the clothes and then throwing them aside, looking increasingly frantic. And then spotting something off to the side, something that was half buried by weeds, something that looked a lot like—
“A stick?” I stared at the ugly thing, which was a homelier version of Rosier’s walking stick. Except it must have fallen into a fire at some point, because it was not only cracked and missing part of one end, but also charred almost black. Only Pritkin was gripping it like it was made of pure gold. “We came back for that?”
Pritkin saw my expression and shook his head. And said a bunch of rapid-fire stuff that I couldn’t understand. And then thrust the thing at me, along with its coating of mud, which he was wiping away as his finger ran along its length, tracing a line of—
Well, I guess it was writing, only it wasn’t anything I could read. It wasn’t even in an alphabet I recognized, more rune-y, all hard, sharp angles and deep, angry lines. At least they looked angry to me, but maybe I was projecting.
“We could have been half a mile away by now!” I whispered furiously.
But Pritkin was shaking his head again. And gesturing at the opposite side of the river. And then back at the stick. And then back at the river.
Or no, I finally realized as light belatedly dawned.
Not at the river.
At the creatures on the other side of it.
“You . . . you stole their . . . you stole their stick?” I asked, incredulous.
But of course, Pritkin didn’t understand.
So I gestured at them. And then at the stick. And then at him, and—
And he was nodding and smiling. Smiling.
“Are you crazy?”
Okay, less smiling now. And more of hand clenching on said useless piece of—
“Give it back!”
But Pritkin wasn’t going to give it back. I didn’t need to be fluent in whatever they spoke in sixth-century Wales to know that. It was in the line of his jaw, the glint in his eye . . . the way he suddenly took off running.
Goddamnit!
I ran after him, and actually managed to tackle him because he’d suddenly hit the dirt—why, I didn’t know. Until I looked up. And saw a couple fey sauntering by the bank above, not rushing, almost casual. Like they were taking an afternoon stroll, enjoying the forest fire.
And coming within a couple yards of us.
God, I thought wildly, I’d never been so grateful for weeds in my life.
We waited, motionless, until they’d passed by, a minute lasting what felt like an hour. And then another minute, Pritkin tense and alert, fingers digging into my arm where he gripped me, breathing fast but quiet. Because yeah, this side wasn’t so deserted, after all.
And then we ran up the bank and across the patchy undergrowth at the top, across a terrifying open space and then into another tree line on the far side. Where we stopped, breathing hard and listening. But there was nothing—nothing except the distant crackle of fire, the chirrup of a pissed-off bird, and the sigh of the wind through the treetops.
And the almost silent footfalls of another fey we hadn’t seen, not until we ended up practically right on top of him.
Pritkin slammed us back against a tree, but it was too late. The fey had seen us, and the next moment, the canteen in his hand hit the dirt, and a glowing spear replaced it. And I tried to shift, tried hard, because it was now or never. But it wasn’t happening. I was too exhausted or too freaked out, or probably a combination of both, and did it matter when we were about to be roasted alive?
But then something changed in the air around us, something powerful. It felt like a rush of wind, but not like the kind that was tossing the treetops around. But hot, hot, almost searing, like something straight off a desert. Yet it managed to send a wash of goose bumps shivering up my body anyway, furling my nipples and wrenching a cry from my throat.
And I suddenly noticed something else weird.
The fact that the fey was just standing there.
It wasn’t because he didn’t see us. He was looking right at us, lit spear in hand, only he wasn’t throwing it. He wasn’t doing anything, in fact, except blinking. And then casting a quick glance over his shoulder.
But there was no one there. And when he turned his attention back on us, the spear abruptly faded out of sight. Because he thought we were a couple of happy, naked hippies, I realized, one of the fakes he’d been destroying for the last fifteen minutes along with his buddies.