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Gasps rocket around the crowd. Dread sinks in my stomach as the dark bird circles lower. It has a white head... and horns.
Legion’s cultured voice pulls me back. “Does it now?”
The queen’s advisor glances at his fellow Radiants for mutual support of his incredulity and then faces Legion again. “And we all know I, Robin Goodfellow, have been appointed the queen’s regent in her absence.”
“Sounds incredibly taxing.”
Goodfellow’s eyes flash, his anger palpable. Beneath his breath, he mumbles loud enough for my shifter ears, “You could have done this any year. Why now?”
Fox gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Because we can.”
Bodin’s nostrils flare as if he’s tired of the theatrics, and then he points out, “We have a dragon.”
Goodfellow forces a smile. Something is being said between the lines that I can’t read. But before I examine them further, every head in the arena swivels as the small beast lands in a flap of wings and wobbly feet. It’s a baby Wild Hunt.
I’m not the only one in shock, yet I wonder if I’m the only one who knows what this creature truly is—a prison for wicked souls, a terror of the living, a servant of darkness. They seem more surprised to see the Wild Hunt exists at all.
“What’s happening?” Bob whispers to me.
“That screech was a baby dragon,” I reply.
“What?”
“It’s the Wild Hunt.”
“My god. It’s meant to be the most terrifying of them all. Wait. Did you say, baby? What does it look like?” His voice is filled with awe.
Fully grown, it should be at least twice as long and bigger than all the others. But it’s tiny now—the size of a wolpertinger.
“I suppose it’s cute if you like black glossy scales that catch colors in the light. His skull is on the outside of his head... orat least the top half of it. The lower jaw is black and scaled... except for the teeth. His wings’ membranes are transparent with a reddish hue and veiny, but the talons at the ends are black and lethal.”
“I’ll bet they can stab through flesh like hot pokers,” Bob breathes.
The Wild Hunt becomes a streak of black as it scampers toward the Sluagh, runs circles around each of their legs, then settles at Legion’s feet with a little whine and a yip. A long, pink tongue lolls through its fangs, dripping saliva. Its long, spiked tail thumps on the ground like an overexcited wolf pup. Black liquid eyes beneath the bone impossibly widen with barely contained eagerness.
How can this tiny thing be the same Wild Hunt that swarmed from the Six’s bodies during the battle in Elphyne? A shiver runs down my spine as I recall the ghostly faces of the damned pressing against the dragon’s scales—peering out from the inside. The Horde of the Unforgiven Dead. The Wild Hunt. The Host. The ferocious, vicious, insatiable beast powered by death itself.
Legion’s nervous glance at his hive is unmistakable.
The dragon’s tail thumps harder. It gives a little restless shuffle and eagerly licks his lips. Only the hive’s queen can call the Hunt from where it lives within the Sluagh. This is why they need a queen in the first place. She holds them together, somehow keeping them from descending into chaos.
You are our skin,their voice whispers from my memories.
I shove it deep down and hide it beneath my hatred. Who gives a fuck what they think of me?
Without permission, the Wild Hunt circles the group of Radiants and Shadows as though trying to round them up like cattle.
“Control your dragon,” Lord Ignarius growls when it nips his ankles. The Fever Hunt hisses smoke in a warning.
The Sluagh ignore their tiny terror and stare at Goodfellow, waiting.
“Very well,” he grinds out. “Choose your Shadow. But this will have consequences when she wakes, mark my words. The Keepers of the Cauldron have borne witness.”
The druids waiting in the wings disappear except for one, who strides back in with a bowl and hurries to the House of Shadow’s side.
“Hunt.” Legion’s bark of demand startles me.
The Wild Hunt skids to a stop, kicking up dirt. He glances at Legion, head pricking up.
