CHAPTER 75

A wind chime tinkled in the breeze, whispering, Hush.

He could feel the presence surround the house, the silver fear that had haunted him his entire journey, but for whatever reason, it did not materialize.

The Woodcutter pushed open the door and shut it behind himself. His hand was upon his Ax as he walked up the steps.

He had met this Small One like he had so many before her, gathering flowers in a field.

Small hands clutching flowers.

She had been going to visit her grandmother who was not feeling well.

His mouth became dry.

Golden curls against the red velvet cape.

He had followed her here, like he had all of the other Small Ones he had been unable to save, unable to help, for sometimes the fae called their mixed-blood brethren home.

He breathed deeply and turned the handle to the bedroom.

The flowers the child had gathered lay scattered upon the floor.

But the Grandmother sat up in the bed, and the Small One sat at her feet.

The Woodcutter felt like weeping.

She was alive.

They were alive.

The Grandmother held a finger to her lips.

The Woodcutter lowered his Platinum Ax as the wind began to roar. He crossed to the bed and sat next to the Small One. The Woodcutter’s fingers toyed with the straps of the secret pocket of his pack, which held Odin’s horn.

The house shook and the wind rumbled at the eaves.

The old woman closed her eyes.

And the wind swept past.

“You have journeyed long to meet us, Woodcutter,” the Small One said.

Her voice was too wise for a child. Her eyes bore deep into his soul.

The Woodcutter took her dimpled hands in his and replied, “I have met your true mother and learned of your true father, and I am afraid that you are in danger, Small One.”

The hellhound howled into the darkness.

The Small One’s eyes grew large, but her voice was clear as she asked, “Will you protect me?”

Her tiny hand gripped the Woodcutter.

He nodded, accepting his fate.

The Grandmother looked at the Woodcutter sadly.

“You know what you must do,” said the Grandmother.

The child reached into her basket and withdrew a small silver tin. The Woodcutter took it, staring at the shiny surface, knowing what lay within.

The child reached up and patted his cheek gently.

The Woodcutter rose to his feet.

He took the final Ax and walked to the front door.

He stepped from the threshold and looked at the trees and willed away their voices as they whispered, Quiet!

His fingers left the Ax, and he stood exposed to the growing darkness. He opened up the tin and threw the contents, the handful of faerie magic, up toward the sky.

He heard the Beast’s panting and growling, the massive feet as they tore through the distance to the Woodcutter.

And the Woodcutter allowed himself to be frightened.

Standing at his father’s side, holding the ax for the first time.

The garden they planted outside the little cottage in the Wood.

The harvest dance and his wife looking over her shoulder at him in the firelight.

The fae trapped in cold iron.

Sitting upon the top of the world and watching the lights far below.

His wife’s shy smile and her hands upon his face, kissing him in tender good-bye.

The memories flashed before his eyes.

He was afraid.

So afraid, he dropped the Platinum Ax, and his soul leapt from his body and ran from his mortal shell, willing to do anything to get away.

His spirit soul touched the earth, and the sound echoed through the trees.

A silent reverberation of such depth it shook the gathering darkness.

The spirit souls of trees looked at him, their faces visible for the first time in his life.

Eyes that watched and pleaded.

His leg stretched out to run.

He felt the presence of the fae gather in silent witness.

He reached out with his other leg, and it was matched by the sound of a mighty paw behind him.

He turned and looked over his shoulder.

The Beast’s vacant eyes met his, gray and soulless, knowing nothing but the hunt.

His leg stretched for another step, and he heard the cries of the world begging him to stop running.

But the light was before him, a doorway caught in the empty air.

He knew it would mean peace.

But those voices still cried, still screamed at him to stop.

And then he saw her eyes in the top window of a house.

Eyes in a house from a memory of something he’d once heard.

Blue eyes framed by curls the color of autumn straw.

He felt a mighty force pulling him away from the doorway. He felt his feet dragging him backward, with force equal to his as he ran.

