Chapter 3 The Knock

Elara didn't take the path. Bram had the path. Bram had longer legs, a head start, and nothing to slow him down. She hiked Maeve's torn skirt to her knees and went straight down the ravine. Shale skidded under her heels. A branch whipped across her cheek and left a hot, stinging line. She grabbed roots, rocks, anything, and half-slid, half-fell into the dry creek bed at the bottom. Pain flared low in her belly. She froze, palm flat against it, breathing through her teeth. Stay. Please stay. The cramp faded to a dull throb. She ran. Her phone buzzed against her hip. Once. Twice. Then it wouldn't stop. She dug it out without slowing. The screen lit up her shaking fingers. Mira: where are you Mira: they locked me in my moms house like im 12 Mira: E. a crimson guard just went down the cottage road Mira: the big one. bram Mira: DONT GO HOME Elara's thumb hovered over the screen. Gran was home. She shoved the phone back in her pocket and ran faster. The creek bed came out behind the cottage, below Maeve's herb garden. Elara clawed up the bank on her hands and knees. Mud soaked through the green dress. Lavender and crushed mint flooded her nose. The kitchen light was on. No sound from the road. No boots. Not yet. She shoved the back door open so hard it bounced off the wall. Maeve spun from the stove with a ladle in her hand. One look at Elara's face and she dropped it. It clanged across the floorboards. "What did he do?" "Gran-" "What did that boy do?" "He rejected me." It came out flat, like reading somebody else's diagnosis. "In front of everyone. And I accepted it." Maeve's mouth pressed into a thin crease. She didn't say I told you so. She didn't say anything. She crossed the kitchen in three steps, pushed Elara down into a chair, yanked up the muddy skirt, and put her ear to Elara's stomach. "Gran, there's no time, Sera's guard is-" "Quiet." "He's coming here-" "Quiet, I said." Elara clamped her mouth shut. Her knee bounced. Her eyes stayed fixed on the front window and the dark gap of the road beyond it. The clock over the stove ticked. Five. Six. Seven. Maeve let out a long breath against her skin. "Two," she said. "Still two. Angry about it, but there." Elara's whole body sagged. A sob punched up out of her before she could stop it. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth. "I felt something," she whispered. "When the bond broke. Right here. I thought-" "I know what you thought." Maeve straightened, her knees cracking. Her eyes were wet, but her jaw was set like a trap. "They're Quinns. They're stubborn. Now tell me about this guard." Elara talked while Maeve moved. Maeve hauled the old canvas satchel off its hook and started throwing things in. Clean bandages. Willow bark. The little tin of yarrow salve. A bundle of dried raspberry leaf. "-and Sera hugged me, in front of everyone, and she smelled me. She said she could smell what I was hiding." Maeve's hands stopped. Just for a second. Then she yanked open the flour crock, dug her arm in to the elbow, and pulled out a coffee can. "Gran, what are you-" Maeve popped the lid. Inside were rolled bills, rubber-banded. Twenties. Fifties. More money than Elara had ever seen in one place. "Forty years of house calls," Maeve said, and stuffed the whole roll into the satchel. "I always knew what it was for. I just didn't know when." "I'm not taking your-" "You'll take what I give you." "Gran, listen. There was something in the cup. Before he said it, I smelled it on his breath." Elara grabbed her sleeve. "Bitter. Green. Like the jar on your top shelf. The one marked-" Maeve went still. Not the ordinary kind of still. The kind Elara had seen only once, the night a pup was carried into the sickhouse with his throat torn open. "Who gave him the cup?" "Sera. Dorian walked her up to the altar." Maeve looked at her for a long moment. Her lips moved without sound, like she was counting something. "Gran?" "Later." Maeve turned back to the satchel. Her hands were shaking now. "That's a question for later." "He looked at me like he didn't know me. And then-" Elara swallowed. "Right before he let go, his eyes went gold. Just for a second. And he said run." Maeve's head snapped up. "He said that?" "Only to me. Nobody else heard." Something crossed Maeve's face. Grief, maybe. Or relief. It was gone before Elara could tell which. "Well," Maeve said roughly. "First sensible thing that boy's said all night." She jammed a jar of honey into the satchel, then a wool sweater, then a pair of her own boots. "You go west. Down through the gorge, to the river. Don't stop at the bridge. They'll be watching