An Artificial Night

Better the forest than the Hunt. The day had started badly and kept getting worse, and now here I was, nine years old and alone in a dark forest with Huntsmen on one side and the unknown on the other, and nothing but a candle to light my way.

Some days it really doesn’t pay to get out of bed.

TEN

BRANCHES SNATCHED AT MY HAIR as the trees closed around me, blocking my view of the plains. I ducked away from them, walking deeper into the wood. It didn’t seem like the smart choice—going deeper into the dark, foreboding forest so rarely is—but if I’d wanted the smart choice, I wouldn’t have come to Blind Michael’s lands in the first place. At least my fae blood gives me pretty good night vision—between that and the glow of my candle, I was able to see well enough not to fall. The candle’s flame was burning a steady blue, which I chose to interpret as a good thing. It turned orange when the Hunt was nearby, and if I was lucky, it might keep acting as an early warning system. Frankly, I needed the help.

I continued to pick my way through the trees, trying to avoid the rocks and trailing roots that turned the already uneven ground into a maze of obstacles. Branches kept snarling in my hair, pulling me to sudden, unexpected stops, and my patience was running out. I was bruised, scratched, and frightened, and in an incredibly bad mood to boot. I was also no closer to my goal. The Hunt came from the mountains and rode back the same way. I didn’t know where the boundaries of Blind Michael’s lands were drawn, but the geography seemed to be at least semilinear. I wouldn’t find the kids by walking away from them.

The forest was far from silent. Owls hooted in the distance, and small creatures rustled through the underbrush, rattling the leaves. The faint chorus almost made me feel better—you’re not likely to find many monsters in a place where there’s still wildlife. Of course, that could just mean nothing in this forest was harmless, but I was trying not to think about that. Vampire bunnies did not appeal. It seemed to be getting darker as I walked, the glow of my candle nearly vanishing into the shadows. The sounds around me faded out as well, getting softer and softer until they were gone. I didn’t like that at all. If King Kong came bursting out of the bushes, I was going to be pissed. Swallowing hard, I continued to walk.

No giant apes appeared. Instead, the trees opened up into a clearing. I stopped, leaning forward as I tried to catch my breath. I’d forgotten how much longer distances were to a child. My legs hurt, my knees hurt, and all I wanted was the chance to curl up somewhere and sleep it off. And there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

Something snapped in the brush. I straightened, eyes flicking automatically to my candle, which was still burning a serene blue. That might mean I wasn’t in danger, but it could also mean the spell only reacted to Blind Michael’s Hunters, and I didn’t want to take that chance. Whirling, I darted across the clearing to a hollow, half- rotten tree, dropped to my knees, and squirmed inside. It was surprisingly easy to wedge myself there; I’d forgotten how small I was. Then I waited, half holding my breath, to see what would happen next.

The snap was repeated, followed by rustling that continued for several minutes. I stayed frozen in my hiding place, managing not to scream as a figure stepped out of the trees directly ahead of me. My candle was still burning blue. Swell. Either whoever it was wasn’t a danger, or I couldn’t count on the candle to act as an early warning system. Watching whoever it was approach, I didn’t have a clue which it was.

The figure was thin and hooded, its outline obscured by an ankle-length cloak. It held a lantern in one hand; the light filled the clearing with a dim white glow. It drifted to a stop, raising the lantern to head height. One hand was lifted in a beckoning gesture. A branch swung toward it, stopping as it brushed the outstretched fingers.

“Ah,” the figure said, in a voice as soft and dry as dead leaves on the wind. Despite the rustling thinness of the voice, I could tell it was female. “I see.” She lowered her hand, rubbing her fingers together. “We have a visitor.”

Oh, oak and ash. I scrambled farther into my hiding place, cupping one hand around the candle to block the light. It burned my fingers, and I still wasn’t sure she couldn’t see it.

“Come out,” she called. She turned in a slow circle, pulling back her hood. “This is my wood. Come out and let me see you.” Lantern light fell over her face as she moved, bringing her into harsh visibility.

