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A guttural growl emerged from just ahead, low to the ground and between entwined trees with gnarled limbs.
The muzzle emerged first, snarling, flashing a mouth full of dagger-like teeth. Its mottled fur was heavy and wet with red. The monster licked its chops, sending blood sprays down his neck and into the soil. Its eyes glowed, a piercing gold—no, no, a hazel—two orbs made all the brighter by its black fur.
He slinked forward, his fur standing on end, his head low and predatory… and between his blood-soaked teeth, he grasped a severed arm. It appeared ghostly pale, whiter than the snow gliding around them. The fingers lifelessly flopped as the wolf came forward and into the clearing. Blanchette’s insides curdled as the wolf dropped the thing before her feet as if he were making a gift of it. Its eyes looked human and seemed to implore her.
What do you want from me? You’ve already taken everything from me!
I have nothing left to give!
She gazed down at the slender, pale arm that blended into the snowy ground. The fingers were heavy with gold and jewels—and one bore the signet ring of House Winslowe.
“Willem, no…” she said, but the wind and snow and her own breaths whisked her voice away and carried her words into the dust. The wolf caught notice of her voice. It craned its dark head back, those familiar eyes staring into her own. They dug deep… but for what?
Whatever he found in her gaze, he didn’t like. His lips curled into a vicious snarl, flashing stark-white teeth that dripped blood.
My brother’s blood.
Blanchette clasped the riding cloak more firmly about her body and eased back, her eyes never leaving the beast lest he finally attack and rip out her throat. Dead leaves crunched below her feet, though the soft, fresh-fallen snow muffled the sound of her steps. The growl that issued from the wolf’s belly was horrifying to behold.
It was a warning. A herald of death.
The wolf advanced. Blanchette turned and fled without another thought. She zigzagged through the trees, branches snaring her hair and face, the soles of her feet growing wetter, slippery with blood, pierced by thorns and rock. The wolf’s thrashing followed her, and the wood came to life with his growls and bloodthirsty snarls. She could even hear the click of his jaws as he snapped and tore at the empty air between them.
She needed to catch her breath, just for a moment, or she’d faint away. Could she spare the second? She was tired of the chase. So very tired. She glanced over her shoulder as she continued to jackknife through the tangle of roots and branches, every inch of her body on fire despite the cold.
It was her undoing. The hem of her riding cloak caught under her foot and sent her crashing to the wet ground.
Then the Black Wolf was on her, the pressure of his heavy body at her back, his sharp teeth around her neck like a hangman’s noose…
He bit down, and her blood ran red.
* * *
Darkness gave way to light. Blanchette woke violently, sweat and tears flowing down her face. Trembling hands shot to her neck, feeling for gashes and blood. There was dampness beneath her fingertips, but it was only night sweat. Terror crept inside her while the realization set in. If she didn’t escape soon, she’d never honor the promise she’d made to her grandmother on her deathbed.
Blanchette felt like she was suffocating. She stumbled from the bed and wrapped the threadbare blanket around her. She struggled onto her feet and limped a bit, groaning at the pain in her leg.
She crossed the chamber’s doorjamb and entered the sitting room. It appeared Jonathan and his boy were gone at the moment. She breathed deeply, relishing the solitude, her gaze darting about the humble room.
A patchwork of colorful tapestries danced before her eyes and took her breath away. The otherwise barren room was filled with decades—perhaps a lifetime—of fine needlework. She lowered her gaze to the rug beneath her feet, where she stood in the heart of Norland. It was an embroidered map; she knelt and ran her fingertips over the intricate needlework, caressing a deep blue patch that resembled the Rockbluff River.
Where my parents took their last breaths.
She scanned just beyond that river to the dark gray fortress that loomed beside patches of vivid greens.
Winslowe Castle. Her home.
Suddenly breathless, she crawled forward until she was positioned beside the knitted castle. A bone-deep exhaustion and misery swept over her. She lay in the fetal position, her aching body wrapped around the castle. Inhaling slowly, she welcomed the air into her lungs and wished it could carry away her pain. She stared forward and forced her breathing into a steady rhythm. Her heart was like a drum, all of her wracked with its beat. She drew her legs in tight against her body and stared forward.
And stared.
And stared.
Her eyes didn’t take in detail, only shapes and colors. She forced the dark thoughts away and made herself just be.
If only for this moment.
In front of her, the hearth burned low. A huge iron pot hung over the simmering flames. Ladles swung from the mantel, and two chipped rocking chairs sat in front. A medley of scents flooded her—tender meat, the crisp citruses of Norland’s native herbs, and the rustic aroma of simmering ale.
