“I am the Green Lord and the Hunter. I command, I rule, I harvest…wherever the woods resides.” Ashk smiled gently. “You still don’t understand.” She removed the hunting horn from its place on her belt, raised it to her lips, and blew one soft, long note.

Morag felt a queer tickle in her chest.

Ashk blew another note, louder this time, more commanding.

The tickle became a fluttering. A desperate fluttering of wings, as if the raven, which was her other form, was trying to break free of her to answer the command in that one note.

Looking around to see if she was the only one who felt it, she saw Aiden with his fists pressed against his chest as if he were trying to hold something in, a look of understanding and horror on his face. Lyrra was curled up on the ground, weeping.

Morag stared at Ashk. Wherever the woods resides. Mother’s mercy!

Morphia was hunched over, her arms crossed over her chest, panting. Sheridan supported her, looking grim.

Morag looked to her left, at the western huntsmen. Hard eyes. Grim faces. Every one of them standing tall with a weapon ready in his hands.

They know. They’ve always known what she is and what she can do.

“Ashk.” Her voice broke on the plea, but it was enough.

Ashk lowered the horn and turned slightly to look at her.

An enraged cry. Shouts of warning.

Ashk dove for the ground as Cullan’s hunting knife flew toward her. But it was paws, not hands, that touched the ground. Before the knife impaled the earth behind her, the shadow hound pivoted and raced toward her prey.

Cullan froze for a second before changing into a stag and trying to leap away from the shadow hound.

That lost second was all Ashk needed to close the distance between them.

Jaws closed on a hind leg. Fangs ripped through flesh and tendons.

Cullan staggered, still tried to run on three legs. Ashk danced around him, nipping his flanks, forcing him to keep trying to run. When he finally turned at bay, she sprang—and changed again in midair.

Her left hand caught an antler below the points and jerked his head back. Her right hand reached for her boot as she came down hard on his back, straddling him. His hind legs buckled. The hunting knife in her right hand slashed deep across his throat.

Blood pumped from the wound. His forelegs scrabbled desperately as his eyes began to glaze.

Death howled.

Still holding his head back, Ashk leaned forward, and said, “This is why I am the Hunter.”

She released the antler. Cullan collapsed, blood still pouring from the wound, but not for much longer. Stepping behind him, she cleaned her knife on his still-trembling flank, sheathed it, and walked toward her men.