and wrinkled his nose. The wind carried a faint stench. He left the path and made his way to the end of the ledge, where the Summerchild flew off a cliff. Probably a dead deer, but he should look. If the carcass was in the water, it would poison Summerhillâs water supply.
At the top of the waterfall, flat stones formed a dotted line across the stream, like worn-down teeth. Once, before the big avalanche changed the face of Buttertop, the pathhad crossed over here. But no one used this ford anymore, and the track was nearly lost under roots and dry twigs.
Niklas stepped out on the first stone. The Summerchild rushed past him, misting the air where it fell. He saw no deer, but he heard a rumble, so soft his ears strained to pick it up under the splashing of the stream. He felt it too, a tremor under his feet that brought out goose bumps on his arms.
A howl cut through the mist. Niklas froze, stunned by how strange it sounded. Sharp like the scream of a fox, but so dark it had to come from the throat of a much bigger creature. On the far bank, behind some slender rowans, a single light appeared. Round and big like a flashlight, except there was no beam, and it looked somehow . . . hungry.
Twigs began to snap, the rowan trunks creaked and yielded, and suddenly there were two lights instead of one.
Eyes.
Niklas Summerhill was no coward, but neither was he a complete idiot.
He turned and fled.
C HAPTER T HREE
T he beast ran faster than him.
Niklas took all the shortcuts he knew, pivoting around the right branches as the path jackknifed down through the woods. The creature behind him was not so limber. For every turn it made, he heard it crash into a tree or thump against a stone. Even so, it gained on him.
When they emerged onto the Oldmeadow, the path looped through the grass in a wide curve with nothing to slow the beast down. Niklas had to think of something, now, or it would catch him.
He veered right and plunged into the thigh-high grass. Nettles licked at his hands as he cut across the field, dodging stones and grooves in the ground. The wind made the grass hiss, bringing the foul smell with it. The bearâit had to be a bear; Niklas couldnât think of any other animal this big and heavyâmust be very sick or hurt. He felt a coldtug in his belly. There was nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal.
The beast howled behind him, the same eerie, distorted scream, and so close now. Niklas wanted to look over his shoulder, but he couldnât afford it. The beast came closer for every step. He needed to hide.
They were coming up on the southwest corner of the Oldmeadow, where the path crossed the Summerchild over Oak Bridge.
Niklas knew he wouldnât make it to the bridge. He broke right again, down into the streambed, hurtling into the water. On the far bank, he slammed down on his belly and scrambled under a dense mass of juniper brambles. Dry needles crackled as he crawled in between the bushes.
The beast splashed into the water and stopped. Niklas couldnât see it, but he could smell it, and he could hear it, snorting and wheezing, sniffing at the shrub.
It could smell him, too.
A slithering breath gusted under the juniper. Under the branches, the eyes appeared again, pale green discs, broken into pieces by the twigs. The beast grunted and began pulling the bushes out of the ground, roots and all.
Niklas pushed himself up the bank, squeezing deeper and deeper into the shrub, until he rolled out between two knobby juniper limbs and saw a latticed canopy far above. The oak tree!
He stumbled across the path and clawed his way up the gnarled trunk until he got high enough for the branches to thin. Only then dared he to look down.
A bare wedge of ravaged earth cut into the shrub, reaching almost to the other side. The far bank of the stream was strewn with torn and tossed junipers. But there was no hulking shape, no green eyes. The beast had disappeared.
Niklas tried to keep
At the top of the waterfall, flat stones formed a dotted line across the stream, like worn-down teeth. Once, before the big avalanche changed the face of Buttertop, the pathhad crossed over here. But no one used this ford anymore, and the track was nearly lost under roots and dry twigs.
Niklas stepped out on the first stone. The Summerchild rushed past him, misting the air where it fell. He saw no deer, but he heard a rumble, so soft his ears strained to pick it up under the splashing of the stream. He felt it too, a tremor under his feet that brought out goose bumps on his arms.
A howl cut through the mist. Niklas froze, stunned by how strange it sounded. Sharp like the scream of a fox, but so dark it had to come from the throat of a much bigger creature. On the far bank, behind some slender rowans, a single light appeared. Round and big like a flashlight, except there was no beam, and it looked somehow . . . hungry.
Twigs began to snap, the rowan trunks creaked and yielded, and suddenly there were two lights instead of one.
Eyes.
Niklas Summerhill was no coward, but neither was he a complete idiot.
He turned and fled.
C HAPTER T HREE
T he beast ran faster than him.
Niklas took all the shortcuts he knew, pivoting around the right branches as the path jackknifed down through the woods. The creature behind him was not so limber. For every turn it made, he heard it crash into a tree or thump against a stone. Even so, it gained on him.
When they emerged onto the Oldmeadow, the path looped through the grass in a wide curve with nothing to slow the beast down. Niklas had to think of something, now, or it would catch him.
He veered right and plunged into the thigh-high grass. Nettles licked at his hands as he cut across the field, dodging stones and grooves in the ground. The wind made the grass hiss, bringing the foul smell with it. The bearâit had to be a bear; Niklas couldnât think of any other animal this big and heavyâmust be very sick or hurt. He felt a coldtug in his belly. There was nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal.
The beast howled behind him, the same eerie, distorted scream, and so close now. Niklas wanted to look over his shoulder, but he couldnât afford it. The beast came closer for every step. He needed to hide.
They were coming up on the southwest corner of the Oldmeadow, where the path crossed the Summerchild over Oak Bridge.
Niklas knew he wouldnât make it to the bridge. He broke right again, down into the streambed, hurtling into the water. On the far bank, he slammed down on his belly and scrambled under a dense mass of juniper brambles. Dry needles crackled as he crawled in between the bushes.
The beast splashed into the water and stopped. Niklas couldnât see it, but he could smell it, and he could hear it, snorting and wheezing, sniffing at the shrub.
It could smell him, too.
A slithering breath gusted under the juniper. Under the branches, the eyes appeared again, pale green discs, broken into pieces by the twigs. The beast grunted and began pulling the bushes out of the ground, roots and all.
Niklas pushed himself up the bank, squeezing deeper and deeper into the shrub, until he rolled out between two knobby juniper limbs and saw a latticed canopy far above. The oak tree!
He stumbled across the path and clawed his way up the gnarled trunk until he got high enough for the branches to thin. Only then dared he to look down.
A bare wedge of ravaged earth cut into the shrub, reaching almost to the other side. The far bank of the stream was strewn with torn and tossed junipers. But there was no hulking shape, no green eyes. The beast had disappeared.
Niklas tried to keep
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