To my right, I caught glimpses of houses as the path circled behind the village. When I hit the far side of the village, the path divided, one branch heading back to town, the other going deeper into the forest. I took the village route. At the midway point between the fork and the path’s end, I dove into the woods and cast a cover spell. Then I waited. A minute later, Dachev appeared at the fork. He looked both ways.

“Did you keep running?” he murmured. “Or are you trying for the prize already?”

A moment’s hesitation, then he walked past me, into the village, and vanished. I considered slipping out and finding a better vantage point, so I could see which house he chose, but that was too risky. When I’d first seen him, he’d been coming from the far end of the road, meaning one of the last two houses was probably his. I suspected I’d know which house he occupied the moment I peeked through its window. No sleeping mats on the floor for that ghost.

After about ten minutes he returned to the path, walking fast. Again, he passed me. This time, when he hit the fork, he headed back the same way he’d come. Strange, but I wasn’t about to question his sense of direction.

When his footfalls faded to silence, I slid from my hiding spot and crept closer to the village. As tempting as it was to race in and find the book, it wasn’t safe, not in daylight, when the others were almost certainly still watching for me. The sky was growing dark already.

When I was close enough to see the village, I found a suitable tree, climbed to a sturdy branch, cast a cover spell, and settled in to wait for dark.

For nearly an hour Dachev hunted for me, twice coming to the edge of the forest and scanning the village to be sure I hadn’t returned. The third time he left the forest, looked around, then hurried to the last house on the left.

“Thank you,” I thought. “One problem down; one to go.”

When he emerged from his house, he surveyed the village again, peering into the gathering night. Then he walked to a stand of bushes by the forest’s edge. After less than ten seconds of contemplation, he strode back toward the road. A man like Dachev fancies himself a purist—a predator who catches his prey by running it to the ground, not by skulking in bushes, hoping it’ll run past.

Down the street, two other residents stepped from their homes. When they made a move to come closer and see what he was doing, he snarled something, then stalked into the woods. One followed. The bird-man—darting back and forth, weaving his way there, sticking close to trees and bushes, ready to dodge behind one at the first sign of Dachev.