“I CAN TAKE YOU straight to the Wood King, if that’s what you desire.”
Emeline yearned to say yes, that was exactly what she desired. But she didn’t. Because the back of her neck was prickling. She remembered the ember mare and her rider—the nameless boy who’d tricked her. Lied to her. Would this shiftling do the same? He might lure Emeline into the woods with a promise of taking her to find her grandfather and lead her somewhere else instead. To her death, maybe.
“I know what you are.” Emeline watched the ever-changing shadow on the floor as she grabbed one of Pa’s hammers, her fingers tightening around the smooth wooden handle. “Why should I trust you?”
Rooke stared her down, crossed his arms, and smirked. “Because if you don’t, you’ll never get to the King’s City alive.”
It was the same thing the liar had told her: There are horrors here far worse than any nightmare. It’s only a matter of time before another one finds you.
Emeline could go in alone, follow the trees’ directions, and hope she didn’t run into another shadow skin. Or get trampled by ember mares. Or … worse. Whatever worse was.
Or she could go with this shiftling, who may or may not intend to betray her.
If Rooke was trustworthy, joining him was the preferable option, obviously. If Rooke was a shiftling, he would know exactly where the Wood King’s palace was. It was her best chance of finding Pa.
And if he isn’t trustworthy?
Emeline would need to keep her guard up. If she got a whiff of treachery, she could always lose him. Run. Find the river and follow it. She just needed some kind of surety.…
Emeline set down the hammer on Pa’s workbench.
“I’ll come with you on one condition.” She nodded to the ax in his hand. “You let me carry that.”
“Take it then.” In one fluid motion, he flipped the ax, caught the sharpened head, and held it out to her. “Now let’s go.”
EMELINE SLID HER THUMB carefully across the ax’s paper-thin edge. Judging by its sharpness, someone had recently honed it. Tom, maybe? Tom was the kind of man who took care of his tools. He’d been chopping wood for Pa, along with doing the other farm chores, for several years, steadily taking on more the less Pa could do.
If Tom did it, Emeline silently thanked him. Because the deeper she followed Rooke into the forest, the warier she became, and the more comfort she took in its sharp edge. Night cloaked the woods in darkness and Emeline had left the defunct flashlight behind, which forced her to follow this shiftling nearly blind. Worse: judging by the stars flickering above—disappearing as the leafy canopy grew thicker, reappearing as it thinned out—they were not heading south.
Rooke’s raven companion flew ahead, cawing back at him every few minutes, acting as some kind of lookout. Rooke paused when he heard the bird’s call, then advanced or pivoted depending on whatever instruction it gave.
It was eerie and animal-like, the way boy and bird conversed without words.
When they were well and truly off course and Emeline was fairly certain the shiftling was leading her into some kind of trap, she halted. “Why are we heading west?”
From up ahead, Rooke said, “Trust me. This is the quickest route.”
Emeline’s grip tightened around the ax’s wooden handle. “Except the gate is south.”
“You want to take the gate? Be my guest.” She could almost hear him shrug. “It’s a three-day walk from the tree line, and you’ll likely be eaten before you arrive.”
Emeline frowned. Was he lying? Or had the trees failed to mention that part?
“If you’d prefer to remain alive, however, there’s an entry point just ahead. We’d be there already if not for your dawdling.”
Entry point?
Suddenly, Rooke thrust out his arm and Emeline walked straight into it.
They stood at the edge of a wooden platform that jutted out over a stagnant swamp, the surface of which was broken only by dark, twisted stumps. Pale starlight flooded down, unimpeded by any canopy, reflecting off the murky water.
“Stay quiet,” said Rooke. “I’ll do the talking.”
His footsteps echoed on the wooden ledge, the muck sucking softly on its edges. The water shifted suddenly, and Emeline got the eerie impression they were no longer alone.
“Trespasser!” hissed a wet and rushing voice.
“Settle down, Bog.” The damp, sour air muted Rooke’s voice. “It’s me.”
Silence bled around them.
“Rooke?” The thing called Bog slurped his name, almost affectionately.
Up from the mire, Bog came. As if it were pulling itself together from the swamp bed. Its crude shape mimicked the body of a person—only it was thrice as big as a person—with lumps for shoulders, stones for eyes, and a gaping mouth.
Emeline stared at the muddy form rising out of the sludge, suddenly realizing what this was. An earth spirit? The only thing she remembered from Edgewood’s stories about the damp, crotchety things was that if you wandered into their territory without an offering, you weren’t wandering out again.
“What tasty morsel have you brought me?”
Bog smacked its muddy lips, swishing closer to the ledge.
Tasty morsel?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
This was why Rooke wanted her: he needed an offering to get past Bog. Rooke was going to feed her to this earth spirit.
Emeline stepped back quickly, gripping the ax in both hands, raising it in front of her.
“I will crunch her bones…” Bog’s voice rushed across the swamp. Mud rose up over the ledge of the platform, coming for Emeline, rising over her boots and up her ankles.
