanne and her son out into the Broken, supposedly to get supplies. She had given Leanne enough money for a decent hotel room. With her strength, Leanne would be able to handle the boys. No matter what would happen in the Edge, her brothers would be safe.
The Wood thrived around them. Life reigned here. A hundred small noises filled the silence: birds bickering, squirrels screeching angrily at Edger ermines that came to steal babies out of their nests, badgers grunting heavily, and the careful coughing bark of the fox sounded so near yet far. Edger moss sheathed the trunks, its lady’s-slipper-shaped flowers all but glowing with pastel reds, yellows, lavender, and purple. Fallen trees served to anchor new life, sending shoots up and giving purchase to vines. The perfume of countless flowers and herbs floated in the air, mixing with animal scents. Even the light, filtered through the canopy, was verdant and emerald green.
In the chaos of the Wood, she and Declan were just two small motes of life. At other times, she would’ve loved to sit and listen to the Wood breathe, but today she didn’t have that luxury.
“Careful,” Rose called out, when Declan paused by a patch of bright pink grass that had broken through the carpet of pine straw and dirt-hugging creepers. “Very poisonous.”
She reached to the nearest vine, snagged a handful of pale yellow berries, and handed some to him. “False cherries,” she said.
He popped one into his mouth. “Tastes like the real thing.”
She could find no fault with the way Declan moved through the woods—like a wolf, soundless and light on his feet. His face had closed in again. The hardness around his mouth was back and so was the cold, distant stare.
She had insisted on coming with him against Éléonore’s wishes.
Her grandmother had been beside herself. “Why do you have to take him there?”
“Somebody has to. He doesn’t know the Wood.”
“Let Tom or Jeremiah do it.”
“We might have to run out of there like a bat out of hell, and I can run much faster than either Tom or Jeremiah, and I flash hotter. Besides, he trusts me. He’ll be comfortable with me.”
Éléonore had pursed her lips. “I wish you wouldn’t. I only have one granddaughter.”
Looking at Declan, Rose got a feeling that he also wished she hadn’t come. “My helping you bothers you that much, huh?” she asked finally.
“I wish I didn’t have to rely on you.”
“You didn’t twist my arm. It’s my home that’s invaded and my family who is the target.”
“I understand that.” He shook his head. “The point of being a professional soldier is so civilians don’t have to fight. We do the things we do so people like you can go to sleep safe. And here I am, relying on a civilian woman and a child’s talent. Yes, it bothers me. As well it should.”
“If I go away with you—” she started
.
His head came up sharply. He looked at her.
“If I go away with you and if we decide to be together, eventually you’ll go away on some mission and I’ll be left at home, pacing and biting my nails, hoping you’ll come back alive.”
“It’s not always quite that dramatic,” he said quietly.
“But it’s often dangerous.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“What would I have to do to come with you?” she asked.
He gave her a frosty stare. “You would have to pass some security examinations and competency tests to be registered as one of my operatives. It’s a bad idea. I would be more worried about you than about the mission.”
She smiled. He didn’t say no. “I suppose I’ll just have to learn to be good enough so you don’t worry so much. I hope you’re a good teacher.”
“You’re an impossible woman,” he growled.
“Hey, I didn’t show up at your house demanding you challenge me. You were the knucklehead who picked me, so you only have yourself to blame.”
They halted in unison. They stood at the edge of a narrow meadow. The Wood beyond it had lost its vibrant color. The trunks stood bare and grim, and the underbrush had shriveled to a limp tangle of wilted leaves. The magic was gone. The forest lay dead and oddly preserved, as if mummified. A taint of foul magic, alien and sharp, stained the dead trunks and withered grass. If it had color, it would drip from the Wood like purple putrid slime. The evidence of the hounds’ presence.
“It’s frightening what they do,” Rose said.
Declan’s arms closed about her for a brief moment and crushed her to him. He let her go almost immediately, but he’d packed so much into that one fierce hug: want, need, worry, reassurance . . . He’d protect her with his life. Strangely, it made her indignant. Nobody should have to be in the position of having another person give up their life for them. She didn’t want the weight of Declan’s death. The fear took a backseat, and cold anger started driving. Casshorn. If she had any hope for the future with Declan, or even without him, she had to destroy Casshorn and the hounds. That was the only way.
Declan would be there, fighting to the last. She had to do the same.
Together they walked into the blighted Wood.
TWENTY minutes later, Rose lay next to Declan on the edge of a ravine. Below them, the ground dropped off sharply. A strange contraption sat in the center of the ravine’s floor, a tangled mess of gears and moving parts, as if an enormous clock had gotten violently sick and vomited all of its insides before turning inside out. In the center of the device hung an oblong cluster of pale silvery glow, like a large batch of cotton candy woven of luminescent fog.
Around the device, hounds lay side by side, packed tight like matches into a box. Rose tried to count them. Hundred and twelve. Hundred and thirteen. Hundred and . . . too many. If they see us, we will be torn to pieces.
The magic rising from the ravine nearly made her gag. It filled the gap, crawling along the ground and up the slope, as if it were too heavy to dissipate. She felt the mere traces of it, but when they slithered past, her whole body recoiled from the contact. She wanted to jump to her feet and run back into the Wood, to jump into a lake or to grab a handful of mud and scrub herself just to scrape the slimy patina off.
She clenched her teeth and lay absolutely still, afraid to breathe. Her mind painted a horde of hounds streaming up the wall of the ravine. She imagined wicked dagger teeth ripping into Declan, tearing flesh off his bones. All of what they were, all their fears, worries, happiness, all that made them human, didn’t matter. To hounds, they were just magic-infused meat. Cold descended on her, locking her muscles. Her heart hammered.
