“You’ve iron in you, too,” gasped Branwen. Her gaze flicked down to the arrow embedded in the creature’s torso.
“Iron, iron, iron,” sang the cyhyraeth. “It burns in our bones, sings in our veins. We used to fear it, you know, but now it’s in the streams, in the rains, in the trees. We will never escape it—and so, we shall drown the ones who made it. A young man came into the forest looking for legends and glory, but all he brought was iron.”
The barwn’s son. He must have been the one to fire the arrow.
“Let me take it from you.” Branwen rasped out the words; she had one hand around the cyhyraeth’s wrist, and the other wastwisted beneath her. Her heartbeat throbbed in her temples as the cyhyraeth squeezed her throat. Every time she blinked, the cyhyraeth’s visage shifted. First, she saw the creature with her mortal eye—beautiful, cold as a starlit night—and then her right eye focused on the monster—bone and sinew, river and murk. “I will free you from the iron if you tell me where to find the one who shot you.”
“Take it?” The cyhyraeth’s grip tightened, and Branwen could barely hold back the animal panic of suffocation. “You offer mercy with a blade in your hand.”
“You’re—a—monster.” It took the last of Branwen’s breath to utter the words.
The cyhyraeth leaned in closer. “Want to know a secret, mortal girl?” Her voice softened, losing its giddy ire. She sounded suddenly, terribly lucid. “I may be a monster, but you are the most dangerous creature in this forest.”
Branwen went limp.
The cyhyraeth loosened her hold, satisfied she had wrung the life from the mortal. But as her bony fingers slackened, Branwen bucked like a startled horse. She twisted, wrenching her arm out from beneath her, and drove the afanc-tooth dagger up. She cut the creature from pelvis to collarbone, shattering ribs and driftwood.
The cyhyraethscreeched. She pulled back, retreating into herself, but the damage had been done.
The cyhyraeth died like a pitiful spider: thin limbs pulled tight, her body drawn up, suddenly so much smaller than before. Only once she had gone utterly still did Branwen sheath her dagger and slump into a crouch. Her throat burned, and she could feel bruises forming on her back.
I may be a monster, but you are the most dangerous creature in this forest.
Some hunts let Branwen sleep better at night… while others gave her nightmares.
This would likely be the latter.
Branwen nudged the creature over. Wincing, she shoved her hand into the creature’s ribs and withdrew the metal arrow tip. She tucked it into her pocket. The ironfetches—humans tasked by the otherfolk to seek out and remove iron—would have found this arrow eventually. But Branwen might as well save them the trouble.
She picked up her lantern. The fire had gone out, candle fallen into the damp earth. Her cloak was stained with mud, and she smelled like burning driftwood.
All she wanted was a meal and a bath. But her job wasn’t done, not yet.
Branwen carefully picked her way down the embankment. Without the cyhyraeth’s magic to enchant the water, its luster had faded. The stream had a tinge of green algae, and beneath that—
Bones.
Bones and fine cloth. There was a leather boot and glove, and what looked horribly like the remnants of blond hair. Tangled around one of the finger bones was something heavy and silver.
Forcing herself not to retch, Branwen reached down and took hold of the bones. Attached was a heavy ring, embossed with the seal of a noble. She recognized it at once: the signet belonged to the barwn’s household.
Well, that was that. The barwn’s son was dead, and Branwen’s hunt was for naught. All she had to show for it was a silver ring and abroken lantern. She straightened, giving the drowned bones one last glance before she picked up the traveler’s fallen basket. It brimmed with apples, cheese, and bread.
“It would be a shame for this to be left behind,” murmured Branwen, hefting the basket into the crook of her arm. At least she wasn’t going home entirely empty-handed.
She turned toward home, choosing one of the folk trails. She could see the traps, the enchantments, the lures. She knew which trees had false roots, ones that could be pried open with the right whisper. She knew where to step and where to avoid.
It had always been this way, as long as she could remember. One eye was mortal, the other immortal.
It was why she could hunt magical monsters. She could see them for what they were.
Human monsters were not so easily discerned.
CHAPTER 2
GWYDION, SON OF DÔN, moved through the forest like a wraith.
He went barefoot, every step softened by the moss that rose up to meet him. These lands may have belonged to his uncle, but the woods answered only to Gwydion. He knelt amid the grasses, brushing his bare fingers against the roots of an oak. “Talk to me, friend,” he murmured.
