Until, finally, the carriage veered off the commonly traveled road onto a bumpier path heading straight into the forest.

  Serilda braced herself as the tree cover loomed ahead of them, half expecting to feel a change in the air as they passed into the shadows of the boughs. A chill trickled down her spine. But she felt nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps that the air grew a tinge warmer, with the trees offering shelter from the wind.

  It was also much darker, and though she squinted for any glimpses afforded by the full moon, its light barely filtered through the tight-knit branches. Occasionally there were faint silver glimmers alighting on a gnarled tree trunk. Illuminating a pool of standing water. Catching the beat of wings as some nocturnal bird flitted between the boughs.

  It was a wonder the bahkauv could find their way, or that the coachman knew where to go in such darkness. But their pace never slowed. The thud of their hooves was louder here, echoing back to her from the forest.

  Travelers rarely ventured into the Aschen Wood unless they had no other choice, and with good reason. Mortals did not belong here.

  For the first time, she began to feel afraid.

  “Stop it, Serilda,” she muttered, letting the curtain close. There wasn’t much point in looking out at the scenery, anyhow, with the darkness growing thicker by the moment. She glanced at the skull lantern and imagined that it was watching her.

  She smiled at it.

  It did not smile back.

  “You look hungry,” she said, opening the pack her father had sent. “Just skin and bones … without even the skin.” She pulled out the cheese and broke it in half, then held one portion out to the lantern.

  The nostrils flared, and she imagined she could hear a long, airy sniff. Before the teeth pulled back in disgust.

  “Suit yourself.” Leaning against the bench, she took a bite, reveling in the comfort of something as simple as salty, crumbly cheese. “With teeth like that, you’re probably used to hunting for your food. I wonder what type of beast you were. Not a wolf. At least, not a normal one. A dire wolf perhaps, but no—even bigger.” She pondered a long time, while the candle flame wavered unhelpfully. “I suppose I could ask the coachman, but he doesn’t seem the chatty sort. You two must get along well.”

  She had just finished the hunk of cheese when she felt a change in the path under the carriage wheels. From the vibration and bounce of a rough, rarely traversed forest road to something smooth and straight.

  Serilda peeled back the curtain again.

  To her surprise, they had passed outside of the woods and were heading toward an enormous lake that shimmered with moonlight. It was surrounded by more forests to the east and, though she couldn’t see them in the darkness, no doubt the foothills of the Rückgrat Mountains to the north. The western edge of the lake disappeared in a shroud of thick mist. Otherwise, the world glittered in white diamond snow.

  Most surprising was that they were nearing a city. It was surrounded by a thick stone wall with a wrought-iron gate, with thatched roofs on the outer buildings, tall spires and clock towers farther in. Beyond the rows of houses and shops, barely visible on the edge of the lake, stood a castle.

  The carriage turned, and the castle was no longer in Serilda’s view as they drove through the massive entry gate. It had not been shut, which surprised her. For a town so close to the Aschen Wood, she would have thought for sure they would keep their gate locked at night, especially during a full moon. She watched the buildings pass by, their facades a patchwork of half-timbered framing and ornamental designs carved into gables and overhangs. The city seemed huge and dense compared with their little town of Märchenfeld, but she knew, logically, that it was probably still quite small compared with the larger trade cities to the south, or the port cities to the far west.

  At first, she thought the city might be abandoned; but no, it felt too tidy, too well-maintained. Upon closer inspection, there were signs of life. Though she saw no one, and no window glowed with candlelight (not surprising, for they must be near the witching hour by now), there were neat, snow-dusted garden patches and the smell of recent chimney smoke. From the distance, she heard the unmistakable bleat of a goat and the answering yowl of a cat.

  The people were simply asleep, she thought. As they should be. As she would have been, if she hadn’t been summoned for this strange escapade.

  Which brought her thoughts circling back to the more pressing mystery.

  Where was she?

  The Aschen Wood was the territory of the dark ones and the forest folk. She had always pictured Gravenstone Castle standing dark and ominous somewhere deep in the forest, a fortress of slim towers taller than the most ancient trees. No stories had ever mentioned a lake … or a city, for that matter.

