Chapter 13

The druid and I marched through the crossroads as the mist faded and the trees grew more solid. By the time the last of the flowering vines disappeared, daylight had returned, the sun peeking through the scattering cloud cover.

I glanced back. The woods looked completely normal.

Zak—thedruid steered me to the creek that bisected the valley and stopped. I chewed the inside of my cheek, frustrated that I still had no plan. I waited for him to speak. When he didn't, I craned my neck to see him.

He was staring downstream, his jaw tight. "Shit."

"What's shit?"

"Since you're going that direction anyway, you'll find out." He glanced around. "Has your familiar returned yet?"

Ríkr?I silently called. No answer, but that didn't mean he wasn't here. Telepathic communication wasn't always private, as Zak—thedruid had demonstrated with the kelpie. It worked much like speaking aloud: the closer and quieter our communication, the harder it was for another fae, witch, or druid to eavesdrop on it.

On the other hand, Ríkr and I "shouting" to each other from a distance would be easier for the druid to listen in on, which I was certain my familiar had realized.

"He'll catch up," I told the druid dismissively. "What am I going to find out?"

Strangely grim, he started forward. This time, he didn't hold on to me, and though I was tempted to bolt into the woods, I could sense a fae presence nearby—one of his two guard dogs. Plus, I was curious to see what lay ahead.

We crunched along the creek's pebbly bank for a few hundred feet until it curved. I hadn't seen this section of it—I'd swerved into the woods before coming this far—and I scanned the towering conifers and dappled shadows for signs of movement.

But that wasn't where I should've been looking.

Zak came to a quiet halt, and I stopped beside him. Scattered beside the burbling water, four dead bucks with half-grown, stump-ended antlers lay on the ground. The fifth body resembled the others, except its broad antlers were pearly white and sharply pointed, as though it were rutting season instead of mid-June.

Zak—thedruid, I reminded myself—approached the buck with white antlers and knelt. He touched its withers. Its pupilless amber eyes stared lifelessly.

"This is what you've been talking about?" I asked. "Dead animals and fae?"

"Larger animals, yes. In the last four days, I've found deer, moose, a few elk, coyotes, two black bears, and an adolescent grizzly. Plus a dozen fae. All dead within the past two weeks."

I crouched beside a buck. He lay as though his legs had buckled where he stood. "What's killing them?"

"Since there are no wounds, I thought it was a disease, but…"

"But there are no signs of illness. Their coats are in perfect condition." I brushed a hand across the buck's neck. "They don't appear underweight, and their knees aren't scraped as though they were staggering or falling before dying. What disease could make a healthy animal drop dead with no warning?"

Zak nodded. "And this group died at exactly the same time. A disease wouldn't do that. A poison could, though."

I glanced at his alchemy belt as my distaste for that particular arcane art welled in my throat. "Did you test any of the bodies for poison?"

"Everything I could think of that can be tested for."

I sat back on my heels. "I could try doing a necropsy," I said skeptically, "but I don't know if it would tell us much without being able to send tissue samples for histology."

"Are you a vet?"

"Veterinary technician."

"Hm. Full of surprises." He ignored my irritated look. "Are you offering to help?"

"No," I snapped reflexively. "I mean… I don't know."

"Haven't decided yet?" he asked, half mocking, half amused.

"Shut up. I'm thinking." I stared down at the buck. "This is how Harvey Whitby's palomino died. The horse was just… dead. The park authorities are having a necropsy done, so if he was killed by the same thing as these bucks and the fae… a full necropsy by a vet will reveal more than anything I could do out here."

"Cutting a dead animal open and making a bloody mess this close to the crossroads would be a bad idea." Zak rose to his full height. "Can you get a copy of the necropsy report?"

"I'll try." I stood as well, staring down at the bodies. "This is how my coven leader died too."

A moment of silence. "Are you sure?"

"I saw her myself. She was slumped over at her desk as though she'd fallen asleep. She had no health problems that I know of. No one besides her daughter was in the house."

"I can think of a few poisons with a delayed activation, but none of them are an easy death." He rubbed the dark scruff on his jaw. "Why target her? All the other deaths appeared to be random—fae and animals in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I squeezed my temples. Arla had known something about the fae deaths. Had she gotten too close to the killer? "If I'm going to help, I want the truth. What's in this for you?"

