Read Skyfire for Free Online

stitch in my side. I dart between trunks, slide under low branches and ignore the whiplash from twigs that Teddy shoves aside. My eyes are streaming, and my lungs heave with all the force of an alchemy bomb.
    The foxhawk screeches again, and we lurch to the left.
    â€˜We’ve got to –’ Clementine’s sentence chokes off as she slides beneath a bristling branch – ‘got to hide!’
    â€˜Has it seen us?’ I ask Lukas, my words as sharp as my breath. ‘Has it seen us, or is it just –’
    Lukas closes his eyes. A sharp flash of concentration consumes his face, wrinkling his nose and eyebrows. Then he shakes his head. ‘Not yet. The rider’s circling, looking for something …’
    â€˜Us?’
    â€˜How could anyone know about us?’ Clementine shoves through a tangle of foliage. ‘It’s just a coincidence, surely!’
    I nod, hoping against hope that she’s right. Perhaps this rider is looking for Tindra. Perhaps it’s another enemy of hers, checking that she’s really dead. Or perhaps it’s a friend, or family, searching to save her. But if we’re wrong …
    Maisy grabs my arm. ‘Over there.’
    To our right, the land curves down into a half-frozen ditch. Bristles spill over the top, curlingtheir tendrils towards the light. It looks like thicker foliage than here, and right now I’ll take any advantage we can get.
    The land slopes deeply into the shadows of the undergrowth. We drop to our bottoms and slide down. Thorns and prickles jab my flesh like needles, and I’m forced to use my hands to shield my face.
    My mother’s bracelet snags on a twig, but I manage to tug it free. I catch a glimpse of the silver charms that swing from its chain. Alchemy charms, imbued with slivers of dying souls’ proclivities. A silver star, with the power to give starlight … and a tiny metal rose, with the power to mask our scents. We’ve used the rose once before, to hide ourselves from pursuing foxaries.
    â€˜The rose charm!’ I whisper. ‘Will it work on a foxhawk?’
    Lukas shakes his head. ‘No point hiding our scent if it can see us. That thing might have a fox’s head, but it’s got the eyes of a hawk.’
    And so all we can do is slide deeper into the dark. The thicket spikes around us, tight and sharp and unwelcoming, but its branches are dense enough to hide us from the sky.
    There’s a soft whumph to our left. We freeze. I meet the others’ eyes for a moment: four pairs of terrified orbs.
    Slowly, I turn my head. I try not to touch the bushes, to send the thistles quivering at the brush of my shoulders. I catch a glimpse through the prickles. It’s an incomplete picture: a broken jigsaw, half-erased by leaves and thorns.
    But it’s enough to see the earth and trees. Enough to see the fur, the wings, the shining golden eye.
    Foxhawk .
    The rider dismounts, his boots hitting the stony mud with a crack. About forty years old, I’d guess, with brown skin and piercing eyes. With a twist in my gut, I realise this isn’t the man who shot Tindra. The killer wore a cloak of grey, while this man’s cloak is blue. It’s draped over drab trousers and a threadbare shirt. He looks thin and knobbly enough to be a tree himself, here in the scraggle of the woods.
    He tilts his head to the side, listening. Beside me, I can sense the others’ tensed bodies: the twist of their limbs, the tightness in their throats.
    The foxhawk turns its own head, ever so slowly, towards our patch of undergrowth. Its eyes focus on us, unblinking beads of gold. And with a resolute expression, the man turns to follow its gaze.
    I stare at him. He stares back. He hasn’t seen us yet; we’re hidden well in this nest of lines and shadows. But he knows we’re here. He knows it, and any second now –
    He draws his pistol.
    If possible, my spine stiffens even more. Every