Declan’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. She looked at him, wide-eyed, and saw calm, steadying strength in his eyes. He didn’t lose his head. He didn’t seem afraid. She held on to his courage like a crutch and exhaled her panic in tiny, silent breaths.
Something stirred on the floor of the ravine.
Declan focused on the movement. His eyes turned gla cially cold.
A clump of the hounds parted, and a tall figure rose, swaddled in a long cloak.
Casshorn.
There he was. They finally found the sonovabitch. Triumph filled her. Thought he could hide, did he?
Casshorn swayed, as if woozy, but righted himself. He flicked his fingers, and the hounds parted before him, clearing a path. Slowly he dragged himself to the device.
She stared at his back and wished him dead. If they were within flashing distance, she might have tried frying him.
The device emitted a screech of metal rubbing against metal. Gears whirled.
Casshorn crouched down and picked something off the ground.
The glowing cone in the center of the device split open. A dark object slid out, wrapped in a membrane laced with thick purple and yellow veins. The object fell to the ground with a wet thump and squirmed, stretching the membrane.
Casshorn approached it and pulled a large, wicked-looking hook into the light. A thick chain stretched from the hook, disappearing into a dead tree to the left.
The thing in the membrane wriggled. With a brutal strike, Casshorn stabbed the hook into the membrane and kicked a lever protruding from the wooden block next to him. The chain snapped taut, dragging the membrane sack across the ground and jerking it in the air, to the tree, where it hung suspended three feet from the ground.
Casshorn scratched at the membrane, brushing it away, revealing a fully formed hound writhing upside down on the hook. He grasped the beast by the head, and she saw Casshorn’s hand. His fingers had grown very long, and on top of each one sat a two-inch black claw. Those claws dug into the beast’s neck, but the hound did nothing to resist.
Casshorn struck. His claws sliced the hound’s throat. A stream of gray spilled from the wound. Casshorn picked up a cup from the ground and held it under the stream. The liquid splashed into the cup and onto his hands. A few seconds later, the hound stopped jerking. The stream of fluid died. Casshorn wiped his hand on the beast’s back and brought the cup to his lips.
Her stomach clenched. Rose clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting.
As Casshorn lifted the cup, the cloak slid off his shoulders. He was nude underneath it. He was very tall with broad shoulders and a large chest, but inhumanly thin and corded with tight muscle like a greyhound. Splotches of yellow and purple stained his skin. His arms and legs were disproportionately long.
Casshorn tipped the glass, turning, and she saw his face. He must have been a handsome man at some point. She still glimpsed echoes of it: the large hooded eyes, the square line of the jaw, the shadow of what had once been a broad, strong, masculine face. He must’ve looked similar to Declan in the past, but no longer. A network of veins stood out on his temples, like rope threaded under his skin. His long hair, still golden blond, had thinned and now dripped from his scalp in isolated clumps to his chest. His face sagged and wrinkled, and when he opened his mouth to swallow the contents of the glass, she caught sight of his teeth. His mouth was filled with bloodred fangs.
Casshorn emptied the glass. So that’s how he did it. He paid for the immunity to the hounds’ magic with his mind and his body.
Declan’s strong fingers pressed on her arm. She glanced at him. His gaze was fixed on a point well above Casshorn, on the other side of the ravine. She looked and bit back a gasp before it had a chance to escape.
A wolf lay in the brush, solid black and huge, like a nightmare come to life. In her memory, he’d been enormous. She’d thought fear had played tricks on her, making him larger than he really was, but no, he really was that huge.
Declan’s lips moved, and he mouthed a silent word. William.
The wolf shifted his gaze and saw her. His eyes flared with amber. His black lips rose in a silent snarl, and William showed them a mouth full of fangs. Rose shivered.
Something wasn’t right. If William was in league with Casshorn, then what i
n the world was he doing hiding in the bushes?
A crash made them glance down. Casshorn had hurled his cup at the device, and it bounced off. He leaned back, dragged his clawed hands through his thinning mane, and began braiding it in a mechanical fashion, the way he must’ve done a thousand times. He’d managed to plait a couple of inches when the entire thing slid off his head, leaving him bald. Casshorn stared at the hair in his hand in disbelief and flung it from him. It caught on one of the gears and hung there.
They couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. Rose grabbed Declan’s arm, clenching her fingers until he looked at her and whispered so quietly she could barely hear herself. “Hair. His hair.”
Casshorn sank into the dirt. The sea of hounds brushed against him. He hugged one and put his cheek against the pale hide. The beast lay down on its side, and Casshorn lay atop it.
Declan nodded and reached to the pack next to him. Carefully they unwrapped the crows. Rose prayed George would see the hair. She’d stressed what he had to look for: clothes, a brush with hair on it, personal items, silverware . . . Hair, that much hair, just fresh off the body, was any curser’s dream. Only blood was better and only short-term—it rotted too quickly.
The wolf’s gaze burned her as they worked. The ravine ran almost two miles in every direction of tough wooded terrain. She knew William wouldn’t be able to get to them, but the way he stared at them made her want to scream.
Rose clenched her bird. By now George would feel them handling the crows and would be paying attention. She pointed the bird so the hair was directly in front of it and whispered over and over, “Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair . . .”
Declan released his bird. A moment later she let hers go. The crows swooped down like two black rocks. Declan’s crow plunged and came up, its claws caught in the fabric of Casshorn’s cloak. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, Georgie . . .”
A hound snapped up its head, then another. A dark body lunged up, and the crow went down.
The second bird made a slow circle above the hounds, turned, veered left—he was going after the cup. Rose’s heart hammered. She squeezed her hands into fists, willing the bird to turn right.
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