Page 67 of The Dead Queen

“And here I thought I’d never have to hear those god-awful creatures again,” Tristan mumbles in my ear.

The foxhounds were released from the kennels at last.

We press our horses forward, speeding onto the forest road beyond the northern edge of the palace grounds. We leave trampled field grasses in our wake as we race for the cover of trees. Just as we reach the forest, the first screams ring out behind us. Father didn’t waste time warning people that he’s released his pets. It sounds as though someone got caught in the crossfires.

Hunter maneuvers his horse so we’re racing down the dirt road, side by side. He glares over at the Wolf on my back. “I blame you for this!”

“They’re not after me.” His answer is cut short as we duck under a low-hanging branch just in time.

Hunter doesn’t let him off that easily. “If we hadn’t wasted precious time …”

“She volunteered to escort me north. I never asked you to come.”

“And I never asked you to⁠—”

“We don’t have time for this!” I snap. I can’t stand the bickering, not when the howls and yips of the foxhounds are growing nearer.

They both snap their mouths closed, but something in the line of Hunter’s mouth tells me this argument is far from over … if we escape the foxhounds, that is.

The trees close in around us, branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. Our horses push themselves harder, somehow understanding the urgency. The sound of the foxhounds grows louder, their howls mingle with the frantic pounding of hoofbeats.

My eye catches a streak of orange racing just beyond the tree line. It’s the first foxhound, unbelievably fast for a creature that spends most of its life chained in a dungeon. I squint to get a better look. Its orange-red fur is patchy and crusted with filth. Its jagged, broken teeth are covered in foaming saliva. It’s no bigger than a normal fox, but it could never be mistaken for anything other than a rabid creature. It turns its head to look at me through the passing branches and thorny bushes. Its copper eyes gleam with the excitement of a hunt.

Panic rises in my chest. “Faster!” I call out to the horse, but he’s already running as fast as he can. He knows we’re in danger. He can sense it like the rest of us.

“That thing is not natural,” Tristan says behind us. If we were in a normal situation right now, I’d tell him what I think of his queen’s corpse army. Undead badgers and bears are not strictly natural either.

Suddenly, a group of foxhounds burst through the trees in front of us, barking and snarling. Our horses scream in terror, nearly toppling over as they dig their hooves into the ground to stop. It takes everything I have to stay astride. Tristan leans forward, pressing our bodies flat onto the horse’s back as it leaps and kicks at the foxhounds.

Nearby, Hunter quickly regains control of the gray mare, his years of training with the King’s Guard evident in his skill.

The Wolf is not so lucky.

Tristan crashes to the ground, narrowly avoiding our horse’s kicking hooves. He’s on his feet again in an instant, his stance wide like a fighter’s. While the foxhounds’ copper eyes are focused on the Wolf, Hunter grabs my reins, turns our horses, and retreats into the forest.

“Stop!” I yell, trying to pull the reins from his hands.

“No, Sienna! We have to keep going.” He urges the horses further into the trees.

“We can’t leave him!” I jump off the back of the black horse.

Hunter swears behind me as he dismounts. “And why the hell not?!” His anger only fuels mine.

I whirl around to face him. “Because he has something I need!”

Hunter grabs my arm roughly, clearly intending to drag me away from danger against my will. “Whatever it is, it’s not worth our lives!”

But he’s wrong about that. It’s worth mine, even if it’s not worth his. With as much strength as I can muster, I shove Hunter off his feet, wrenching one rein from his hands as he falls. He lands with a thump, his face startled, incredulous.

I leap up onto the gray mare’s back and we charge through the woods, returning to the fray. The mare’s hooves kick up dirt in our haste. I unclip my red cloak and it floats to the ground in our wake.

On the road, Tristan is surrounded. The growling foxhounds encircle him like a well-trained army, their hackles raised. I run the mare directly through the group, trampling at least one creature. The crunch of bone beneath hooves is startlingly satisfying. I’ve hated these creatures my entire life.

The foxhounds scatter like mice, but it only takes them a moment to refocus. Several leap at my feet in the stirrups as they claw the mare’s flesh with their broken, overgrown claws. I pull up my skirts and take out my knife. I slash at their faces as they leap at me again and again. My blade scrapes against flesh, bone, and teeth.

The mare shrieks when a foxhound bites her hindquarters. I turn to stab it in its copper-colored eye. It leaps away with a yelp, but it turns back toward us, its eye-socket dripping blood.

More foxhounds leap at the mare. I can’t let her die like this, not like Nell. I jump down to the ground, then smack her rump to send her fleeing into the trees.