If the Russakan prince was hunting for human wolves in Westfalin, then Oliver had no doubt that Grigori had the blessing of King Gregor and probably King Phillippe of Analousia as well. Oliver and his men crossed the border with impunity and had robbed travelers from many lands. But even knowing his own crimes, Oliver had hoped that the men hunting them were vigilantes who had simply lost a purse or two to the bandits. That way Oliver had no qualms about evading them or taking stronger action if the hunters came too close to the old hall. But if they had royal support, any retaliation would be treason as well as murder.
Oliver was on the wrong side of the road now, with the wall of the estate preventing him from fading into the forest, and the hunters were almost outpacing him. He would have to take to the trees or go over the wall and hide on the grounds for a time.
When he thought the trees were thick enough to conceal him, he stopped and listened until he heard the horses go past. Oliver located a sturdy elm that had branches that hung over the wall of the estate and swung himself up. He sat in the crook of one of the larger branches and listened some more, pushing back his hood so that he could hear better. They were definitely on foot now; the underbrush was too thick for a mounted search.
Oliver leaned along the branch as far as he could, looking through the dry, rattling leaves that still clung to the winter branches. There was no snow on the yellowed lawns of the estate, and the bareness of the bushes and trees provided little concealment. It had been a terrible winter: bitter cold yet with little snow.
Still, if he made a break back through the trees he would have to cross the road at some point, and he felt certain that Grigori would catch him. So instead Oliver quickly shed his mask and cloak and bundled it into another crook of the tree’s branches. It looked rather like a large, mossy nest. Then he slithered out to the end of the branch, which bent under his weight and dropped him down on the grounds of the estate, hidden from Grigori and his men by the high wall.
Straightening his leather jerkin, he did his best to look like a gardener off on some serious task, and strode along one of the winding gravel paths where he had played as a small child. If memory served, there were several outbuildings on the grounds. One of them was bound to be empty, and he could hide for a time before slipping back over the fence and on his way.
He came around a large juniper bush and nearly bumped into two men with a wheelbarrow full of dead branches. Oliver froze for a moment, but the men just nodded and continued on. Oliver managed to fight down the urge to flee, and nodded back. As he passed them, forcing himself to walk with purpose, he heard one of the men say, “Another new one. I wonder which of us got the ax this time.”
To Oliver’s immense relief, another turn of the path brought him to the hothouses. In his childhood the last one in the row had been a treasure trove of old potting tables and other discarded paraphernalia. Peering through the old, dingy glass he saw that it was not being put to any better use now. He unlatched the door and hurried inside.
Nothing had changed. Oliver could have navigated the rickety tables and cracked urns with his eyes closed. The floor at the front was remarkably clean, but that was the only improvement. He found the old bench just where he had left it. It was stone, badly chipped, and covered in a thick layer of old burlap sacks. Oliver shoved them to the floor, coughing at the resulting cloud of dust, and settled himself on the bench. He braced his feet on the edge of one of the tables and tried to rest. It would be far easier to leave in the dark. The hunters were rarely out then, afraid of running into four-legged wolves or having a horse put a foot wrong.
It was late afternoon, and the sky was already beginning to darken, so he knew he wouldn’t have long to wait. But as the purple-gray twilight took over the weak winter day, Oliver fell asleep.
When he awoke it was completely dark. The darkness was strange and thick, and Oliver thought he heard someone whispering. He sat up very slowly and peered into the blackness. The door opened, and Oliver made himself as still as possible. Every urn in the hothouse rattled, as though there was an earthquake, but Oliver felt nothing. There was a howl of laughter and the hothouse door slammed shut, leaving Oliver feeling distinctly alone. But if he was alone now, what had been in the hothouse with him a moment before?
Cursing, he stumbled through the darkness. Once he reached the door, he slipped through, pausing only for a moment to listen for someone outside. Shadows seemed to wind through the hedges, shadows that had nothing to do with the moonlight and the pattern of darkness cast by the trees and shrubs. Oliver followed in the wake of the weird shadows, across the lawns, to the great estate house itself.
It was very late, and all the windows were dark. Oliver found himself praying silently that someone would light a lamp or a candle, even if the light exposed him. What were those things crawling across the lawn? With a mounting sense of horror, he saw the dark shapes reach the house.
With a terrible laugh, the shadow creatures pulled themselves up the wall to a window on the second floor that was open despite the cold. Oliver hid behind a fountain. The room they had just entered had been his childhood bedroom. Whose was it now? He prayed again, this time that the room had not been given to Petunia.
His question was answered a few moments later when a young woman’s voice cried out, the sound carrying clearly through the open window. She screamed out denials, she screamed out insults, and over and over again she reviled someone called “Kestilan.”
“Oh, ye gods, Petunia,” Oliver whispered from his concealment. “What is all this?”
Oliver didn’t know what to do. There were … things crawling up the wall of the manor house. He was armed, but what would he be shooting at? Shadows moving on the wall? And what if he fired through the window and hit Petunia?
Something rushed by him, cackling, and Oliver swung at it. His arm went cold where it passed through the shadow, but there was nothing of substance to meet his fist. The attempted punch did not go unnoticed, however, and the shadow creature turned and hovered in front of Oliver.
“Stay away from her,” Oliver said, trying to sound dangerous and not terrified.
Another cackling laugh. The shadow reached out and put its hand into Oliver’s chest. A sheath of ice instantly covered his heart, and then the shadow squeezed. Oliver gasped as intense pain flared in his chest, streaking through his entire body. He tried to step back but found that he couldn’t move so much as an eyelid.
“She is not for you,” the shadow said in a low, harsh voice. “She is for us. All of them are for us.”
“No,” Oliver gasped out.
“Yes,” the shadow snarled.
Then it pulled its hand back. Oliver fell to his knees, choking for air.
“What are you?”
But the shadow was gone.
Oliver struggled back to his feet, clutching his chest in one hand. He looked around, but he was alone in the garden now. Through Petunia’s window he could still hear faint cries.
No one in the house seemed to have been roused at all. How was it possible that these creatures could have attacked the house and he was the only witness? Hadn’t even her maid heard her screaming and come to see if she was all right?
Oliver crept closer to the house, stopping behind a large azalea. Squinting at the darkness of her window, he saw a figure in white. It was Petunia. She pushed the curtains aside and stood there for a few heartbeats, then closed them with a jerk.
“There,” Oliver muttered to himself. “She’s fine. Whatever those things were, they’re gone. And there’s nothing I can do to help her, anyway.”
But that was a lie, and Oliver knew it. He had to help her, somehow. Something or someone had set out to harm Petunia. Someone far more wicked than himself, with his coach robbing and his botched abduction of the princess.