Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
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A low whistle pried me from the warm embrace of sleep, thrusting me into cold reality. I blinked once at the thatched roof, familiar as the back of my hand, and then squeezed them shut again, giving myself over to despair.
Tantalising, half-formed visions of what might have been played against my eyelids. There were kisses, gentle and intense; grey eyes shining with love and adoration, broad shoulders squared in a possessive challenge to any who might linger in conversation with me too long.
One vision felt particularly real and made tears slip through my lashes. A strong hand clasped my own as a litter of children ran about the village in reckless abandon. Their hair shone like molten gold, writhed like a living flame. The smoke in their eyes was the only warning of their monumental power, the result of an unprecedented union between two mighty bloodlines...
Hunter's hand pulled free, and all of it fell away to nothing, like ashes disintegrating on the wind. A fanciful dream, I thought bitterly, remembering that I was no-one and nothing; that I was meek and powerless, ultimately worthless in the eyes of the one person who was supposed to love me unconditionally.
My eyes flew open to the hazy ceiling of the healing hut, illuminated only by the fat stump of a guttering candle on the workbench. A distant strain of music and laughter reached my ears reminded me that life for others did go on, even though my world had been turned upside down and inside out. I didn't dare to wonder what — or who — Hunter was doing now that he was rid of me. All I knew was that I couldn't bear to watch it.
I pushed myself upright, swinging my matchstick legs over the edge of the cot. Harry the healer was slumped over his mortar and pestle, his heavy snore the only indication that he was asleep and not dead. No doubt he was exhausted from tending to the mass of white fur slumped on the packed-dirt floor by the fireplace. It was the source of the whistling sound that had pulled me from sleep; the sound of a dying animal.
Alpha Rogan's matted fur had been cleaned up, brushed to the point of fluffiness, but red still bloomed on the bandages wound around his chest. The arrowhead must have been dipped in some kind of poison if the blood was still refusing to clot.
The soles of my feet touched the ground. I could not stay here; even if Harry had fallen asleep while preparing the tonic that would ease my thundering heart, which was already making my head swoon. I wrinkled my nose at the sharp, bitter tang of my healing herbs, glancing at the wall of miniature drawers behind the workbench. They were marked in a foreign language passed down from healer to healer, but my memory was flawless; I could pick out every single drawer that Harry opened whenever I came to visit.
The plan had barely formed in my head when I started acting on it, padding across the room, pulling open the drawers I'd seen Harry handle a thousand times. The bone handles were worn smooth from use, validating my instincts as I cleared the contents of each drawer, shoving what felt like half of the apothecary deep into the pocket of my scarlet cloak.
