As I shivered, I tumbled into a vision. A cabin. Not the one from my hound vision. This was a home in the forest, the door bolted shut, the shutters battened tight. I was inside, fumbling with a lantern, desperate to ignite it as a girl’s voice whispered, “Something’s out there,” and I could feel that, beyond those closed shutters. Something out there, something in the night. That primal fear of what the dark brought, what the forest brought, when the sun dropped.

I snapped back to reality with a shudder, still feeling the terror of our ancestors, shut in for the night, praying for morning, knowing that beyond their door lurked danger, that unshakable fear that would, even today, make children beg their parents to check under the bed, look in the closet, please don’t turn out all the lights.

I rubbed my arms, reminding myself that I had a gun and a switchblade, and I was no peasant cowering in the dark. I knew what was out there. I’d faced it. Overcome it. And yet … well, logic and confidence only gets you so far against those primal whispers.

A dog started crying. Not the hound. Just a dog.

Ricky murmured, “Bad omen?”

“Yep. Better late than never.” I was twisting to look around when I spotted a raven gliding silently across the moonlit field. It swooped toward us, as if to fly into the woods. Then it veered sharply and instead came to rest in a dead tree twenty paces from the forest’s edge. It hunkered down, feathers ruffling, head pulled between its shoulders.

“Uh, yeah …” I said. “Let’s see … Overwhelming sense of foreboding. Omen of impending danger. Freaked-out Cŵn Annwn raven. Do you get the feeling—?”

“That this is definitely the place?”

“I was thinking more along the lines that the universe is sticking a big Do Not Enter sign outside that forest.”

“That, too.”

“So …” I waved at the forest. “Shall we?”

He smiled and slid off the bike, and we walked into the woods, hand in hand, like Hansel and Gretel. When I mentioned that to Ricky, he said, “You think there’ll be candy?”

I took out my boar’s tusk. When I touched it, I thought I’d accidentally grabbed my gun instead. The tusk was as cold as metal. I held it out for Ricky to touch and he said, “Weird.” Then he checked his own and confirmed it was the same. “So that’s a sign they’re working extra well, right?” he said.

We shared a smile. In our guts, we both knew it meant the opposite. Our handy-dandy fae-evil-repelling boar tusks had shut down, as if their power couldn’t penetrate these woods.

At a loud croak, I looked over my shoulder and saw the raven launch from the tree and fly back toward the road.

“Abandoning us already, huh,” I murmured. “If the mortals are too stupid to heed flashing danger signs, screw them.”

I turned toward the forest. It was unnaturally dark, the moonlight seeming not to penetrate the tree canopy. When I looked up, I could see gaps in that canopy, but not a single star glinted in the blackness beyond.

“Second thoughts?” Ricky asked.

“Never.”

The woods were larger than they seemed from the road, and we walked at least a mile, Ricky moving sure-footed and straight, his gaze fixed on something only he could see. Then I caught the sound from my vision—the whine of the hound. Not boredom and frustration now, but anticipation. Ricky’s hand squeezed mine.

“Before we get there,” I murmured, “what exactly do we expect to find in that cabin?”

“Presumably his master.”

“So do we split up? You take the front and I slip around the back?”

“I’d really rather not split up here, even for a second.”

“Okay, so we stick—”

I stumbled. I didn’t feel any obstacle or dip in my path. I just stumbled. Ricky’s hand tightened, his grip pulling me up. Then his hand disappeared and I staggered forward and when I caught my balance and turned …

I was alone in the forest.

THE HOUNDS OF HELL

“Liv?” Ricky spun around, but even as he did, he knew he wouldn’t see her.

“Liv!” he shouted again. Yeah, that wasn’t smart, yelling so close to his quarry’s den, but what mattered was that she was gone and this forest was wrong, unnatural and wrong, and he’d brought her in here. Fuck the signs. Fuck the omens. Fuck the fact that the raven wouldn’t cross the threshold and their damned tusks were cold weights in their pockets. They had their weapons, and they had each other, and that was enough.

It’s never enough. It never was.

Ricky squeezed his eyes shut as if he could block Arawn’s voice.

You did this. So cocky. So confident. You dragged her into this place knowing—feeling—the danger.

Which was bullshit, of course. No one dragged Liv anywhere. But that didn’t mean Ricky failed to accept responsibility. He would never be Arawn, blaming Gwynn for centuries until he’d finally faced the truth—that he’d been equally responsible for Matilda’s death.

Ricky had sensed the danger here, and they came in anyway. He hadn’t told her exactly how this forest made him feel. Had not been clear enough, and that was where his failure lay: in believing he could simply hold her hand and keep her safe.

“God-fucking-damn it,” he cursed. Then he yelled again, “O-liv-i-a!”

“Lose someone?” a voice whispered through the trees, and Ricky’s hackles rose.