And realized she didn’t feel quite so hungry, realized…

The wolf with the burned hind legs tried to drag itself away from the predator, tried to run, tried to hide. Screamed as fangs and talons ripped its flesh, as a tongue lapped at the fresh blood while it died slowly, slowly.

It didn’t like the taste of animal flesh, but It was too hungry to care. And the feast that rose from the animal flesh was a rich spirit, a strong spirit in the shape of the flesh It liked best.

It devoured—and still hungered…. Morag dropped the reins, wrapped her arms around herself, and doubled over, gasping and weeping. She remembered the wolf, remembered the ghost that had risen from it. One of the western Fae who had ridden east with her and Ashk. She remembered him screaming her name. Remembered him screaming as she…as the thing inside her feasted on his spirit until nothing was left but wisps of memories.

She’d known him and still hadn’t been able to stop It.

“Mother have mercy,” she whispered. “Please, have mercy.”

The dark horse trembled beneath her. Loyalty and courage. How many times could he have run away during the past few hours? He had more trust in her ability to protect him from the predator inside her than she did. Would the hour come when that loyalty would be repaid with talons slashing his throat open? Would courage be rewarded by dying in terror?

She slowly placed one hand on his neck, careful not to let the talons prick him. “I won’t hurt you. I will fight with everything in me not to hurt you. That much I can promise.”

She straightened up and looked around. The fog was lifting. The first, soft light of the day was pushing back the night. The dark horse had brought them close to a large stone house. The baron’s house? She could…

Hunt!

…find food there…

Flesh!…and grain for the horse.

Feast!

The Old Place was too far away. She had to find food now—before It got too hungry.

Chapter 50

waning moon

Breanna closed her eyes as the ponycart approached the circle of moonlight guarding Nuala’s grave. She couldn’t bear looking at the rose bushes—and wondered if she ever would be able to again. Best to close her eyes before the grief numbed her again. Best not to wonder if the light in the circle was really waning or if it was this soft light before dawn that made the circle look dimmer. Best not to think about what would happen to Nuala’s spirit once the light waned since they could no longer spare men to guard the grave. Best not to think at all.