Page 55 of Death Will Follow

Nova rushed to meet Callan by the horses, her mate’s frustration crashing against her consciousness like a wave when she reached his side.

“We’ve been robbed,” he growled.

Nova crouched beside him, lifting the corner of the small tarpaulin they’d bundled around their belongings the night before to shield them from the rain. Both of their saddlebags were, indeed, gone. Unease roiled in her stomach at the realization that the Kinslayer shard was stowed among Callan’s things.

Nova snapped her head toward her mate, her mouth open in surprise. “Sprites?” she asked.

Callan shook his head slowly, his dark eyes scanning the wet ground.

“Not sprites.” He pointed a finger at the mud.

Nova leaned down for a closer look. Amid the imprints of their horses’ hooves, she spied animal tracks: narrow pads and four toes with faint indentations crowning each one.

“Red foxes,” Callan said. “The creatures have fur on their feet, so the claw marks aren’t defined. But these were no ordinary foxes.” He clenched his jaw, looking back in the direction they had traveled the previous day.

She studied the prints on the ground, identifying three distinct trails of fox feet entering the camp and circling the horses. Out of nowhere, boot prints appeared in the mud before following two fox trails away from their campsite.

“Shifters,” she said, the discovery igniting a quiet rage within her chest, like a breeze blowing on an ember. “They’ve taken the shard.”

Callan rose and stretched a hand down to help her up.

“Come,” he said. “They can’t have gotten far.”

With that, Nova sprang to her feet and mounted Frost, Callan quickly settling in behind her and sending the horse galloping down the muddy cart road with a sharp whistle.

With the stallion’s speed on their side, it wasn’t long before they reached a dense thicket of overgrown shrubs along the road. Nova threw up a hand, and Callan pulled back on the reins, bringing Frost to a halt. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pain sparking in her palm; the shard was close. Callan dismounted, crouching low and surveying the ground, his inspection confirming that the tracks, both fox and Fae, had left the roadway.

He stood beside his mount. “They’ve entered the thicket,” he whispered, his breath a puff of mist in the cool spring morning.

Nova slid down from the saddle, ready to barge into the brush, but Callan caught her wrist.

“I’ve forgotten my sword,” he growled.

Nova glanced down, noting that he, at least, had his dagger strapped to his thigh. Patting herself down, she confirmed through the fog of her anger that she, too, carried her dagger, as well as a small throwing knife in the pocket of her cloak. A peal of laughter cut through the quiet, and she halted for a heartbeat. She seethed at the sound, at the thieves’ delight in taking what didn’t belong to them.

What belongs to me, the voice hissed in the back of her mind.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to blades,” she said.

With that, she entered the thicket.

A narrow path, shaped by repeated use, led through the brush and briar. Branches snagged her cloak as she pressed on, throwing a glance back at Callan, who had to hunch his shoulders considerably to fit. The laughter grew louder as they went, and the passage dead-ended in the center of the thicket, a dim, den-like chamber opening up before her.

Nova stepped inside, Callan close behind, the two of them scanning the space. Odds and ends lay littered about the shadowy lair, crowded with crates of ale and wine in green glass bottles. Several trunks lay open, clothing and linens spilling out as if they’d been rummaged through.

Peeking out above a low wall formed by the bric-a-brac, Nova spied three heads of red hair. The trio of males continued to laugh and joke as Nova and Callan crept closer, the tenor of their voices revealing their youth. The notion bolstered Nova’s confidence, and she stepped into the ring of orange light cast by a single lantern.

“It seems I’ve stumbled on a den of thieves,” she growled, voice low.

The males jumped to their feet, the three of them spinning toward the entryway and scrambling to stand close together. The flash of wide-eyed fear faded from their faces, replaced with lopsided if uneasy grins once they registered her form.

“At your service,” one said with a mocking bow.

The other two shot uncertain glances at the one who had spoken. If he wasn’t the oldest among them, he was certainly the boldest.

“I believe you’ve taken something that belongs to me,” Nova said, donning her mask of calm indifference despite the anger roiling in her gut. “Two saddlebags. Just last night. Return them.”

The bold one laughed. Without thought, Nova slipped her hand into the folds of her cloak, pinching the blade of the concealed throwing knife between her thumb and forefinger.