Chapter 11

There had beenfour other heats: axe throwing; the standing block chop, which simulated the felling of a tree; the single buck saw, where the contestant used a six-foot saw to cut a section off a tree as wide around as a man in under fifteen seconds; and the boom run, a test of speed and balance as the contestants ran over a series of half-submerged logs. This last one, which the flyer called a speed pole, required spiked boots, a rope to provide tension, and no fear of heights.

I found my heart rising into my throat as I watched men race against the clock to the top of a wooden pole sixty feet into the air. The Alder sons, all four of them wearing those big ten-gallon hats and no shirts—clearly to garner the female vote—scrambled up and down like fear-crazed squirrels.

And maybe they were, if they could expect something that had happened last night in the corn maze to happen again tonight. Whatever magic the shadowman had given the eldest son didn't seem to be lending an advantage here, all four men relying solely on the strength of their own bodies. As their times were clocked, the big electronic leaderboard off to the side quickly reshuffled the order of the contestants to keep the crowd up-to-date with the latest scores and ranks.

There was a sudden roar as the fifth and final string of competitors took their positions, Arthur Greenwood, Bensen's son, and another man I didn't recognize approaching the poles. Their gear was checked, their harnesses secured to safety lines, and then the starter pistol fired.

The lumberjack shifter climbed upward into the sky with the speed and power of a mountain lion. He wore Cedar Haven colors—hunter green flannel—though the sleeves of his shirt had either been deliberately removed by Cody or had been ripped off sometime during the competition, and I daresay I could see every one of his bulging arm muscles. There was something marvelous about witnessing such a display of endurance and tenacity, an appreciation of the hours of training and dedication it must've taken to achieve such fitness. The moment his rope hit the red band of paint at the top of the pole, he released the tension and slid the sixty feet back to the ground, the buzzer blaring when he hit the big soft pad.

According to the crowd, and the leaderboard, the Lumberjack Trials were truly over now, Arthur's name and overall competition time dominating the top position. The crowd was ravenous, and even Jakob Tabrass with his charismatic yet menacing presence had difficulty calming them down as Arthur joined him on the winner's platform.

Shifting Sawyer's bag to the side, I called emerald green magic to my hand, a bundle of vines in my palm a moment from exploding forth and knocking that warlock off the platform if he dared make Arthur touch that ruby on top of his cane.

But he didn't. The warlock merely indicated Arthur should throw up both his hands in his best imitation of Rocky Balboa, then handed him a cheque, indicated some fireworks should go off, and retreated down the platform for the lumberjack shifter to bask in his newfound fame alone.

I quickly snuffed out the vines in my palm, clapping and cheering instead, doing all the things that would blend me into the crowd. The warlock passed by without even a glance, no doubt en route to his wagon.

Just as I was about to push myself away from the fence to follow him—for not for one second did I think Arthur was truly out of danger, plus there had to be some sort of repercussion of the Alders not winning—someone shouted my name.

My attention wrenched forward as Arthur vaulted over the fence, catching me up in his arms and pulling me into a bear hug. "You came!"

"I can't breathe," I wheezed. And from the thrashing in my forage bag, neither could Sawyer.

He set me down, and even though the crowd pressed around us to offer him congratulations—Cody Beecham screaming somewhere off in the distance to "leave his boy alone"—he didn't release his hold on my hands. His hazel eyes were bright, elated, the smile on his face nothing short of radiant, and even though he smelled strongly of sweat and pine and grease, I didn't pull away.

No, in fact my whole body was thrumming with the abrupt tension of being so close to him, his excitement so infectious I momentarily lost my wits, reaching up to yank his head down closer to mine. It was right to delight in his success, to support him, to reward his obvious affection with—

"I'm sorry about last night," he said quickly, his breath hot on my cheek. "I should have never cornered you like that."

Last night. The corn maze. The Alders and the shadowman!

Horrified, I shoved away from him.

His hazel eyes flashed wide, delight replaced by shock.

This insatiable pull between us, this lust, whatever it was, it had nearly just cost me everything!

Twisting around, I elbowed, wormed, and otherwise pushed myself free of the crowd and didn't stop running until I was out in the open air of the carnival.

"Misty," Sawyer mewed pitifully from the foraging back, "I'm gonna be sick."