His gaze weighed me. "If I can stop all this senseless death, every fae on the mountain will owe me. And"—he raised his left arm, turning the underside of his wrist toward me—"I could use some fae favors."

His right forearm was scarred, ruining whatever tattoos he had, but on his left, five precisely wrought circles were tattooed from his wrist up to the crook of his elbow—magic circles. The one on his wrist held a spiky green rune, and the second-to-top one contained a vaguely squarish golden rune.

That gold rune was the source of the amber whip spell I'd seen him use. The magic wasn't his own, but power a fae had gifted him. The green rune was another fae gift, while the other three circles were empty.

So that's why he was here. He was hoping the fae in this area would gift him with powerful magic once he eliminated the danger lurking on the mountain.

"I see." I tugged my tank top straight. "I'm going now. I'll see what I can find out about the palomino's necropsy and my coven leader's death."

"And you'll share that information with me?"

I looked across the dead bucks and the fae body. There were several white-antlered fae in this area. I'd seen them at the coven's rituals many times. Much like their animal counterparts, they were shy and skittish, more likely to flee than fight. The energy they exuded was always peaceful.

Something was killing fae and animals in my territory, and I couldn't stop it. But maybe Zak could.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I'll tell you what I find out."

"Then we should set the parameters for how we'll split any fae gifts. Since you're helping."

"I just want my knife back."

He slipped it from his pocket and turned it over in his hands, studying the black aluminum handle. "How long have you had it?"

"A long time," I snapped. "Hand it over."

He tossed it to me. I caught it, momentarily comparing its cool weight to my first switchblade with its glossy red handle. I'd bought this one within a few weeks of joining Arla's coven, despite my parole conditions forbidding me from possessing a weapon. Arla had never reported it. Maybe she'd understood how much I needed the small blade to feel in control of myself and the world around me.

Pushing away thoughts of my dead coven leader, I stuffed it in my pocket, circled around the dead bucks, and strode toward the towering summit. The skin on the back of my neck prickled.

The druid watched me until a bend in the creek carried me out of his view—and no sooner was I out of sight than a tiny white sparrow flittered out the canopy and alighted on top of my head.

Rejoice!Ríkr exclaimed. For we are once again united, my beautiful dove.

I waved my hand above my head, forcing him to take flight again. "Where've you been?"

First, I attempted to lead you to the druid, only for you to gallivant off alone. So, while you occupied the druid in the company of a pernicious kelpie, I explored the crossroads to learn what the druid has been meddling in.

"And what's he been meddling in?"

Ríkr landed on my shoulder. Thus far, the druid has questioned the fae who live near the crossroads, and he has extracted promises from several to gift him magic if he ends the killing.

"He's arranging favors in advance?"

A wise bargainer.Ríkr flitted into the air and landed on my other shoulder. Your plans for the druid have changed, it seems.

I cursed under my breath. "I might have a chance to turn the MPD's attention on him later, but if Arla was killed in the same way as the other deaths Zak is investigating, I'd rather expose the real killer than fabricate something."

Zak,Ríkr crooned. You speak his name with such familiarity.

I'd been trying not to use his name, but somehow that had happened too.

Spotting the dry streambed I'd followed down into the valley, I angled toward it. "We don't have much to go on to catch the killer. All we know is that fae and animals have been inexplicably dying in this area. The palomino may have died the same way, and possibly Arla too."

Death is not the only symptom of this danger,Ríkr mused. Unusual aggression has plagued some fae as well.

"Like the bear fae," I murmured, recalling its unusual attack. "It probably died like the others. So we have a killer who murders mostly at random, but seems to have targeted Arla. The deaths are instant and don't involve physical harm, and some fae have been infected with unusual aggression that may or may not be directly related to them dying."

And the crossroads seems to be the focal point,Ríkr concluded. Somehow.

I pushed my bangs off my sweaty forehead, puffing as the slope grew steeper. "I don't even know where to start."

Hmm.Blue light shimmered over Ríkr, and his hawk's talons bit into my shoulder as his form changed. First, we must ensure the mythic authorities do not detain you. Then we can ponder over the rest.

Right, that too. I'd find out soon what awaited me on the other side of the mountain.

* * *

At the base of Mount Burke, I pulled my dirt bike off Quarry Road and into a small gravel parking lot for hikers. I cut the engine and, still astride the bike, fished my cell phone out of my backpack.

