Strange, high-pitched shrieks pierced the heavy air along with exotic noises she couldn’t place from creatures she would rather not encounter. But the further west she walked, the quieter the forest became.
Most people thought silence in the woods was a good thing, but Haven knew better.
She was now officially in vorgrath territory.
She crept through the latticework of tree-roots and vines, careful to avoid the water-filled footprints she followed. By the depth of the tracks and the length of the toes, this vorgrath was much larger and older than the one from the Muirwood.
And cleverer—it had tracked through streams and doubled back more than once.
Wonderful. Just her luck she’d found a mature, established vorgrath, which meant it would be large, smarter than most, and overly protective of its lair.
How was she supposed to not kill it?
But according to Stolas, killing it would doom her. “Don’t kill the vorgrath,” she mocked, making her voice low and taunting to sound like the Shade Lord’s, “unless you want its mate to hunt you to the ends of the earth.”
Kicking the worm-eaten stump of a tree, she rolled her eyes. “How does that help me if I’m dead?”
For a breath, the forest stirred, and she could swear an annoyed chuckle trickled from above.
Shadeling’s shadow, this place was getting to her. If only Surai were here to complain to. She imagined Rook scoffing as the two tried to find their way through the tangle of woods, Archeron stalking ahead, annoyed at something Haven said or did—like breathing or simply existing.
Still . . . she missed them. All of them.
She would have never admitted such a thing a few hours earlier . . . but something about trudging through hideously overgrown forests alone made one appreciate the value of companionship, and there was no denying the truth.
The Solis had grown on her.
Even if they made fun of her and treated her like a pet, even if Archeron had a habit of restraining and taunting her, being around them felt normal. Safe.
Going soft, Ashwood.
Pushing thoughts of the Solis away, she pressed deeper into the overgrowth, growling under her breath as the shadows between the trees seemed to elongate and darken before her eyes.
Tension danced over her sweaty skin, drawing gooseflesh over her arms. She slipped out the dagger generously loaned to her by the Shade Lord. The weapon was heavier than she preferred, weighted down with an intricate gold handle, the onyx hilt a set of raven’s wings. Rubies and black diamonds swirled around the handle, tossing stupid sparkles into her eyes.
A ridiculous, tacky weapon, even for the Lord of the Netherworld.
Still, vorgraths were stealthy creatures. By the time she noticed one upon her, her bow would be useless. And she held out a far-flung hope that she would catch this vorgrath sleeping—surely they did that—and be able to somehow incapacitate it without it noticing.
So heavy, garish magickal dagger it was.
The vines and foliage became denser, strangling the light even more. She quietly hacked a path as twigs and thorns gouged her cheeks, ducking and slipping through vegetation that seemed to tighten around her.
Undoubtedly, if Stolas saw how she misused his favored dagger, he would be pissed, but she was beyond caring.
The foliage thickened until she was caught inside the thick mess of brambles and vines. Panic weighed her down, and she forgot to be quiet. Forgot she was supposed to be calm.
Hacking wildly, she clawed her way forward, gasping for breath, for light, for—
A hole opened up, and she tumbled forward.
Blinking against the watery darkness tinged fuchsia by the last bit of sun, she straightened her hat and took in the scene. An enormous tree rose thirty feet in the distance. The massive, gnarled thing was centered inside the hollow of vegetation something had carefully built, a giant nest of vines, branches, and bones glued together with dried mud.
Immense roots swarmed the base of the tree, angry gray serpents half-buried in the earth. The branches were low, thick, and wide-set. And along the smallest branches hung dark, teardrop shaped fruits.
The vorgrath’s fig tree.
Haven froze, the breath dying in her throat. Adrenaline narrowed her vision, and her gaze darted around the tree, sifting through the shadows. There were no forest noises inside the vorgrath’s nest, no whispering breeze or insects.
Nothing but her ragged, terrified breaths and the low thump thump of her heart. A perfume of decay and overripe figs filled her nose and made her head spin.
Her hand tightened around the Shade Lord’s dagger as she