"Hold on." I gathered the bag close. "We're not done yet."

"We're not? What in the flea-ridden—"

I ignored his protests, gulped in another breath of air, and gave what I hoped was a demure glance around. The rest of the carnival patrons were just starting to leave the arena, and then there would be thousands of eyes to see me snooping.

Adopting a brisk but not an alarming pace, I made my way back to the warlock's wagon. Gypsies were everywhere now, manning their wagons and hailing in loud voices for anyone nearby to come visit them, to pay no never mind to the red-and-gold wagon declaring "Fine Leather Saddles" that wasn't open for business. It took a lot of backtracking and skulking, but I made it, crouching low and out of sight by one of the front wagon wheels. There was a little shuttered window here that I hadn't noticed before, and if I balanced on the wheel and the trailer hitch, I could peer inside, or at least press my ear against it to listen to the voices emanating from inside. And with there being no lights around this particular wagon to penetrate the nightly gloom, the better to subconsciously divert attention away from it, I wasn't in a position to be discovered, unless someone came up out of the woods.

When Sawyer wiggled his head free of the scarf and the forage bag, ready to give me a piece of his mind, I pressed a finger to my lips. He clamped his mouth shut and obeyed, albeit grudgingly, and didn't move around as I climbed into position. With the warlock inside, his wards would be deactivated, so there was no risk of setting off an alarm when I eased open the shutter.

"—clearly a supe," Codrin hissed. "That has to be an exception."

I knew it. The prominent rancher had made a deal with a devil. But just how far did it extend? Would Arthur bear the repercussions of something he knew nothing about?

"No exceptions," Jakob Tabrass relied, completely unfrazzled by the man's angry tone. "You knew that the day you struck that deal. Not my fault you didn't have the foresight to get supe blood into your family bloodline sooner."

"But—"

"Quit wasting my time," the warlock snapped, the lanternlight cowering and flickering. "I'm just the facilitator, remember? I can't intercede on your behalf, not that I would, and I've got a schedule to keep. Now"—he thrust his cane forward—"give what you owe."

Codrin Alder was as well-built as his sons, a pillar of the community who didn't allow himself to be pushed around, and yet his fingers still trembled as they reached for the cane. While I'd probably condemn the choices that had brought him here today, I could still admit that he was brave.

When the shadowman lurched out of the ruby, I didn't jump this time, but a shiver of fear still raced down my bones. Its jagged hand struck him in the chest, feeding as the one on the grimoire had on my family. Pulsing red light, like small beating heart, was swallowed away, the shadowman disappearing once more from the physical world.

White as a paper birch, the rancher wiped the sweat off his upper lip with a finger that shook more now than it had before. That finger came back bloody, a seemingly sudden nose bleed mingling in with his sweat. "Jakob, we've known each other for years. Please—"

"Get out."

Blackness suddenly sprang from the warlock's shoulders, not shadow, but all-consuming darkness.

I dropped from the trailer hitch—slipped, more like it—the same moment Codrin stumbled for the door. His shaky steps down onto the ground masked my own furtive movement as I dove under the belly of the adjacent wagon just as the shuttered window slapped open.

The beam of light sliced through the gloom, terminating just millimeters away from the tips of my fingers.

I stayed still, hardly daring to breathe, but it seemed the warlock's attention had flicked back to the rancher still darkening his doorway. Inching backwards on my hands and knees, I crawled out from under this wagon just to dive under the next, pausing to listen to the uninterrupted chatter of fried dough patrons and the sizzle of fry oil. There were no shrieks of fear, no cries of dismay, and no warlocks suddenly appearing in my periphery with glowing red eyes and nails stained black that lengthened into claws to stab into my body and haul me out of my hiding place.

Even so, I raised my iron cuffs at the noise to my left, finding a bold raccoon having wandered in from the forest and sniffing the nearby trash can. Any moment, the little bandit would be discovered and cause a scene, leading to my own capture as well as his if I did not move right now.

With the years of training I'd received from Dad, plus my own recent cross-country running habits, I bolted for the nearby forest. Flattening against a tree, I clamped a hand over my mouth to quiet my breathing so I could listen for the inevitable shouts that someone had seen me.

They never came.

Surely the Green Mother had to be intervening on behalf, and I wasn't about to shun her generosity. I fled for my car and the safety of my hearth.