And the child’s lips whispered, “Stop.”

Her whisper cut through the wind. Cut through the darkness. Cut through immortality.

And he stopped.

He turned.

And the Beast was upon him, knocking him to the ground.

The creature’s jaws flashed toward the Woodcutter’s throat. He lifted his arm and felt the hellhound’s teeth sink through to the bone, shaking and ripping, throwing the Woodcutter to the side before pouncing upon him again.

The Woodcutter rolled to a crouch and flung himself upright to dodge the Beast.

A frightened cry escaped his lips, a cry that seemed to come from someone else’s throat.

His hand was at his waist and his hand felt an ax of wood and iron.

He tried to remember what it was…

Where it came from…

And then he remembered…

It was his father’s ax.

He withdrew it from his side and held it before him.

The hellhound licked his jowls and the Beast sprang.

The Woodcutter slashed with his ax as he ducked to the side.

He heard a whimper as the blade struck the Beast. The blood that ran was silver and blue. The wound shimmered as the Beast snarled and leapt to attack again.

The Woodcutter caught him, flipping him over his head. The hellhound landed on his feet next to the body of a middle-aged man who appeared to be sleeping.

The Woodcutter yelled at the man: “Get away!”

But he did not move.

Then the hellhound charged once more at the Woodcutter. Out of the corner of his eye, as he held back the Beast, the Woodcutter saw the doorway of light fade and disappear.

Panic overtook him as he flung the dog away.

Once again the hellhound charged, knocking him down, and he landed next to the sleeping man.

The man looked so familiar.

Then he remembered.

He remembered what the hellhound was.

He remembered why he was there.

He remembered why a Platinum Ax lay discarded upon the ground.

He was the Woodcutter.

He sheathed his father’s ax and picked up the last gift of the River God.

He scrambled to his feet as the dog attacked and would not let go, as the powerful jaws clamped into the Woodcutter’s leg.

The Woodcutter lifted the Ax.

And began cutting down the Beast.

The Woodcutter cut the hellhound like the tree he had never felled. He cut the Beast with a magical Ax that could never take away life.

It was an Ax that, instead, gave life.

With each stroke, the dog became smaller, began shrinking in size. The blue-silver blood evaporated into the air, and with it, it took away all monstrosity. The years of chases and killings were cut away with a woodsman’s precision, cut away until nothing was left but innocence and youth.

The hellhound’s bites changed to mouthing, changed to licking, licking that tried to wipe away the pain.

Finally the Woodcutter stopped, and all that remained of the Beast was a wriggling puppy leaping upon his lap.

The Platinum Ax turned into water and fell upon the Woodcutter’s wounds, leaving silvery scars where the gaping bites once were.

The Woodcutter held the puppy hellhound, dazed and breathless.

He had won.

The puppy licked his face.

He had won.

He moved to his mortal body lying dead in the Wood. All that was left was to call Odin to reclaim this lost Hound. His fingers sought the depths of his pack for the horn.

But it wasn’t there.

There was a horn, but it was not the right horn.

In horror, he stared. It did not ring of wild magic. It stunk of rot and decay.

And then he felt the energy shift.

The Vanishing House appeared as if coming from a mist, a mist that faded the trees into nothing as the Gentleman and the Queen came to claim a Wood left without an heir. A Wood left without an heir because the child that should have come never appeared on the Woodcutter’s doorstep.

In a horrible moment of understanding, the Woodcutter knew why.

He understood that his child had never been born.

He knew that the Queen and the Gentleman had made sure of it.

The Beast had not been just a tool to rid the kingdoms of their princesses.

They had meant for him to face the Beast.

They had meant for him to conquer Odin’s hellhound.

And now, his body lying dead upon the threshold of the Grandmother’s door, the Woods were free of their Woodcutter.

He had defeated the one creature that could have stopped the Gentleman and the Queen—a creature they may have set free, but the only creature that blindly hungered to reclaim fae magic from mortal veins.

They had won.

And they had planned it all along.