Half a dozen notifications filled the screen. I checked the first one—my supervisor at the vet clinic replying to my text about missing my shift due to a family emergency. The rest of the texts were from Pierce, the only witch in our coven who had my personal number aside from Laney.

I tapped the call button. The phone rang in my ear all of once before Pierce's voice boomed down the line.

"Where have you been?"

"Hiking. I needed some space."

"Space?" he half shouted. "My god, woman. Are you trying to look as suspicious as possible?"

Cold slid through my gut. "What do you mean?"

"You shouldn't need an explanation," he growled. "You found Arla's body last night. You're the first person the MPD wanted to talk to, and no one could find you. If you'd had any chance of not being the primary suspect, your little ‘hike' blew it."

"Primary suspect of what? I found her dead in her office. It looked like a heart attack."

"Well, MagiPol disagrees." He exhaled harshly through his nose. "They're cagey as always, won't even say how she died or if it's a murder investigation or something else, but they've talked to every member of the coven now—except you."

I squeezed my eyes shut. It was most definitely a murder investigation.

"And Laney…" Pierce let out another rough breath. "She's out for your blood, Saber. Dished every bit of dirt and gossip about you she could think of. She's absolutely convinced you killed Arla."

Opening my eyes, I gazed at the shadowy woods. "Do you think I killed her?"

"No," he grunted without hesitation. Surprise flickered through me, then he added, "You'd never get caught this easily."

Ah. Of course he wouldn't doubt whether I was capable of murder.

"But you might go down for this anyway, Saber." His phone crackled. "Those agents are gonna come knocking on your door soon, and you need to be real careful how you handle them."

"Yeah," I agreed softly. "I need to go."

A pause. "Goodbye, Saber. Good luck."

The line went dead. He'd uttered his farewell like it might be our final one.

Pocketing my phone, I kicked the bike back to life and sped onto Quarry Road, desperate to be home while simultaneously dreading what I might find.

My throat tightened uncomfortably as I rolled down the long dirt drive of Hearts Hooves. I named each animal in the pasture as I passed. Dunkin, the donkey with horrendously overgrown hooves who still limped a year later. Hippy and Funko, two former racehorses we'd saved from slaughter. Fluffball, a sheep who hadn't been sheared in years and could barely walk when we took him in. Pip, a draft horse who'd been so aggressive his owners had planned to euthanize him, but who'd actually had a painful abscess in his mouth, causing him to act out.

And more. Animals I'd helped. Animals we'd saved. And I might have to leave them all.

In the yard, Dominique and Greta's Ranger was parked beside mine, no other vehicles in sight. Ríkr, still in hawk form, was perched on top of the stable, watching me. Humans couldn't see him unless he allowed it, and he only ever allowed it while in cat form so as not to confuse the human owners of the rescue with a myriad of albino wildlife visiting their property.

No strangers lurking?I asked him.

The only beast on the prowl in these fields is me,he replied loftily. And should I encounter a stranger of ill intent, I will smite them down for you, my beloved dove.

I sighed. Attacking MagiPol agents won't help my case, Ríkr.

Nonsense.

Bringing the bike to a halt in front of the shed, I dismounted and pulled off my helmet. The house's front door flew open.

"Saber!" Dominique grinned cheerfully as she hastened across the porch, a flower-patterned tea towel in her hand. "Did you have a good day on the mountain?"

I'd left them a note this morning saying I was taking a personal day. I hadn't wanted to panic them when they realized I wasn't at work.

"It was good," I said noncommittally. "A bit hot, though."

"You had visitors while you were gone." An anxious shadow dimmed her good mood. "Two men in suits? They said they'd try to catch you another time."

An uncomfortable shiver ran down my limbs. I'd expected it, but knowing my home had been invaded by my worst enemies set me on edge. A dangerous, savage edge. My fingers twitched, longing for my knife.

"Did they leave immediately?" I asked. "They didn't wander around, did they?"

"They left right after talking to me." She hesitated. "But I didn't hear their car arrive, so I'm not sure how long they were here before coming to the house. Who are they?"

"I'm not sure," I lied. "Dominique, have you heard anything about the necropsy on Harvey Whitby's palomino?"

Her brow furrowed. "No, why?"

"Is there a way to see the necropsy results?"

She nudged her glasses up her nose. "I'm not sure. I can ask around."

