“You were going to. You’d still do it, but only after a huge list of qualifications and warnings to cushion yourself against failure. Yes, I know there’s a very good chance this won’t work, and if it doesn’t, that’s no one’s fault. Trial and error is the only way we’ll figure out our abilities.”

“How do you want to start?”

“I’m going to talk to her.” He crouched in front of the hound, rubbing her ears and telling her what he planned to do. Whether she understood or not, the sound of his voice calmed her.

He lowered himself to the hardwood floor. The hound looked disconcerted at Ricky taking a lower position. When she rectified that by hunkering down, he tugged her closer. She stretched out, gingerly laying her head on his lap, tensed for the first sign of rejection. He put one hand on her head, and she settled in.

I took the spot on his other side, and he reached for my hand. Then he closed his eyes. After a few minutes of nothing but quiet breathing, Ricky let out a noise, like a whimper, and his body jerked. The sound of his breathing changed, syncopating with the hound’s as she twitched, her eyes closed.

I tightened my grip on Ricky’s hand, closed my own eyes, and focused.

It wasn’t a sudden drop into visions. I focused on the sound of his breathing and the scent of the hound. Then I smelled forest and heard horses, the snort of their breathing and the clink of their bridles.

And then running. With the pack. The smell of our prey filled my nostrils, the pound of paws rang in my ears, the joy of the Hunt sang through my veins as the moonlight lit our path. The joy of the Hunt and the pack and a perfect night.

Then tumbling. Sudden tumbling through darkness. Through memory. From the best to the worst. To pain. Agonizing pain, ripping me inside and out, and I fought to escape, to flee some dark force I couldn’t see or hear, could only feel. I smelled blood. I heard yowls. My brothers and sisters. I had to save them, had to help them, but I couldn’t even save myself, until finally I was thrown free, as if jettisoned from nightmare itself, cast into darkness.

I awoke on the ground. When I lifted my head, I saw the mangled bodies of three other hounds. Two pack brothers and a sister. Torn almost beyond recognition.

“Fwnion!” a voice called, and I went still, waiting to hear that voice resonating in my head, to feel the bond with my Huntsman. But there was nothing except his audible voice, calling my name.

I cowered against the ground as I looked at my dead pack mates. I’d failed them. I’d survived when they had not. I must have escaped through cowardice. I must not have fought hard enough. Or long enough. I’d surrendered, and this was my punishment: that I could hear my Huntsman’s voice, but our bond was broken.

“Fwnion!” he shouted, desperation edging his voice, and I thought of him finding me here, with the corpses of my brothers and sister, and myself, broken and maimed but alive. Surviving when I ought to be dead. I did not want him to witness that. I did not want to cause him pain or shame. So I pushed to my paws, and I dragged my broken body into the forest.

The scene flipped, and I was in another forest, ripping apart a rabbit. An old rabbit, stinking of waste and death even before I caught it, because with my broken body, this was the best I could hope for. A hound of the Otherworld reduced to near scavenging. The shame of that made me want to stop eating, to just waste away and die myself, but when I’d tried, I’d fallen into delirium and woken with a belly full of deer found dead by a roadside. I could not even manage death without succumbing to cowardice.

“I have something better for you, cŵn,” a voice whispered through the forest.

I went still and lifted my head, sniffing. It was the only reliable sense I had left. My injuries seemed to have healed, but oddly my hearing had gotten worse as they did. My one eye no longer showed more than shapes. But I could smell, and I recognized this scent.

The Huntsman.

Not my Huntsman. I dreamed of mine. Dreams where he’d scoop me up, as he had when I was a puppy and he’d taken me for his own. Dreams of him nursing me back to health, as he had when I’d injured my leg in a hunt. Most of all, though, I dreamed of forgiveness, of his hand on my head and his voice saying, “It’s all right, Fwnion. You’re home.”

But my Huntsman was long gone. I’d run so far I could never find my way back even if I wanted to. This one … this one had been tracking me for days. He was a loner, like myself. Tainted, like myself. I could smell that taint on him, and it made my hackles rise.

“There you are,” he said. “I brought you proper food, cŵn.”

He emptied a bag of fresh meat. Then he hunkered down and said, “You’re broken, aren’t you? Broken and cast from your pack. What did you do to deserve such a beating?”

I growled, offended at the idea that my pack or my Huntsman would have done this to me.

“I can help,” he said. “Some of those injuries haven’t healed well. I can fix that, and I can give you shelter and food, and all I ask in return is that you do your job—the job of a hound.”

I looked at him, at the madness roiling in his eyes. Madness and something twisted and ugly, and I started backing away, growling.

“Or we can do this your way,” he said, lunging, and a bag descended over my head.

The scene faded, replaced by flickering scenes, confusing scenes of hell and glimpses of something more, something better. The man healed my injuries as best he could. I walked easier. My hearing returned. Even my vision improved.