Page 61 of Death Will Follow

Bryn appeared at his side. She, too, peered through the fog.

“She’s gone,” Callan said, the words tinged with a creeping panic. He turned, head snapping between the two Wyldlings. “Did either of you see which direction she went?”

“We’re all grown, are we not? I wasn’t aware I needed to keep track of anyone.” Riven’s mouth curled up on one side in a casual smile.

“It’s not a fucking jest.” Callan turned his back on the others and pressed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, trying to catch Nova’s scent above the oppressive smell of sodden earth. He thought perhaps a trace of her lingered straight ahead, though it was so faint, he couldn’t be certain. “This way.”

He broke out into a run, not caring whether the others followed. Bryn kept pace with him, her head bobbing at the edge of his vision to his right.

“Slow down!” Riven’s shout came from a good distance behind, but he refused to reduce his speed.

The next instant, Callan hit a wall.

Or at least it felt as if he had. The fog seemed to have solidified ahead of him, the impact knocking the air from his chest. He stumbled backward a few steps, clutching at his breastbone as he struggled to breathe. When he finally managed to swallow a sharp intake of air, he realized they’d been transported.

Gone was the persistent prickle of unease that had clung to the back of his neck from the moment they’d set foot in the Wylds. He whirled around at Frost’s agitated whinny.

Gods be damned! They were back where they’d left the horses.

He growled, charging toward the rippling wall of mist marking the edge of the Wylds again, heavy footfalls squelching in the coarse grass underfoot. And there he halted. No matter how much he willed himself forward, he could walk no further.

“Damn this cursed place,” he snarled. The land was toying with him, ancient magic fencing him in against his will.

“So eager.” Riven’s chuckle came from behind, the light-heartedness of her taunt sending his hands clenching into tight fists.

The wyld magic that permeated the air, causing outsiders to lose all sense, goaded him, kindling his anger.

“Too eager,” Riven chided, clicking her tongue. “The Wylds sensed what you wanted most and wouldn’t allow you to have it. It’s a game, don’t you see?” She laughed again.

Callan tensed at Bryn’s hand on his shoulder.

“Nova is his mate,” Bryn explained, her tone matter-of-fact. “And they’ve only just claimed the bond. So, as he said, it’s not a fucking jest.”

Riven’s laughter dried up in an instant. She cleared her throat. “Well, that is serious,” she said, quickly adding, “Apologies.”

Callan glanced at Riven. The sincere understanding in her expression was almost enough to douse his rage. But not quite. He nodded once before crossing to the horses.

“She’ll turn up,” Riven offered as she jogged alongside him, clearly trying to make amends. “I’m certain of it. Or, if you calm yourself, perhaps we can enter the moors again and search for her.”

Callan grunted, busying himself with checking every buckle and strap on Frost’s tack, despite everything already being in fine shape.

“She’s right, you know.” Bryn stood in front of Frost, gently running a hand along the animal’s muzzle. “Take a seat. You’re making the horses nervous.”

Frost snorted, seemingly agreeing with Bryn’s assessment, and Callan lightly swatted the horse’s rear for the betrayal.

“Very well,” he grumbled. Finding a stone nearby, he lowered himself to sit, willing his heartbeat to slow. The worry and anger flooding his chest to ebb. If it was a game as Riven said, he intended to be the victor.

Nearly an hour passed before Callan wrangled his emotions enough to make another attempt to enter the Wylds. Rising to his feet, he approached the taunting mist with Bryn and Riven trailing behind him. But before he could set foot on the other side, Nova came limping out of the fog a few strides away, looking like a rough gust of wind might blow her over. Dried blood painted the side of her face, moss and mud caked her boots and breeches. Callan rushed to her, draped her arm over his shoulder, and led her to the same stone where he’d been sitting.

He set to work, checking her over, but she had no wounds apart from a gash on her head already partially healed. Despite her lack of obvious injuries, she looked as though something pained her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head tightly, not turning it too far to either side.

“The shard,” she ground out. “Take it.” She eyed the pouch at her hip.

Callan opened the flap and gingerly removed the length of broken blade before depositing it in his saddlebag beside the one they’d found in Tundara.