the bridge." "Come with me." "Don't be stupid." "I'm not leaving you here with-" "I'm seventy-one years old, and I've delivered half this pack." Maeve buckled the satchel and shoved it into Elara's arms. "Nobody's going to hurt the only healer for a hundred miles." "You don't know that." "I know you're carrying the Alpha's heirs. And every hour you stay on Ironfang land, someone's working out what that's worth." Maeve took Elara's face in both hands, rough and warm and smelling of sage. "So you don't get to argue with me tonight. Do you understand?" Elara's eyes burned. "Gran-" "Do you understand me, Elara Mae?" "Yes." "Good." Maeve kissed her forehead, hard. Her lips trembled. "Shoes off. Boots on. That dress will drown you as it is." Elara's fingers shook too badly to manage the laces. Maeve knelt and tied them herself, the way she had when Elara was four. Halfway through the second knot, she stopped. Her head tilted toward the front of the house. Elara heard it a second later. Gravel crunching. Slow, heavy steps coming up the road. Somebody who didn't need to hurry. Maeve was on her feet before Elara could breathe. She flicked off the kitchen light. Darkness swallowed the room. Red moonlight bled through the front window. A shape crossed it. Huge. Broad as the doorframe. "The back," Elara whispered. "We can both go out the-" "He'll smell you on the back step. He'll smell you in the garden." Maeve dragged her across the kitchen by the wrist. "The pantry window. It opens onto the slope, and the wind's coming up out of the gorge. It'll carry your scent away from him." The footsteps stopped on the porch. Three knocks. Polite. Almost gentle. "Evening," a deep voice called through the wood. "Healer Quinn? Luna's compliments. She'd like a word with your granddaughter." Maeve shoved the pantry door open. Jars rattled on the shelves. She wrenched at the little window above the potato bin. The frame was swollen with damp. It stuck. "Gran-" "I know." Three more knocks. Harder. The cups jumped on their hooks. "I can hear you in there, old woman." Maeve braced her palm against the frame and shoved. It screeched open three inches. Five. Cold air poured in, wet and smelling of river. "Up." Elara climbed onto the bin. The satchel strap cut into her shoulder. The window was barely wide enough. She got her head and one arm through, the frame scraping her ribs- Her belly. She twisted sideways to protect it, and her hip jammed against the sill. "I'm stuck. Gran, I'm stuck-" "Breathe out." The front door shuddered under a blow that rattled every window in the house. Maeve grabbed Elara's legs and pushed. "Gran, come with me-" "I love you. Don't you dare look back." The front door exploded inward. Wood splintered. Hinges shrieked. Something heavy slammed into the kitchen table and sent it skidding across the floor. Maeve gave one last shove. Elara tumbled through the window and hit the wet slope shoulder-first. Mud slapped her cheek. The satchel thudded down beside her. She rolled, gasping, and came up on her knees in the dark. Above her, the pantry window slammed shut. Inside, Bram's voice. Close. Bored. "Where is she?" "Gone," Maeve said. "You're too late." A pause. Then a long, slow sniff. The sound of a wolf breathing in a room. "No," Bram said. "She's still warm." The back door banged open. Boots hit the step. Stopped. Elara pressed herself flat in the wet mint. Mud filled her mouth. She didn't breathe. The wind gusted up out of the gorge, cold against the back of her neck. Carrying her scent away, just like Gran said. Bram stood on the step, a black shape against the doorway. His head swung left. Right. "The Luna told me something funny tonight," he said to the dark. Casual. Like they were chatting over a fence. "Said the healer's got a secret. Two of them." Elara's fingers sank into the earth. "Bring the girl back breathing, she said." A pause. "She didn't say a word about the rest." Inside the house, Maeve made a sound. Short. Sharp. Then a thud, like something heavy hitting the floor. Then nothing. Elara's whole body jerked toward the cottage. She caught herself, nails tearing in the dirt. Don't you dare look back. Bram tilted his head, like he'd heard her heart skip. "There you are." He didn't come down the steps. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the porch boards. Then came the first crack. Loud as a snapping branch. His spine bowed. His shoulders split wider and wider, and the sound tearing out of his throat stopped being a man's. Elara knew that sound. Every wolf in Ironfang knew it. He wasn't going to chase her on two legs. He was going to hunt her.