“… and suck her marrow…”
Before Emeline could turn and run, muddy hands grabbed hold of her calves, pulling her towards the swamp. She threw out her arms for balance, nearly dropping the ax, then felt a swift yank. She fell, bottom first, into the sludge covering the platform.
“… and slurp her blood.”
Bog dragged her towards the edge. It was going to suck her down into its depths.
At the last moment, Rooke stepped in front of Emeline, planting his feet in the mud between her and the swamp. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m bringing her to the king.”
The pulling stopped.
With nothing to struggle against, Emeline fell back into the slop. It was cold and thick and smelled like rancid leaves. Struggling to sit up, she shoved muddy strands of hair off her face. Gross.
Bog turned his attention on the shiftling.
“You think to get free passage from me?”
“I’m paying the entry price,” said Rooke with a sigh. “For both of us.”
Before Bog could protest, Rooke drew a small knife from his belt and swiftly slashed the edge of the blade across his palm. He crouched down, held his thin hand out over the swamp, and squeezed it into a fist. Blood dribbled down, like a spool of red thread, unwinding into the water.
Immediately, Bog’s shape crumpled, seeping back into the swamp. A second later, its head came up—just below Rooke’s fist.
Bog surged upwards, locking its muddy claws around Rooke’s pale wrist, drawing his hand to its mouth. Emeline scrambled to her feet, watching in disgust as it sucked and sucked and sucked. Gorging on Rooke.
A sick feeling twisted in her stomach as Rooke’s thin shoulders hunched and his eyelids drooped, the life draining out of him. From nearby, a raven cawed anxiously.
Rooke leaned slowly forward, losing consciousness, looking as if he were about to tumble face-first into the swamp.
It’s going to drink him dry—
“Stop!” Emeline grabbed Rooke’s bony shoulder and yanked him back, away from the earth spirit. Surprised, Bog released the shiftling’s wrist. “I’ll supply the rest.”
Rooke murmured a protest, barely conscious. Emeline wiped her muddy palm on a clean patch of cardigan. Lifting the ax, she pressed its freshly sharpened edge to her skin, then pushed down and sliced hard.
Pain flashed as the blood welled up. Red and bright and glistening.
Emeline stepped to the end of the ledge and held it out for the earth spirit to take.
Bog’s cold, wet grip tightened on her arm. Emeline watched as it drew her whole hand into its dark mouth, greedily sucking. The blood rushed out of her with startling force and Emeline had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out.
Too soon, she felt weightless. Dizzy. The woods began to spin and Emeline felt herself tip. Surely, Bog had taken enough. She was going to faint if it didn’t stop soon.
She tried to tug her wrist free, but her strength was draining away, and Bog only clasped her tighter.
Awk!
Rooke’s raven friend careened out of the trees, inky feathers winking in the starlight as it dived at the earth spirit, taking angry slashes at Bog’s muddy face with its talons.
Awk! Awk!!
Bog spit out Emeline’s hand. “Bah!” It swatted at the bird, which soared in circles, dodging the blows.
“Enough, then!” Bog grumbled. “The price is paid.”
It lowered itself back into the swamp. And then, as if drawing up its skirts, the earth spirit pulled back its fens. The brown tepid water retreated to reveal two wooden steps leading down to a rotting boardwalk. It curved out over the water, disappearing into the distant trees.
Still feeling light-headed, Emeline crouched to help Rooke up. Pulling the shiftling’s arm around her shoulders, she rose to her feet, bringing him with her. He was thinner and lighter than she realized, his bony frame reminding her of a bird.
He was also a bloody, muddy mess—they both were. But she’d worry about that later.
Emeline’s soggy boots squished beneath her as she slowly helped Rooke down the steps and along the rotting boardwalk. Soon, the trees crowded in close.
Hoary gray vines sagged from their branches. As Emeline ducked and batted them aside, she caught sight of Rooke’s hand, where mud and blood were already drying in the cold night air.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
Rooke stiffened against her. “Are you sure that’s what I’m doing?”
Despite his obvious fatigue, he pushed away from Emeline. He looked formidable, suddenly. Like something straight out of one of Tom’s stories.
“You might think differently once this night is through.”
Emeline’s footsteps slowed. What is that supposed to mean?
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
They soon arrived at a particularly thick patch of vines, hung like a curtain across their path. Rooke pulled it aside and bowed his head to her.
“After you.”
When Emeline passed through, she didn’t step onto boardwalk, but flagstones. She paused, disoriented. The darkness of the woods morphed into soft, dewy lamplight and the sour-water smell of Bog was replaced by the perfumed scent of late-blooming roses.
They’d stepped out of a swamp and into … a city.
Before her lay a quiet, cobbled street lined by white row houses, many of them creeping with green ivy. The city stretched out, its streets rising and twisting towards the top of a lush green hill thick with trees. Emeline caught glimpses of rust-red rooftops and stone bridges over steep canals, of a white-bricked bell tower and a wide blue lake.
At the crest of the hill, a fortress crowned the city, gleaming like ivory in the starlight.
It was just as Tom had described it.
“The Wood King’s palace,” she whispered.