“I refuse your challenge, Reid Diggory.” He nodded to his daughter and son before surrendering himself to the change completely. Within seconds, he landed on all fours, panting in the cold night air. A wolf once more. Liana stood behind him. In her eyes shone a hatred I recognized. A hatred that had once stolen my own breath and hardened my own heart.

“This time, Captain Diggory,” she said softly, “we will hunt you. If you reach the village on the other side of our land, you escape with your life. If not . . .” She inhaled deeply, smiling as if scenting our fear, before extending her arms to her pack members. “Glory to the loup garou who kills you.”

Lou’s face twisted in horror.

“The village, Gévaudan, is due south from here. We will give you a head start.”

“How much of a head start?” Beau asked, eyes tight and anxious.

She only grinned in response.

“Weapons?” Lou asked.

“He may keep the weapons on his person,” Liana said. “No more and no less.”

I quickly tallied my inventory. Four knives in my bandolier. Two in my boots. One down my spine. Seven teeth of my own. Though I prayed I wouldn’t need them, I wasn’t naive. This would not end well. It would end bloody.

“If any of you intervene in the hunt,” her little brother added, looking between Lou, Coco, Ansel, and Beau, “with magic or otherwise, your lives will be forfeit.”

“What about Morgane?” Coco asked quickly. “If Reid wins, you’ll ally with us against her?”

“Never,” Liana snarled.

“This is bullshit!” Lou advanced toward them, hands still lifted, but I caught her arm. To my surprise, so did Beau.

“Little sister,” he said, eyes wide as the wolves closed in around us, “I think we ought to play their game.”

“He’ll die.”

Coco’s eyes darted everywhere as if searching for an escape. There was none. “We’ll all die unless he agrees.” She looked to me for confirmation. Waiting. In that look, I understood. If I chose not to do this, she would join me in fighting our way out. They all would. But the cost—the risk—

As if pulled by an invisible force, my eyes drifted again to Lou. To her face. I memorized the curve of her nose, the slope of her cheek. The line of her neck. If we fought, they would take her. There were too many of them to kill, even with magic on our side.

They would take her, and she would be gone.

“Don’t do this,” she said, her distress palpable. My chest ached. “Please.”

My thumb brushed her arm. Just once. “I have to.”

When I turned back to Liana, she was already halfway through the change. Black fur covered her lupine face, and her lips curled in a horrifying smile. “Run.”

The Wolves Descend

Reid

A sense of calm enveloped me as I entered the swamp. South. Due south. I knew of Gévaudan. The Chasseurs and I had stayed there the night after our werewolf raid—the night before I’d become Captain Diggory. If I remembered the terrain correctly, the river that powered Gévaudan’s mill flowed into this estuary. If I could find that river, I could lose my scent in the waters. Traverse them into the village.

If I didn’t drown first.

I glanced down. The tide was rising. It’d soon flood the estuary, which would in turn flood the river. The current would be dangerous, especially while I was laden with heavy weaponry. Still—better the devil I knew than the devil I didn’t. I’d rather drown than feel Blaise’s teeth in my stomach.

Hurtling around the trees—taking care to mark each one with my scent—I doubled back, diluting my trail as much as possible. I dropped to a crouch. Loup garou were faster than regular wolves, faster than even horses. I couldn’t outrun them. The water was my only hope. That, and—

Clawing at the ground, I scooped handfuls of mud and slathered them onto my skin. My clothes. My hair. Beyond strength and speed, the werewolves’ noses were their greatest weapons. I needed to disappear in every sense.

Somewhere behind me, a howl shattered the silence.

I looked up, the first knot of fear making me hesitate.

My time was up. They were coming.

I cursed silently, sprinting south and listening—listening—for the telltale rush of water. Searching for thick trunks and hanging moss amidst the other muted greens and browns of the forest. The river had taken shape within a thick copse of bald cypresses. It had to be near here. I remembered this place. Each landmark that rose up before me refreshed my memory. Jean Luc had stopped to rest against that gnarled trunk. The Archbishop—stubbornly clad in his choral robes—had nearly fallen over that rock.

Which meant the cypresses should be right . . . there.