Her skin was daffodil yellow. Tendrils of brown and gold hair snaked around her cheeks, so matted and snarled that they looked almost like thin tree roots. They writhed constantly, twisting themselves into knots and curls. Her eyes were long and narrow and the color of brass from end to end; her pupils were thin silver lines visibly contracted against the light, like a cat’s, or a serpent’s. I’d never seen anything like her.

I shivered, wishing the Luidaeg was there. She’d have known what to do. There was something painfully ironic about that desire; I wasn’t a child, but I looked like one, and I was wishing for the sea witch to come and save me.

The woman frowned, eyes narrowing as I failed to appear. “I know you can hear me; the trees felt you pass. They can’t tell me where you are, but they know you’re here. Come out before you make me angry.” Her features were generous and well-formed, with a nose that was a little sharp and a lower lip that was a bit too large. Still, she was pretty, or had been once—a heavy scar ran from just under her left eye to her chin, pulling the side of her mouth into a permanently puckered scowl. There’s only one thing that can scar a pureblood like that. Iron.

And she was a pureblood. I could taste the purity of her blood like fire on my tongue, almost hot enough to actually burn. Whatever she was, it was strong. Strong enough that she might be Firstborn. The Luidaeg is the only Firstborn I’ve ever dealt with on a regular basis, and her power is subtle, damped down until she can seem human to the casual observer. This woman’s power wasn’t hidden at all. It blazed all around her, seeming brighter than the lantern light. And something had been fast enough and strong enough to run a scar down her face. Whatever it was, I hoped it wasn’t in the forest with us.

I stayed huddled in the dubious safety of my hiding place, shivering harder. My heart seemed impossibly loud to my terrified ears, and for an illogical moment, I was afraid it would lead her to me. It was so loud. How could she miss it?

She lowered the lantern, frown deepening. “My name is Acacia, and these are my woods,” she said. “If you seek Blind Michael, go toward the mountains; if you seek me, come out now. If you seek neither of us, go home by whatever road you choose. But do not hide from me in my own places, or it will not go well for you, no matter what your quest may be.” She paused, waiting. I didn’t speak. “Very well. Never say you had no choice.”

The branches bent to allow her passage as she turned and walked out of the clearing, her cloak billowing behind her. I’ve seen Luna get similar treatment from her roses, but never on such a grand scale; this woman seemed to be in command of the entire forest.

I stayed where I was for what felt like an eternity, listening to the silence. Her footsteps had faded; she was gone. At least I hoped she was—she could be lurking in the underbrush, waiting for me to come out. Why hadn’t she seen me? The forest obviously obeyed her, and my candle wasn’t that well hidden. If she was in control of the trees, they should have led her straight to me. So why hadn’t they?

The sounds of the forest slowly returned, and I started to breathe again. Uncurling cautiously, I stuck my head out of the hollow tree and looked around the empty clearing. If I ran, I might make it back to the plains before she found me. The threat of the Hunters had dimmed before the threat of the forest. They would just take me to Blind Michael. This woman might do anything.

Something brushed against my shoulder. I flinched, somehow managing not to scream. When I made it home—if I made it home—I was going to allow myself the luxury of a long, unhurried panic attack, but this wasn’t the time. Taking a deep breath, I asked, “Who’s there?”

For once, luck was with me. An anxious, familiar voice answered, “It’s Raj. I … the forest is very dark.”

“Yes. It is.” I looked to the right and saw Raj crouched beside my tree, making himself as small as he possibly could. “How did you get away from Acacia?”

“The yellow woman?” He snorted, arrogance returning as he said, “She asked the trees about invaders, but not about animals, so they didn’t tell her. Trees aren’t very smart.”

“Clever.” I meant it. When I was fourteen, I thought trees were things to climb, not things you could trick. “Why did you come back?”

“Because of her.” I looked at him blankly, and he said, “She was looking for you. I don’t think she’d have been