The Lufthund glanced over and met Barclay’s eyes briefly. They were dark, just like his.
Then it snapped its head away, ignoring him and his distress.
Soren had talked about Lufthunds like they were undefeatable. Where were those gusts of wind now? The howls that brought storms?
But then Barclay remembered: he had powers as well, even if he didn’t know how to control them. That meant evenwithout the Lufthund’s help, Barclay wasn’t defenseless.
A wind! A breeze! Something!
Barclay fanned at the air, tried to whistle, snapped his fingers… nothing. The Ischray watched him curiously, and its head bent lower. Barclay turned his face away as the chilling wisps of the Ischray’s body grazed his cheek.
What had happened in Dullshire was chance—he hadn’t even understood what he was doing. It was foolish to think Barclay could use his powers on command without practice, without knowing anything about his Beast.
But he needed to think of something. He needed to be clever.
When Barclay had told Soren that the only things he knew about the Lufthund were its name, its class, and what it looked like, he’d been wrong. He remembered what had happened in the Woods when they’d bonded. He remembered running faster than he ever had in his life. He remembered the Lufthund keeping pace beside him. He remembered what that felt like, to be faster than the wind.
He reached his hand up toward the Beast’s face, and he thought about that feeling.
Wind!
A torrent of air rushed out of Barclay’s palm toward the Ischray. Its wispy body burst apart like a fractured cloud, and Barclay jumped to his feet before it could put itself back together.
“Stop!” Soren growled at him, but the Lufthund growled louder. It pounced on Soren as Barclay threw open the door and raced downstairs. He barreled through the lounge and into the woodsy street outside. A breeze blew past his neck as he ran, and Barclay turned to see the Lufthund beside him.
They met eyes once again.Thank you,Barclay told it. And he meant it, even if he didn’t want to feel grateful to the Beast that had ruined his life.
The Lufthund nodded like it’d understood. Then its black form faded, as though blown away in the wind. Barclay felt his skin prickle as his Mark came alive once more.
Soren shouted after him, but he was already in the distance. Because when Barclay ran, it was very hard to catch him.
ELEVEN
Barclay found Viola standing outside the crumbling Guild House, her hands on her hips, Mitzi hissing on her shoulder. He was so relieved he could have kissed Mitzi on her little whelp snout.
“You just ran off!” Viola hissed. “I looked everywhere, and I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“You have?”
After Barclay had stormed out of the bookshop, he’d doubted she wanted to see him. Especially when he seemed to be the only person in this town not showering her with praise and gifts.
“Of course I have,” she huffed. “Sycomore isn’t like Dullshire. You could get into trouble on your own.”
Barclay nervously glanced over his shoulder, but Soren was far, far behind him, on the other side of town. Barclayhad learned his lesson; he wouldn’t leave Viola’s side again.
“Speaking of trouble…”
Barclay told her about what had happened while they’d been separated, including every detail of his frightening encounter with Soren.
“I don’t understand,” Barclay sputtered. “He must have been breaking the law. He tried to steal my Beast! He tried to kill me!”
Viola hesitated, then gently said, “Of course he was breaking the law. But around here, I’m not sure the law is very important.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Woods has a reputation for being… how do I put this nicely… rustic?”
“Rustic?” Barclay repeated, confused.