Triumphant, I raced toward them, slipping through the trunks as another howl sounded, breathing a sigh of relief as I finally, finally found the—

I stopped short. My relief withered.

There was nothing here.

Where the river had been, only a cluster of ferns remained. Their leaves—brown and dead—fluttered gently in the wind. The ground beneath them was muddy, wet, covered in lichen and moss. But none of the riverbed remained. Not one grain of sand. Not a single river rock. It was as if the entire river had simply . . . disappeared. As if I’d imagined the whole thing.

My hands curled into fists.

I hadn’t imagined anything. I’d drunk from the damn thing myself.

Around me, the trees’ branches rustled in the wind, whispering together. Laughing. Watching. Another howl pierced the night—this one closer than the last—and the hair on my neck rose.

The forest is dangerous. My pulse quickened at my mother’s words. The trees have eyes.

I shook my head—unwilling to acknowledge them—and peered up at the sky to recalculate my bearings. South. Due south. I just had to reach Gévaudan’s gate, and the mud on my skin ensured that the werewolves couldn’t track me by scent. I could still do this. I could make it.

But when I stepped backward—my boot sinking in a particularly wet pocket of earth—I realized the glaring flaw in my plan. Stopping abruptly, I turned to look behind me. My panic deepened to dread. The werewolves didn’t need their noses to track me. I’d left them a path of footprints to follow instead. I hadn’t calculated the soft terrain into my plan, nor the rising tide. There was no way I could flee for Gévaudan—or the river, or anywhere—without the werewolves seeing exactly where I’d gone.

Come on. My heart beat a frantic rhythm now, thundering inside my head. I forced myself to think around it. Could I magic my way out? I instantly rejected the impulse, unwilling to risk it. The last time I’d used magic, I’d nearly killed myself, freezing to death on the bank of a pool. More than likely, I’d do more harm than good, and I had no room for error now. Lou wasn’t here to save me. Think think think. I wracked my brain for another plan, another means of hiding my trail. As shitty as Lou was at strategizing, she would’ve known exactly what to do. She always escaped. Always. But I wasn’t her, and I didn’t know.

Still . . . I’d chased her long enough to guess what she’d do in this situation. What she did in every situation.

Swallowing hard, I looked up.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Wading back into the cypresses, I heaved myself onto the lowest branch.

Another.

The trees grew close together in this part of the forest. If I could navigate the canopy far enough, I’d break my trail. I climbed faster, forcing my gaze skyward. Not down. Never down.

Another.

When the branches began thinning, I stopped climbing, crawling slowly—too slowly—to the end of the limb. I stood on shaky legs. Counting to three, I leapt onto the next branch as far as I could. It bowed precariously under my weight, and I crumpled, wrapping my arms around it with deep, gasping breaths. My vision swam. I forced myself to crawl forward once more. I couldn’t stop. I had to move faster. I’d never reach Gévaudan at this pace, and the wolves grew louder with each howl.

After the third tree, however, my breathing came easier. My muscles relaxed infinitesimally. I moved faster. Faster still. Confident now. The trees still grew thick, and hope swelled in my chest. Again and again I leapt, until—

A splintering crack.

No.

Spine seizing, mind reeling, I swiped desperately at the nearest branch, hurtling toward the ground at alarming speed. The wood snapped under my momentum, and sharp pain lanced up my arm. The next branch smashed into my head. Stars burst behind my eyes, and I landed—hard—on my back. The impact knocked the breath from my throat. Water flooded my ears. I wheezed, blinking rapidly, clutching my bloody palm, and tried to stand.

Blaise stepped over me.

Teeth gleaming, he snarled when I squelched backward—eyes too intelligent, too eager, too human for my liking. Slowly, cautiously, I lifted my hands and rose to my feet. His nostrils flared at the scent of my blood. Instinct screamed for me to reach for my knives. To assume the offensive. But if I drew first blood—if I killed the alpha—the werewolves would never join us. Never. And those eyes—

Things had been much simpler when I’d been a Chasseur. When the wolves had been only beasts. Demons.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.” Head throbbing, I whispered, “Please.”