"Could you do that for me, please?"

"Sure, but why?"

I pressed my lips into a thin line. "I have suspicions."

Her eyebrows rose at my vagueness, but she merely said, "Dinner will be ready in an hour."

"I'll be there."

Behind the stable, I tested the rear door that led up to my suite. Locked, as I'd left it. That didn't mean anything. Unlocking it, I cautiously ascended the stairs. I wasn't worried about agents lying in wait—Ríkr would've warned me—but apprehension still sizzled through my bones.

I unlocked and opened the door to my suite. The familiar, comforting scent of coffee and laundry detergent filled my nose. Everything looked normal and undisturbed. Closing the door and toeing off my shoes, I began a slow, careful pass through the entire apartment. When I finished, I returned to the center of the small main room.

Rage sawed at my chest.

They'd been here. Probably before going to the house to speak with Dominique. The signs were subtle. I always left my closet door cracked open so my clothes didn't smell musty, but it'd been shut tight. There were smudges in the dust on my veterinary reference texts, and the old laptop I'd used for school was turned the wrong way. The used coffee filter I'd tossed in the garbage yesterday, the last thing I'd thrown out, had been flipped over.

Those bastards had looked through my garbage.

Dread laced my fury. They wouldn't search the garbage of a witness. Pierce was right. I was a suspect.

And that meant talking to them wasn't an option. Not until I was certain an interview wouldn't become an arrest.

I'd die before allowing the MPD to arrest me again.

Showering calmed me down enough to act normal when I returned to the house for dinner. Greta's roast chicken and bratkartoffeln—pan-fried potatoes with onion and bacon bits—was absolutely delicious, and I tried not to think about how many meals I might have left with her and Dominique.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I headed out to the pasture, checking on the animals and giving extra pats and attention. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't stop myself from checking the horizon every few minutes, searching for approaching vehicles or strangers in suits. Ríkr would detect intruders long before me, but logic wasn't helping right now.

Gloom settled over me, accompanied by that familiar grinding sharpness in my chest. Hatred-laced, frigid, wrathful. An icy, burning need to make someone pay. Pay for what, I wasn't sure. For the dread hanging over me? For the inescapable threat of MagiPol's "justice"? For the unfairness of it all?

The crushing feelings spiraled through me until numbness cooled them, and I lost all sense of time as I wandered the pasture in a daze. By the time my awareness of my surroundings returned, the setting sun had stained the clouds pink and orange.

I returned to the stable. One by one, I checked on each horse, singing softly as I gave nose bumps and forehead rubs. All the real work had been done already, either by Dominique and Greta or by the afternoon's volunteer.

Whicker stuck his head through the opening in his stall door as I approached. I breathed on his nose, a polite horse-style greeting, and he puffed against my cheek. I rubbed his forehead, then opened his stall door and led him out. Setting him up in crossties in the open-fronted tack stall, I spent a few minutes checking his hooves. The odor of infection had diminished.

As I ducked under the crossties, he lipped at my t-shirt for a treat.

"You're quite the friendly fellow," I murmured, smoothing his pale gray forelock. "You've been dying for attention, haven't you?"

Fetching grooming brushes from the tack room, I stacked them on the half-wall between stalls and started working on his dappled gray coat with a dandy brush, skipping the currycomb since he was already fairly clean.

"The minstrel-boy to the war is gone," I sang quietly, the mournful tune suiting my mood. "In the ranks of death you'll find him."

I switched to a soft body brush. Whicker slanted an ear toward me, lazy contentment written all over him.

"His father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him." I reached up to run the brush along the horse's broad back. "‘Land of song,' said the warrior-bard, ‘though all the world betrays thee, one sword, at least—"

Whicker's ears perked forward, and I broke off. The crosstie clips jingled as he raised his head.

An intruder,Ríkr warned me, his voice coming from somewhere outside. But not a stranger.

The dull clip-clop, clip-clop of a horse trotting across the gravel yard reached my ears. The sound grew louder, and I leaned out of the stall to peer at the open doors, filled with the golden glow of the setting sun.

A horse and rider trotted into the threshold and stopped, silhouetted by the sunlight. I couldn't make out any details, but I didn't need them to recognize the long, sturdy limbs, elegantly arched neck, and powerful build of a certain fae stallion.

And I didn't even need that much to know who was dismounting in front of the stable.