CHAPTER 4

THE STARS GUIDE ME ON MY JOURNEY TOWARD BELLADOMA. I HAVE NOT a second to spare, and I walk all night instead of sleeping.

Shadows follow me through the woods as the trees grow denser. Clinging vines drape from the branches, occasionally slapping my face with reminders to stay awake. I’m exhausted, but terrified that if I stop, the witch and her chicken hut will scoop me up. I don’t trust her to keep her word. If she knows my scent, she won’t have any trouble following me.

The night slinks away as dawn creeps over the sky. The rays of sun don’t warm me, not like they used to do. I can’t help thinking of the monster girl, Kymera. If I could fly like her, I’d reach Belladoma in no time. Perhaps I could even find the cornucopia just from hunting above the trees.

But I am not like her. And I will get by as I always have: with my own wits.

I sigh and pull my cloak closer. Dew dampens it, but the sun will dry it out as the day goes on. I can’t shake the feeling that something watches me from the trees. The chicken hut may not have eyes, but I am sure the witch has a means of watching.

I just hope she hasn’t changed her mind already.

Before long, my unease deepens. Bird calls are few and far between. The usual sounds of squirrels in the underbrush have all but vanished. Only my footfalls echo through this section of the forest.

Something is wrong here.

This time no accompanying stench marks it as the chicken hut and the witch. I duck low between the trees but keep as fast a pace as possible. I need to hide. Something is near, and it scared away the wildlife. If I’d slept last night, I might have noticed it sooner.

Before I know what has happened, the terrain takes an unexpectedly steep dive. I stumble head over feet, bushes ripping at my cloak and face. Rocks and roots punch into my sides and arms. Everything blurs into a mass of green and brown and blue sky.

Then I stop.

First I focus on breathing. My lungs ache, and I can feel bruises forming all over my body. The cuts and scrapes on my face and hands sting like nettles. Then I open my eyes.

I’m not alone.

I must be seeing things. They’re supposed to be extinct. But the man brandishing a spear at my chest definitely has the lower body of a horse. Several of the people behind him have goat legs, marking them as fauns.

Hybrids.

I thought the wizard killed all that remained to steal their magic.

Except, apparently, these hybrids.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” demands the centaur holding the spear at my chest.

“N-nothing,” I stutter. “I’m headed for Belladoma.” Just saying that awful city’s name turns my stomach. It does the same for the centaur, judging by the sneer on his face.

“Belladoma. Are you one of the wizard’s people?” He nudges me with the butt of the spear.

“Ow! No. I hate the wizard.”

He snorts. “Why should we believe that?”

“Because I helped Bryre get rid of him. He’s long dead now; I saw it myself.” If we both hate the wizard, we at least have some common ground.

A murmur rumbles through the gathering crowd of hybrids. Women with snake tails, and men with wings—I can’t name them all, but I recognize them from the hedge sculptures in Bryre’s palace gardens. All these creatures I was sure were fictional stand before me. Menacingly.

“You’re lying. Wizards can’t be killed,” the centaur says.

“Yes, they can.” Why is this wound still raw after all these months?

More gasps. He prods me again with the spear. “Get up. We can’t risk you running off and telling people about us. Secrecy is the only reason we’re alive.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“For now, you’re our prisoner. Get up, and come with us.”

Tiny ribbons of panic slice up my chest. “I have to get to Belladoma. My brother is depending on me.”

“Get up,” he growls.

Slowly, I rise to my feet, arms outstretched. “Please. You don’t understand. If I don’t get to Belladoma, my brother will die.”

The centaur paws the ground with a hoof and scoffs. “You’re lying. Probably about everything. We can’t take any chances with you.”

“I’m not, I swear it!” I cry. Several more centaurs materialize from the forest, far too close for comfort with their long spears. They aren’t going to let me go.

Instead, I’m herded toward a path I hadn’t seen before.

“Please—”

“If you value your life, do not speak again.”

I clamp my jaw shut as a faun approaches with a hood of dark material. I stifle my objection. Of course they’ll blindfold me. They don’t want me to know where we go, nor how to escape.

But they don’t know me.

I’ll put every ounce of life I have into breaking free.

I feel like I’ve stumbled around in the darkness for hours, though I suspect not much time has actually passed. We have reached what must be a village. Activity buzzes around me, and the faun finally pulls the hood off my head.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he says.

My jaw drops. The entire village is full of hybrids. The legends are wrong. When the wizard hunted them, these must have banded together and hidden themselves in order to survive. How deep into the forest did I wander?

Houses of all shapes and sizes line the cobblestone streets. Flashes of fins and faces dot the river surrounding the town. Platforms suspended in trees rise over our heads, and the winged hybrids perch there. Above it all, a huge canopy of green leaves and branches squeezes out every inch of sky, providing perfect cover from any prying eyes. Everything below is filtered in green light and shadows. In the center of the village sits the largest tree I’ve ever seen—undoubtedly the source of the foliage.

My eyes drink it all in, marking the locations of paths and huts and, most important, any potential exits.

They lead me through the village, and the eyes of the hybrids we pass burn into my skin. Do I appear as strange to them as they do to me? Have they even seen a human before?

And more concerning—what, exactly, do hybrids eat?

I crane my neck as we pass the humongous tree trunk, watching the red-flecked leaves of a vine drape down and sway in the breeze. By the time we round the trunk, I understand where they’re taking me: a knotted hole in one of the tree’s visible roots. It’s half as big as our house in Bryre, and an iron grate hangs open in front of it. Several holes like it dot this side of the trunk, but all are empty.

“Get in.” The lead centaur points to the hole.

My muscles tense as every nerve in my body screams at me to bolt. I can’t go in there. If I do, there’s no guarantee I’ll ever get out. That would guarantee the witch will eat Hans.

The faun holding on to me shoves me forward; I pretend to stumble and then dodge to the side and sprint around the tree.

First they gape. Then they swarm.

Hoofbeats pound after me, too fast, and harpies swoop down, trying to carry me away. I don’t even reach the other side of the massive tree before what seems like the entire village surrounds me.

Judging by their weapons and expressions, they are not pleased to have to ask me twice to get in the tree-root prison.

The lead centaur yanks me and pins my arms behind my back, forcing me to march awkwardly back to the cell. Once there, he opens the door and shoves me forward, not releasing my arms until I’m inside the cage.

I rub my sore wrists as the gate swings closed behind me.