“What smell?” Tara frowned.
A prickle of warning swept down my spine. Our horses suddenly balked, whinnying and rearing—trying to turn back.
I leaped from the saddle as my horse bucked, narrowly missing a kick from Tara’s mount.
Shouts rang through the group as the remaining riders fought to regain control. Those still in the saddle wheeled their horses around, bolting back the way we’d come. The rest of us—Amahle, Tara, Seth, and a Vangar man and woman I didn’t know—had all been thrown or forced to jump.
Each of us scrambled from the forest floor, covered in leaves and dirt as we took stock of who remained.
Not a single bird chirped above us.
A different sort of fear slithered through me. A dark premonition brought about by an eerie, unnatural silence.
“Something’s not right,” I said, squinting toward the encampment, still too distant to see clearly.
No movement.
Amahle met my gaze. “I smell something rotten.”
Fuck. What in Nyxva had happened here?
To his credit, rather than hesitating in the trees, Seth kept moving. He motioned to Tara. “Follow me.”
“I need a sword, Seth.” I followed him.
Seth gave me a wary look, then continued forward without offering one of the extra swords strapped to his back.
We followed Tara and Seth closer to the encampment, but no one emerged. A low rumble of thunder sounded, and the wind stirred, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of decay.
My stomach soured. Behind me, the Vangar man gagged. “What is that?” he asked.
“Death,” Seth answered flatly. He exchanged yet another glance with me.
Did he somehow think I had something to do with this?
Movement up ahead drew us to a halt.
A herd of bulls blocked the path to the encampment, their heads low to the ground, as though grazing. But not a single blade of grass grew in the forest there, the ground was rock and dust and leaves.
“What the fuck?” Tara asked. Her eyes narrowed as she peered closer at the bulls.
They weren’t chewing on grass, but bone.
“Those aren’t bulls.” The foul scent was stronger now. More familiar. I’d smelled it the other night, when Seren and I had been attacked.
One of them lifted its head.
Cold, dead eyes—human ones—stared at us. Flesh, rotting, hung from the skulls visible below their faces.
“Skinwraiths,” I said in a low voice.
The rest of the herd lifted their heads in unison.
“Skinwraiths?” Amahle asked, incredulous.
“They’ve shapeshifted,” Seth said, readying his sword.
“What the fuck?” The color drained from Tara’s face. She exchanged a look with me. “My gods. All our best soldiers are still back at the training field …”
