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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Feeling the scant seconds breathing down my neck, I tied my rope around an ashwood pike jutting out from the rampart. The wood was worn smooth, stained pink by the guts of creatures that had impaled themselves in their desperate bid to climb over the walls.
Not for the first time, I wondered how the Blood Moon Pack had managed to source so much of the stuff; ashwood was a rare commodity, impervious to magic or natural resistance, and could fell even the most formidable beasts of the Wylds. If Brollo was to be believed, ashwood could only be sourced from a phoenix's nest, a flame bird of legend that hadn't been sighted in the skies for years. Not even Nya could heal a wound inflicted by such a thing.
I wondered briefly, as I grabbed the rope and leaned out over the edge, whether Rogan's assassin had used an ashwood arrow shaft. It would explain why he was still bleeding through his bandages, even though the healer had probably packed a purifying poultice into the wound. I realised too late that I should have gone searching for some; that I should have pried a splinter from the walls, so that I could at least try to protect myself if something attacked.
You wouldn't stand a chance anyway, I thought sourly, stomach turning at the drop. You'll be dead before dawn.
Was it strength or cowardice that drove me over the ledge? The musing was ripped free of my head as quickly as the skin was ripped from my palms. I hissed, fighting the urge to let go as I slid down the rope faster than I could control, legs flailing for purchase on the wall. I clenched my eyes shut, bracing myself for the impact.
It slammed through my ankles with the force of a blacksmith's hammer, striking a bell of pain that rang out in every joint in my body. I dropped to my knees, gasping at the shredded, bloody flesh of my palms. I should have used the gloves, I thought, cursing my stupidity. I had all the tools I needed at my disposal, but my pride had gotten in the way of my logic. I couldn't even make it over the wall without almost killing myself! Useless, useless —
"Enough," I snarled, pushing away the unhelpful thoughts. I wasn't dead yet, and I seized on that technicality, checking for any other injuries as I climbed to my feet.
I was sore, but nothing seemed to be broken. Fighting the urge to wipe my bloody palms on my tunic, I hurried for the trees as quickly as my limp would allow, using my teeth to rip two strips off the bottom of my cloak as I went. It wasn't the neatest bandage, but it was all I could spare from the clothes on my back, so I wound it around my hands as I walked, pulling the knot tight with my teeth.
Lycan hunters could smell blood on the wind from a mile away. While I doubted anyone would even notice I was gone, let alone care to find me, I couldn't shake the memory of Rogan's desperate attempt to follow me out of the healing hut. Perhaps it was merely out of anger, for stealing the arrowhead now bouncing between my breasts from a length of twine, but I didn't want to risk leaving a trail. I refused to be dragged back into Hunter's shadow.