  As the carriage passed along the main thoroughfare of the town, the castle loomed back into view. It was a handsome building, stalwart and commanding, with a bevy of turrets and towers surrounding a large central keep.

  It wasn’t until the carriage turned away from the last row of houses and began crossing over a long, narrow bridge that Serilda realized the castle was not built at the edge of the town, but on an island out in the lake itself. The ink-black water reflected its moonlit stonework. The wheels of the carriage clattered loudly on the cobblestone bridge, and a chill enveloped Serilda as she craned her neck to see the imposing watchtowers flanking the barbican.

  They passed over a wooden drawbridge, under the arched gateway, and into the courtyard. The mist hung cloyingly to the surrounding buildings, so that the castle was never revealed in its entirety, but shown only in glimpses before being shrouded once more. The carriage stopped and a figure darted out from a stable. A boy, perhaps a few years her junior, in a simple tunic and shaggy haircut.

  A moment passed before the carriage door was opened, revealing the coachman. He stepped aside, gesturing for Serilda to follow. She bid farewell to the lantern, earning her a peculiar look from the ghostly driver, and stepped down onto the cobblestones, grateful when the coachman did not offer his hand again. The stable boy already had the huge beasts untethered and was ushering them back toward the stable.

  Serilda wondered if the massive steeds she’d seen during the hunt were stabled there, as well, and what other creatures might be kept by the Erlking. She wanted to ask, but the coachman was already gliding toward the central keep. Serilda skipped after him, flashing a grateful smile at the stable boy as she passed.

  He flinched away from the look, ducking his head, showing a mottle of bruises along the back of his neck that disappeared down the collar of his shirt.

  Serilda’s feet stumbled. Her heart squeezed. Were these bruises from his ghostly life here among the dark ones? Or were they from before? Possibly even the cause of his death? Otherwise, she couldn’t see what might have killed him.

  A startled cry drew Serilda’s attention toward the other side of the courtyard.

  Her eyes widened—first, to see an iron-barred kennel and the pack of burning hellhounds tied to a post at its center.

  Second, to see the one hound that had broken loose. The one charging right at her. Eyes aflame. Searing lips pulled back against brazen fangs.

  Serilda screamed and turned, sprinting back toward the open portcullis and lowered drawbridge. But she had no hope of outrunning the beast.

  As she raced past the carriage, she changed course, hoisting herself up on a wheel and grabbing the bars of the rib cage and what might have been a piece of spine to scramble up onto the carriage roof. She had just pulled up her leg when she heard the snap and felt the surge of hot air blowing off the beast.

  She scrambled around on her hands and knees. Below, the hound was pacing back and forth, its glowing eyes watching her, its nostrils flared with hunger. The chain that should have had it leashed to the post dragged loudly across the cobblestones.

  Distantly, she heard shouts and orders. Heel. Come. Leave it.

  Ignoring them all, the hound reared back on its hind legs, paws thrashing at the carriage door.

  She shrank back. The creature was huge. If it tried to jump—

  A loud thwack interrupted the thought.

  The hound yelped and jerked, going stiff.

  It took Serilda a gasping moment to notice the long arrow shaft fletched with shining black feathers. It had gone into one of the hound’s eyes and out through the side of its jaw. Black smoke oozed from the wound, as the flames slowly dimmed behind its ragged fur.

  The hound fell to the side, its legs twitching as it wheezed its last breaths.

  Dizzy with the rush of blood, Serilda tore her gaze away. The Erlking stood on the steps of the castle’s keep, dressed in the same fine leather, his black hair draped loosely across his shoulders. A massive crossbow hung at his side.

  Ignoring Serilda, he turned his falcon’s gaze on the woman who stood between the kennel and the carriage. She had the striking elegance of a dark one, but her clothing was utilitarian, her arms and legs covered in leather braces.

  “What happened?” he asked, his tone suggesting a calm that Serilda didn’t believe for a moment.

  The woman dropped into a hasty bow. “I was preparing the hounds for the hunt, Your Grim. The kennel gate was open and I believe the chain had been cut. My back was turned. I didn’t realize what was happening until the beast was free and…” Her gaze turned swiftly up to Serilda, still perched on top of the carriage, then down to the body of the hound. “I take full responsibility, my lord.”

