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hard knot bothering my sternum. “Elemental magic,” I heard her say quite clearly. “You must flee, sister.”
    No shit, Sherlock.
    Qae caught up his horse’s reins and threw himself up on the saddle. He tipped up his jaw to the other man, who nodded and put away his confection. In unison, they turned their mounts around and melted back into the forest from which they’d emerged.
    â€œThey’re going?” I asked, confused.
    â€œNo,” Trowbridge said, his tone hard, “they’re waiting.”
    â€œFor the other Fae?”
    His face taut, he shook his head. His gaze flew from Qae’s hiding place to the cloud now streaming at breakneck speed toward the river. He twisted on his hip, tilting back his head. His nostrils flared as he inhaled long through his nose, and then—I swear I didn’t think it was possible—his body got harder and tighter.
    His hand slid off my hip.
    â€œTrowbridge?” I asked him as he started to rise to his knees.
    I think for a moment he’d forgotten I was there beside him. But at the sound of my voice he froze, his arm braced.
    His eyes turned toward mine. His face was drawn in stark lines. At that moment, I didn’t understand his expression; there was too much mileage between us for me to comprehend. I understood only the most obvious—his anger and frustration—before he shoved his feelings into lockdown.
    There were more emotions, balanced on top of each other like a shaky Jenga tower. But that is all that I understood at the time, for I was awash in my own responses. Mainly, shock and gut-wrenching disbelief as I watched the Son of Lukynae slowly sink back to his belly. He breathed out and parted the grass again.
    â€œTrowbridge?”
    I waited for him to turn to me. He didn’t. When I reached a tentative hand toward him, he leaned away from my touch.
    I withdrew. “Tell me what’s going down.”
    A muscle moved in his jaw; then he jerked a nod to the cloud. “It’s a fucking ambush; that’s what’s going down.”
    The thing in the sky had covered much ground in the short seconds it had taken for him to rise and sink back to his belly, and now the inherent malignancy I’d sensed on first sight of it was palpable. The haze was no longer milky; it was a dead bone gray fog, spitting sparks of purple and red. In gleeful pursuit, it frothed over the forest’s canopy, boiling around the tall spires of the firs in its haste to bring down its quarry.
    Horrible and frightening. “Why is it changing?” I asked myself.
    â€œDon’t know,” Trowbridge grunted. “But it’s driving them right into the Fae’s hands.”
    I didn’t have to ask whom he meant by “them.”
    Who runs while others ride?
    I lifted my nose to the catch the breeze, testing the sweet Merenwynian air for confirmation. I got woods, and Fae magic, and the pungent, fox-astringent scent of Trowbridge’s stress, and then …
    â€œWolves,” I said.
    â€œNot just wolves.” Dry despair in his whisper. “The Raha’ells.”
    *   *   *
    My breath caught when the Raha’ells came hurtling out of the woods. There were people—that’s how I saw them at first. Not as feared warriors who might wish to kill my mate. Not even as wolves in human form. I just saw them as people.
    Women, children, youths. Twenty or more people running for their lives.
    I leaned forward, my fist going to my mouth.
    The fastest runner of Trowbridge’s old pack was very young, not a teen, but a boy. Ropes of hair streamed behind him as he burst through the trees at top speed. He was armed with a bow, and a quiver of arrows that bounced on the small of his back as he ran.
    Merry tightened at my throat, her heat flaring.
    Hot on his heels came a woman with hair the color of sunset. She sprinted with a bow gripped in one hand, the other tightly cupped