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Back The Night and Its Moon
Chapters (64)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Contents
  6. Pronunciation Guide
  7. Prologue
  8. Part One
  9. One
  10. Two
  11. Three
  12. Four
  13. Five
  14. Six
  15. Seven
  16. Eight
  17. Nine
  18. Ten
  19. Eleven
  20. Twelve
  21. Thirteen
  22. Part Two
  23. Fourteen
  24. Fifteen
  25. Sixteen
  26. Seventeen
  27. Eighteen
  28. Nineteen
  29. Twenty
  30. Twenty-One
  31. Twenty-Two
  32. Twenty-Three
  33. Part Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Part Four
  47. Thirty-Six
  48. Thirty-Seven
  49. Thirty-Eight
  50. Thirty-Nine
  51. Forty
  52. Forty-One
  53. Forty-Two
  54. Forty-Three
  55. Forty-Four
  56. Forty-Five
  57. Forty-Six
  58. Forty-Seven
  59. Epilogue
  60. Excerpt from The Sun and Its Shade
  61. The Night and Its Moon Playlist
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. About the Author
  64. Back Cover

The beseul’s speed was not that of man or fae; it was the speed of shadow and time. She gagged on its scent as the creature closed on her. She could barely duck branches, allowing them to whip at her face, tear at her clothes, her skin, and grip her in sharp, painful stings as she barreled forward. Her face was being torn to ribbons, pain, sweat, and blood stinging her vision.

Amaris had intended to loop back to camp, counting on the three of them to take on the creature once her brothers had gotten to their feet. As its putrid, unholy wail sounded at her back, the foul stench of carrion overcame her. It was over. She knew she couldn’t turn.

She choked on the horrible odor of death, knowing it would be the last thing she experienced. Amaris was buying not minutes but seconds between her and the beseul.

Pain. Pain from her muscles, her lungs, from the thin branches that whipped her, from the inexplicable cold of the icy death that pressed into the skin of her back. She knew only panic, fear, and pain.

Then she saw something.

The thinnest sliver of hope.

Amaris spotted what she hadn’t realized she’d been looking for. She urged herself further, exerting the last of her reserves of stamina, pushing herself to her limit. She locked in on the open space in the forest where the dull, metallic glow of the half-moon illuminated grass rather than shrubs. She barreled for the opening. This was her only chance. Each leap over logs and brambles threatened to slow her, but maybe, maybe, if she could create enough space to maneuver without careening headlong into a tree, she stood a chance.

She was almost there. Almost.

The monster’s chilled tendrils froze her as if ice itself had been pressed against the raw skin of her calves, her shoulders, the back of her neck, a liquid smoke on her heels.

Either she succeeded, or she was seconds from having her jugular shredded by a demon.

She had only heartbeats to make her move. In the few seconds it took her to burst from the trees, she dove—not fell, truly dove—plunging into the grass below and rolling to her back, her sword coming up in an arc as the beseul, too close to stop, practically flew on top of her. She cried out, the sound of an involuntary yelp tearing through her throat as her sword met its mark. The dead-winter chill of its half phantasmic form grazed the space above her.