Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

I went for my knife.

“Stop,” Zan hissed, but it was too late. I’d made a slight incision in my forefinger, and the blood was already welling up, fresh and vivid red against the dried and cracking smudges of Golightly’s lifeblood, which still coated my hands and arms.

“Sunt invisibiles,” I stammered, pressing my hand to Zan’s, skin to skin. “We are unseen.”

The effect was immediate, and just in time. The tall grass next to us parted, and a creature padded out, looking one way and then the other. It was black as night, nearly indistinguishable from the darkness from which it had materialized.

A wolf—or something close to it.

We held absolutely still as the creature grew closer, scratching at the dirt and making a strange huffing sound that was half growl, half gurgle. An overwhelming odor of putrid flesh was emanating from it in waves, causing my gorge to contract painfully. Even so, I kept the spell going, mouthing the words soundlessly even as it came closer and closer to where we stood.

That is, until I saw its face.

The snout was flayed open; all that was left now were strips of fur falling away from the bone and a swollen, dripping tongue that lolled out from behind gleaming teeth. One eye had rotted away; the one remaining glinted an unholy red. I trembled and clung to Zan’s hand, desperately trying to keep the threads of the invisibility spell in place by repeating the words in my head, Sunt invisibiles, we are unseen, too scared to even breathe as its empty face peered into the grass where we stood.

My strength dwindled with each second the abomination waited there, bathing me in its nauseating breath, drops of acrid saliva sliding off its engorged tongue and onto the dirt at my feet.

Then another wolf howled. I looked up and saw a silver-gray outline in the far distance—a horse and rider, galloping at a clipping pace. I’d have thought I imagined it, except that the wolf’s head whipped up toward it, as if it could see it too.

Then the creature made a whistling roar and started bounding away after the silvery shadow, turning only once to look back at the place where we still stood.

When I let the spell go, I sank to my knees, my strength expended. Zan had to yank me to my feet and hold me up as I dangled, doll-like, in his arms.

“What was that?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the wolf or the horse and rider, but either way, the answer was the same. Trembling, I said, “I don’t know.”

“Come on.” For all his bruised ribs, Zan was astonishingly swift; we made it across the last stretch to the tavern in mere minutes.

Zan dragged me up to the back door, which he pounded three times. “Hello?” he called. “Help, please! Open the door!”

It took a few moments before Hicks managed to open it. “What’s with all the racket?” he grumbled. “This is a private office. The door to the tavern is around the—” He looked down at Zan, who was propping me up on the stoop, his crinkled eyes taking in Zan’s mottled linen shirt and my blood-coated arms. “Front. Merciful Empyrea.”

“Sorry to trouble you, sir,” Zan said. “But we need your help. Please, please. Help us.”

“Oh, bother,” Hicks said, and stepped aside to let us in.

* * *

“Finally overplayed your hand, did you, darling?” Rafaella asked as she helped me down the steep stairs to the cellar, Zan following. Upstairs, Lorelai was comforting the weeping Delphinia; she had a soft heart and had been very fond of Father Cesare. I spared her the details, but the bare facts were jarring enough.

“Perhaps a little,” I managed in a weary whisper, looking at my hands. “But don’t worry yourself. I’m just tired, that’s all. None of this is my blood.”

“Didn’t think it was,” Rafaella said.

Jessamine was waiting for us at the bottom of the landing. “This way.”

Rafaella grimaced. “I still think we could hide you in one of the rooms upstairs . . . It’s awfully cold and damp down here, and you two look like death. Maybe we can get you warmed up first, have some hot tea . . .”

Zan said, “The Tribunal is looking for us. I promise, you don’t want them to find us with you. If we hide in the cellar and are caught, you’ll have some deniability; say that we broke in and snuck down here without you knowing. You won’t be able to do that if we’re found in your rooms, drinking tea.”

“Saint Urso,” I said haltingly. “Cesare said that he built this place, and that he always made hiding places for witches. Is it true? Does the Canary have a secret room down here somewhere?”

“There is one like that, yes, down this way,” Rafaella said. “I think Hicks uses it for extra storage now. It’s very small.”

Lorelai was coming down the stairs. “Better hurry, my dears. There are lights on the moor. Horses, carriages. Looks like they are on their way here, and coming fast.”

“We’ll have to take you up on your offer of tea later,” Zan said to Rafaella.