mercy for a strange young woman, once of noble station, who had deserted her calling out of fear and cynicism. A woman who would rather spend her time with animals than people, who understood them better than anyone had ever understood Evelyn. Her gift with beasts was an evil penchant, she’d been told many times by the monks. Sinful. Blasphemous. And evil, sinful blasphemies were aught in which the brethren were well practiced.
Her dark thoughts were interrupted by the screams of a horse, and Evelyn’s eyes snapped open. Had she, in her desperation, imagined the cry? Or had God not completely forsaken her, after all? As if in answer, the animal shrieked again, and Evelyn thought the horse sounded near.
Her heart pounded sharply—a hammer on cold stone. “Amen,” she breathed, although no true prayer had left her lips, and then scrambled to her feet.
She stumbled around the wide skirt of rocks that was Minerva’s pyre and farther into the wood, swerving drunkenly through the trees, ears straining for the horse’s whinny. It must be Minerva’s mare. It must be.
“Where are you, lovely?” Evelyn whispered. “I need that saddle bag.” Her life depended on it. Although it contained no food, the soft leather satchel tied to the mare’s saddle held two flint stones and Evelyn’s own dagger—items crucial to her survival. The other prizes in the bag were but outrageous luxuries at this point.
She paused, one chapped palm braced against the scarred skin of a straggling beech, and listened.
There! To her right, a rustling sounded, and a cracking like the snap of a fallen branch. Evelyn pushed away from the tree and tried to walk calmly in the direction of the sounds, despite the hysterical voice in her head screaming at her to run, run as fast as her watery legs would carry her. ’Twould do no good to spook the beast and send her deeper into the wood.
It began to snow again. Small, delicate flakes floating like goose down turned the world of the forest into contrasts of black and white, light and shadow, dusk and dawn at once.
From within a copse of pine just ahead, a plume of dry snow fanned out, once, twice. She heard a low snuffling, a snort, a ragged breath.
Evelyn stopped again and clicked her tongue. The snuffling ceased and all was quiet, save for the timpani of Evelyn’s own heart.
“Here, girl,” she called to the horse. She moved forward a step, whistled low. “’Tis all right—I’m here now.” She crept around the edge of pine, stiff, brushy needles snagging her cloak and then springing free, sending fresh, powdery white down upon her. The green scent was so thick here, Evelyn’s empty stomach churned.
A flash of black through the boughs caught her eye and then danced away behind the needles. She penetrated the heart of the copse.
The blood would have been enough to stop Evelyn in her tracks. Red, steaming snow, melted into black mud. Fresh crimson starbursts exploded and splattered away from the crater where a short but deadly battle had been waged.
Evelyn had indeed found Minerva’s mare. Lying dead on its side, its mouth slack around square, bloodied teeth, as if in surprise. Its throat was torn away.
But beyond the mare’s barreled chest lay an even greater horror, and it now growled at Evelyn—a low, wet sound full of fresh death.
A black wolf crouched on its haunches, its blood-slicked muzzle still clamped around shiny entrails ripped from the horse’s belly like satiny ribbons. The animal was enormous—big-boned and wide of chest beneath matted, shaggy fur.
“Oh my God,” Evelyn croaked as wild yellow eyes locked onto her. The wolf’s sides heaved in and out with exertion and alarm, and even from this distance, Evelyn could see skeletal ribs and the lump of thick hipbone jutting through the beast’s matted fur. The animal was nearly starved.
It growled again, this time more insistently.
Stay away. Mine.
Evelyn swallowed, her eyes flicking to the saddlebag still tethered to the dead horse. “I’ll not hurt you,” she said in a low, quavering voice. Her mind raced, and she decided quickly that the best course of action was to back a fair distance away and leave the wolf to its meal. The horse was of little use to her any matter, now. When the wolf had eaten its fill, Evelyn would return and retrieve the satchel.
She began to back away.
The wolf sprang to its feet, dropping the entrails with a spray of bloody saliva as it lunged forward, barking, and skidded to a halt in the snow not ten feet from where Evelyn stood.
Had she any water in her bladder, she would have lost it in that moment.
“All right! All right,” she rushed. “I’ll not move.”
The wolf growled and backed up slowly until it was returned to the horse’s torn underbelly. Its eyes never left Evelyn’s, even as it began to feed once more.
After what seemed like an hour of watching the wolf gorge, Evelyn’s numb feet and legs would no longer support her and she slowly sank down to her bottom in the accumulating snow. The beast tensed at her movement.
“Just taking a rest,” she whispered.
It resumed its meal.
Evelyn ate a handful of snow.
She was covered in a blanket of powder and frozen to her core it seemed when, at last, the wolf stood. It stared at Evelyn, licking its muzzle noisily.
Evelyn swallowed. “Well. What are we to do now?” she asked lightly. The wolf cocked its head and Evelyn flicked her eyes to the saddle, blinking away the snowflakes clumped on her eyelashes.
The wolf shifted its weight and then sat down in the snow.
Evelyn drew a steadying breath. “I must have it, you understand.”
The beast stared at her a long moment and then stood once more and circled away from the carcass. It walked stiffly to the far edge of the copse and lay down with a grunt. It looked at Evelyn and yawned.
“All right, then.” Evelyn took another deep breath. “Just the satchel, I swear it.”
The wolf did not move.
She rolled to her feet so slowly it took her nearly a full minute before she stood upright. Creeping, she slid her feet through the snow, inching toward the horse, barely feeling the fiery cold burning the exposed skin above her worn leather slippers. Her heart felt swollen with ice and shuddered as if it would explode when she reached the mare and crouched down slowly. The smell of blood caused her to gag and her mouth to water, the fresh carcass still radiating a glowing heat.
The wolf lowered its head to its paws.
Evelyn slid a hand beneath the satchel’s ice-stiffened flap and grasped blindly until she felt the hilt of her blade, as cold as her own skin. She withdrew it from the bag slowly, slowly.
“’Tis not for you, lovely,” Evelyn crooned when the wolf’s ears pricked, praying the beast would not charge her before she had removed the satchel. She sawed clumsily through the strap holding the bag to the horse and dragged it to her, clutching the dagger to her bosom.
“There—that’s it. That’s all.” Evelyn stood, wanting to sob. Her salvation was in