  “Why?” drawled the Erlking. “Did you cut the chain?”

  “Of course not, my lord. But they are in my care.”

  The king grunted. “Why didn’t it respond to my commands?”

  “That one was a pup, not yet fully trained. But no one gets fed until after the hunt, and so … it was hungry.”

  Serilda’s eyes bugged as she looked again at the beast, whose body stretched out would have been nearly as long as she was tall. Its fires had been extinguished, leaving it a mound of black fur tight against its ribs, and teeth that looked strong enough to crush a human skull. She could see now that it was smaller than those she had seen during the hunt, but still. It was only a pup?

  The thought was not comforting.

  “Finish your work,” said the king. “And clean up the body.” He swung the crossbow up onto his back as he descended the steps, pausing before the woman, who Serilda guessed was the master of the hounds. “You are not responsible for this incident,” he said to the top of her bowed head. “This could only have been the poltergeist.”

  His lip curled, just slightly, as if the word had a bitter taste.

  “Thank you, Your Grim,” murmured the woman. “I will ensure it does not happen again.”

  The Erlking crossed the courtyard and stood at the wheel of the carriage, peering up at Serilda. Knowing that it would be foolish to try to bow or curtsy while in such a predicament, Serilda merely smiled. “Are things always so exhilarating around here?”

  “Not always,” responded the Erlking in his measured tone. He moved closer, bringing the shadows along with him. Serilda’s instincts told her to cower, despite how she towered above him on the carriage roof. “The hounds are rarely treated to the flesh of humans. One can understand why it was so easily excited.”

  Her eyebrows shot upward. She wanted to think it was a joke, but she wasn’t convinced the dark ones knew what a joke was.

  “Your Ma—Your Grim,” she said, with only a bit of a waver. “What a great honor it is to be once again in your presence. I hardly could have expected to be summoned to Gravenstone Castle by the Alder King himself.”

  The corner of his luscious mouth twitched. In the moonlight, his lips were purple, like a fresh bruise or a squashed blackberry. Strangely, Serilda’s mouth watered at the thought.

  “So you do know who I am,” he said almost mockingly. “I had wondered.” His gaze skittered quickly around the courtyard. The stables, the kennels, the ominous walls. “You are mistaken. This is not Gravenstone Castle. My home is haunted with memories I have no wish to relive, so I spend little time there. Instead, I have claimed Adalheid as my home and sanctuary.” He was smiling at some unknown pleasure when he met Serilda’s gaze again. “The royal family was not using it.”

  Adalheid. The name seemed familiar, but Serilda could not place where, exactly, it was.

  Just as she wasn’t sure what royal family he was talking about. Märchenfeld and the Aschen Wood were situated in the northernmost region of the Kingdom of Tulvask, currently under the rule of Queen Agnette II and the House of Rosenstadt. But as Serilda understood, it was a relationship based on arbitrary lines drawn on a map, a few taxes, the occasional trade road built or maintained, and the promise of military aid if required—which it never was, given that they were well-protected by the towering basalt cliffs that dropped off into a treacherous sea on one side, and the foreboding Rückgrat Mountains on the other. The capital city of Verene was so far to the south that she didn’t know a single person who had ever actually been there, nor could she recall a member of the royal family ever having come to their corner of the realm. People talked about the royal family and their laws like someone else’s problem—nothing that held direct consequence for them. Some people in town even thought that the government was content to leave them alone for fear of annoying the true rulers of the north.

  The Erlking and his dark ones, who answered to no one when they stormed out from behind the veil.

  And Shrub Grandmother and the forest folk, who would never succumb to the rule of humans.

  “I suspect,” said Serilda, “that few would argue with your laying claim to such a castle. Or … anything at all that you wanted.”

  “Indeed,” said the Erlking, as he gestured at the coachman’s bench. “You may come down now.”

  She glanced toward the kennel. The rest of the hounds were watching her eagerly, straining against their chains. But the chains did seem to be holding them, and the kennel door seemed securely latched.

