“You will come with us,” their spokesman rumbled.

“That’s a good line. I’ll have to remember that.” I had them confused; they weren’t used to having children talk back without tears. I might be able to get past them if I ran now. That wouldn’t help Quentin unless I could count on the candle, and I had to be able to count on the candle. If he didn’t move, he should be all right.

“One more thing,” I said, trying to project a bravado I didn’t feel. The Rider leaned forward, and I bolted, running for the gap between the two nearest Riders as fast as I could. They turned, but not fast enough to stop me; they were used to defiance, not actual, coherent thought. I shoved past their horses and ran for the forest, not looking back. If I could reach the woods, I might survive. If I survived, there was a chance. If there was a chance, everything could still come out okay.

The hoofbeats began almost immediately. It sounded like they were all following. Good. That would give Quentin time to get away and finish what I’d started. He was a smart kid, and he did well in Tamed Lightning, and he could do it, if he was clever. He could get out. You can get there and back by the light of a candle, after all. The first spear thudded into the dust a few feet in front of me. I stumbled but kept running, forcing myself toward the forest. Blind Michael probably wanted me alive but that wouldn’t stop them from hurting me. Changelings can survive a lot of damage, and fae magic can heal almost anything. I didn’t trust them to play nice.

The second spear hit me in the back of my left thigh. The momentary pain was followed by a disturbing numbness that spread down my leg, locking my knee into place. Suddenly off-balance, I staggered and fell.

Spike jumped off my shoulder and turned to face the Riders, rattling its thorns and keening in a high, warning tone. It was a display as brave as it was stupid. They would crush my poor goblin and take me anyway. I wanted to tell Spike to run, but I was so tired all of a sudden; the numbness was spreading upward, making it hard to think, move, or breathe. Poison. Damn it, Luidaeg, is there a law that says the Firstborn can’t play fair?

The Riders formed a half circle around us, weapons at the ready, and stopped. Only a half circle? I forced my head up, and found myself looking into the trees at the forest’s edge. We’d almost made it. Oak and ash, I’d been so close . . .

I let my head fall back down, closing my eyes. I was tired. I was so very tired, and the weight of the spear jutting out of my leg seemed great enough to crush me. I heard Spike running past me into the trees, thorns rattling. Good. At least one of us was going to get out of this alive. It was making a shrill keening noise as it ran, like it was calling for help. A pity that help wasn’t coming.

The numbness had spread through most of my body before I realized the Riders weren’t moving. They had me surrounded, but none of them were coming to grab me. Why the hell not? They’d already won. All they needed to do was come and claim their prize. At least none of them was holding Quentin. The candle had spared him that much. For now.

Then I felt hands on my shoulders, and someone was lifting me. I forced my eyes open and found myself looking into a scarred, yellow-skinned face. Acacia. Blind Michael’s lady.

“You sent the goblin. Do you know my daughter?” she said. Her voice wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t cruel; just bemused. “Did she send you? Where is she?” Raising her head, she scowled at the Riders. “Go away and tell my lord that this one reached the wood. That makes her mine, not his, and I will not cede her. Run your races somewhere else.”

One by one they turned and rode away. Acacia shook her head, sighing as she watched them go. Her arms seemed too fragile to support my weight, but she held me without trouble. There was a thin mewling noise. “You may come too, if you insist,” she said. I heard the rattle of Spike’s thorns and closed my eyes again. My leg was burning, even through the numbness, and I could feel the blood soaking through my jeans and running down my thigh. Quentin; I was leaving Quentin alone. I was . . .

I did what any sensible person would have done under the circumstances. I fainted.

THIRTEEN

THE MISTS WERE HEAVIER NOW. I tried to stand and couldn’t. The earth had closed around me, covering my feet. “Hello?” I shouted, and winced as the echoes returned my voice. I spoke as an adult; the echo answered as a child. “Hello?”

“I’m here, Auntie Birdie, it’s all right.” I felt a cool hand on my forehead, and Karen whispered, “You have to wake up. It’s not safe.”

“Karen. I found you.” I knew she was there. I just couldn’t see her.

“No, you didn’t. You can’t find me yet; it’s too soon. You have to get out of here, and you have to find her. Please!”

“Find who?” I shook my head. “Sweetheart, I’m here to save you. You and the others.”

“No one came to save her, and so she had to save herself. She’s sorry, but you have to find her. It’s important. It’s very important.” She pulled her hand away. The smell of roses hung heavy in the air; not the perfect roses of Evening’s curse, but a richer, earthy midsummer scent. “You can’t find us if you don’t find her. Wake up, Aunt Birdie. Wake up . . .”

I opened my eyes and promptly wished that I hadn’t. My lower body was numb, and my head felt like it was on fire—not a good combination. If I squinted I could force the shadows above me to resolve into a canopy of branches and dead leaves . . . the woods. I was in the woods. If I was in the woods, what I remembered happening after the Riders shot me wasn’t a dream. Acacia saved me because she thought I knew her daughter. No matter what this meant, it probably wasn’t something I was going to like very much.

Spike was sitting in the middle of my chest. It gave a triumphant squeak when it realized I was awake, beginning to make the rasping, scraping noise that served it as a purr.

“Hey, Spike,” I whispered, forcing myself to smile. “You been there long, guy?” It chirped. “Right. I’ll just pretend I understood that, okay? I missed you.” Fighting my natural inertia—once at rest, I tend to stay at rest—I raised a hand and scratched the top of Spike’s head. “That’s my good Spike.”

I continued to scratch as I took slow stock of my body. My throat was burning, and it felt like I’d been sucking on sandpaper. More, my head was pounding, my back hurt, and I couldn’t feel my legs. Whatever I was lying in swayed with the motion of my hands—a hammock. I couldn’t see past my chest; for all that I knew, my body ended just past the point where Spike was sitting. That probably wasn’t the most comforting idea I could have come up with. Damn. I spent an unknown amount of time trying to twist around so that I could see myself before exhaustion overwhelmed me and I fell into an uneasy doze.