prepared to disappear, once again, into the woods crowding the back wall of their home in rural Pennsylvania. Time for us Knights to be about our business, hunting the goblins that would hunt us , his father had said. A single ray from the setting sun had turned the bronze dagger in his fatherâs hand into a flame as he had paused to wave the weapon in a farewell.
His mother had never waved back.
Is Dad going to be gone all night? Cor had asked, every fiber in his small body on fire to be allowed to go hunting with his father and the other Knights of their people.
All night . His motherâs voice had been oddly flat. But her hand on his shoulder had been warm and gentle as she steered him back inside with a promise to read two chapters of Shiloh to him before bed.
I get to be a Knight like Dad, donât I? He thrust an imaginary blade into the air, ducking under the swipe of a goblinâs paw, its black-tipped fingers crawling at his face. He stabbed again, teeth clenched as the beast exploded in a cloud of ash. Eat bronze!
Weâll see, son .
Cor hated that expression. It usually meant no. Or worse. It meant his parents would talk late into the night, with low, angry voices that hissed and spat, filling the house with a coldness that made him creep down the stairs on tiptoes to breakfast the next morning. He was sure he could see his breath when he entered the kitchen.
But his motherâs face, the face that Cor knew was the most beautiful in the entire round world, had always made the coldness go away when she turned from the stove to smile at him.
âMama,â he whispered before he could stop himself. Eyelids burning, Cor scrubbed a forearm across his face, then sucked in a breath and let it out in little hitches which sounded suspiciously like sobs. âStupid crybaby. Just shut the hell up,â he whispered, using the raw language to shock his emotions into submission. Bold words from a boyo who was gibbering in terror, trying to hide behind a toilet a few minutes ago. Iâm surprised ye dinna wet yer trousers . His fatherâs words raked him bloody. âYou shut the hell up too,â he muttered.
The air grew colder. He squatted down and tucked his arms between stomach and thighs, resting his forehead on his knees. A strange lassitude made his joints ache, like he had aged a century in the last year. He closed his eyes.
A nightmare image exploded in his head. An image of his motherâs body, pinned to the large oak in their backyard, like a sacrifice. She hung from a set of antlers, driven through her chest and into the trunk; her head flopped over onto her shoulder from a snapped neck.
A figure stood by the foot of the tree, the oak his father had always called the godsâ tree. In the boyâs mindâs eye, the creature turned and looked at him.
Corâs eyes flew open. With a gasp, he lurched to his feet, swiveling on his heel as he tried to watch every direction at the same time. He held his breath, desperate to hear his fatherâs voice or footsteps. Silence filled his ears in a warning. No breeze. No birds. Not even a distant car. It was like the whole world had decided to call it quits for the day.
He thought he heard feet crunching on gravel echoed in the tunnel behind him. He spun around to face the opening and took a step back.
Into thin air.
Windmilling his arms, he fought the losing battle against gravity and almost won. For just a second, he swayed on the edge of the ledge. Then, gravity shook its head no and pulled him. He landed with a sickening crunch. It was like being hit with the side of the entire planet. Which it was.
A white-hot pain tore him apart.
Then nothing.
For a moment, Shay Doyle thought someone was committing suicide. Frozen with disbelief, she watched a body plummet from the ledge overhead, limbs flailing. The figure landed with a crunch and a thud in a thicket of scrub oak just a few yards from where she had paused to