  She also noticed for the first time that they had gained an audience. More ghosts, with those wispy edges, as if they might fade away to nothing as soon as they passed out of the moonlight.

  The dark ones frightened her more. Unlike the ghosts, they were as solid as she was. Almost elflike in appearance, with skin that shimmered in tones of silver and bronze and gold. Everything about them was sharp. Their cheekbones, the jut of their shoulders, their fingernails. They were the king’s original court, had been at his side since the beforetimes, when they had first escaped from Verloren. They watched her now with keen, malicious eyes.

  There were creatures, too. Some the size of cats, with black-taloned fingers and small pointed horns. Others the size of Serilda’s hand, with batlike wings and sapphire-blue skin. Some might have been human, if it weren’t for the scales on their skin or the mop of dripping seaweed that clung to their scalps. Goblins, kobolds, fairies, nixes. She could not begin to guess at them all.

  The king cleared his throat. “By all means, take your time. I am quite fond of being looked down upon by human children.”

  She frowned. “I’m eighteen.”

  “Precisely so.”

  She made a face, which he ignored.

  Serilda climbed down onto the bench as gracefully as she could, accepting the king’s hand as she descended to the ground. She tried to focus more on keeping her trembling legs strong beneath her than the feeling of cold dread that slithered up her arm at his touch.

  “Ready the hunt!” the king bellowed as he led her toward the keep. “The mortal and I have business to attend to. I want the hounds and steeds ready as soon as we are finished.”

  Chapter 9

  The entrance to the keep was flanked by two enormous bronze statues of hunting hounds—so lifelike Serilda shied away as she passed them. Ducking into the keep’s shadow, she had to jog to catch up with the king’s long strides. She wanted to pause and marvel at everything—the enormous and ancient wooden doors with their black metal hinges and raw chiseled bolts. The chandeliers crafted of iron and antlers and bone. Stone pillars carved with intricate designs of brambles and rosebuds.

  They had entered into an entry hall, with two wide staircases curving upward and a set of doors leading into opposing corridors to Serilda’s left and right, but the king led them straight ahead. Through an arched doorway, into what must be the great hall, lit with candlelight at every turn. Sconces on the walls, tall candelabras in the corners, while more chandeliers, some as big as the carriage she’d ridden in, hung from the raftered ceiling. Thick carpets and animal pelts covered the floors. Tapestries decorated the walls, but they did little to add vibrancy to a space that was as eerie as it was majestic.

  The decor was all reminiscent of a hunting lodge, with an impressive collection of taxidermied beasts. Disembodied heads on the walls and whole stuffed bodies ready to pounce from the corners. From a small basilisk to an enormous boar, a wingless dragon to a gem-eyed serpent. There were beasts with crooked horns, mighty shells, and too many heads. Serilda was both horrified and fascinated. They were nightmares come to life. Well—not life. Clearly these were dead. But to think they might have been real gave her a thrill, to know so many of the stories she’d crafted over the years had some basis in reality.

  At the same time, seeing such glorious creatures, lifeless and used as impressive props, made her feel a little sick to her stomach.

  Even the fire crackling in the central hearth, inside a fireplace so tall that Serilda could have stood up inside without touching the flue, did little to chase away the chill that permeated the air. She was tempted to go and stand by that fire, if only for a moment—her instincts craving its homey warmth—until her eye caught on the massive creature mounted above the mantel.

  She froze, unable to look away.

  It was serpentine, with two crests of small pointed thorns curving across its brow, and needlelike teeth set into rows along its protruding mouth. Slitted green eyes were ringed with what appeared to be gray pearls embedded in its skin, and a single red stone sparkled in the center of its brow, a cross between a pretty bauble and a watchful third eye. An arrow with black fletching still protruded from beneath one of its bat-like wings, so small it seemed impossible that it could have been a killing strike. In fact, the beast hardly looked dead at all. The way it had been preserved and mounted, it looked ready to jump off the fireplace and snatch Serilda up in its jaws. As she drew closer, she wondered if she was only imagining the warm breath, the throaty purr, leaking out from the creature’s mouth.