Winterwood by JG Faherty

master’s command to charge.
    â€œHo!” the King roared, his voice echoing up and down the street. The Hunt leaped forward, the King in the lead, his massive axe in hand.
    Anders looked around. They were still blocks away from the house. Darkened stores and restaurants offered no safety. Up ahead, a stoplight swung back and forth in the wind, its green glow—
    A memory rose up in Anders’s mind. Something his father had told him as a child.
    â€œThere are only two ways to defeat the Hunt. Join it or take yourself to a crossroads.”
    A crossroads. Like a four-way intersection?
    â€œCome on.” Anders pushed the others toward the center of the road, directly under the traffic light.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Anna tried to break free. “We have to run.”
    â€œNo time. Kneel down.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œTrust me, please.” He stared into his daughter’s eyes. An arrow struck the ground nearby, the metal head throwing up sparks as it zinged by. Please, daughter…
    â€œAll right.” She knelt, pulling the children down with her. Anders joined them, his knees touching the road just as Paul cried out and grabbed his arm. Blood flowed from between his fingers and he collapsed next to his wife. Anders prayed his father had gotten the old tales right. He put his arms around Anna and Paul and held on tight.
    The thunder of the Hunt reached a deafening crescendo and Anders ducked his head, certain he’d made a mistake, that this was the end…
    Cold enveloped him, worse than any winter wind, worse than falling into a frozen lake. The cold of deep space. He felt his flesh hardening, his blood turning to ice. Ghostly images flashed by, their phosphorescent shapes passing through clothing and bodies, sucking heat and life as they went. Someone screamed. A tremendous pressure built in Anders’s head, like diving too deep in a lake. He cried out and pressed his hands over his ears.
    And then it all stopped.
    Thunder, screams, bitter cold. All of it gone in an instant.
    Anders looked up. A hundred yards down the road, the Holly King glared furiously in their direction, the Hunt lined up behind him. When he made no move to charge again, Anders let out a sigh.
    The old tales had been true after all. Thank you, Vater. That was twice his father had saved him, once as a child and now again. A debt that could never be paid. At least not until the afterlife.
    â€œPrepare to die, mortals,” the King shouted. The ogres cheered and shook their weapons, but none of them moved forward. Even the hounds remained in place.
    Nick whimpered and Anders put a hand on the boy’s back.
    â€œNot tonight,” Anders called out. “We’re safe as long as we remain within the crossroads. And we can stay here until morning, while you must return to Winterwood before light strikes the horizon.”
    The Holly King lowered his axe. His eyes narrowed. One of the hounds howled in frustration and the ogres muttered curses.
    â€œSo, you know the old ways. But there will be other Hunts.”
    Anders nodded. “And we’ll be safely inside, with warm drinks and gifts. You’ll never have us on your table, Father Ice.”
    â€œPerhaps. Perhaps not. Who knows what the future holds?” the King kicked his stag, which reared up on its hind legs and let loose an angry shriek. “Ho!”
    The Hunt stormed forward and Anders ducked. Once more the supernatural cold swept through him as the riders and their mounts turned into harmless phantoms, spectral hooves drumming the ground but impotent against flesh.
    When the last of the riders passed through, Anders turned to watch the flickering Veil fold in on itself behind the Hunt. A brisk wind whistled to life and Anders felt it tugging at him, trying to draw him into the shrinking Veil. Ulaf’s body tumbled down the street and vanished into the metaphysical curtain just before it closed with a pop .
    The