A Bright-Eyed.
Despite the cut of the wind and the air’s chill, Greer felt a bead of nervous sweat trickle down her back. Last night, she’d made anoffering to the Benevolence, and whatever had taken Noah Finn had left her in peace.
She had no such gifts or gratitudes now.
Greer rummaged through her pack, looking for something, anything that might appeal to the Benevolence. The last of her bread was already stale, and the remaining jerky looked so meager, she feared they’d be more insulted than honored to receive it.
When she hazarded another glance toward the trees, she noticed that the Bright-Eyed was now stock-still, its amber-orange eyes shining directly at her, watching with interest.
“I see you,” she began, startling herself as her voice broke the air. She had not known she was going to address it, had not planned on acknowledging its presence. But the words fell out easily. Even more surprising still was her tone. She sounded bold and confident. A woman without fear.
It blinked but said nothing.
“Were you in the woods last night? What do you want from me?”
The eyes shifted, disappearing for a moment.
“Answer me! I know you can!” Greer shouted, smacking her mittened hand against the stump she sat on.
The Bright-Eyed’s gaze flashed in her direction, then lowered; it was crouching down, readying to race toward her, on four legs, not two. It took off, leaping skyward, and the air filled with the sound of flapping, leathery wings. It caught a gust of wind and sailed even higher still. Flying over the tree line, its dark shape was visible in stark relief against the gray light of the dying afternoon.
Greer’s breath caught as she saw just how big it was, saw the curve of its massive wings and dangling limbs. Its muscles were lean and sinewy—a monster built for speed and strength. Curved talons, inches long, hooked out of bony toes with too many joints.
Those toes—fingers?—were now headed toward Greer as the Bright-Eyed drew in its wings, turning itself into a streaming bullet, diving with lethal speed.
Greer ducked toward the protective heat of the flames, but the Bright-Eyed still grazed by, snatching at her hat.
It let out a high, keening whistle, mimicking the pitch of the wind. Slicing by for a second pass, it came close enough that Greer could smell it, musky, with a wild tang that reminded her of peat moss and bog water.
Though it zipped by too fast for her to make out its face, Greer could feel its eyes on her all the same, sharp and appraising. She could hear the low chuckle rumbling in the back of its throat, its laughter like a loon’s tremolo.
“You’re such a long way from home, little Starling,” it murmured, diving in once more to spin around her, a confusing cyclone of membrane and limbs. Its long claws reached out and swiped at a loose lock of her hair, shearing it off.
Her scream tore up her middle as she balled her fingers into fists. She bared her teeth against the force of the cry’s fury, and sent it out into the world.
It was just as loud as it had been before. Like a meteor smashing into the earth, it displaced everything around her, causing whole trees to lean away. Rocks and the gritty pebbles of the riverbank were cast back like scattered marbles. Even the river’s current was affected, as waves sloshed up the opposite bank before carrying on downstream. Greer could see the air around her ripple, sending out compact waves of sound.
And the Bright-Eyed…
It tumbled from the sky, pitched off-kilter by the surge, rolling over itself as it plummeted. It struck the ground on the far side of the fire with a tangible thud, nearly knocking Greer from her feet. It remained flattened and still until the last note of her scream faded, and for one long, worrying, yet elated moment, Greer believed she had killed it.
She took a tentative step toward the heap of flesh and claws, but it suddenly flexed, staggering to push itself up. Greer gaped at its inverted joints, at the way the forearms jutted at angles extreme and so very wrong. It reminded her of the furry, too-muscular front legs of the wood-nymph moths that liked to lay their eggs in Martha’s buttonbush.
The Bright-Eyed scuttled down the riverbank, obviously dazed butkeeping a careful distance from Greer. Gaining confidence, it tested its wings, opening their great expanse again and again, and Greer had to squint her eyes against the dirt kicked up in their wake.
It swooped back and forth in lazy circles as it recovered, riding the air currents like a scavenging bird of prey. Finally, it landed in a tree branch on the far side of the river, shaking the whole Redcap. With it nestled in the thick branches, all Greer could see were its shining eyes and the curved arc of its wings.
“You’re full of surprises, little Starling,” it mused. “We would do well to remember that.”
“We?” she asked, willing her voice to not quiver. The scream had left her feeling scraped completely raw. Her head reeled, dimming the world to a horrible muffle of indistinct sounds. But she sensed a new wariness in the creature and wanted to capitalize on its uncertainty while she could. “Are there many of your kind here?”
Its laughter was deep and wet, and Greer wondered if she’d managed to hurt it, if those visible sound waves had damaged something soft and fragile and important inside. Or perhaps the Bright-Eyed had been injured during the fall.
She fervently hoped for broken ribs.
“More than you’d guess, little Starling.”
“Why do you call me that?”
