Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [55]
She ate another energy bar, and she no longer cared what it tasted like. She had two left. She should have asked Ben for some food. She should have rested there for the night. She should have thought.
The sky was darkening. It was going to be night soon, and Hazel realized that a wood-night is nothing like a city-night, that the darkness would have nothing to temper it, that unchecked by any light source anywhere it would swirl around her and squeeze her. And she had no flashlight. She had given it up because it was a shiny thing and she was hoping there were answers in a piece of string.
It had been evening when she crossed into the woods from the park. It would have been impenetrably dark within hours. What had she been thinking?
She put her hand on the whistle in her pocket. Ben would come. She could go back to his cabin and rest for the night. That would be the smart thing to do.
But she did not want to go backward. She was supposed to get Jack. That was all.
She could just walk a little more.
And so she did. She walked onward for another hour into the cold and dusk. Tick tock. Tick tock.
And then she felt a presence, something in the shadows, something all too familiar. She was not alone. She crept onward, her muscles tense, looking carefully around for her company.
And there. In the dark shadows a few yards off the path, two wolves. These were small and lean, and they paced back and forth in the trees, watching her carefully. Hazel gulped and kept moving forward, conscious of the eyes that stayed on her.
Her hand went to the whistle in her pocket. Ben. She could use it, she could call him and he would come. But would he be fast enough?
Then she saw a glow touching the sky up ahead, and Hazel relaxed her hand and quickened her steps. She rounded a bend in the path and saw her salvation. There was a valley, just below, and in it a little village. It straddled a small, swift-moving river spanned by a little stone bridge. The houses were small, made of white stucco and dark wooden beams and thick thatched roofs. She could see people in cloaks riding horses and milling around the stone streets.
And then, on the other side of the path, two more wolves appeared. One sat down on its haunches just a few feet from her. The other walked parallel to her—a feral shadow.
Hazel looked at the ground and hurried her steps, trying to pretend she was not about to burst apart with fear. Her hand flew to the whistle again, as if that itself could protect her. When she looked up she saw that one more wolf had joined the group to her right. And that up ahead of her was a great wooden fence.
There was a gate in the fence, and Hazel rushed to it and knocked. A moment passed while her heart threatened to explode. And then the gate opened a crack.
A tall, dark woman in a cloak peered through the crack, and when she saw Hazel her face changed. “Come in,” she said. “Hurry.”
The woman motioned her in. Hazel stepped forward, shooting a glance behind her as she went. Nine wolves were on the path behind her, all pacing restlessly, all watching her as she crossed through the gate. Hazel stared at them as the gate closed behind her.
“What are you doing out there at night?” the guard asked.
“I was looking for a place to rest,” she said.
“Well, you found it. Good thing, too. The wolves are gathering. Don’t worry, the fence keeps them out of here.”
Hazel exhaled. “Good,” she said. Her eyes traveled up to the guard, who was looking at her face with a curious expression. Hazel’s hand flew up to her gashed cheek. The wound was thick and long and warm. She could only imagine how she must look.
“That looks pretty nasty,” the guard said. “Something got you?”
Hazel nodded.
“Well, the market’s on,” she said. “As always. You can find whatever you’re looking for there.”
“Oh, I’m not . . . I lost my friend. I’m looking for him.”
Her brow darkened. “What does she look like? Is she blond?”
“He,” Hazel corrected. “He has brown hair.”
“He? Oh.