It dashes into the thicket behind the caravan. I sprint after it, pumping my legs while envisioning Juniper’s polished spectacles and Cove’s blushing smile. My pulse escalates as I slam through the bushes, trailing the avian’s shearing hoot. I barrel into a small enclosure of hedges—and damn near smash into the owl.
It charges toward my chest, forcing me to duck. Straightening, I yelp as it heads for me again, thrashing its plumes against my face. Averting my skull from the creature, I choke my whip and give the weapon a deft flick. It’s a bluff, the cord whisking toward the owl but not striking it, prompting the animal to back off.
I brace my weapon and face the hovering raptor. It’s a horned owl. My eyes stumble across the fella’s incandescent bronze plumage, its ear tufts rising higher than physically possible for its breed—the length rivaling a broadsword—and the hollow basin where its left eye should be.
The owl heckles, punching out another sinister hoot. My fingers tighten on the whip.
“I wouldn’t provoke him,” a voice says.
My back tenses. My gaze flips toward the source and scans the empty copse.
But there’s someone here. Someone with a masculine timbre that flutters into the space, his tone light and crafty.
The owl jerks. My whip raps toward the bird, keeping it bay.
The breezy voice tuts. “We’ll have to do something about that pluck of yours.”
I hiss in no particular direction. “Who are you?”
“Lower the whip.”
“Show yourself first—”
A finger of wind sweeps beneath my jaw, clapping my lips together and silencing me. “I saaaaid, lower the whip,” the speaker instructs. His voice is a tenor in flight, but as elegant as the command sounds, it also has a diabolical ring to it. Whoever—or whatever—this stranger is, he’s not going to ask twice.
Juniper. Cove.
I lower the whip.
“Marvelous. Now retreat three paces,” the voice bids.
Grinding my teeth, I do as he asks.
“Hold his gaze, nice and long,” the tenor continues, enunciating so that I hear his artful tongue unfurl. The noise slips beneath my nightgown, grazing my knees and licking higher.
My hips twitch, denying further progress. At which point, I detect an arrogant chuckle.
My eyes lock on to the owl. A single aquamarine iris passes judgment, then the deadpan bird flaps away to perch on a tree.
That wispy tenor sneaks up behind me.“Under the vicious stars, in the rural plains of Middle Country, it’s dark and light at the same time.”
I twist, finding nobody there.
The next words swing from a different direction.“Under the vicious stars, mystical tales float through the sky, and root themselves in the woodland, and swim in the river.”
I spin the other way, my eyes darting across the enclosure. Nothing but creepers and shadows. Yet the recitation is everywhere, surrounding me from all vantage points, too mobile and agile to catch.
The narration continues, this time from above.“Under the vicious stars, the crests rise, and the forest sniggers, and the waters rage.”
My head snaps in that direction, meeting tufts of clouds swimming in a black sky. I stumble around. The voice has a talent for whispering, caressing the air with wicked strokes.
“Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark.”The voice quizzes me from somewhere ahead,“And what did the Lark say?”
“You’re a dead man, is what it said,” I growl.
Except he’s not a man at all. He can only be one kind of monster.
The wind swoops from the trees, shuddering the boughs. The current circles my body at a languid pace, akin to a rope patiently nabbing its prize.
