Wolves and the River of Stone Read Free Page A

struck out across the small road.
    “I can’t believe the road was named Mount Zion Church.”
    “Follow me,” Foster said as a tiny smile curled his lips.
    We moved through the woods quickly. Daylight vanished into the permanent twilight of the forest. Twigs and branches caught at my clothes as leaves crumbled, whispering around my feet. I held my staff in front of my face to deflect the worst of the low hanging branches. Foster fluttered nimbly between the leaves, leading us closer to the church. The dead were all around us now. I knew if I looked, I’d see the first signs of soldiers staring blankly at us from their gray bodies and ancient uniforms, surrounded by the calm flow of black, white, and dead auras. I crushed a small patch of honeysuckle as we hurried through a sunny clearing, the sweet smells of the plant an anathema to the tightening of my gut.
    There was a flash of white and an explosion of fairy dust in front of me an instant before I walked into Foster’s seven-foot-tall back with a grunt. It was a damn good thing I’d remembered my allergy medicine that morning. It’s hard to be stealthy in the middle of a sneezing fit. Foster took in my scowl and shot me a grin, shrugging as if to say sorry about that. He pointed to the southeast. I followed the direction he indicated and could just make out the white church and the small graveyard beside it.
    We shifted to the northeast and settled in the woods beyond the graves before a flash of color caught my eye. From our new vantage point, I could make out a man’s silhouette near the edge of the church. I could see the close-cropped full beard on his round face. A bowler was perched over his formidable forehead and crooked nose. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew they were small, black, and beady. The instant after I recognized Philip, I realized the crumpled form on the ground was Zola, her head leaning against a weathered and mossy headstone. Another figure had its foot propped against her neck.
    It took everything I had not to run at them with guns blazing. I looked at Foster and saw the rage creasing his forehead, a mirror of my own. His hand had turned white where he held the hilt of his sword in a death grip.
    “We kill that one and Philip kills Zola before we get out there,” I whispered.
    Foster nodded. “Kill Philip, and the other one kills her. Shit. Let’s see if they shift positions.”
    Philip’s voice rose and we could both hear his words clearly. “Tell me where she is or I’ll leave you here in pieces.” He pushed off the wall with his hands and casually kicked Zola in the ribs. She flexed in pain. Philip’s partner stepped down harder until Zola was gasping for air. Philip grabbed Zola’s hair, pushed the other person away, and dragged my master to her feet. She wobbled, but stood fast.
    “Tell me where she is.” He shook her head as he spoke.
    Zola, true to form, spit a bucket’s worth of blood across his face.
    I could hear the impact as Pinkerton’s partner hit Zola in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle. Zola went down hard. As she hit the ground, I got my first clear look at the accomplice: a middle-aged blonde woman with a glare that could keep a demon at bay. She laughed as Zola moaned. Philip looked at the woman, then back to Zola, without any hint of emotion.
    Foster touched my shoulder. When I looked up, he drew a finger across his neck and then pointed at the other woman. He motioned to my staff and I handed it over. I nodded and shifted my weight forward as he moved silently through the graveyard and into the woods on the other side. They were causing too much damage to Zola for us to wait much longer. It was time to return the favor.
    Philip crossed his arms behind his back and paced down the side of the small church, beneath the thin gothic windows adorning the building. I took that moment to move forward. “It’s over, Philip. Let her go.” I spoke loudly, projecting my voice as best I could as I