impossible to know who follows on horseback somewhere in the dark woods behind us. It only makes sense to conserve my energy, mental and otherwise, for things in which I have a hand.
For now, all I can do is ride.
I would like to think we will outrun them, that the Hounds are far enough behind that their catching us is only a distant possibility, but it is not true. I know they grow closer and closer still, though we travel so swiftly that I cannot imagine how fast the Hounds must be that they are able to move even faster.
I know that Edmund feels it, too, for just a short time after leaving our resting place, he urges his horse on even faster. I hear him scream at the animal, and I hunch even lower over Sargent’s neck, silently begging him to move faster though I know from his labored breathing that he has already been pushed too hard.
I did not have time to look at Edmund’s map. I did not even have time to ask him how far we are from the river that he is counting on to be our saving grace. But as we ride farther and farther through the trees, as the sky grows duskier with the coming evening, I hope fervently that it is near and utter muttered pleas of assistance to any who might be listening — God, the Sisters, the Grigori.
But it is not enough. It is only seconds later, only secondsafter my hurried prayers, that I hear them coming in the trees right behind us. What moves through the forest is no simple animal. I hear howling screams and know immediately that a wolf or a dog would be a blessing compared to what follows us. It is not the growl of an animal but something much, much more terrifying.
Something inhuman.
Then there is the crashing. The beasts on our tail do not give chase with the light-footed grace of a forest animal. Instead, they beat ferociously through the foliage with pure power and strength. Limbs snap off trees as the creatures barrel toward us. Their footfalls are the sound of the sky itself splitting in two.
Luisa and Sonia do not look back but keep Edmund’s pace with single-minded concentration. I focus on their backs and am running through the painfully short list of escape possibilities when I hear the unmistakable rushing of water. The path ahead brightens, first a little at a time and then all at once, and I know we are nearing the river.
“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop,” I whisper in Sargent’s ear. A river like the one Edmund described would give any horse pause, and pausing is something we cannot afford.
We burst through a clearing, and I see it, a green jewel shimmering in the fading sunlight. Even as we break free of the trees and head for the water, the Hounds are so close I can smell them, a strange mixture of fur, sweat, and something like rot.
Luisa’s horse runs into the river without hesitation followed by Luisa’s, but Sonia’s horse slows, coming to a stop near theedge of the water. I hear her urging the animal forward, pleading as if he can understand every word. It does no good. The great, gray beast stands stubbornly still.
There is only a moment — one moment in which everything moves both too slowly and too quickly — to decide what to do. It is an easy decision if only because there are so few options left.
Pulling my horse to a stop, I turn to face the Hounds.
At first, the clearing in front of me is empty. But I hear them coming, and I use the time to reach behind me, pulling the bow from across my back and grabbing an arrow from inside my knapsack. Threading the arrow and pulling it back in preparation for the Hounds is second nature, though all my practice at Whitney Grove could not prepare me for the beast that first crashes through the trees.
It is not what I expect. The creature is not black with red eyes as I imagined a Hound would be. No. Only its ears glow crimson, its fur glimmering white with the brilliance of fine cut glass. It is an eerie contrast, seeing such a beast — and a beast it is, standing nearly as tall as Sargent —
For now, all I can do is ride.
I would like to think we will outrun them, that the Hounds are far enough behind that their catching us is only a distant possibility, but it is not true. I know they grow closer and closer still, though we travel so swiftly that I cannot imagine how fast the Hounds must be that they are able to move even faster.
I know that Edmund feels it, too, for just a short time after leaving our resting place, he urges his horse on even faster. I hear him scream at the animal, and I hunch even lower over Sargent’s neck, silently begging him to move faster though I know from his labored breathing that he has already been pushed too hard.
I did not have time to look at Edmund’s map. I did not even have time to ask him how far we are from the river that he is counting on to be our saving grace. But as we ride farther and farther through the trees, as the sky grows duskier with the coming evening, I hope fervently that it is near and utter muttered pleas of assistance to any who might be listening — God, the Sisters, the Grigori.
But it is not enough. It is only seconds later, only secondsafter my hurried prayers, that I hear them coming in the trees right behind us. What moves through the forest is no simple animal. I hear howling screams and know immediately that a wolf or a dog would be a blessing compared to what follows us. It is not the growl of an animal but something much, much more terrifying.
Something inhuman.
Then there is the crashing. The beasts on our tail do not give chase with the light-footed grace of a forest animal. Instead, they beat ferociously through the foliage with pure power and strength. Limbs snap off trees as the creatures barrel toward us. Their footfalls are the sound of the sky itself splitting in two.
Luisa and Sonia do not look back but keep Edmund’s pace with single-minded concentration. I focus on their backs and am running through the painfully short list of escape possibilities when I hear the unmistakable rushing of water. The path ahead brightens, first a little at a time and then all at once, and I know we are nearing the river.
“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop,” I whisper in Sargent’s ear. A river like the one Edmund described would give any horse pause, and pausing is something we cannot afford.
We burst through a clearing, and I see it, a green jewel shimmering in the fading sunlight. Even as we break free of the trees and head for the water, the Hounds are so close I can smell them, a strange mixture of fur, sweat, and something like rot.
Luisa’s horse runs into the river without hesitation followed by Luisa’s, but Sonia’s horse slows, coming to a stop near theedge of the water. I hear her urging the animal forward, pleading as if he can understand every word. It does no good. The great, gray beast stands stubbornly still.
There is only a moment — one moment in which everything moves both too slowly and too quickly — to decide what to do. It is an easy decision if only because there are so few options left.
Pulling my horse to a stop, I turn to face the Hounds.
At first, the clearing in front of me is empty. But I hear them coming, and I use the time to reach behind me, pulling the bow from across my back and grabbing an arrow from inside my knapsack. Threading the arrow and pulling it back in preparation for the Hounds is second nature, though all my practice at Whitney Grove could not prepare me for the beast that first crashes through the trees.
It is not what I expect. The creature is not black with red eyes as I imagined a Hound would be. No. Only its ears glow crimson, its fur glimmering white with the brilliance of fine cut glass. It is an eerie contrast, seeing such a beast — and a beast it is, standing nearly as tall as Sargent —
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